by Fariba Vafi
Amir’s bird has flown to Baku ahead of him and is awaiting its owner.
30
Shahla is on a diet. I serve her salad without dressing, with lots of dill.
She’s talking about the architecture of our house. “The bathroom is out of sight and near the shower. That’s good.”
I ask about her coworkers. But Shahla insists on talking about the bathroom. Talking about the flush and how big the toilet is.
You can’t walk ahead of Shahla. You have to wait and move at her pace.
“There is enough room to even add a European toilet.”
Shahla always has a ritual. She has her own system and has to do everything her way in order to get to where she wants. I am trying to figure out her new routine. She always follows her rules. Maman says, “Even as a little girl, she had her very own plate, and when she played house there were so many regulations that the other kids got tired, and she was forced to offer tea to herself. At bedtime she rearranged her sheets and blankets many times.”
To this date, the fluffiness of her pillow is a matter of life and death. She would easily cancel a trip if she did not have her own special sheets.
“At home I can read and take care of my paperwork. I can listen to the news, but only if Maman is not leaving the bathroom with a few drops of water dripping down her leg. She ought to dry herself off after using the toilet.”
I must be staring at her.
She says, “I am talking about legs. Wet legs drive me nuts. Do you understand what those little drops of water do to me? You don’t know how I feel when I get that upset.”
I know when she is nervous, she plays with her pimples to the point that they go away. She sits in front of the mirror and tweezes her eyebrows until the light skin underneath shows. She files her fingernails so sharp that they look like the tip of a fountain pen with no ink.
She inspects every corner of the house and keeps talking about the toilet and the sink. I am hopeful, because I have found something that I can talk to Shahla about, and perhaps I can share something about Amir, too, the fact that I have not yet been able to accept his departure. Canada is not like Baku in that he can come back any time he wants to. Canada is on the other end of the world, and the world is only becoming smaller for the rich. For us it remains big, very big. I am getting into details when Shahla moves her double chin and walks toward the bathroom. That’s not only a piece of flesh hanging from her chin. A delicate movement of her double chin tells you that she is not interested in sentimental stories, and she is determined to only talk about toilets and sinks.
Shahla is not interested in just anything in the world. Other people’s emotions keep her attention as long as they fit into her sewing pattern. Shahla is all about patterns, customs, plans, and logic.
To be her sister, you have to accept her ways. Once she was a devout believer, then a strong supporter of free elections, and later she turned into a vegetarian. After Father’s death, she put away all these beliefs. She no longer followed any ideas. For a long time she became indifferent. But being indifferent was hard work for her. Having any kind of commitment was unbearable for her if you wanted to get close to her.
Shahla says, “I can’t watch TV. All my attention is on those wet legs. I can’t put on makeup, and the room does not smell good even after using all that soap and perfume. Sometimes I want to throw everything away.”
That’s what she did with the basement. One day, she brought in a secondhand buyer and gave away all the furniture. Against Maman’s protests, she gave the trunks to the neighborhood thrift shop and replaced them with metal shelves. She mounted them on top of Father’s bed, which had been moved to the basement. She arranged Father’s medications on the shelves. The basement looked like a makeshift hospital in a war zone. Then she bought an air freshener and sprayed it on the door every day, as if she were writing dangerous graffiti.
“Our bathroom is right by the kitchen in full view of everybody.”
As if I have not seen her house.
“Where the TV is and it’s impossible not to see who is leaving the bathroom.”
She shuddered as if she were disgusted with something. Her body shivered for a moment.
“Old age is a bad thing. I want to live only as long as I have control over my body and can come out of the bathroom dry and decent.”
Shahla opens the bathroom door and looks inside with interest. “Have you noticed in the bathroom where the hose for cleaning yourself is, and how accessible it is? Even a child can easily wash himself, let alone a grown-up.”
I nod and realize that I have never given a thought to the hose in the bathroom in all my life.
Shahla says that the door to our bathroom is not like theirs. That although their door is very fancy, it is narrow and makes it difficult to get in and out. She turns her face and her double chin toward me and says, “I can’t take it anymore. Maman knows it too. I’ve had it.”
31
Maman says, “I can’t take it anymore.”
She could not put up with Father.
Father did not want to be confined in the basement anymore. He wanted to get out. “I want to go and buy one of those tall black things.”
Mahin says, “I will buy you a Coke.”
“No, I have to go there myself.”
“Where is there?”
He could not remember how to say where he wanted to go. He said, “Help me remember.” The name of the place was on the tip of his tongue, like hot food. It was as if his tongue was burning. He was stuttering.
He put his foot in one shoe and threw his jacket on his shoulder. “I have to go there.”
“Where the hell is there?”
He grabbed Mahin’s hand. “Take me there!”
“Where the hell do you want her to take you?”
Maman was beyond herself.
“There is water there. It is not dark.”
I said, “Park?”
He repeated “Park! Park!”
He asked me to say it again. “No, no that is not it.”
Maman was pounding on his pillow. “Lie down.”
Father looked at Maman with fear, and held Mahin’s hand tightly. “I have to go.”
Maman screamed. “Go, go and leave us alone. Then go! Hurry up and get the hell out of here.”
Father looked at us one by one, though with no recognition. His mouth was half-open, and his dentures were pushing out. His eyes narrowed. We were all looking at him. He was crying.
32
“You’re like glue, superglue.”
I wait, and when Amir comes I cling to him.
“Stay. Don’t leave again. I can’t take it any longer.”
Amir is happy and full of energy. He kisses my face again and again.
“One day I’ll take you all there.”
“Take us now,” I beg.
Amir gets edgy.
“Don’t cling to me like this. Stay here close to you for what . . . to die of hunger? Can’t you see where we’re heading? Have you gone blind? We have frightening days ahead of us, horrible and dark days.”
I get out of the house. If I stay, I’ll hate myself, him, the house, and even the children. I leave milk and food for the kids and let Amir know. I have to get going. It’s getting dark. My clingy kids follow me with their eyes. Amir has to divert their attention so I can get out of the house. But Shadi notices and screams.
It has been snowing steadily since last night. It’s dark. Passing a few alleys, I get to the main street. It is lit in the main street and the bright lights of the market can be seen from far away. I cover my mouth with the corner of my shawl and walk toward the noise and the light. As I walk I feel less worried. What a blessing not to worry about the kids, to be able to go for a walk, even in such cold weather, in a snow that will soon turn into slush. It’s been a long time since I have stepped out of the house alone. Isn’t it better to go back right now? No, I won’t.
I cling. Maman doesn’t. That’s what Father us
ed to tell her, “pretty, but cold.”
Maman never got attached to anything. Not to Father, not to the house, not to her children. When we sat next to her, she became restless. “Don’t lean on me. Get away.”
She liked to walk in the streets by herself. In the public bathhouse, she sat us on the bench and told the attendant to watch out for us. She would go in and then called us in one by one. When Father wasn’t home, she made her bed some distance from us, and when he was there, she made her bed away from Father’s. In the bus, she didn’t like her body rubbing against other women’s bodies.
Now I am in the market. It’s not as busy as usual. A few women with lots of makeup are standing in front of a store window. Talking and laughing. It’s warm in the market and the stores are brightly lit. I use the escalator going up and come down using the back steps. I walk with the crowd, and I am forced to move slowly. All my fears are left outside the market.
Everybody is alive. They walk, talk, and laugh. Nobody pays any attention to me. I enter a store and ask the price of a yellow hat for a child. My face feels warm. Everybody is alive. Only I have died because I have no place to go. I have to stay in that house all alone with children who know nothing. They just want milk and food. They want clean clothes and toys.
In my mind I send Amir away from the house. He has to leave for the sake of the future. I put myself in the center of the house. But I must stay. I can’t go with two little kids to a foreign place and wander around. So we must stay put.
But nights arrive late and the days know no rules or laws for ending. Amir is chasing the future. There are no guarantees. He may bring the future with him, or he may not. The past is a wreck and that doesn’t help. The house is poor and smells like medicine and baby milk. The carpet is covered with toys. I have to separate the small ones. Shadi may put them in her mouth.
I leave the market. It’s late. It’s still snowing lightly. A man is selling cooked beets. The steam is rising. There are many trucks around the market. Trucks full of oranges, tangerines, and sweet lemons. I turn into the alley. The noises are distant now, and it’s dark and quiet in the alley. There is only the whiteness of the snow and the light from a few streetlamps. I am walking carefully, but I slip and fall. Nobody is in the alley. I have to get up. My back hurts. I clench the snow and tears fill my eyes. Even all that glow and color couldn’t relieve the pain that I am now throwing up like undigested food. Now I understand why I have left the house at this time of the night. I have left the house to be alone and hear myself make a promise, a promise never ever to cling again, never again be dependent. I get up and start walking toward the house.
33
It’s two days since Amir’s bag is empty. He has no stories or news. He eats his dinner and stares at the television screen. When I talk, he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t even answer when I ask him a question. The third day, he hits Shadi for a petty excuse and yells at me for spending money when everything is so expensive. It’s my turn to get up and say, “Which money? What expense?” I say that for months I’ve had to make do with these old clothes and haven’t said a word.
“Tell me what makeup I have bought? What purse or shoes have I purchased? What have I bought for the children?”
It’s my turn to say something, but I let Amir talk, complain, and yell. Maybe I can find out what’s wrong by reading between the lines. But he doesn’t talk. How can I peek into his world?
I point to the kids to be quiet. I must calm everything down. I must do something so that Amir will talk. I make up the beds and tell the kids to go to bed quietly. I turn down the TV and sit by Amir. He is laying on his stomach. I rub his shoulders. Often in the evenings, Amir promises money, fun, and a visit to the park to get the kids to massage him. His eyes are closed. It’s no use. He’s asleep.
I think how stupid of me to think that I know everything about Amir, that I know him like the palm of my hand, that there is nothing in his life that I don’t know about. The face of this tired and sullen man becomes even more unfamiliar.
Just like when Father returned home after a day of wandering and did not look anything like the man who had left the house. There was no way to figure out what had happened to him that day, how his day had gone, and what kind of a person he’d been.
Amir is a stranger and he is absent. Whoever he was today, he couldn’t have been happy. Because if he was, it would have rubbed off on us too. Whenever Father came home, he stood by the door miserable and drained, just like a merchant who has just found out that he’s bankrupt.
I lay down close to Amir. Right now, I am not his wife, his mother, or his sister. We have no connection. The cold, white glare of the TV, like a spotlight from the enemy line, identifies us. We have collapsed on the carpet like two strangers. I cling to Amir and hold on tight to his shoulders. He turns over and hugs me in his sleep. We are not husband and wife. Neither is he a man, nor am I a woman. We are simply two people seeking comfort in each other’s arms.
34
Shahla, Mahin, and Maman want to go home. They came over this afternoon and now its night, the beginning of the night, a little after sunset. Shahin is hanging on to Mahin’s arm. “Take me too.”
Shadi is sucking on her finger. Maman has lifted up her heavy body and is straightening her dress. “I’ll stay if you’re scared.”
“No, no, I am not scared.”
Mahin tells Shahin, “Go get changed and let’s go.”
Shahla is at the door, shining her shoes. She is in a rush. Has work to do.
She says, “We can’t. He’ll want his mother. We can’t bring him back in the middle of the night.”
Mahin says, “Shahin is not a kid. He is a man.”
I say, “Mahin dear, it’s okay. It’s a hassle to take him and bring him back.”
Shahin is crying.
“If we take you, your mother will be all alone.”
That’s what Maman says.
Shahin is crying. Maman takes out some money from her purse. Shahin throws down the money.
Maman says, “Okay, go get changed and come back.”
Shahin has taken out his clothes from the drawer. “Maman, where are my socks?”
He has put on one sock halfway and is holding the other one in his hand. He is not looking at me. He is embarrassed about leaving me alone. He comes to the living room. I notice that the ceiling is too high and the light very dim. The shadow of the chandelier is cast on the walls. The faucet in the kitchen is dripping. Shadi is holding on tight to my hand.
I say, “Shahin, Sweetheart, I myself will take you out tomorrow.”
Shahin searches the rooms, the bathroom, too. He looks down from the stairway. There is nobody. He looks out the window. He is not tall enough to see the end of the street. He returns to the room, kicking the closed door and screams, “Jerks!”
35
I feel the tremors of this life. I can smell the whiff of separation. Life will change. We could do anything, but still not be able to stay together as we are. I make a soup. Soup reminds Amir of his mother. A mother who could be summed up in two words: devoted and hardworking. But my mother couldn’t be defined even by a thousand words. I make spaghetti and cutlets for Shahin and Shadi. Everybody should leave a table full and satisfied. Everybody should enjoy their food. Doesn’t everybody try to have what we have, enough food and a life together?
There is a celebration at our house, and I am the only one who knows about it. It is a feast to preserve the moment, a moment that will probably not be there tomorrow. I feel the turbulence under my feet. I smell separation.
Patiently I listen to Shahin’s silly jokes. Shadi doesn’t want to be left behind either. “A boy was walking on his hands. Somebody asked him, ‘Why are you walking on your hands?’ The boy said, ‘Because my father has said I am not allowed to put a foot in the street.’”
Shahin says, “Ha, ha, very funny!”
But I laugh wholeheartedly. This little man and woman who are close to beating each other up br
ing me so much joy, and Amir doesn’t know why he feels like telling a joke that’s not really funny, and doesn’t know why he’s teasing the kids. He doesn’t know why he joins Shahin to make fun of Shadi. Now I have to play my usual role and come to Shadi’s rescue and tell them, “Don’t be so mean.” Amir and Shahin keep at it and turn into real monsters and laugh harder. Amir, Shadi, and Shahin don’t realize they are participating in a feast that I have arranged. This is a celebration of life and sitting together at the table; I laugh heartily, feeling the passage of every second.
36
In his letters Amir writes about Azerbaijani people, about Baku, the boulevards, and the underground metro. He writes about museums, statues, and the libraries. In response I write about the weather, the newspaper reports, and the new highways that the government is building, about the supermarket that has opened recently, the gas pipelines, and the farmer’s market.
Every other day, I shop at the market with the kids. Going there is a journey in itself. Going to the bazaar is a journey too. Going to Shahla’s house at the other end of the town is a journey. I fill my bag with snacks, lemonade, fruit, and chocolate. The kids are allowed to ask one hundred questions till we get to where we want. They can talk as much as they want. They can run after each other and even collect pebbles. They can ask for grilled corn or ice cream.
Shadi draws a picture for Amir. Shahin writes a few lines, and after greetings, I tell him about the landlord’s message. “I won’t extend the deadline. We need the house ourselves. You must leave by the end of the month.”
In fifteen days, this place will no longer look like a house. It’ll be storage filled with boxes placed on top of each other, with packed furniture. Life will stop. I have to look for a new apartment. We have to move.
Amir can’t quit his work to come back home. The kids have to keep walking.
“I’m tired, Mom.”
Walking is good. It’s always been rewarding. It’s certainly useful when you’re poor and the taxis are expensive, or when you’re rich and you lose weight by walking. If you want to think, you can walk. If you want to empty your mind of thoughts, walking helps. To appreciate life, you should walk in busy streets. To forget people’s unkindness and malice, you should walk, when you’re young and when you’re old. When you’re a kid, every stop means something delicious, and to get to the next stop you should keep walking.