by Kimia Eslah
Within their first years as a family, Mojegan recognized that to be home, sober, and attentive to the children’s experiences was yet another feat that eluded Reza. Anxiety plagued her and manifested as headaches and nightmares. She failed to reconcile the needs of the family they created together and the life he wanted to lead, a life that poisoned them all slowly, every evening. The poison came in small steady doses that weakened the bond between Reza and his children. From a distance, Mojegan observed as the nightly episodes of narcissism and disinterest eroded the children’s natural inclination to trust and respect Reza. She feared that one day the children she raised to be strong, rational, and driven would turn against their father, would disparage and dismiss him for his shortcomings. The thought angered and provoked her into making a concerted effort to remind the children about Reza’s worthiness. Her praises were as effective in establishing Reza’s stature as tissues were to halting a hemorrhaging wound. In her mind’s eye, Reza was her suffering patient and she was determined to keep him safe from further harm. She resolved to protect Reza from the children and the children from Reza. Once they are grown, it will be easier, Mojegan consoled herself.
Before Taraneh was born, Reza insisted that they head to the nightclubs and restaurants after work, and Mojegan conceded. She was less interested in going out and more concerned about Reza drinking with friends, who only made the cut because they did not mention his overindulgence and emotional outbursts. Mojegan had witnessed these men stand by as Reza’s increasing drunkenness culminated in a tidal wave of pain and resentment that crashed upon him in the form of lost friendships and encounters with the police. Since getting married, Mojegan had assumed the role of Reza’s lifeguard, and she didn’t trust anyone else to protect her husband as diligently, not even Reza himself. She worried that, as a couple, they were lost at sea, past the point where anyone on shore could see them or would try to rescue them. She refused to let him drown, and if she had to risk her own life to save him, she was prepared to do just that. There are worst things in the world than spending my evening listening to music and making conversation, Mojegan told herself.
Once Taraneh was born, Mojegan struggled to balance the needs of her daughter and her husband. She asked Reza if he would consider staying home, too.
“What’s the point of staying home?” Reza asked as he prepared for sleep.
“It’s nice to spend time together,” replied Mojegan as she climbed into bed and pulled the blankets over her legs.
“It is! You should come out, too,” Reza garbled with a toothbrush in his mouth. “I can pick you up at the end of my day.”
“I can’t bring Taraneh with me,” Mojegan objected and smoothed out the bedclothes.
“Of course not,” Reza said derisively. “That’s why we have Khanome Veisi. She’ll do your job.”
“The point is that all three of us are together.” Mojegan tried to avoid pleading. “That would be nice.”
“She’s an infant. She doesn’t know any difference between you and Khanome Veisi,” Reza said dismissively and closed the washroom door.
Nervously, Mojegan slid under the blankets. She tried to calm her deepest fear — that Reza was not safe drinking out from under her protective watch. She blamed his neglectful friends for being unreliable in caring for Reza when he drank excessively. If they were better friends, she would not have to tag along to keep Reza out of trouble. She imagined trying to extricate a drunken Reza from a brawl or an argument with the police, with Taraneh in her arms or her daughter at home waiting for her mother to return. It pained her to accept that she would be more helpful arriving at the police station the morning following an incident.
After work the following day, when Reza realized that Mojegan did not plan to accompany him in the evenings, he sulked about the house. “Mojegan, she doesn’t even know you’re here. She’s sleeping,” Reza said into the crib where Taraneh slept. “Come on, it’s not too late to call Khanome Veisi and head out for dinner.” He smiled at Mojegan and wiggled his eyebrows.
“Reza, you are welcome to go out,” replied Mojegan, looking up from her textbook and smiling back.
“Without my wife? People are going to talk,” Reza turned up his palms and looked at her cynically.
“Tell them I am taking care of our baby,” Mojegan said diplomatically.
“Why don’t I call them over? Hm?” Reza rushed to assess the liquor cabinet and the refrigerator. “That way you can join in.”
At this suggestion, Mojegan stood up. She had no interest in hosting a party, particularly on the fly. She strategized the best approach to avoid offending Reza and avoid hosting a party.
“Reza-jaan, dear, I know how much you love the bands and the crowd.” Mojegan placed her arm on his shoulder while he knelt to count the bottles of liquor. “Go, enjoy yourself.”
“Aray? Really?” Reza looked up frowning.
“Bale, yes.” Mojegan smiled and kissed him. “Tell them I am still recovering from the delivery.”
“I love you.” Reza kissed her again, put on his jacket, and headed out.
Within a couple of years, he began to stay home in the evenings. One by one, his friends became fathers and changed their routines to be home with their families. He claimed he wanted to spend more time with Mojegan and the girls, but she could read the disappointment in his body language. She hoped that over time he might learn to enjoy the company of his family.
As she made a fifth lap around the hospital during her lunch break, Mojegan checked her wristwatch and decided to drop into the bookstore. Taraneh’s fifth birthday was around the corner and she wanted to buy a special storybook for her. Nasser’s Bookstore was something of an institution in the neighbourhood, having remained in business for nearly thirty-five years. It had started as a father and son team with a small cart filled with books. At that time, the majority of the customers purchased news periodicals, which were printed daily and delivered north to Elahiyeh from the printing houses in Tehran. Aga Nasser was a young man and he helped his father push the cart to the same location every day. They chose the intersection because it had sufficient foot traffic and two tea shops were in close proximity. As the size of the village and the number of literate residents increased, Aga Nasser’s father determined it was time to purchase a storefront. He died ten years after setting up the shop, and Aga Nasser continued to operate the bookstore along with his two daughters, Sherry and Sarah, both of whom had pursued degrees in literature at Tehran University.
When she visited the bookstore, Mojegan observed the women and their father discreetly. She was curious about their family dynamic and the nature of their relationships. Everything about them was strange and alluring to her. It was difficult to imagine having a parent who might suggest an author or a novel, a parent who might engage you in abstract, intellectual conversations. Mojegan loved her mother, and she had never wanted anyone else. Yet, to hear Sherry and Sarah banter with their father about a recently published book was as peculiar to Mojegan as watching snow fall in the desert would be. She tried to imagine how they reconciled their differences when they disagreed about a text. Mojegan smiled to think that she could be that parent — the one who recommends an author. She imagined sitting in the courtyard, under the mulberry tree, with a grown version of Taraneh, having tea and exchanging ideas about a novel they had both read. Mojegan smiled wider at this pleasant thought.
When Mojegan entered the store, she greeted Sherry, who was marking items at the front desk. The children’s section was on the first floor, at the very back. They had even placed a small table and a set of chairs for children, along with a few stuffed animals. As Mojegan passed through the psychology section, a series of titles caught her eye under the label Alcoholism. He’s not an alcoholic, she challenged herself. Alcoholics do not have office jobs or own homes.
Despite herself, she pulled out a translated version of a book written by Marty Mann,
an American author. Mojegan stared at Mann’s black and white photo on the jacket. The author sat upright at a large desk. She wore a conservative white collared shirt and a black suit jacket. Her expression was sombre. With a sense of urgency, Mojegan opened the book in the middle and began to read, “One of the most tragic effects of alcoholism is what it does to children who are far from …” Stop it! Mojegan scolded herself. She put the book back on the shelf, left the store empty-handed, and returned to work at a brisk pace.
***
In the spring of 1978, a few months before Omid’s fifth birthday, Mojegan was promoted to head nurse of the emergency room at Bimarestan-e Akhtar. To celebrate, Mojegan decided they would all go to lunch on the following Friday, the only day off.
When Friday morning was upon them, Mojegan let the children choose the restaurant. Taraneh, who was nine years old, had convinced her younger siblings to select Shahr-e Bazee, the local amusement park.
“You were supposed to choose a restaurant,” Mojegan said, with a slight smile.
“We did, Maman,” Omid looked up sweetly and wrapped his arms around Mojegan’s legs. “There are food stalls at the park.”
“Yes, from around the world, Maman-jaan,” said seven-year-old Nassrin, matter-of-factly. “It’s the wisest decision, really. Everyone can choose the food they like. It’s fair.”
In agreement, Omid nodded vigorously, and asked, “Maman, can I please have kebab?”
Mojegan smiled at Omid and mussed up his hair. She turned to Taraneh, who stood at her side and smiled approvingly at her siblings’ tactics. “Tara, what do you say?”
“I think they make some good points, Maman,” Taraneh said in a neutral tone.
“Is that right, khanome-e koochooloo, little miss?” With that, Mojegan first grabbed and tickled Omid.
Then she caught Taraneh, and Nassrin piled on top of them and joined in the tickling. Not long after, they lay breathing heavily, satisfied that they gave as good as they got. Mojegan pulled a long hair out of her mouth and tickled Nassrin’s nose with it.
“I’ll tell Baba!” Omid leapt up.
“Omid, wait!” Mojegan said urgently. “Let him sleep. Come. We’ll tell him when he wakes up.”
She gathered the children in the courtyard to play hide and seek. After a time, they tired of the game and lay on their stomachs watching the insects up close. Mojegan sat under the mulberry tree, which was filled with unripe fruit, and relayed stories of her childhood in Shiraz.
“Can you tell us about Maman-bozorg, Grandmother?” asked Nassrin, as she climbed onto Mojegan’s lap.
The little girl pressed her forehead against Mojegan’s neck. It was her signal that she wanted Mojegan to play with her hair. With appreciation for the endearing quality of this gesture, Mojegan took the hair tie off of Nassrin’s single braid, loosened her dark tresses, and stroked her hair from root to tip in a rhythmic movement. With each stroke, Nassrin’s body leaned further into Mojegan. Omid remained on the stone path and continued to place obstacles in the way of the ants. Taraneh joined her mother on the stone bench. Idly, she pressed her nails into green leaves and examined the effect. The three listened to their mother describe their grandmother, a woman they had met only a few times.
Mojegan spoke in a bright tone, though her heart ached to see her mother, “… and in a trunk, wrapped in tissue paper and separated by cotton, she kept oranges. She would buy them in a large case from the fruit seller at the bazaar, in the winter when traders brought them up from Bandar Abbas.”
“That’s where Baba is from,” Omid called out, proud to add his part.
“That is where I am from!” Reza came out the double doors and into the courtyard. He was dressed in a stylish wide-collared brown shirt and bellbottom jeans with a high waist. Like a model from a men’s magazine, he stood at the end of the path and the children rushed to him. It was a scene that warmed Mojegan’s heart, to know that her children loved their father. She told herself, Children are naturally inclined to love their parents. I needn’t worry for Reza. It would take a world of hurt to cause a rift between him and the children.
The children spoke over each other as they explained the family’s plan to eat lunch at Shahr-e Bazee. Reza clapped his hands in approval and suggested that they head out immediately. He winked at Mojegan and left to wait in the car. The children began to follow him until Mojegan called them back. “You will need to prepare yourselves. Head inside to grab a hat, and Omid please tie your shoelaces.” Their small shoulders slumped momentarily until Taraneh ran into the house and called over her shoulder, “Last one in the car has to sit in the middle.”
The drive to the amusement park took considerably longer than expected. Demonstrations against the Shah’s reforms were blocking intersections throughout Tehran. Over the previous year, the strikes, protests, and riots had become commonplace, often paralyzing the city. The family’s northerly neighbourhood sheltered the children from the civil unrest, but they understood that all was not right.
When Reza tried to drive through the city centre to the amusement park, located directly south, he was redirected by traffic police. He detoured farther east before going south. “It’s Friday.” Reza looked in the rearview mirror and smiled at Omid in the middle seat. With a hint of derision, he said, “No day off for protesters? Poor lot.”
“Ya, Baba!” Omid agreed jovially, not quite understanding the joke.
“What are they protesting, Baba?” Taraneh asked.
“That’s a good question, darling,” said Reza facetiously.
Mojegan turned back toward Taraneh, grimaced and gave a small nod. Taraneh knew this gesture expressed, Not now, we’ll talk later.
Nearing three o’clock by the time they arrived at the amusement park, they headed immediately to the food stalls. Mojegan bought kebab wrapped in warm noon for Taraneh, Omid, and herself. Reza and Nassrin made their way through the crowd to the American-style food vendor. They arrived at the picnic table with pizza and fried chicken, and Reza carried four bottles of Pepsi-Cola and one can of Budweiser.
It’s going to be a great afternoon, Mojegan soothed herself.
After they toasted Mojegan’s success, everyone ate their fill. The children looked about excitedly, ready to go on rides. To pass the time while their parents finished their meals, they strategized the best way to proceed. Taraneh and Nassrin, who remembered coming to the park two years earlier, debated whether to go on the Ferris wheel first or last. Omid jumped on the spot, looking from one sister to the other. Mojegan wiped her hands and mouth, and then Omid’s. Around her, she saw other parents tend to young ones and soothe upsets. She felt part of something larger, as a parent, as a person responsible for the care and nurturance of vulnerable little ones. She felt significant.
To show good manners, the children did not ask their parents whether they were ready. Instead, they stood side by side facing their parents, rocking, and looking back and forth from Reza to Mojegan.
“Alright, let’s go!” Mojegan jumped from her place. She joked, “I’ve been waiting for you three far too long.”
“Maaaaman!” said the children in unison as they raced after their mother. The four of them turned back to see Reza still sitting. He lit a cigarette and stretched out his legs.
“You go, have fun.” Reza smiled and pointed at the Ferris wheel. “I’ll be here.”
Nassrin and Omid looked up at the Ferris wheel, Taraneh turned to Mojegan, and Mojegan stared back at Reza. She decided that she would take the children on a few rides, then return to check on him. He’s entitled to relax on his one day off, thought Mojegan, to alleviate her fears. I should take a page from his book and focus on my own enjoyment.
She rushed over and kissed his lips. “See you soon,” she said as she took hold of Omid’s hand on her right and Nassrin’s on her left.
“See you soon, Baba,” the two youngest repeated.
Excited about the possibilities ahead, the two skipped alongside their mother. Taraneh ran back to her father and kissed his scented cheek. Mojegan heard Taraneh beseech Reza, “Please don’t drink too much, Baba.”
With a bewildered expression, Reza looked back and forth from Taraneh to Mojegan, and replied innocently, “Chi meeghi? What’re you talking about?” He gripped Taraneh’s small chin in his muscular hand, puckered her lips, and kissed her. Mojegan knew this to be a loving gesture, but it was done roughly. Mojegan’s own face muscles ached in sympathy, knowing Reza’s strong grip. Taraneh did not rub her chin or cheeks; they both knew it could elicit another playful gesture that might be more aggressive than the first. “Go play.” Reza turned Taraneh around and nudged her toward the others.
Mojegan waved for Taraneh to catch up, and Taraneh joined them half-heartedly. A few metres on, Mojegan turned to see Reza strike up a conversation with a group on a nearby bench.
***
Despite Reza’s best intentions and Mojegan’s keen steering, their day at the amusement park ended badly — in tears, sickness, and an illicit bonfire. After an hour of enjoying the rides, Nassrin vomited in the gondola of the Ferris wheel. Clutching her abdomen, she complained of a stomach ache. In the washroom, as Mojegan helped clean vomit from Nassrin’s vinyl shoes, the little girl was taken with severe diarrhea. Mojegan assumed it was food poisoning from the chicken.
Mojegan carried Nassrin’s flaccid body on her hip and instructed Taraneh to keep a firm grip on Omid as she led them through the boisterous crowd. Omid dragged his feet, whining and demanding to be carried as well. Desperate to find Reza before Omid refused to walk any further, Mojegan quickened her pace. All four arrived at the empty picnic table where they had expected to see Reza. Mojegan asked Taraneh to sit at the table with Omid, while she searched the nearby food stalls for their father.