Divided Loyalties

by Nilofar Shidmehr

  Some time later, the private she had met in the morning came to let her know that the sergeant was waiting for her in front of the station. She followed the man outside to where a black SUV was parked. The sergeant was already buckled in on the front seat, his folded wheelchair placed behind him on the back seat. Parvaaneh sat beside it and listened closely, hoping she would be able to find out something about Navid by eavesdropping on any conversation the sergeant and the private might have along the way.

  The car passed the town’s main square, where an abandoned tank rested on a flowerbed, its gun pointing skyward. It was already dusk, and the sky streaked with red resembled the bandage on the hand of the soldier who’d brought her the tea and food. Neither the sergeant nor the private said a word. The private parked at the end of a narrow alley that the SUV could not enter. Parvaaneh waited inside until he removed the wheelchair, unfolded it, and placed the sergeant in it. It was obvious that the sergeant was too heavy for the lanky private. Parvaaneh glanced at his sweaty forehead with compassion as she got out of the vehicle. Ordinary soldiers like him, who were doing their military service, had to put up with all kinds of things. But at least this private had not been sent to the front line; his mother must be very happy. The young man threw Parvaaneh a look of pity in return. Her new look — covered in a white chador but wearing her old shoes, brown and flat — was no doubt the look of a destitute prostitute.

  The private wheeled the sergeant up the middle of the alley. The mullah lived in a large, renovated building that sat among dilapidated two-storey houses. The narrow street with a gutter running through the middle was lit by the lights on a hejleh — a metal frame in the shape of a house, decorated with several mirrors and lights, among which the picture of a recent martyr hung. The hejleh stood by the house of the mullah’s neighbor. Parvaaneh couldn’t help but think that hejleh was also the name for a decorated nuptial chamber meant for newlywed couples, the place where a groom took his bride on the first night of the marriage.

  Parvaaneh had no idea where the sergeant was going to take her for the night. Hopefully to a room with no lights, so she wouldn’t be able to see him. If she wasn’t able to find out what had happened to Navid by the time she was alone with the sergeant, her plan was to knock the man down and run away. After all, she still had her legs. She would cross Aras and flee the country. Given that the sergeant had her birth certificate and could find her, she had no other way.

  The mullah was a short man who limped; his turban tilted to the right as he leaned forward to greet the sergeant in his wheelchair. They kissed each other on the cheek. “How are your kids and your wife, Sergeant?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Parvaaneh hoped that the sergeant wouldn’t take her to his home, where his wife and children lived.

  The mullah invited them to a small room separated by a curtain from the living room. The floor was covered by a red Kashan carpet. A folded blanket sat by the front wall for guests to sit on, and three pillows rested against the wall. Parvaaneh sat on the blanket and leaned against one of the pillows. The mullah sat on his knees, facing her, and the sergeant wheeled himself to a spot beside the blanket. A Koran lay beside the mullah. Next to it were a pen, a piece of paper, and her birth certificate.

  A few frames hung on the wall with sayings from religious texts. After a while, a woman appeared, keeping her black chador very tight, covering her chin and mouth. She pulled back the curtain, pushed in a tray of tea, and then left without a word.

  “Everything under control in the area?” the mullah asked.

  The sergeant nodded. He suspended a sugar cube in his mouth and gulped his tea. “I am here for the God-willed action,” he said, nodding in Parvaaneh’s direction.

  “Yes. Men of God should take care of widows and women during war. That’s what the Prophet Moham­-

  mad — our blessings to him and his household — ordered them to do,” the Mullah said, looking straight into Parvaaneh’s eyes. “Otherwise, Muslim women deviate from God’s path.” The mullah poured his tea onto his saucer and dropped a sugar cube in it. He brought the saucer to his lips and sucked the tea from the edge. “You are doing the right thing, Sergeant. You are a man of God.”

  Next, the mullah turned to her. “I hear you are ­taking care of your old father?”

  “Yes,” Parvaaneh said under her breath.

  “That is good. Taking care of the parents is one of a Muslim’s main responsibilities. God bless you for doing so. But you should also think about your own life, your future. There are many good men who are casualties of the war and are in need of the care of good Muslim women like yourself. Keep up the good deeds.”

  Parvaaneh’s tea cooled as the mullah performed the wedding ceremony. He began by reading verses from the Koran and then lifted her birth certificate, opened it, and turned to Parvaaneh. “Khanoom Parvaaneh Ehya, do you give me your consent to make you the wife of this good man of God for one week?”

  Parvaaneh had a hard time to find her voice. “I have to go back to Tehran tomorrow. My old father is waiting for me.” She made sure to keep her head low.

  “The lady doesn’t consent for one week, Sergeant. What would you like to do?” the mullah asked.

  “One night is fine,” the sergeant answered.

  “Khanoom Parvaaneh Ehya, do you give me your consent to turn you into the wife of this sergeant for tonight, this good man who gave his legs fighting the enemies of God?”

  Before Parvaaneh could answer, the sergeant said, “Excuse me, you didn’t mention the wedding money, Haj agha?”

  The mullah asked Parvaaneh the same question again, but this time he added that the contract was under the condition that the sergeant would pay her ten thousand tomans as her wedding money.

  The sergeant took a bundle of bills from a small brown bag he had hidden beside him on the wheelchair and passed it to the mullah to place in front of Parvaaneh. He then started rubbing his mustache with two fingers.

  She stared at the bundle for a brief moment, and yet the image before her eyes was that of Navid caught in the foamy water. She knew the two men were waiting for her answer, but her mouth was clogged, as if she were underwater. She gathered all of her strength to overcome the stream of disturbing thoughts surging through her mind and breathed out, “Yes. I’ll give my consent.”

  “And so, I pronounce you man and wife for one night. Congratulations, and may God bless both of you.” The mullah then took the pen and paper to add new information to what was already written there. “I write here that the marital contract is valid for one night only,” he proclaimed. He slid the paper inside her birth certificate and passed Parvaaneh’s ID to her. “You’ll need to take the certificate with you to the Foundation of Martyrs and War Casualties to prove your marriage. As you know, temporary marriages are not recorded in birth certificates.”

  The sergeant wheeled himself to the door as soon as Parvaaneh put the document and the marriage money in her purse. “Stay longer,” the mullah said.

  “No, thank you. We have to go.”

  “At least let the lady have her tea,” the mullah said, straightening his turban.

  Parvaaneh pushed the cup back and got up. “It’s okay, Haj agha.” The private was waiting for them out in the alley, and she wanted to be back in the SUV as soon as possible. She still hoped something of what had happened that day might come up in conversation between the sergeant and the private during the ride.

  “My door is always open to you, Sergeant. I am at your service any time you need me.” The mullah knelt and kissed the sergeant on both cheeks. Parvaane
h saw the sergeant pass a few bills to the man.

  The private drove them without a word, leaving Parvaaneh alone with her thoughts. Was she really a temporary wife to this man, and did she have to spend the night with him? The butterflies that had been sitting silently for a while in the pit of her stomach began to swirl around again. “Oh no, for God’s sake, please calm down,” she spoke to them in her mind. When they didn’t stop, she thought of opening the car door and throwing herself out. She was certain now that she wouldn’t get any information out of this man. So wasn’t it better to let herself die under the wheels of a car than die from fear? Without Navid, her life had no meaning. But who knew if Navid was dead? He’d promised that they would be reunited as soon as he got settled in Germany, or any other country that would accept him. “Only one or two years,” he’d told her. “I’ll get you out of this hell and take care of you.”

  The private pulled into the police station once again. Parvaaneh had no desire to get out. She held onto the edge of her seat with both hands as the private unbuckled the sergeant and lifted him into his wheelchair. He was weary from moving the heavy man, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand and stood up to catch his breath. Noticing Parvaaneh still sitting in the car, he stuck his head through the passenger door and chided her. “Why are you still there? Move yourself, lady. I have to go.”

  Parvaaneh got out and reluctantly followed them. The guards looked away as the three of them passed through the yard, as if they didn’t recognize them. She paused at the entrance to the building, unwilling to move farther. She had led herself into a trap and now had no idea how to escape.

  “What are you waiting for?” the sergeant asked. Parvaaneh shuffled forward and followed the man down the main hall.

  The sergeant entered the same room on the left where Parvaaneh had spent the afternoon. He wheeled himself to the end of the office and into the small room at the back. With his back to Parvaaneh, he asked her to come and turn on the light.

  As Parvaaneh stepped into the dingy room, the noxious smell of mold overwhelmed her. She flicked the light switch on the wall to her right and turned to watch the man pushing the gray blanket back and heaving himself from his wheelchair onto the bed. He lay on his back.

  “Take off your chador. We are mahram now.” He stressed the word mahram,” which indicated that since he was her husband he could see her without hijab.

  “Can I open the window?” Parvaaneh asked while hanging her purse on the coat stand over top of the pajamas hanging there.

  “Yes, but shut the door.”

  She opened the window slightly and trudged to the bed. She took off her shoes and dropped her chador on the bed where the man’s legs would have reached, if he’d had any. She sat on the edge, the farthest place from his reach, and looked down at her dress, which bore a flower pattern similar to the one on the sheets that covered the bed. “It is still early to sleep. Let’s talk first. We do not know each other yet.”

  “What do you like to talk about?” The man had already unbuttoned his uniform. Soon, the part of his chest that was not covered by his white undershirt was revealed. It was covered by thick black hair.

  “I’d like to know a little more about you, if you’d allow me. You said we are mahram now.”

  He leaned on his side. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well . . . ” Parvaaneh’s mind was blank.

  “Help me take this off,” the man ordered as he struggled with his undershirt.

  Parvaaneh hiked the garment up over his head and removed it. The man breathed out and turned to Parvaaneh, an expression of relief on his face. “I am this man you see — with no legs. But don’t worry, I can make you happy.” He rubbed his mustache against her side, which gave her goosebumps.

  She lay down and, turning to the sergeant, asked, “You left me alone for a long time this afternoon. Where did you go?”

  Instead of answering her, the man pushed up her dress and shoved his hand under it.

  “Did you hear my question?”

  The sergeant screwed up his face. “After some business.”

  “By business, you mean—”

  The sergeant did not let her complete her question. He yanked at the side of her dress. “Take this off.”

  She did not obey. Instead, she pulled her dress back down. The man grabbed her thigh and started rubbing it vigorously. The movement sent a chill through her body, but she continued talking. “I want to know about your job. I am very impressed, very proud that you accepted me as your wife. You should be set as an example. Even though you’re a casualty, you still fight enemies, like the ones you went after today.” The words poured out of Parvaaneh’s mouth — words she could scarely believe she was speaking.

  “What is this you are talking about? My job has nothing to do with you.” The sergeant looked at her in the way a wise man stares at an idiot.

  Parvaaneh had no answer for him.

  “Now let’s go about our business and see what I have to show you here.” He opened his fly and took out his penis, his revolver still attached to his waist. “Look at this. Is this what you want? Yes? Hold it.” He reached out and clutched Parvaaneh’s hand, pulling it toward his genitals, a half-erect brownish lump. Her hand brushed against the revolver case as the man pushed her hand down toward his ugly organ.

  Parvaaneh felt vomit rise in her throat. Even though she had opened the window, the rotten smell filling the room filled her nostrils. She yanked her hand out of the sergeant’s grasp and jumped out of the bed.

  “Where are you going?” he yelled after her. “Come back here! I order you! I am your husband now.”

  She had already reached the sliding door. Her fingers were on the handle when she remembered she was wearing only a dress. She turned back for her white chador and shoes, but it was the sergeant who grabbed her attention. He had already pulled himself to the edge of the bed and was now reaching for the wheelchair that she had pushed away from the bed in her escape. Parvaaneh immediately turned around, reached for the light switch on the wall, and turned it off.

  “I can’t do it in the light,” she said, stepping toward her shoes, which were on the floor by the wheelchair.

  “Damn Satan,” he grunted. “You women are so tricky. Now come back here. You cannot refuse me. You said yes before the clergy and collected your wedding money.”

  As the man shuffled and jabbered, Parvaaneh spotted the white chador in the dark. Partly stuck under the sergeant, it hung from the edge of the bed.

  “I am coming. Move over a bit,” she said.

  As Parvaaneh approached the bed, her knees began to shake. But she didn’t stop. She told herself that she was much stronger than this cripple, and that she should not be afraid. She could put the filthy pillow on the sergeant’s face and sit on it until every movement in him receded. Then she could run to the road, to the village, and up to the river. She could cross it and join Navid.

  But she had underestimated the man. As soon as she bent over and reached to grab the chador, he clutched her arm with one hand. Using the other, he pulled her to the bed and slid her hips underneath him. Parvaaneh had no voice to scream, no power left in her arms and legs as the man nailed her down by pressing his chest against hers. He was as heavy as a tree stump and his revolver poked into her side. She turned her face and felt his mustache prickle against her cheek. Even if she yelled, what good it would do? She was in a police station guarded by men under the sergeant’s command. She resigned herself to death, and let her mind go completely blank.

  Parvaaneh came to as the call to pray
er played from the speakers in the station. She realized where she was when she sensed the sergeant wriggling beside her. He gave her several hard nudges on the side, indicating that she should get up, turn on the light, and help him back into his clothes and onto the wheelchair.

  Feeling sore, she sat up only to notice blood on her dress and the sheets.

  “Dirty woman. You should have told me you had your period,” the sergeant grumbled. “Now help me. I’ve got to clean myself.”

  She pulled his shirt over his head and helped him to his wheelchair without looking at him. She was afraid she might hit him if their eyes met. The sergeant was also furious. He kept swearing at her: “You dirty bitch. Why didn’t you say anything about having your period?”

  As soon as the man wheeled himself out, Parvaaneh closed the sliding door and took off the dress. She cleaned the blood from her thighs and between them using the white chador she found crumpled on the floor. Next, she pulled out the bag of clothes that she’d hidden under bed. Then, she ripped a piece of fabric from the sheets to use as a pad. Finally, she grabbed her purse off the coat rack and removed the temporary marriage certificate and the bundle of money the sergeant had given her. After tearing the shameful document into pieces, she felt a bit better and could put on her clothes. Before leaving, though, she dumped the blood-soaked chador, the sheets, the white dress, and the dirty money inside the black plastic bag, and slid the bag under the bed.

  She left the small room, and then the office itself, only to be shocked by the presence of a man in the semi-dark hallway on the other side of the door. It was the grave-looking and bearded corporal. “Come with me. The sergeant has ordered me to take you to the bus station in Astara to catch the seven-thirty bus to Tehran.”

  * * *

  As Parvaaneh blinks herself out of the horrible memory, the bus she is on slowly passes the bookstores across from the University of Tehran, which has been closed for two years since the cultural revolution. People stand in front of the bookstore windows, browsing. After a few seconds, her attention returns inside the bus. While her thoughts were transporting her to other places, the woman with the bracelets left. Parvaaneh remains posi­tioned in her seat a few rows behind the driver. The driver’s mirror shows that the back of the bus, like the front, is still packed, and that, like her, everybody else is feeling impatient to get out. She stands up to scout the traffic ahead. The street is crammed with cars and motorcycles. The sidewalk is bursting with a crowd of soldiers, women in black coats and chadors, and many people shopping at busy doughnut shops, juice shops, street vendors, and food coupon dealers. Farther ahead, she can see the monument in the middle of Revolution Square. If only the bus would move, it would get to its destination very soon. Parvaaneh sits down, thinking that, from there, she needs only to walk two blocks. In no time at all, she’ll arrive at Sima’s. Are other passengers also like her, eager to get out and rush to a place where an important message might be waiting for them?