“Shaazy” was a traitor, so I decided I was not going to join the play if she was the fairy godmother. Ignoring her, I slipped under the blanket and closed my eyes, listening to noises from other rooms. Shahnaz was the loudest of the women, giving orders to Sakeen in frigid tones that intermittently broke through the soft flow of our mothers’ chattering. Our fathers were the next noisiest, accusing each other of cheating. Third was the cheering from the boys every time they scored a goal.
Obviously, everyone was busy doing something. Only I was left out. And worse, if Sakeen came back, my absence in the Cinderella show would make no difference. Having a Cinderella, a fairy godmother, and Sakeen as a stepsister was enough for the play to go on. They didn’t need a stepmother.
I was already imagining ways to ruin their play to take revenge. Naazi should have told Shaadi to apologize to me for her tantrum.
* * *
To my surprise, Sakeen returned, with a tray of cut fruit and three glasses of cherry sherbet. She placed the tray of after-meal snacks on Naazi’s nightstand for us to have later. Shaadi seemed to have forgotten about the blood on Sakeen’s bottom, but Naazi hadn’t. How could she? She had to trade clothes with Sakeen.
“Give me your shirt and skirt,” Naazi ordered her maid. “I don’t want your filthy leggings. I’ll wear my own stockings.”
Sakeen accepted the deal under one condition: “Give me a dress to wear instead.”
“First give me your shirt,” Naazi replied. “I’ll get your skirt later, but not your headscarf. No way I’ll be wearing that.”
Sakeen retied her scarf back behind her neck, letting a tassel fall on her long brow. Then, with no shame, she stripped off Shahnaz’s old blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts looked bigger than the last time we saw them.
Naazi took the shirt, wrinkled her nose, and went into her closet. She reappeared two minutes later in Sakeen’s blouse, which reached down to her knees, and her own black stockings underneath. I volunteered to roll her sleeves up for her, and with that done, she turned into a perfect Cinderella. My little sister roared with laughter at our cousin’s miserable appearance — laughter I hoped would break the new bond between the two of them. I forced myself to laugh too, even though to me Naazi looked more pathetic than funny.
Sakeen guffawed, drawing Naazi’s attention to her nakedness, and reminded her that she had forgotten to bring her a dress. Naazi walked back to the closet to find Sakeen a party dress for the role of the mean stepmother. She pressed it against Sakeen’s chest. Sakeen took it with a smirk and disappeared into the closet. When she reappeared, she flaunted Naazi’s velvet dress, obviously too tight for her. Naazi flinched at Sakeen’s appearance, and at the rough skirt Sakeen held out to her.
Putting it on, Naazi turned to Shaadi in anger. “See what you made me agree to with your stupid crying.” She then turned to Sakeen, who looked like her mistress and not her maid, and chided, “Be careful not to make my dress bloody. Once the show is over, you’re my maid again.”
I cringed, wishing that for once Naazi had been able to leave well enough alone. Now my sister was curious again. Turning to Sakeen, she asked, “Have you cut yourself on your behind?”
To steer Shaadi’s attention away, Sakeen said, “What about makeup?”
“Yes, we need that,” I said, and went to open the makeup kit on the desk beside Naazi’s bed. I pulled out a chair and nodded at Shaadi. “Come. The fairy godmother should go first.”
When she took the seat, I said to Naazi, “I think Sakeen should do the makeup. You know she is good at it.” I nodded toward the wall clock with my head to indicate time was ticking away, so Naazi wouldn’t waste time objecting to my idea.
Sakeen asked Shaadi to sit still and keep her eyes shut as she powdered her face, applying blush to her cheeks and reddening her tiny mouth. She applied blue eye shadow and curled her lashes with mascara. Shaadi trembled occasionally with excitement as Naazi and I watched her transformation. When Sakeen was done she gently kissed Shaadi’s eyelids, making her small face blossom with a beautiful smile.
I told Sakeen I didn’t need makeup and put on lipstick myself. As Cinderella only turns pretty in the second act, Sakeen went about her own makeup next. It transformed her in an unbelievable way. The makeup brought out her sharp black eyes, emphasized her high cheekbones, and made her lips thicker and her nose smaller with just a few quick strokes of the brush. She became more beautiful than me.
Sakeen was an artist who had become an intimidating beauty, yet it did not rob her of her grit. Naazi, though, just looked hopeless. No matter how hard she tried to hold Sakeen’s skirt away from her waist, it nevertheless touched her tights.
Shaadi waved a pencil with stars on it, pretending it was her fairy-godmother’s wand, prompting us to begin. I sat on Hussein’s bed as the stepsister. Excited, I watched stepmother Sakeen give tasks to Naazi, our Cinderella.
Anger shadowed Naazi’s dark eyes as she ignored Sakeen, busying herself in the “kitchen” that was her bed while still trying to hold Sakeen’s skirt away from her leggings. I decided I should come up with my own plans for tormenting Naazi, as I was still mad at her for turning my little sister against me, but I knew I could never best Sakeen when it came to tortures.
“Take your hands off your skirt” was Sakeen’s first command. Why couldn’t I have come up with such a great order first?
Naazi refused. “I’m still setting up the stage. Save your yapping for when the play starts.”
We waited for Naazi to set up the toy dishes, and then we all counted down from three to zero and the play officially began.
This time, Sakeen made me deliver the order for Naazi to let go of her skirt. When she hesitated, I smacked her on the back of her hand. Avoiding the skirt, she stood with her arms crossed on her chest.
Now it was my turn to initiate an order. I stood by the bed, arms akimbo, and called her over to make it. Sakeen reminded her that she was not allowed to touch her skirt. So Naazi dropped her hands and walked with a clumsy, awkward shuffling.
Once my bed was made, I messed it again. She’d done a poor job, I told her, and must do it again. As Naazi began re-spreading the blanket and straightening the ripples that creased the soccer field, Sakeen murmured into my ear. “Press her legs against the edge of the bed while she bends down.” Naazi twisted in pain. But the ultimate torment, I thought, should have something to do with the skirt. It came to me immediately. “Cinderella, I want you to lie face down on the floor and roll across the carpet.”
As Naazi lowered herself to the floor, I squatted over her and rolled her on the floor to the other end of the room. Once my hands were free, I rubbed them on her skirt and then touched her face with my itchy fingers. Naazi’s feet started shaking, as if someone were choking her.
“You’re not getting it,” Shaadi said, chiming in for the first time. “The stepsister must be meaner!”
To my surprise, Sakeen agreed. “She’s right. You’re too soft for Cinderella’s stepsister.”
“And you’re too dumb to be the stepmother,” I proclaimed.
Sakeen started pacing the room, something I knew she did when she was furious. Meanwhile, Naazi retreated to “the kitchen.”
Thinking she knew more than I did, my naive sister gave me instructions. “Like in the movies, you should give Cinderella orders to sweep the floor, to wash and iron your clothes.”
Her simple idea gave Sakeen her next mischievous plan. She called Naazi over. “You’re filthy,” she said, and ordered her to take off the dirty skirt and wash it. Berating myself for not coming up with this demand, I watched Naazi handle this new task.
Our poor Cinderella spread the skirt on the study-desk laundry area. Her hands shook as she rubbed the fabric. I held my breath. Her silence was extraordinary. Perhaps she was not as spoiled as I imagined.
Sakeen yanked the skirt out of Naazi�
�s hand and held it up to the light, only to shove it into Naazi’s face again. “It’s still dirty. It smells!”
She made Naazi sniff the fabric, but even this didn’t break Naazi’s resolve. So Sakeen motioned for me to get up and rub the fabric against Naazi’s face. I hesitated, but fearing that she would punish me too, I carried out her order.
Naazi jerked away as I pressed the skirt to the flushed skin of her face, but Sakeen held her in place. Dropping the skirt on the desk, I quickly retreated to the bed.
“Your little sister’s right. You’re not much of a stepsister. You take too much pity on maids.”
Trying to stay as resolute as my role model, I shrugged, wishing that this play would end soon. Our tortures no longer made sense. No matter what we did, Naazi’s eyes remained dry. Inwardly, I cheered for her. If I had been playing Cinderella, I would have yielded under the pressure. My body was already tense. Looking over at my little sister, I noticed that she seemed to be in the same state. Perhaps that’s why she suddenly announced that the first act was over. “It’s my turn now. Let’s put on her makeup,” she insisted, her shoulders shaking.
This was also what I wanted. Cinderella turning into a princess was Sakeen’s ultimate defeat. “Keep your wriggling ass there on your seat, you little rascal. I am not done yet.” The look Sakeen threw at Shaadi before disappearing into the closet stopped her from climbing out of the chair. Shaadi turned her face away from Sakeen and squinted at the clock on the wall, which seemed to be ticking slower now, as if it, too, were afraid of Sakeen.
I had to come up with a way to end this act as soon as possible. Not because my sister wanted to enter the play in the next act or because I cared about Naazi being further tortured. I wanted to win Sakeen as my own maid, as my playmate. There was no way Naazi would be able to bear her presence at their house after this play. And given that Sakeen’s family would never want her back, I was sure my father would harbor her in our home, if I asked him.
I was still racking my brain to come up with a master plan to end the first act when Sakeen emerged from the closet with something in her hand. I pushed Naazi aside to see that Sakeen was holding her folded gray leggings. The arc of her raised eyebrows and the mischievous twinkle in her eyes revealed that she had the most wicked plan, one that Satan himself could not have concocted. A shudder ran down my spine as I imagined the cruelty of her ruse. In anticipation and fear, I held my breath and pushed my fingers into my palms.
Sakeen flung the leggings at Naazi and ordered her to wash them. “Stop staring and do the laundry. My daughter and I are going to a party. This must be washed before we come back.”
I stared at Sakeen, confused. Was this her ultimate torture plan? What was the difference between touching her scratchy skirt and touching her coarse leggings? On the face of it, this trick was no different than the last one.
Perhaps it was, though, because Naazi began to show signs of distress. She must have seen something in Sakeen’s plan that I couldn’t. Her flushed face looked like a spider web ready to be punched by the wind. She curled her fingers into fists to stop her hands from shaking before opening them again to collect the leggings. Standing up, she moved back to the laundry area. I followed, ignoring the sound of Shaadi’s feet banging against the legs of the chair.
“You little brat,” Sakeen barked at my sister. “Can’t you sit quiet for five minutes?”
Once Naazi spread the folded leggings on the desk, Sakeen’s underwear emerged from inside them. I turned around to see if Shaadi was looking in our direction and moved to block her view of the dirty panties with patches of dried blood. Approaching us from behind, Sakeen yelled at Naazi. “Rub them hard until the stains come out!” Even though I was repulsed, I couldn’t resist watching Naazi’s hands. They pushed Sakeen’s underwear aside and then started to quiver before shaking uncontrollably while rubbing Sakeen’s leggings.
“You also need to wash my panties.” Sakeen’s eyes gleamed devilishly.
As convulsions took hold of Naazi’s whole body, she shouted with a voice as brittle as a cracked glass, “Even Cinderella didn’t do this filthy job.”
I agreed completely, but I kept my mouth shut so as not to gag. My stomach turned at the sight of Sakeen’s panties. The filthy maid had gone too far, asking my cousin to do something so disgusting. Who did she think she was to act like a real mistress? This was more than a role-play. Her treatment of Naazi was outrageous, meant to offend our whole family. I also felt humiliated and was about to cry.
Sakeen spoke steadily. “Oh, yeah? So how come I have to do this filthy job for your nahne every month?”
“Watch your mouth, village girl,” I screamed. “It is your mother who’s called nahne.”
This was the last straw. Naazi broke into a contagious wail that soon spread to Shaadi and me. Before I could move forward to hug my shaky little sister, her face a canvas of running colors, Shahnaz, our mother, and the other women burst in, behind them a troop including our fathers, Hossein, and his football gang — all come to rescue a fairy godmother, a Cinderella, and her ugly stepsister from an evil stepmother.
* * *
We did not see Sakeen after that night. Naazi said that when she woke up the next morning, Sakeen was gone. She didn’t dare ask her mother anything. We never heard about Sakeen again, and we didn’t play with the next maid or the succession of others who replaced her — all of them old women — until the revolution.
Butterflies on the Bus
For years my heart inquired of me
Where Jamshid’s sacred mirror might be,
And what was in its own possession
It asked from strangers, constantly;
Was unaware that God was there
and called His name out ceaselessly.
— Hafiz
Parvaaneh wakes with a start from her dream when the bus driver slams on the brakes. She opens her eyes to the activity, braces herself as the bus continues a series of halts, still a hundred yards from the stop on Revolution Street at Saadi Street. Two drivers lean on their horns. Ahead, an orange taxi swerves to the shoulder to avoid hitting a young man crossing the street to catch the bus. A few men and women in chador walking down the sidewalk turn and look. The taxi driver yells at the man for almost causing an accident. Parvaaneh groans, grips the handrail in front of her, closes her eyes again, and tries for a few more seconds to hold onto the dream in which her brother Navid is crossing a river.
It’s impossible. She can’t see if Navid has made it to the other side. There is only the roar of the bus engine, the horns, the shouts, and a continuous, murky current behind her eyelids.
When she hears people bustle past her to take their seats, Parvaaneh sighs, gives up, and opens her eyes. She stares into a long line of people by the bus stop. They push against each other to get on the bus. The young man who was almost run over crossing the street is the final one to enter, and he stumbles on the last step. There is something about him that reminds her of her brother — his thick black hair. Three days ago, Navid stumbled in the river that traces the border between Iran and the Soviet Union as he crossed it to escape from fighting in the war. She jumps up from her seat, a few rows from the front, ready to go and help the man. But she sits back down when he steadies himself on the low-hanging iron bar.
The man hands his ticket to the driver. His back is toward her. Parvaaneh leans forward and squints into the driver’s rearview mirror, trying to see the man’s face through the reflected light. But he turns, walks past her to the middle of the bus, and slides into a seat a few rows behind her. He is the same height as Navid and just as slim.
Parvaaneh’s eyes are heavy again. She has barely slept in three days. She is on her way to her friend Sima’s place. It is Sima Navid will call to say he is safe.
* * *
When Parvaaneh and Navid first hit the road, they went from Tehran to Ardebil. She hired an Azeri acquaintance to drive them there. They departed before dawn. To give her brother the look of a sick person, Parvaaneh had wrapped his head in one of her scarves and yellowed his face with turmeric. Navid was excellent in the role. He lay down as soon as they slid into the back seat and put his head on her lap. She covered him with an old chador she’d brought as a prop for their show. Navid stayed in the same position the entire journey. It was wonderful to have him attached to her and to stroke his hair or pat his shoulder as they traveled farther away from their home and closer to Azarbaijan, where they would have to say good-bye for good.
The driver took the Khalkhal–Zanjan Road. Convinced by Navid’s performance that he really was ill, the driver sped up and got them to their destination one hour early. They spent the following night with a distant relative — her mother’s great-aunt, a placid old lady they’d met only once in their entire lives. This was the address they had given to the smuggler’s contact, who’d told them someone would come for them in the morning. Parvaaneh was still awake when she heard him arrive at seven, and she stumbled with fatigue on the way to his car. She’d spent the night watching an alarmed Navid tossing and turning on the mattress and talking loudly from time to time about hating the war.
The smuggler, a lanky, bearded young man, had driven them along the winding and bumpy route toward Astara. He told them it would be safer if they traveled during the day, for they would draw less attention to themselves. The Revolutionary Guards thought that people looking to escape would choose to make their trip during the night, and on dirt roads. This time, Parvaaneh sat in the back and the two men in front. It was a configuration that would not arouse suspicion; women and children always sat in the back. The man smoked the whole way, which made Parvaaneh feel nauseated. She remained silent, but moved close to the window and put her head out for a while. The cool, fresh morning air blew onto her face. The road was wet from the night’s rain, and more gray clouds were gathering in the sky above the mountains.
Divided Loyalties Page 2