“Okay, that’s enough,” she said abruptly. She closed her legs and pulled her chador around her. Wet spots darkened the fabric around her breasts, and he caught a glimpse of her face as she leaned forward to adjust her veil. Her eyes were black and shone fiercely. Her mouth was an upward wisp, her lips defensive and thin. She seemed young, perhaps twenty, but he could not tell. Her face was as weathered as a desert rock, almost cracking from what must have been constant exposure to the elements. “Go on,” she said. “Go out that way.”
A passage lay to the other side of the dune. Madjid walked into the blistering sunlight and waited for his brother. After a few silent minutes in the wind and desert, his brother came out of the cave laughing and clapping his hands, throwing his arm over Madjid’s shoulder as he led him to the road.
“She’s something, no?” Jamsheed said. “It’s been a year since I’ve seen her. She’s put on some weight. But at least it’s done her breasts a world of good. Hooo!”
Madjid walked silently under his brother’s arm and mustered a faint “yeah,” then drowned out his brother’s detailed description of the prostitute’s body and its flaws.
It was the first time Madjid had seen a naked woman with such intent. He was, much to his own discomfort, not aroused in the way he thought he should have been. He could not shake the image of her engorged breasts, swollen belly, and the barely visible stitching along her woman part. He did not know that the stitches repaired a perineal tear and that it was the body of a woman who had just given birth. He did not know that he would meet the infant who had torn through her only days before. He had only felt the power that emanated from every inch of her body, and this had thrilled him. And confused him. And inspired him.
As soon as they reached the house, Madjid headed straight for his room, ignoring his brother’s inquiries about his need to touch himself. He sat staring out the window at the manicured trees, and the sand dunes beyond the yard, and the horizon beyond everything. The image of the woman and the smell of her sex lingered in his mind. He had innately understood that beneath her soft skin and delicate frame, a feral, fundamental life force simmered—more powerful and more mysterious than anything he dared imagine. He opened his notebook and took out two markers, one black and one red, and drew what he had seen, branding the image in his mind forever.
A BED OF FLOWERS
Madjid stopped at the entrance of the orchard. The perfume of blossoming pears filled the air. The fruit pickers were due to arrive in two months, and Madjid had never missed a harvest. He loved the fruit pickers. They were all from one family, the head of which was a five-foot-tall matriarch who acted as the foreman over her six towering sons. They came from a small village called Fadisheh that was forty-five kilometers southwest of Naishapur. In the beginning of summer, they came to pick cherries, sour cherries, plums, apricots, and pears. They worked every day from light to dark, harvesting all of the orchards in Naishapur. For the remainder of the year, they traveled to nearby towns, threshing and winnowing grain fields.
They arrived at the orchard before daybreak in their pickup truck loaded with stepladders, baskets, hedge shears, wheelbarrows, and mesh plastic bags. They divided the trees into three groups, two brothers working a single tree. One climbed the stepladder, picked the fruit, and threw it in the basket. The other bagged the fruit, then filled the wheelbarrow, then carted it out to the truck, while the last brother sheared the branches and moved his ladder to the next tree. Among the six of them, they went through three trees at a time, while their mother paced back and forth, keeping time with a switch that she smacked against her leg. She worked her boys until noon, when she allowed them to break for a quick lunch. Mirza called her “the colonel.” Sometimes, in the afternoon, when the heat became unbearable and the boredom of the repetition set in, the colonel would break into a call-and-answer song that kept her sons going at a productive clip.
Today, the house seemed mysteriously empty. Madjid peeked through the windows on the deck, then circled the house and barn. Only the animals milled about, none of them ruffled by his presence. He sat under Akbar-Agha’s tree, leaning against the smooth trunk, one leg straight, the other bent at the knee with his arm resting on it, tilting his head upward as he closed his eyes. He would take a siesta. Just a short one.
“My friend,” a soft voice called out.
He opened his eyes and saw Mirza standing there holding a tray with tea service. He had not seen Mirza since his return from prison. Mirza was shocked by his transformation and it showed on his face. Madjid smiled. “It looks a lot worse than it is. I ran into a wall. That’s all.”
Mirza set down the tray. “Where I come from it’s called ‘falling down the stairs.’”
He poured the tea. Madjid dipped his sugar cube before taking a sip. “I was just thinking about the colonel and her sons.”
“They’ll be coming a little earlier this year. It’s been unseasonably warm.”
“Where is everyone?”
“It’s Ashura. They’re at the square to see the Ta’ziyehs.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
Mirza blew his tea cool and without looking up said, “Stories of warring men, long dead. Families broken and dislocated. Lovers torn apart before they ever love. Nations turned upside down, almost unrecognizable. And all of it set to beautiful melodies and poetic words? No. Not for me.”
He waved the notion away as he sipped his tea and continued, “Besides, I have already lived the past. I would rather take tea with you, here and now.”
Mirza drained his glass, slammed it down on the tray, and hopped to his feet. “Come with me.”
Madjid followed him to the beds along the side of the house, listening as he pointed out the rosebushes, the ice flower patch, and the horned poppy clusters, thinking of the difference between those flowers that germinated, flowered, and died in one brief stroke—and the breathtaking flashes of vigor and scent that resulted—and those that must be coaxed to bloom only to wither under the harsh gaze of a summer sun. His favorites were the perennials, those that live and die every season, over and over again, deeply rooted, self-contained and constant, fading out without ostentation.
They circled back to where they started and walked up the path together. Madjid smiled and said, “I heard about Mina.”
Mirza put his face in his hands and said, “Oh God, I still feel terrible. He won’t even look at me.”
“I don’t think he’ll ever eat chicken again.”
They laughed and walked the rest of the path in silence, the sound of pebbles under their feet. Madjid looked up at the canopy of trees that hung over the path and squinted his eyes at the sunlight that cut through them. “Say what you want, I can’t imagine this place not ever being here.”
Mirza laid a hand on his shoulder, the look on his face the same grief-stricken one from that day, so many years ago, when he held the lifeless body of the fainting goat in his arms. Mirza said to him, “My friend, there are things beyond our control.”
“I understand.”
“I speak from experience. I lost one life. So I found another.” Mirza searched the young man’s eyes. “Land is land, Madjid. Everything you are is with you.”
“I know.”
“Then do as Akbar-Agha bids you. Go to Paris. Start a new life.”
“I will be by tomorrow afternoon for a game of backgammon.”
“You like to lose?”
“Only to you.”
He stepped through the massive doors and watched as Mirza closed them. Their weight echoed in his ears. He stood on the road that led to the town square in one direction and homeward in the other. He knew he should head to the house to avoid the Ashura processions and crowds, but he needed to see his brother and he knew exactly where he would find him. He turned left, the wind kicking up the dust and the sun ablaze above.
The mullah paced back and forth, flicking his worry beads. Before him, the entire heyat—all of them devoted young men—sat cross-legged in rows. Ja
msheed sat front and center. He had gathered them all in here after breakfast. Now all the men had five o’clock shadows. Their dress shirts had sweat marks. Sitting next to Jamsheed was Amin, a staunch traditionalist and loyal follower of the cleric. He rocked while flicking his worry beads as the cleric said, “This is a solemn day for us, a day of mourning and remembrance for Imam Hussein. What he suffered and sacrificed in the name of human dignity. But it is also a day of reckoning.” He stopped pacing and faced the boys and continued, “Many will gather to mark Chaharshambeh Suri. A pagan ritual on the day of Ashura. But we are Muslims first. They are the very same people who were responsible for Mahmoodreza’s death—the privileged sons who would have us desecrate this holy day. They would have us forget Mahmoodreza and the sacrifice he made with his own life. They would have us forget his sister who was violated and hanged herself from a tree with her child still in her womb. But we will not forget. We know who we are and we know what we must do.”
He paused. Then added, “Stay in your groups and be vigilant. This is only the beginning.”
The young men stood as the mullah left the room. Amin flipped off the light switch. He stood before the congregants and slowly began to beat his chest with the open palms of both hands until everyone joined him. Their beating grew louder, more powerful. Amin then began his chant, a lamentation to the beat about Imam Hussein and his death. Each phrase was sung to the rhythm of the men’s hands. Each brought Hussein back to life, from his lush black beard to his defiant noble stance. The last few lines of the chant captured, in great agonizing detail, the bloody massacre of Imam Hussein’s killing, right down to the severing of his head. Tears rolled down Amin’s face as he sang, and the young men fell deeper into the trance, beating themselves on the chest, harder and harder, some letting out guttural sounds, some weeping, some whimpering, all together, completely rapt.
Jamsheed closed his eyes. His brow was slick with sweat from the swaying and beating. He felt himself at peace, a feeling that had always eluded him except on a motorbike or in an opium haze. He wept not in lamentation, not in despair, but in relief.
He opened his eyes, the worship now ending. “Most of the fires will be set along the road toward the old city,” said Amin. “They’ll be lighting the fires during the eclipse. We need one group to patrol the shoulders and round them up. We need another group on the side streets of the square to keep the Ashura crowds in line.” He pulled Jamsheed to the side and whispered, “Keep your brother out of my sight. For his own good.”
The young men headed out of the heyat room. In twos and threes, they mounted the motorbikes lined up against the curb. The bikes were covered in religious slogans with painted pictures of the Twelve Imams wedged across the handlebars. Each passenger carried a weapon; bats, brass knuckles, chains, even knives. As each motorbike hit the road, the men called out, “Allahu Akbar.”
Jamsheed stood alone inside, a sudden feeling of unease coming over him. He quickly put on his shoes and left by foot. The mid-afternoon sun was blinding. As his eyes adjusted to the burning light, he saw his brother across the street, staring right at him. His eyes were sharp and deliberate, his face gaunt, scarred somehow, now older than Jamsheed’s own.
Jamsheed walked to his brother, grabbed his arm, and dragged him homeward without a word. Madjid flailed and managed to free one arm. But Jamsheed spun around and forced him back onto the sidewalk. “You stupid little boy,” he said. “This isn’t a game. Go home!”
Madjid was startled by his brother’s fury. “What are you doing, Jamsheed?” he said. “This is madness. These people are fanatics.”
“These people you call fanatics are the very same ones that you championed as a student. They are the revolution.”
“They are thugs.”
Jamsheed softened his voice, then said, “You should go home. All hell will break loose in a few hours. Please, go home.”
Madjid did not take his eyes off his brother. “Jamsheed,” he said, “you are a part of something that will destroy you. I know what Habib-Agha did for you. I know that he cares for you. But he can only lead you down toward his own darkness. You can’t see it because you’re desperate. Please, don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“You forget that I ran into a few of your so-called brothers in prison. Don’t do it, Jamsheed. The violence you commit will ruin you.”
“Did no one tell you that if it wasn’t for Habib-Agha you would still be rotting in that prison? Who do you think got you out? Akbar? Akbar is nothing now. Nothing. He went to his brother begging him to make the call to release you. One call from Habib-Agha and you were free.”
Jamsheed stepped even closer to his brother, their faces almost touching. “We are the revolution.”
Then he turned and began to walk away, stopping only once to say, “Do not come to the square. Everyone knows where you’ve been and where you stand. I am warning you for your own good.”
Madjid was dumbstruck. Jamsheed’s skepticism, his humor, his carefree spirit had been replaced with clarity of purpose—and blind allegiance. It occurred to him that in all the years of their lives together, he had never fully understood the depth of his brother’s despair. Like everyone else, he had simply accepted Jamsheed’s masks because it was easier than confronting his pain.
The watchmen from the heyat room parked their motorbikes near the arches of the town square. They spread across the crowd of townspeople waiting for the final processions and the performance of Ta’ziyeh, which ended the day of mourning.
A Ta’ziyeh performer walked to a partitioned corner of what had been the dress shop earlier that day but was now a dressing room. He slipped behind the curtain. His horse stood reined to a nail in the wall. She nickered at his approach. He took down the bridle and laid his hand over her muzzle, holding it as he eased the bit into her mouth and smoothing the straps into place. He then flung an embroidered saddle pad over her flank and placed a leather saddle over it, cinching the wide, worn leather strap, tugging at the stirrups, and gauging her reaction to see that she was comfortable. She kicked her head up and whinnied. He ran his hand over her mane and slipped a small apple into her mouth.
The performer, who owned the dress shop, looked at himself in a shard of mirror nailed into the wall. He adjusted his headgear, a metal helmet with chain mail draped over the back of his neck, ear-to-ear, down to his shoulders. With his sword in its scabbard, his green tunic and black riding boots, he was a visage from thirteen hundred years ago. A holy warrior.
He turned to the other performers—several men his age dressed in the same fashion as himself and several leaner, more compact others dressed as women with black veils covering their heads and beards. Three small boys, his own sons, were dressed in bright colors, illuminating their young, plump faces. As soon as they finished the final adjustments to their costumes, gear, and horses, he gave a single small nod of approval to his troupe.
A procession of men from several heyats, flagellating themselves with chains attached to wooden handles to the rhythm of a man’s voice belting over a loudspeaker, formed a circle in the center of the square and began to take their seats. The townspeople perched in clusters behind them, some of the younger ones climbing onto the rooftops of the shops where they could better see the play about to take place. Whispers filled the air about the bad omen of the approaching eclipse and many cast frightened glances at the watchmen stoically planted among them. The watchmen scanned the crowd, on the lookout for forbidden smiles and laughter. A group of women dressed head to toe in black, only their eyes peering out, filed in beside them. Almost instantly, they spotted a girl in a loose headscarf, descended upon her, and dragged her away. Their male counterparts did the same with a young man in a short-sleeved shirt.
Akbar-Agha slowly paced outside the circle, keeping watch over his family on the farthest edge of the audience. He had spent the morning trying to talk his wife out of going to the performance, but Bibi-Khanoom was not about to break tradition. Seeing h
is wife arguing over something with Ghamar, he smiled. Then he waved to Nasreen and Jafar.
“Ghamar,” Bibi-Khanoom said, “stop looking at Sekeneh.”
“I can’t believe she’s weeping already.”
“Ghamar, everybody cries at the Ta’ziyeh.”
“Yes, when it’s actually started. Not before.”
Nasreen put her head under her chador. She had not understood—or appreciated—the privacy that chadors allowed in public spaces. In a barely audible whisper, she chanted her private name for Madjid, like an incantation: “Madjiddy, Madjiddy, Madjiddy.” Then punctuated it with ownership, “Madjidam.”
Mohammad sat with the men adjacent to the women’s section, flicking his worry beads. He noticed his wife arguing with Bibi-Khanoom. He turned his gaze to Sekeneh, who was staring right at him. She winked when she caught his eye then went back to her convulsive weeping. He panicked, then looked back at his wife, who was now staring right at him, her face devoid of any expression save the tears that rolled down her cheeks. In that moment, he knew that she had always known of his affair with Sekeneh.
He cast down his head and covered his eyes in shame.
Akbar-Agha stood next to an old man, a member of the ghelyan shop clique and its most outspoken political speaker. Surveying the crowd, the old man said, “This had always been a day of solace for us.”
“And now?’ said Akbar-Agha.
The old man dusted off his coat, preparing to step into the center of the circle. “My old friend,” he said. “Look at the aggression around you. There is no comfort in it.”
To Keep the Sun Alive Page 20