by Kimia Eslah
Batoul was heartbroken at the prospect of losing Maman’s nightly tenderness. How could she express to Maman what it meant to lie with her each night and have her complete attention? What had she done to be sent away from their bed? It seemed like a stone was wedged in her throat, and Batoul felt she would never speak again.
Maman continued to hold her hand and guided her back to the warm corner of the kitchen. She sat down beside Batoul on the cushion and let her cry into her shoulder; the girl’s body heaving with each new round of tears. Maman rubbed Batoul’s back and hair without a word, present and available for the sadness pouring from her. When Batoul stopped crying, she looked up at Maman with her hair matted to the wetness of her face. She tried to apologize for wetting Maman’s shirt, but Maman quieted her with soft words to assure her that no harm was done. The older woman held the girl’s face in both her hands, kissed her wet cheeks, and pressed her own forehead into Batoul’s. Then Maman smiled, and Batoul smiled, too.
“I … I am going to miss you,” Batoul said, looking down at the cushion, though Maman’s eyes were merely inches away. Her inhalations stuttered, and she wasn’t sure how long she could hold back the rest of her tears.
“I will miss you, too, dokhtar-am, my daughter.” With that, Maman pulled back and brushed away the hair that was matted to Batoul’s forehead. Maman rose from the cushion and filled a wash basin with warm water sprinkled with rose oil. “Take this basin and wash your face. You will feel better afterward.”
With a deep inhale that nearly caused another rush of tears, Batoul rose and took the basin from Maman. In the courtyard, she knelt and washed her face. The warm, scented water helped soothe her, but the stone in her throat remained all day.
***
That first night together in 1925, Batoul delayed her union with Ali in the blue room. She lay with Maman’s youngest two, Rhoya and Ahmad, and told them stories until they were asleep. Lying down, Batoul’s body felt tired and tensed at the same time. Earlier, she had noticed the absence of Ali’s bedding from its usual place in the shared family bedroom. Still, she persuaded herself that she had misunderstood her conversation with Maman and that she would most certainly sleep alongside the children, alongside Maman. When Maman arrived, silhouetted in the doorway, Batoul lay motionless.
“Dokhtar-am, my daughter, it’s time for sleep,” Maman spoke softly but insistently.
Batoul raised herself and needlessly smoothed out her long nightgown before she approached the doorway and saw the moonlight cast on Baba, who was washing his feet in the courtyard. He smiled at her and wished her a good sleep before he returned to washing. Maman turned to enter her room with the children; she kissed Batoul on the forehead as she passed by.
Batoul felt disconnected from her body, as if she were sitting on the lower branches of the apple tree, as she used to do, and watching another young woman cross the courtyard. This young woman, in her clean and plain nightgown and her long hair in simple braids, moved so slowly that Batoul feared she might collapse from her lack of momentum. Looking up momentarily from her bare feet, Batoul noticed that the doorway of the blue room was unlit. Gratefully, she remembered that she did not have her mattress. She spun swiftly around to return to Maman’s room, only to find that Baba was carrying her mattress and blankets for her, just a few steps behind.
“Mochaker-am, thank you, Baba,” said Batoul as she received the bedding without looking at his face.
“Khahesh mekon-am, dokhtar-am. You are welcome, my daughter.” He spoke softly and smiled, but she did not see his kind expression.
Baba remembered the child who had arrived in his home so many years before, who cried for days and refused to be soothed. The girl he feared would never recover from the loss of her own family, who was as precious to him as Rhoya, his own daughter. “It is time for sleep. That is all,” he said with a hand on her shoulder. He watched her walk slowly across the courtyard and to her room — to their room — before he returned to comfort Maman, who was experiencing this change with a mixture of grief and celebration.
When Batoul entered the blue room that first night, Ali had already settled on his mattress; he lay with his back to the door. Batoul took a step into the room but stood still, uncertain about where to place her bedding. The room was lit by the moonlight coming in through the window that faced the courtyard. She could hear him breathing, and from years of sharing the same room as children, she knew that he was still awake. Her mind raced to determine the next step, and she did not want to linger any longer for fear that he would turn to face her, or worse yet, do what he often did when they faced the same predicament: give her advice like a wise sage. She did not want to hear his voice and its pretence that he knew the answers.
Batoul remembered how they used to play together as children do, equals in their understanding of the world, each compelled to share their confusion with the other as they tried desperately to understand the myriad events that altered their lives. Under the plum tree, in the far corner of the courtyard, they built cities from mounds of sand and soil and played out the conquests of kings and armies with pebbles and nut shells. They were always on the side of the formidable Qajar army, and their foes were fierce, often mythical beasts with multiple heads and enough strength to cause earthquakes that destroyed cities and swept away armies with floods.
Between battles, they lay on their stomachs in the shade of the tree and corralled ants on islands that they constructed of mud and water. They shared secrets and interpretations of overheard conversations between elders. They trusted each other in a way they did not trust anyone else their age. They shared one home and their lives were contained by the same brick walls. They knew from years of instruction to not share with the world outside what happened in the world inside. In each other, they found an attentive ear and a trusted heart; they knew the other would never betray their family.
Though they continued to trust each other completely, their closeness had lessened considerably once Ali began to accompany Baba to work. Feeling self-important and emboldened by his experiences away from their kooche, Ali played the role of a successful but tired worker, home from a weary world of conflict.
“The vendor had the boy by his ear, nearly picking him up off the ground,” Ali had relayed one evening to Bijan, Rhoya, and Ahmad, who were sitting by his feet under the same plum tree where they played war, “and he threatened to beat the boy mercilessly if he did not return the urn and apologize.”
Ali sat on the stone ledge that wrapped around the base of the tree and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his face inches away from the children’s. Their eyes were wide with intrigue and horror, and even Ahmad, who was a toddler, sensed fear and turned to press his face into little Rhoya’s shoulder. Plainly enjoying the attention, Ali smoothed out the newly darkened hairs on his upper lip and chin with one motion of his hand — a mannerism borrowed from his father. A few feet away, Batoul sat on a wooden stool with her back against the courtyard walls and pretended to sew, though it was too dark to see her stitches.
“The boy cried and cried. Said he hadn’t stolen it. This just made the vendor angrier, and he raised his hand high up.” Ali demonstrated with a flattened palm raised above the children. The three children shrank in their places as they imagined themselves caught by the ear and at the mercy of a villainous seller. Batoul betrayed her disinterest and looked up. Instead, the pair locked eyes. He smirked and winked boyishly. She caught her breath, grimaced, and returned abruptly to her sewing, only to prick herself in the dark.
With a loud clap, Ali broke the pause, “I jumped in the way, caught the vendor’s hand, and said, ‘Look, there! There’s your urn!’ I pointed to the urn that had rolled under the table. The vendor apologized to the boy, and the boy thanked me for saving him.”
Ali leaned back on one arm and nodded wisely as he gazed into the evening sky. Awestruck by Ali’s adventure, the children sat speechless f
or a moment before peppering him with questions. Batoul returned to the kitchen, needlessly. Her mind felt clouded, confused by a fog of jealousy and loss. She had her own stories to share with Ali, but they seemed insignificant compared to his accounts of the world beyond their kooche. Her observations, which had intrigued him previously, seemed unimportant and uninteresting. She could not reconcile the changes in their personal lives with the friendship of their childhood. Ali was no longer himself. He was becoming a man, a man who would become her husband — who was her husband.
Standing inside the blue room they were to share as husband and wife, it occurred to Batoul that they had come full circle. Ali might be a man of the world, but he will always return to home, to me, Batoul thought with an unexpected smile that lightened her mood.
Like a queen who rises to rule after a great war, Batoul held her head high and laid her mattress boldly adjacent to Ali’s. With a flourish akin to Ali’s dramatic narratives, Batoul smoothed out the sheets, fluffed her downy pillow, and settled in her bed.
On her side, facing out the window, seeing the shadows dance on the floor, Batoul felt giddy and she smiled with such intensity that her cheeks ached. She wanted to turn over and use both feet to push Ali onto his stomach, a prank Ali played often when they were children. The silence seemed unbearable, but she had no words. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to hear sounds from beyond their courtyard.
“Khab-e shirin, sweet dreams,” Ali whispered to Batoul over his shoulder, just as they had heard Baba whisper to Maman before sleep.
“Khab-e shirin,” Batoul whispered back, feeling that her heart would surely burst.
***
Sixteen-year-old Ali arrived home from work with Baba, and the two men began to wash in preparation for dinner. Maman was in the kitchen tidying up, and Batoul was in the family sitting room placing the steaming dishes of lamb and rice on the sofra. Feeling chilled, she headed to her room to fetch a shawl. Batoul rushed into the room and found Ali getting dressed — his naked torso visible to her for the first time since childhood.
During the several months they had shared a room as a couple, their encounters had become increasingly formal. Left alone with each other, they struggled to build a relationship. Outside of the bedroom, their lives were much the same as before. Guided by their elders, they learned how to conduct themselves. They felt satisfied with their accomplishments and pride in their accolades.
Batoul, who watched Maman closely and privately rehearsed what she had seen, had become a skilled negotiator at the bazaar. Maman assigned her the task of performing all household purchases.
“Bache, child, you don’t know what a good price I am offering you,” a produce vendor had said to her on the first day she arrived at the bazaar alone. Batoul had blushed at being called a child, but she had remained with her feet planted. In her private role plays, the vendor was never as clever as her. To boost her courage on the way to the bazaar, she had reminded herself that she could always walk away, and at that point she had wanted to flee. A small crowd had formed around her and the stall, as other customers reached forward to examine the vegetables. She had chosen to make her offer again, seeing that it was easier to continue the negotiation than to escape.
“Listen, dokhtar, girl, I have a family with six children to feed. If I take your offer, how are they going to eat?” He had stared directly into her face, and despite herself, Batoul blushed again.
Besides Baba and Ali, she was unused to looking men in the eyes. She understood later that the vendor had locked eyes with her in an effort to unnerve her. Batoul began to doubt herself, but she had continued to hold his gaze as she stretched out her open palm with the same initial offering of coins. For fear of stuttering or sounding meek, she had remained silent and had clutched the bag of onions and potatoes to her chest. Behind Batoul, a woman had needled her to step aside. Batoul had not dared respond to the woman; instead, she had pursed her lips and raised her brow to indicate that this was her last offer. Without a word, a smile, or a nod, the vendor had conceded and pocketed the coins before he turned away to give a paper bag to an outstretched hand. Batoul had stepped past the belligerent woman and out of the small crowd. In a bittersweet moment, she wanted to smile because she had won and cry because there was still more to buy.
She had survived that negotiation and dozens more. The barrage of sarcasm and condescension dispensed by the male vendors no longer angered or embarrassed her. These tactics seemed underdeveloped. She preferred the vendors who negotiated with a blend of charm and wittiness that caused her to smile when she remembered their exchanges later. Her self-image was developing, and it was of a woman who knew her mind and set about her business diligently. She understood that she lacked diplomacy, but she hoped her directness compensated for her stoic personality.
All of her success outside their bedroom had amounted to nothing inside their bedroom. The small room was modest with its light blue walls and one window. The design on their wool rug depicted maroon and indigo birds in treetops, by pools, and in flight. Batoul enjoyed having a room of her own, and she had begun to fill the space with her own possessions. From the household storage room, she retrieved a mirror framed with the intricate designs of meenakari and a wooden stool with a broken leg that she repaired. She spent an hour deciding how to arrange the mirror and stool. She placed the items, assessed the arrangement, frowned, and tried again. Before she had her own room, she had taken for granted the aesthetic and practical arrangements in the house. It seemed to her that their home had always been just as it appeared that day. Batoul realized the childishness of her assumption. Yet, it still seemed that the blue room had not existed before, had budded and grown from an existing branch, and it was Batoul’s work to make it part of their home.
Batoul appraised the layout of their few possessions, including her small wooden chest of neatly folded clothes and Ali’s pile of garments heaped in a corner. After looking over her shoulder to make certain no one was nearby, she walked over and knelt by his pile. She lifted a long cotton shirt to her face, inhaled his scent, and held her breath as she replaced the shirt. She exhaled a sigh and felt a burden of despair. Bridging the gap between herself and her husband required Batoul to relegate righteousness and efficiency for gentleness and flexibility — two attributes she rarely practised. She wanted to experience the intimacy she had witnessed between Maman and Baba during their nightly conversations. Their closeness seemed like a complex puzzle already solved, and Batoul could not identify the distinct pieces or how they were connected.
It felt strange to try to be overtly charming for the sake of Ali, and it angered her that Ali did not seem bothered by their lack of intimacy. Each morning, she awoke determined to be softer and sweeter, only to hear her own voice defy her resolutions with matronly observations about his untidy pile of clothes or his absence at morning prayer. It infuriated Batoul to hear herself speak abrasively to Ali. In the far corner of the courtyard, she sulked, chastised herself, and cried about her ineptitude as a wife.
Maman knew that the transition would get worse before it got better, and she tried to comfort Batoul but to no avail. Batoul refused to share her concerns or to hear Maman’s reassurances that all was normal. Batoul believed that no one understood her predicament and no one had experienced it before. Her childhood fear of being abandoned, which had settled to the pit of her consciousness like sediment in a lake, had been disturbed, and it clouded her mind with anxiety. She had nightmares in which Ali sent her away from her home and her family. Some days, she prayed to become a sweeter woman who knew how to charm her husband. Other days, she resented Ali and Maman for forcing her to play the loving wife, and she convinced herself that she could manage on her own on the street. Rarely a day passed when she did not hate herself or hate them for the lack of intimacy in her marriage.
Batoul had become certain that her eviction was imminent. She grew preoccupied with finding alternate livi
ng arrangements and sources of income. To avoid antagonizing Ali and to delay eviction until she had established a new home and employment, she had decided to stop speaking to him. Instead, she simply smiled when their eyes met, and she was surprised to see him return the smile.
When she arrived in their room that day to see him shirtless, returning her gaze, she had no words. She smiled, as she’d been doing for weeks. Ali smiled and made no quick movement to dress. His smile was playful, a smile that Batoul knew from years of playing pranks on each other. It was the smile he wore when he had hidden her shoes and she had yet to realize they were missing. Batoul felt a wild rush of energy in her stomach, and she pursed her lips for fear of speaking. She did not want to leave, not her room, not her house, and not her family. In that moment, she decided she would try harder to be a loving wife, and if she failed them still, she would sort out the future from there.
Still smiling, partly from seeing his young man’s body and playful demeanor, partly from resolving to stay and try harder, she asked Ali to pass her the shawl from atop her wooden chest. He did, also smiling. With that, she returned to the kitchen to help carry the water jug to the sofra for dinner.
The following evening before dinner was served, Ali stood at the doorway to the kitchen. He asked Batoul to come to their room. Perplexed by his request, Batoul turned instinctively to Maman, who was turned away preparing the meat and rice dishes to be set out by Rhoya.
“Maman?” Batoul asked. She was uncertain whether she was asking for permission to leave or pleading for information about what was to come her way.
“Yes,” Maman responded over her shoulder.
“Ali wants to talk to me …” said Batoul for the first time in her life. She wished Maman would refuse to let her leave her work. Desperately, Batoul wanted to know that she was needed. She wanted reassurance that it was Maman who decided whether Batoul was worthwhile, not the young man who boasted about his worldliness with exaggerated stories.