by Zoya Pirzad
To make amends for my ignorance, I instantly agreed. ‘Of course. I would be delighted.’ Before hanging up, she asked, ‘By the way, do you have any gathering planned for the 24th of April this year?’
I hung up the receiver and headed back to the kitchen. Mrs. Nurollahi, who was not Armenian, knew about the genocide that had begun on 24 April 1915, and although I was born in this country... Again I felt embarrassed. She had said, ‘We must learn a lot of things from our Armenian friends.’ Surely she said this merely to be polite?
I sat down again and looked at my hands. There was no trace of any burn. Artoush bent down over me, caressed the back of my hand and whispered in my ear, ‘Does it hurt?’ He was smiling, and I knew he was trying to be nice. I smiled back and shook my head no.
I looked at Emile. He was facing us, strainer in hand, looking at me. The water was off. We looked at one another for a few seconds. Then he asked, ‘Where’s the oil?’
I jumped up. ‘You shouldn’t bother!’ I reached out to take the strainer from him, but he drew it back.
Artoush shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Is it absolutely necessary to have French fries?’
‘You go check on the kids,’ I said. Looking greatly relieved, he left the kitchen.
I looked at Emile. He gave the potatoes a little toss to turn them over in the strainer. ‘I guess I am one of the few men who likes to cook.’ The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his gold chain was showing. He looked toward the door of the kitchen and lowered his voice. ‘On the other hand, I hate politics. But it seems Artoush...’ He looked at me expectantly.
I said, ‘No. Well, yes. I mean, to the extent of reading the news and well, sometimes...’ I turned around and took the tin of oil from the cabinet behind me.
He took the tin from my hands. ‘I’ve never liked politics. I can’t make head or tail of any of these movements or isms and their platforms. I’d rather read books. If the world is ever destined to get better, and I for one have my doubts about that, it won’t be through politicking, right? What do you think?’ Instead of a reply, I gave him a stupid smile.
Together we fried the potatoes and made salad. He talked about Indian food, about various spices and their properties. We talked about our favorite writers and the books we had read. He asked me to call him ‘Emile’ rather than ‘Mr. Simonian.’ It also occurred to me that, when his mother was not around, he was quite easy and pleasant to talk to.
While I set the table, Artoush and Emile bent over the chessboard. ‘Will it be alright if I take some food for your mother?’ I asked Emile. ‘With her headache, she probably didn’t feel like fixing dinner.’
He looked at me for a moment and then said, ‘Yes. Maybe. I guess so.’ Just the mention of his mother made his tone of voice change.
19
I put a plate of cutlets and French fries on a tray, alongside a small bowl of salad, and covered it all with a large napkin to keep a zillion insects from getting in the food as I crossed the street. Although the yard lights were on, I plodded down the entire length of our path, tray in hand, with high and exaggerated steps, setting my feet down firmly on the ground. This was my own special method to alert the dumb frogs not to jump under my feet and startle me. The children and Artoush laughed whenever I put it into practice.
Mr. Rahimi was watering the yard and singing loudly, as always. Armen said that Mr. Rahimi’s voice was so bad that Mrs. Rahimi forbade him from singing inside the house. ‘That’s why Mr. Rahimi waters the front and back yard and half the street three times a day.’ Although not a day would go by without the twins quarreling with their big brother and winding up in a fight, even Armen’s not-so-funny jokes got Arsineh and Armineh laughing. Mr. Rahimi’s voice is not all that bad, I thought to myself as I crossed the street. Suddenly one foot slipped. Armen was right. Mr. Rahimi had watered the entire width of the street.
I opened the metal gate to the yard of G-4. The yard lights were not on, but the flowerless front yard and the yellowing lawn, parched dry in places, were visible in the moonlight. Stalks of ivy stuck to the walls of the house like spider webs. Last year this wall was completely green. Instead of ringing the doorbell, I tapped a few times on the door. The house was dark. I thought she might be asleep and was about to turn back when the door opened. In a long-sleeved nightdress buttoned up to the neck, she stood there looking at the tray in my hands, which due to her stature was literally right in front of her face. Then she tilted her head upward.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I brought you a few cutlets, but if you are resting...’
The moonlight was shining on her face. Her eyes seemed red and puffy. She smiled wanly. ‘Very kind of you. Come in.’ She stepped aside for me to enter. Her voice was different from the tired, impatient, and angry voice on the phone. She was tired, but not angry or impatient. ‘Do you mind if I lie down? I don’t feel very well.’
She turned on the hall light and headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. The metal trunks were gone, but the elephant with the broken trunk was still there. The door to Emily’s room was open. On the floor I saw some crumpled scraps of sheet music, a pair of scissors and some torn strips of white cloth.
Mrs. Simonian’s bedroom was dark, with only a small bedside lamp turned on. The window had no curtains, and one corner of the Persian rug was flipped over. There were a few photos on the bed and a couple of half-open albums on the floor. She took the tray from my hands, set it on the nightstand, and removed the napkin. For a moment she looked at the plate of food and the bowl of salad. Then she turned back. ‘Thank you for thinking of me.’ The lamplight fell on her face. Now I was sure she had been crying.
In an effort to break the silence, I said, ‘Try a little. They say that partaking of food is beneficial for a headache.’ Why was I talking like a book?
She pushed back the pictures that were spread over the bed, ran her hand over her hair, sat down and motioned for me to sit. She picked up one of the photographs. ‘I don’t have a headache.’ She looked at the picture for a few seconds and then held it out to me.
It was one of those old-fashioned pictures taken in a photographer’s studio. For a second I thought it was Emily in a dark buttoned-up dress, sitting straight as an arrow on a high-backed chair. She had a large bow on her head, and her hair hung in ringlets down to her shoulders. There was a cat sitting on her knees, and her legs below the knees were outside the camera frame.
She took the photo out of my hand. ‘It’s not Emily, it’s me. A little bit older than Emily is now.’ She turned the photograph over and then gave it back to me. ‘Elmira Haroutunian – Autumn, 15 years of age’ was written on the back. The handwriting was uniform, thick and bold.
She leaned back on the headboard and stared at the ceiling. ‘My father would bring a photographer to our house several times a year, or take me to the photographer’s studio. He insisted the photos be taken from the knees up, with me seated, so that my height would not be obvious. He thought that, because I was short, I was going to die young. He used to say that he wanted to have pictures of me after I died.’ Staring at the ceiling, she sneered. ‘I made my father understand that I did not intend to die before him. Same for the doctors who said I would die if I ever gave birth.’ She held out a few other photographs to me and then leaned back against the headboard again, closing her eyes. I noticed that she was not speaking as formally as usual, and wondered why.
I looked through the photos. All of them were more or less the same as the first: on a bench in the garden, next to a big bush (probably an eglantine); in front of a fireplace framed with decorative plasterwork; on a chair with a fan in hand and a dog, only the head of which was visible, resting on her knees. On the back of each photo, in that same bold, uniform hand, was written: Elmira Haroutunian, at thirteen, at sixteen, at twelve.
I was looking over the photos again when she opened her eyes, sat up straight and ran her hand over her forehead. ‘Forgive me for going on and on. I sometimes reminisce about th
e past. Thank you for coming. Now...if you permit me...’ As I said goodbye, she asked me, ‘The burn on your hands is better?’ I nodded and, with a wan smile, she nodded back.
In bed that night I told Artoush, ‘It’s as if she’s been taking revenge on people all her life.’ When he did not answer, I turned my head to look at him. He was asleep. I turned out the light and listened to the monotonous sound of the air conditioner. How I would have loved to see the rest of the photographs.
20
Nina lived in one of the large houses in Braim, within a block of the community pool. As we got out of the car, Armineh said, ‘Sophie is so lucky.’ Arsineh said, ‘It’s not two minutes from the pool!’
As Artoush parked the car, Armen shouted, ‘Careful, now. Don’t get any scratches on dear ole Chevy.’ The girls laughed. Not a day went by without someone poking fun at Artoush’s old Chevrolet.
Before we made it inside the yard, Sophie came running out of her house. ‘We bought rabbits!’ she yelled. In we went.
Nina was showing us around the house and Mother was nagging under her breath in my ear. ‘Look at this mess. You’d think they just moved in yesterday.’
We got to the kitchen, which was big and inviting. Nina poured sherbet into some glasses and said, ‘You see? I still have a lot of things we haven’t unpacked yet. If a body didn’t know better, they’d suppose we moved in only just yesterday. Call me the messiest woman on earth!’ She laughed heartily.
Mother and Alice exchanged a knowing look.
Garnik stepped into the kitchen with Artoush just at that moment to say, ‘They call you the merriest woman on earth.’ He took the tray of sherbet from Nina’s hands. ‘Let me get these for you, my love.’
Alice muttered under her breath, ‘Some girls have all the luck!’
Artoush tried to stifle a yawn and, hands in his pockets, followed after Garnik. The evening barely under way, and he was already bored.
The living room was large too, and cheerful. The girls had scattered the toys we brought for Sophie across the carpet and were busy at play.
Garnik wove his way between the kids with the tray of sherbet, pretending to step on the toys. The twins and Sophie screamed and laughed. Nina said, ‘What lovely gifts! Thank you, children.’ Then she turned to Armen, who was standing by the window. ‘Why are you standing? My, how you have grown, young man! When did you grow so handsome? You must have lots of girls at school fainting over you, no?’
The girls looked at Armen and covered their mouths with their hands to hide their tittering. Armen glowered at all three of them and sat down in the chair by the window. Mother pulled her skirt down over her knees and pressed her lips together. Alice checked herself in the mirror of her compact case. Her Coty face powder made me sneeze.
Nina turned to me. ‘Now let me open my present. What a huge box! You’re putting me to shame, Clarice.’ She set the box on the coffee table in front of the easy chairs and tore open the wrapping paper.
I saw the big Grundig tape recorder on the floor, in a corner of the room. A few large reels of tape were piled next to it, and it was Vigen’s voice we now heard, singing, ‘You, my rival, my foe...’ We had a similar tape recorder in our house.
Alice whispered in my ear, ‘You see? Mrs. Keeping-up-with-the-Joneses ran right out and bought herself a matching tape recorder.’
Nina was on her knees by the table, the bunched-up wrapping paper in her hand, looking at me. ‘Did you see the tape recorder? I haven’t had a chance to buy a stand for it yet. Garnik promised to record Sophie’s singing and the poems she recites. I told him he should follow Artoush’s example of recording the twins. We have nothing from Tigran’s childhood except for a couple of pictures which you have to squint at with a magnifying glass to figure out who’s who. At least we’ll have some mementos from Sophie’s childhood.’
I told her, ‘I just hope that Garnik doesn’t saddle you with the responsibility of dusting the tape recorder and all those tapes, like Artoush did to me.’
Nina laughed aloud. ‘No way! Garnik learned from day one that his wife is not in that line of work. I only know how to give orders. I told him, it has to be just like the one Clarice and Artoush have.’
I looked at Alice, who turned her eyes away from me and snapped the compact case shut with a clack. She told Garnik, who was standing in front of her offering the tray of cold sherbets, ‘None for me – I’m on a diet. Do you have any English songs?’
Garnik held the tray out for Mother and asked Alice, ‘Do you like Nat King Cole? My niece brought a whole reel of his songs from Tehran. And no diet for you tonight! You’re not going to copy those phony women in Tehran, are you? A woman should have some meat on her bones.’ He repeated Mother’s shibboleth: ‘If I’m lying, Mrs. Voskanian, go right ahead and say so.’ He shook with laughter.
Someone said, ‘There you go again, gossiping about Tehrani women.’ All eyes looked over to the doorway.
She was of medium height. Neither thin nor fat, with shoulder-length blond hair and honey-colored eyes. She was wearing backless high-heeled shoes and a white sleeveless blouse with small red polka dots. Garnik set the tray down on the table and opened his arms wide. ‘And here we have Violette, my niece from Tehran!’
The Tehrani niece stepped forward, shook hands with everyone and kissed the twins, who were staring at her, open-mouthed.
Armineh said, ‘How beautiful you are!’
Arsineh said, ‘Just like Rapunzel.’
Violette tossed back her head and laughed. ‘I don’t know any Rapunzel, but I wish that everyone had your taste!’
Nina scrunched the wrapping paper again and said, ‘Everyone knows you are beautiful, lovely, and sweet. Only your idiot of a husband did not realize it. Look what Clarice brought me!’ She picked up the china statuette from its box and held it up. ‘Wow, how pretty!’
Violette bent over the table to touch the statuette, facing Mother and Alice and with her back to Artoush and Armen. There was a short slit in the back of her skirt. Artoush turned away to face the window. Armen shifted in his chair. Alice just stared at Violette and Mother took quick sips from her drink.
Garnik, Artoush, and Violette took the children into the backyard to see the rabbits Garnik had bought that day. Mother asked Nina about her son, Tigran. ‘Is he staying in the dorm or renting a room?’
Nina threaded her way through the toys scattered on the carpet and sat down opposite us. ‘He stayed in the dorm for a few weeks. Then he went to stay with Garnik’s aunt – Violette’s mother. To tell you the truth, I don’t want him to mix much with other students. They’re all cooking up something or other these days, and who are we to play around with politics? If we Armenians know what’s good for us, we’ll just keep our heads down and see to it that the hat we’re wearing doesn’t blow away.’
Mother bent over and picked something off the carpet that was so small no one could have said what it was, and tossed it in the ashtray. ‘Yep. Who are we to meddle in matters of state? That’s what I told my late husband, God rest his soul, but...’
Alice faked a yawn and said, ‘My goodness, there she goes again.’
Mother elbowed her in her chubby forearm. ‘Knock it off with your “there she goes again.” Am I lying?’ Alice looked at me and laughed.
Sophie was at the window showing us one of the rabbits. Nina waved to her. ‘Poor Violette was only divorced a couple of months ago. Her husband was a real nut-job. The poor girl didn’t even have permission to walk to the end of the block without him. He acted all jealous and would throw these fits. And if anyone at a party, or in the street, looked at Violette, holy mackerel! “I know there’s something going on,” he would say. “Why are they looking at you? Are you some kind of a show dog for them to eyeball?” She just couldn’t put up with it any more. And the promises he’d made before they got married: I’ll buy you a house, I’ll take you to Paris, to London. He didn’t make good on a single one of them, and to top it off, he was going to drive
her crazy. She did the right thing to divorce him. Even after the divorce he cooked up a new quarrel every day. He would phone her, follow her, pop up wherever she happened to be. Just a few weeks ago, he blocked the poor girl’s path on Naderi Street in Tehran – right in front of Khosravi’s Piroshki Place – and caused a scene. We thought if she comes to Abadan for a while, maybe the crazy creep will let go. You’ve no idea how sweet a girl she is. God grant her a good husband.’ Mother stared straight at Nina, and Alice fixated on the half-filled glasses. I will bake piroshkis for the kids one of these days, I promised myself.
Nina gathered up the box with the china statuette and the wrapping paper. She looked toward the door, leaned forward, and beckoned us closer. She lowered her voice: ‘Keep it between us – Violette doesn’t know yet, but...’ She looked at me. ‘Do you remember the Dutchman I told you about on the phone? If he and Violette get along, it wouldn’t be a bad match. I’ve invited him over tonight.’ She stood up and laughed. ‘He seems a little screwy to me. But, then, most foreigners seem a bit bonkers to us Iranians. If he marries Violette and they leave Iran, wouldn’t that be a triumph! Violette is not made for life in Iran.’ She tucked the empty box and the wrapping paper under her arm. ‘Let me go throw these away.’
On her way to the kitchen, she told Mother, ‘Oh, you’ll never guess what I’ve made for dinner. Lubia polow! See what a homemaker I’ve become? It’s about time to marry me off, no?’ She laughed heartily. I looked over at Alice. She was pouting. Talk of marriage always does it, I thought. God give Mother patience tonight.
As soon as Nina was out of the room, Mother started her muttering. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times you should stay away from this couple. Not an ounce of dignity or morality. Whatever passes through their heads comes straight out their mouths, right in front of the children! They talk about marriage and divorce like it’s a dress you buy and return if you don’t like it. We should never have come. It’s all Clarice’s fault that...’