Akbar-Agha looked at the groups of young men and women who policed the crowd and understood, finally, that the old man was right. He thought about his brother and everything that Habib had overcome in his life. But what difference had overcoming adversity made? The moment his brother gained power, he became the very thing he had fought against.
The band of percussionists began a drumbeat. The horn players blew a melody. Slowly, the crowd hushed as the old man walked into the center of the square, his eyes half closed at the sight of a town shifted beyond his recognition. In a soft-spoken voice he began to recite:
Twilight falls on terra and time
As we recall another place and clime.
The sun and moon about to collide,
No place is left for our time to hide.
It cannot leave nor will it stay,
It must be left exactly as it lay.
And as the years lay layers upon its back
A fossil will form in the recess of our head.
Sunset, nightfall, crepuscule, gloam,
As we, for the moment, lose our way home.
The old man’s eyes searched the crowd for just one person who understood what he was saying, finding only Akbar-Agha. He nodded to the judge, then finally launched into the prologue of the Ta’ziyeh of Ghasem. Slowly, in a voice building with power, he told the story of Imam Hussein’s daughter Roghayeh betrothed to Imam Hussein’s nephew Ghasem. In the midst of the Battle of Karbala, their wedding is celebrated right before Ghasem is killed in battle.
Already the crowd began to weep and sway. The watchmen and women were moved by the tragedy about to unfold before them. The less devout moved by their own private losses and the sudden freedom of being able to grieve both so openly and so secretly, in the midst of so many others.
With a single clap of his hands, the old man was finished. He exited the circle, passing the performers and their horses in the dressing area.
The dress shop owner stood behind his eldest son, who was cast as the warrior groom, Ghasem. Behind him was his middle boy in a veil as Roghayeh, the bride-to-be. The bandleader kicked off a military march of drums and horns, and the troupe filed out, walking inside the circle of spectators before coming to a stop in a semicircle facing the three boys. The call and answer between the men and boys began, recounting in melody the tragic love story.
THE MOON ASCENDING
Akbar-Agha stood listening to the dirge of Ghasem. His heart was broken and he had never, in all of these many years, felt so alone. He walked through the byways of town, listening to the clanging of pots, the hiss of voices, the howl of dogs. He looked up to the sky and saw the moon beside the sun.
At the mosque, he stopped. Light broke through the crack of the door as he pushed it open and stepped inside. There was nothing but silence, the room empty.
The first time he had ever come here, it was to do his ablutions at the fountain and pray alongside his father. The exhilaration of belonging had filled him with a sense of comfort.
When had he realized that the sermons his father so admired never addressed his doubts? When had he begun to see the men and women, prostrate before their scriptures and icons, as schools of fish swimming in circles?
In the main hall, he found his brother sitting on the mambar, alone. Pots clanged in the distance, crowds chanted. The performance was over in the square, the processioners flagellating themselves as they left.
The mullah glanced up from his worry beads.
“Something has been bothering me for quite some time now,” said Akbar. “Perhaps you can help. You knew the young man who was hanged, I believe.”
“The martyr, you mean.”
“How did he figure out the identity of the man who impregnated his sister? No one in her family knew she was pregnant until after she killed herself.”
“She went to see her brother the night before. Perhaps she told him then.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps the boy that ruined her boasted about it.”
“Not by name.”
They locked eyes. A slight twitch fluttered through the mullah’s expression and Akbar moved in. “How did you know who it was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did you tell him you did?”
“I didn’t.”
“You are lying.”
“I am not.”
“You are lying!”
“No. I am not! I did not tell him who it was, because I did not know. I simply guessed it and one of my students informed him. And I was right.”
The mullah stood up and glowered at his brother as he continued, “Doubt is like a cancer, Akbar. The more you feed it, the faster it spreads. And the young man died with his dignity intact.”
“False pride is not dignity.”
“You cannot understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“They must pay for the abuses we have suffered.”
“Who are this ‘they’?”
“You know very well, Akbar. The pagans and infidels. The aristocracy who have whored our nation to their Western masters. You of all people should know the value of justice. What could possibly be more important?”
Akbar stared at his brother. “I am sorry, Habib.”
“For what?”
“For what he did to you. And to our sister and our mother. I am sorry that I didn’t know how to make it stop.”
“This is not about us.”
“This has always been about us.”
“Think what you want. What is done is done.”
Akbar looked into his brother’s face, a stranger’s face, and said, “Chaos reigns outside these doors, your chaos. And soon, when the dust settles, you will be in charge of it all. Tell me, how does it feel?”
The mullah looked up at his brother and, without a trace of irony or contempt, said, “I feel nothing.”
Mehry hid among the women in her chador watching the Ta’ziyeh, her eyes welling up as Ghasem sang a song for his beloved while he dressed for battle. She melted into the crowd of black cloth where she could let herself feel a belonging that eluded her on any other day. She swayed with the womenfolk, basking in the warmth of shared communion as she touched shoulders with the very women who would otherwise shun her and swat her away like a fly.
She smiled at a cluster of children fidgeting and giggling in the front row. But Ghasem was exiting the stage on his horse. The spell that held the audience captive had broken. Mehry felt seen and abruptly stood and made her way past the huddles of women to one of the arched entrances of the square. She walked homeward, her chador wrapped tightly around her, only her clenched hand and half of her face exposed. She held her head down as she hurried through the dark narrow byways of the town. The sound of the Ta’ziyeh became fainter and fainter.
The sky turned a slate color. The moon began to eclipse the sun. All along the road leading to the old city, young men were jumping over the fires built in the brush. Some men burned the legs of their pants. Others shot past with flushed cheeks and singed holes in their shirts, chanting even louder, “My yellow is yours, your red is mine.”
The Zoroastrian ritual was ancient—far more ancient than Ashura. Up and down the orchard road, logs snapped and popped. And more men gathered, defying the clerics. A pickup sped along the road, coming to a jerky halt. Jamsheed sat tensely in the passenger seat beside Amin, the driver. Kicking the door open, he jumped out of the truck followed by several of his henchmen.
Brandishing his club, he led the way to the nearest fire. The jumpers stood still, staring. Jamsheed looked at a young boy, no more than fourteen. Then he looked to the truck. Amin was sitting behind the wheel, watching him. He faced the boy and swung his club at his head. The boy hit the ground and Jamsheed dragged him by one foot to the back of the truck, lifted him by his shirt, and threw him in.
One by one, all the young men were beaten and dragged to the back of the truck, kicked once more by the henchmen if they tried to escape.
His job finished, Jamsheed took his seat up front. Amin nodded his approval, then slammed his foot on the gas to make a sudden U-turn as he sped to the next fire. A few boys ran into the forest, too far off to chase down.
By the time they reached the fire closest to town, it was abandoned. Word had spread. Jamsheed stood over the smoldering flames, the light flickering over the blood on his club. A few drops rolled down the length of the wood and fell, like burned rain, with a hissing sound.
In the back of the truck, the captives cowered together, looking at him with frightened eyes that didn’t mask their contempt. He liked this contempt. He was stronger. He was in control. He was righteous. “Amin,” he shouted, “go ahead and take them to the holding area. I will walk to the square and wait for you.”
Madjid walked briskly, twigs snapping under his feet. His cheeks were flushed from the pyre he had jumped over, his mind horrified by what he had just seen: his brother beating his friends while he hid in the trees, his brother dragging a boy into the back of a pickup truck then standing over a fire with his club, his face almost serene.
Madjid cut through the forest, following the ascending moon. Pots clanged sporadically in the distance as townspeople prepared for the eclipse. Harsh sounds helped ward off evil spirits. He could also hear the Ta’ziyeh. Ghasem’s song for his bride. Madjid pictured the scene: young Ghasem preparing for battle, sweetly describing her beauty. He pulled his chain-mail vest over his head as he sang about the delicate curve of her eyebrow. He fastened his belt with his sword and scabbard around his waist as he admired the cupid’s bow of her mouth. He put on a white shroud in preparation for martyrdom as he praised the curl of her raven-black hair. And then he stopped singing, erased her image from his mind, and rode out on his horse to meet his fate.
The moon continued to inch over the sun. The sky became darker. Madjid walked through the trees, following the fading light. He saw the road and ran toward it.
On the shoulder, he found Mehry looking up at the eclipse. She squinted.
“Don’t stare at it,” he said. “It will burn your eyes.”
She gripped the chador tightly around her face.
“I know you,” he said.
“Lots of men know me.”
Madjid averted his gaze. “No. I mean, I know you. Years ago, in the cave, I saw you.”
“What do you want?”
“That day in the cave,” he said. “What happened to you? Who had done that to you?”
“Done what?”
“Your woman part. It was stitched and bloody.”
“Oh. Yes. I remember you now. Who are you?”
“Madjid.”
Her face softened. “My God. You look exactly like your mother. The same exact eyes.”
“You knew my mother?”
“No. But she was kind to me. I was sorry when she died.”
“I miss her still.” The expression on his face was pained, and so young.
“I had a son once too,” Mehry said. “The midwife, God rest her soul, took him to a good family in Mash’had. Ten years and three months ago, exactly. The day he was born.”
Madjid looked at her in disbelief. It was impossible—and yet all too possible she was Jafar’s mother. “Please,” he said. “Let me see you home.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“For me. It will make me feel better. Please.”
High-beamed headlights cut by suddenly. Madjid grabbed Mehry’s arm and pulled her into the thick of the foliage. They crouched among the trees as the truck sped past, the bed now empty. Madjid felt the bones in her arms, the frailty of her body. He breathed, and when he did, Mehry could feel his breath on her neck. It was unlike that of the men she had known, over and over. She closed her eyes and inhaled him, the scent of green almonds, the scent of youth and its ignorance of desperation.
As the truck disappeared around the bend, they stepped onto the roadside and began to walk, him in front, her behind. Twigs and rocks snapped beneath their synchronized gait. He could feel her slight frame behind him, and felt a sense of purpose, of usefulness that he had not felt since prison. Mehry stopped dead in her tracks and stood looking up at the sky. The moon had totally eclipsed the sun now—a night in the middle of the day. Thousands of brilliant stars scattered across the sky. She closed her eyes and Madjid felt as if this was the phenomena he should observe, the hard, broken face of a woman who no one had ever stood up for, a woman who had survived far more than he ever had, every day of her whole life.
“Madjid,” said a voice.
It was his brother. With his club. “What are you doing? I told you to stay home.”
Mehry pulled her chador over her face.
“Don’t bother, sister,” said Jamsheed. “We all know who you are.”
Madjid held his arm out to the side as though this could protect her. “I’m just seeing her home. I promise.”
Jamsheed held up his club and pushed his brother with the blunt bloody tip. “I warned you to stay away and now I find you on the side of the road with a whore. She is going where she belongs and never coming back.”
Madjid shook his head. “You will have to go through me to get to her.”
Amin’s pickup truck came speeding down the road, the high beams blinding them all. In the flood of dust, it came to a stop, “Madjid,” Jamsheed whispered. “Run.”
But Madjid did not move. The men jumped out from the bed, following Amin. He was visibly angry. “Jamsheed,” he said. “I warned you to keep that traitor out of my sight.” Then he looked at Mehry. “I know you. You’re a whore.”
Mehry stared back at him. “I know you, too. And your father.”
The accusation sent a rumble through the men. They moved toward Mehry. Madjid tried to block their way. “Please, leave her alone. She’s done nothing wrong. We’ve done nothing wrong. I’m only seeing her home.”
Several of them grabbed his arms. The others went for Mehry, pushing her to the ground, raising their clubs. She screamed. There was the dull thud of wood. Screams.
Madjid howled in anguish and fought against the men. He kicked. He flailed. Amin slapped him across the face, hard enough for him to taste blood. He kicked Amin in the stomach, sending him to his knees.
Everything, all at once, went silent. Even Mehry’s screaming. The men who had beaten her lifeless began walking back to the truck. One picked up her chador and covered her. Madjid looked up at Amin. He said in a quiet voice, “You are nothing more than murderers.”
“You defend a whore?”
“It’s you who is the whore.”
Amin’s face flushed red. He stepped behind Madjid, grabbed his hair, and pulled his head back. Jamsheed lunged to help his brother, but the men held him back. Pots clanged and far, far away the women continued their shrill cries at the moon that covered the sun, leaving the world in total darkness save for the high beams and the glint of the knife in Amin’s hand.
Madjid’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground, gasping for air. The blood was terrible and dark. He couldn’t breathe. When the sun burst through, red at first, he stared straight into the light and saw himself in the orchard. He could hear birds and insects sing in the dense green leaves, the milky skin of Nasreen’s face. He felt the touch of her hand and the softness of her hair. His eyes went black, his mind crowded with the cacophony of voices from the town square, the hagglers, merchants, families, laughing, arguing, shouting, almost singing. He heard the protesters in the capital chanting and celebrating. He felt their bodies press against his and they moved together like a single wave, growing and flooding and rising until his body went numb. He gasped for breath, and all of it—the orchard, Nasreen, the square, the crowds, the sweat and heat and sun—were gone. All that remained was the fading beat of his heart.
PARIS
VI
The crowd of onlookers on the riverbank pressed against Shazdehpoor. It was no comfort to him. He started to feel as though he were being crushed. He felt a tap on his arm. A young refuge
e girl stood at his side, holding out a pair of paper glasses.
It was not the same girl as in the Place du Tertre, of course. She was older. Wearing a headscarf. She cast down her head to avert his gaze, as if she were new to this way of life. Shazdehpoor felt her shame and dug through his pockets for a few euros. She slid through the bodies in search of the next customer. For a moment, he thought to follow her. But she, too, was gone. He slid his glasses over his eyes.
The moon had already started its diagonal slide over the sun, a slow and steady movement almost imperceptible to the eye except for the darkness that spread from its progression. He focused on the outline of the moon. As the eclipse reached its totality, the sky turned the cool dark of caves, the air tasted leaden. The pigeons and the vendors and the clapping went silent.
In that moment of utter darkness and silence, he felt so alone. He could not bear it anymore.
Savagely, he pushed through the crowd, stumbling on the stairs at the riverbank, almost stepping on a young man. He paid no mind to the curses and shoving. He reached the street-level landing and trudged through a patch of loose gravel, tripping as his foot dug in. Falling to his knees, he began to laugh. At first he laughed for his hatred of pebbles and the lifetime he had spent fighting them. The laughter convulsed through his body and shifted to agony. He was wailing, blinded by his own tears. Several passersby gathered around him, and one young man stepped forward but Shazdehpoor waved him away. “I’m fine,” he said, creaking to his feet. He kept his eyes on the ground and managed to escape. Such a loss of control had terrified him. He walked as quickly as he could, to the place he should have gone hours before.
In the three decades of friendship Shazdehpoor had shared with Trianant, he never once told him the story of his family. He had skirted all questions that arose and launched into fabulist tales of sugar factories and wars between lions and asses. At times, the beauty of his tales was so entrancing, so seductive, he understood the myths of Imam Hussein and the apothecary and the pleasures of opium and the books of Madjid—the joy of escaping until you forget yourself. None of it had ever been calculated. It was simply that, after all these years, he no longer knew what was true. Except that he had lost one son to a revolution and another to the war that followed. His family scattered and passed, the orchard—where these lives had unfolded—sold off piece by piece.
To Keep the Sun Alive Page 21