by Fariba Vafi
Perhaps love is inside us. I think that with love as a visa you can go anywhere and live there. But I don’t really have such a permit in my pocket. I am afraid of moving over there and getting lost with my pocket empty. Then I have to beg for help. I am afraid of coming to your heaven and still seeing the traces of the hell that are stuck to me. You’re right. I don’t have the guts to travel. I should tell you that Amir says the same thing. When he got to this part of the letter, he applauded you.
Before I forget, I should say that Shahla wants you to write to find out if acupuncture gets rid of wrinkles around the eyes. Amir says, “Like most women, Shahla solves her problems by starting at the end.” According to Amir, “Getting married is Shahla’s first problem and her wrinkles are her last.”
Sharing a house didn’t take Maman and Shahla back to the days when they were like twin sisters and went to the basement together, whispering for hours, not fearing Father’s yelling while planning to drive strangers out of the house. Shahla has been angry at the world for some time. Maman says, “It’s too soon. Shahla is young and healthy and has a long way to menopause.”
I say Shahla is lazy.
Maman sighs, and says, “The smart one was Mahin who went away and left everything behind.”
But Maman’s brightest daughter, I don’t really feel jealous when you write about the most beautiful smiles of the world. Instead I need to get something off my chest. You don’t remember those days. You have always lived as if life begins right now. Shahla too, God help us, nobody has yet heard her recalling a memory. A woman with no memory, she is always ready to throw around those pretty pop psychology phrases. “You have to live in the moment.”
Not that her moment is very pleasant! Shahla is always complaining about her coworkers and the way Maman goes to the bathroom. But I can remember very well that one side of my face was always swollen. I often had an infected tooth that made my mouth smell horrible. When they finally took me to the dentist, the tooth had to be removed. I have so many memories of toothaches and the metal smell of the dentist’s drill that I sometimes feel like I had twice as many teeth as normal people. Of course, I don’t even have half of them now. To hell with not chewing well or getting stomach gas, what about my laughter? I think they ruined my smile, and not my teeth. That’s why I am not upset when I cry, but I am sad when I laugh. It’s impossible for the person sitting in front of you to pay less attention to your teeth than to what you’re saying.
Father would see me and say, “Give me my dentures.”
There was nothing more difficult than taking his dentures out of the glass and then hearing him adjusting them.
He said, “Dentures are good.”
I’d look at him doubtfully. I didn’t know whether he meant his dentures or something else. I couldn’t even tell whether he was laughing or his dentures were out of place. His wet dentures were shiny. My tooth was aching as usual, and thinking about the near future of my teeth wasn’t that comforting either. I really wanted to complain to somebody but Maman was washing clothes and weeping, and Father couldn’t understand a word. There is no joy in persecuting the weak. It kills the desire to seek justice forever.
It was right then that Father said something he shouldn’t have.
“Any pistachios?”
Maman hissed like a snake and got up from her washtub.
“Even if this man’s heart stopped, his appetite wouldn’t.”
I looked at Father. Was he laughing or showing his dentures? I couldn’t tell any more.
Amir was reading the letter with excitement and emotion and I was laughing. I am sure that over there foreign women cannot laugh this way. Because it’s not chic at all, and it’s the kind of laughter that shows discolored crowns instead of white shiny teeth.
Amir hasn’t stopped reading yet. He only raised his voice like somebody who has a visitor while praying. Shahin and Shadi were staring at his mouth with their mouths hanging open.
Amir said hastily, “Hurry up. Write. I need new information. Tell Mahin to write to us.”
I said, “You write.”
He said, “You write better.”
I frowned.
He tapped me on the shoulder, “Good job. Write. It’s for our future.”
26
What is the future like? The future must look like the old woman that Amir showed me in the park, like a yellow crumbled envelope. I cannot visualize the future. I don’t know what it is made of. Until now, I could only imagine the future. But now that I am close enough to it, the future is losing its mystery day by day, and I want to stop it right there.
I want to stop and look at myself and my life. From far away like a lover, and close by like a stranger. I don’t want to move to Canada. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days adjusting to life over there because by the time I find my way around, life will be all over.
Father had put away some money for my dowry before he passed away. Shahla had announced her hatred of all relationships with the male species. Mahin had a fiancé and could not wait any longer. It was my turn to get married. As it happened, Amir asked for my hand, and very soon I joined the crowd of married women.
As soon as you get married, the first thing that happens is that a big clock is hung in your bedroom; everybody’s counting the seconds to hear the big news. Then someone cooks stew with prunes for you, and another brings you sour fruit rollups. In the bus someone gets up and offers you their seat, and in the streets everybody unconsciously stares at your stomach that by now is big and round, meaning that it is a boy.
Then your days pass wondering about the benefits of a C-section versus natural birth. Time passes and the others begin to see in your face the changes that you already feel within. You prepare clothes for the baby in your free time, and argue with your husband about names. Then one day the pain arrives like someone you were expecting but whose arrival you couldn’t believe. Fear takes over. Fear of more and more pain. You go to the hospital, and the next day they put a small and unfamiliar being in your arms that reminds you of a wet sparrow, and they ask you to breastfeed him. From that moment on, you become a mother.
On the hospital bed, you decide that one child is enough. But decisions and actions are as different as a man and a woman who are standing next to each other as strangers and pretending as if they are related. A few years pass. The thought of the death of an only child is like a lost balloon in the air, and a mother whose days are boring is the first to notice it. Then she listens to the voice of a woman who is as old as the world and whispers in her ears, “What if your only child dies?” Besides, this poor kid will always be alone, and bringing a little playmate doesn’t hurt anybody, and after the parents die they would be great support for each other. Moreover, now that your work is changing diapers, and you actually have shown great aptitude in that, why not use this God-given talent to raise other kids, and a thousand other reasons. Then you get pregnant with your second child and become a complete mother.
Before you know it, wherever you go they ask about your kids, and you have to drag them with you everywhere. Your life is connected to two other human beings in every possible way. There are days that don’t simply end with feeding the baby and changing diapers, the kind of days that no one has written about in any books.
Mahin takes English lessons and writes letters to the fiancé that she has never met. Shahla is busy paying the mortgage for the two-bedroom apartment that she has bought in a nice neighborhood. Now that Mahin is leaving, she can live there with Maman.
Amir is packing his backpack to seek refuge in the mountains. From this life that is filled with whining kids. He says this life bores him to death. I frown at him. The baby is feeding.
He says he is not leaving forever. He is only going to Mt. Alam for five days, and he will be back soon. Besides, it is for our sake that he is going away for such a short trip. Otherwise, he would be at the foot of Mt. Everest right now. He is a migrant bird, and for now he is trapped in a cage, but he is ye
arning to fly.
He says, “You are a polar bear. You like this life. It was you who gave birth to these kids, not someone else.”
It is snowing. I have to give Shadi lots to drink because she has diarrhea and is running a fever. Shahin is constantly coughing. Someone has to raise the kids. This time the migrant bird has flown to Mt. Damavand. Maman is staying with me.
“Don’t be so cold. Socialize with your neighbors. It is so boring here. Your last house was better.”
I have to raise the kids.
“You don’t have to look like you’re mourning for the kids. If people didn’t know better, they would think that, God forbid, the kids are sick.”
I have to raise the kids.
I have to get Shadi immunized. She screams constantly. Shahin says, “Maman, we should take Shadi to the market, sell her, and be done with her.”
Shadi sucks on her finger.
“Put pepper on her finger and close this door. No one is going to hear if a thief breaks in.”
Shahin sits up in his bed in the middle of the night and cries out loud.
“What if my blood pressure goes up? There are no cars. No taxis.”
I have to raise the kids.
Shahin makes Shadi cry, and I spank him.
Maman says, “So what that you hit him. Kids grow up by being spanked. This is not a reason for you to cry.”
It is a reason to cry. Kids don’t grow up by getting spanked. Kids don’t grow up by being humiliated. They get taller, but they don’t grow up.
I say this to myself.
Shahin says, “Maman, you like Shadi better than me.”
It is snowing. The polar bear is sleeping under the blanket. The polar bear is telling stories for the kids. She cooks lentils for them, and in the afternoons she takes them out to play.
The polar bear is bored, bored of constantly having to take care of the kids, of the peeling walls, the broken water heater, the cockroaches that do not die with any kind of bug killer. She is tired of the long days turning to night, and of long nights that are filled with tears. The polar bear yells at the kids for no reason.
Shahla says, “You are no mother!”
I scream, “No, I am not, I am not a mother. I am a cow, a bear.”
Maman says, “Why are you so cranky? It is not our fault that your husband is gone.”
Shahla says, “With your temper, I don’t blame him for going away.”
“Yes, I cannot hold on to my husband.”
I shout again. Maman gets up to leave. The kids hang on to her sleeve.
“Stay!”
Maman is upset. “No, we should be going. If we stay here any longer your Mom is going to dismiss us!”
Shahin does not know what it means to dismiss someone. But he knows that it is my fault. I have so many faults by now. They have been stacking up, one on top of the other, becoming like a heavy wet blanket that I want to pull over me and stay covered. I am not a mother, not a daughter, and not a wife. I am nothing. I cannot perform any of the roles that have been assigned to me. I was no good as a child, either. My life did not matter. Maman was hoping for a boy and I turned out to be a girl. I was a gofer for Father. He would want me only for cleaning the dandruff on his jacket, fanning and bringing coal for his hookah, clipping his toenails, and taking off his socks. Children for him were like the images on the hookah. He always preferred decorated hookahs over plain ones.
Mahin opens the window. It is warm and sunny.
“I’ll stay with the little ones. You get out and have some fun. You need a change. Don’t worry. Go get an ice cream. Do something to get out of this mood. Don’t be so upset. Take a look at yourself in the mirror.”
I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror.
27
A woman who cheats on her husband can look like anybody except Manijeh. A woman who cheats cannot pay attention to everybody, the way Manijeh does. A woman who cheats cannot enjoy the scent of her daughter’s hair and kiss her the way Manijeh does.
She says, “Why don’t you take care of yourself? Why don’t you ever leave this house? Why don’t you come and visit us? Go shopping or to the park?”
I laugh and set the plate of cookies on the table. “You should be asking yourself these questions.”
She pretends not to hear me. “You are going to get really bored and depressed.”
I say, “I know, but the dead do not come back to life by going to the park or by wearing more makeup.” Then I blurt out, “But maybe by falling in love.”
I blush a little.
She looks at me doubtfully. I am not sure whether she doubts herself or me.
She says, “Who can find love?”
“You talk like Amir. Amir believes that love saves people, but here nobody can save anybody. Overly busy and unfortunate people start a relationship and call it love. But this is more lust than love.”
It is now Manijeh’s turn to blush.
“It is not just lust.”
What is it then I want to know?
I am thinking about treating her with coffee instead of the usual tea, but I want her to come clean first.
To make her talk, I say, “Maybe it is companionship, short-term relationships like going for short trips.”
I remember my own imaginary trips. “I can’t really call them trips; they are more like going a little further than the park.”
She sighs, “I don’t know.”
Now it is my turn to doubt. Maybe Manijeh doesn’t even have what I think she is hiding like a jewel. She only has a sick husband with a dark, suspicious heart.
In that case, I should make her some coffee. That is what I do. Singing, I walk barefoot in the kitchen from one side to the other. Manijeh has brought the plate close to her face and is staring at the pattern. The kids are playing a noisy game.
She says, “What an interesting plate!”
I don’t understand what she means. I look at the plate in her hand. She laughs.
“He will leave you. You know he will. You should leave first before you are left alone and turn into a loser.”
She fans herself with the plate.
I feel I shouldn’t say anything. Her trust is not complete. She may get scared and pull in like a turtle. I nod my head, pretending that I understand her, but in reality, I don’t. So, a few minutes later I say, “It won’t happen by changing where you live. You will have the same problems in the next place.”
“How do you know?”
She is right. How do I know? How many times have I changed houses? How would I know what I’ll be like in another life?
28
Shadi is doing her homework. “Maman, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
I say, “Don’t chew on the pencil.”
She takes the pencil out of her mouth. “OK. Tell me.”
“I am already a grown-up.”
Now she has put the pencil in between her toes.
“I have already become what I wanted to be.”
Shadi takes the pencil out of her toes.
“Maman . . .” She pushes her bangs away. “Be serious.”
I think, “Well, . . . I want, I want . . .”
All of a sudden I say, “I want to be a dancer.”
Amir lifts his head up from the newspaper and looks at me. I repeat what I said, and ask Shahin to put some music on so I can start practicing immediately. I get up and dance. First I imitate Mahin. The kids laugh. They clap and Shadi jumps up and down like a monkey. They ask for another dance. “Imitate Aunt Ashraf!” I push the table aside to make more room. The kids have stopped doing their homework. The house is filled with joy.
Amir says, “You should have said ‘a clown.’”
Now, I quit imitating and start dancing like I used to. Imagining I am dancing in a special and unfamiliar place makes me excited. For a few seconds I forget where I am. I am twirling so fast that no one can even catch up with me.
All of a sudden I stop. “Have I become what I w
anted?”
I am frozen like a windup doll that all of a sudden goes completely unwound, with my arms still stretched open.
Shahin yells, “Maman should dance.”
The kids are getting rowdy. They have turned up the music. I bend over shaking my hair like when I get out of the shower. Starting again, I dance even faster than before.
29
“Maman! Amir is leaving.”
“His bird has flown away. He can’t stay here any longer. He has to follow his bird. Let him go.”
Maman says that everybody has a bird. When the bird flies away and lands somewhere, it calls out for its owner to follow.
Amir’s bird has landed in Baku. It has flown ahead and is waiting for him. Baku is not way out there. It is close by. It is only a few hours drive.
“I will send letters. I will call. I will come and visit you once a month.”
“Don’t go, Amir. I can’t. The kids are too young.”
“Think of their future. Life is not only about today. Tomorrow we won’t be able to meet even their simplest needs. You cannot find these kinds of opportunities every day. Leaving is the only option.”
“Stay so you can come home at night.”
Amir hugs me without saying a word. He has made up his mind. I know that his bird has gone ahead of him and is waiting at the Metro station in Baku. He wants to fly away too. And see new places. Experience a different life.
“You should live your own life, too. Don’t be so dependent on me. I will send you money. Take care of the kids.”
He starts packing his bag while whistling a song that is not for me anymore. Amir can manage without me, but why can’t I do the same? I can’t. Already I am dreading the long afternoons without him.
Amir says, “The future is dark, very dark. The only way out is my work, especially now that I am still young and have energy. There is no other way. I have to go.”