My Bird

by Fariba Vafi

  The kids are walking ahead of me. When they get tired, they fall behind. When all three of us feel good, we walk hand in hand.

  Father always walked ahead of everybody. Maman and the kids fell behind. Shahla would always pull me, and Mahin wanted to walk farther back to jump and play. The back of Father’s coat was my only target. I was afraid of getting lost if I lost track of his coat.

  But Amir isn’t like him. He gets bored walking by himself. He wants me by his side in order to do two things at the same time. Amir always hits many targets with one bullet. It’s a waste to use one bullet for each target. When he eats, he watches TV too. When visiting relatives, he wants to run a couple of errands on his way. What’s he doing now?

  My masochism has found an excuse and is singing happily. Amir is walking shoulder to shoulder with a woman in the streets of Baku that he says are clean and wide. I wait till the sting of jealousy goes deep through my body like an electric current. I look again at the picture that I have imagined. It is so clear that it almost looks real. Baku’s sun is bright and bountiful, and the trees in the streets are very tall.

  I don’t go any further. I freeze the scene right there to get my revenge by holding on to the most familiar shot. I conjure up a man by my side, and I start talking to him about the houses I have seen, about the agencies I have visited. I take out a bunch of colorful business cards from my pocket to show him.

  “These are business cards from the rental offices.”

  I am not happy at all about the high prices. How expensive. And besides, we have to look for an apartment on the first floor so the kids can run around. I feel like chatting and realize how much you can talk about a trivial subject. I look around. The kids have fallen behind. There is no sign of a man.

  Despairingly I tell myself if Amir is having a good time with another woman in that street next to the metro station, nothing in the world could ruin it. My brain is like a sieve with large holes; dreams and hallucination pass through it and attack my mind. I can’t think straight. I am moving and staying put at the same time. Ultimately, one thought is more persistent than others: the image of a man and a woman in love.

  But I have learned how to handle my imagination that is gliding around me like a butterfly, showing off its wings that change color every second. I remain still for the butterfly to get close. I wait till it gets closer and even closer. Cross-eyed, I stare at its locust-like body.

  The search is successful; we are in a new apartment.

  A few days have passed, and I still haven’t found my favorite spot in this new place. This usually takes a day or two. Once I found my special corner right away. But a few days have passed and no corner of this place feels familiar to me yet. It’s not kind. I walk from room to room, moving things around, and it still feels like it is not taking shape.

  The bedroom is all set, the bed, the mirror, and the dresser. I want to lean on the pillow. I did it, but I realize that I can’t think about Amir, about Baku, about the future. I can’t think of anything. Sometimes, the problem is simply that the kitchen is too small, and at other times, it’s that the room doesn’t have any wall space to lean on. Sometimes, it’s because the bathroom fan makes a horrible noise. I try it all. I check every corner of the house. Something has to be moved around.

  Shahin can’t read the first letter that Amir has written for him. Holding the letter, he is following me, and I have to correct his reading.

  “It’s not prinkapuls. It’s principles.”

  Shahin reads one word and I read the other.

  “Goal.”

  I tell Shahin to wait till later.

  “Pride.”

  His words hit the back of my head like rocks.

  “Hard work and persistence.”

  My head feels heavy. I lie down on the floor in the middle of the living room. I feel I have fallen in a merry-go-round and I am turning around. I think my dream is flawed. Like that cracked piece of china that I didn’t want to throw in the garbage, but I know it’s of no use any longer. The merry-go-round that I am riding on can’t take me far away. I keep turning and yet remain in the same spot.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  I say, “Nothing. I’ll get up after I rest a little.”

  But I want to say, “To hell with this house.”

  37

  I am running a fever. Maman was supposed to stop by, but she didn’t. Her feet hurt too much. Shahla called a few times and said I should go to the doctor. She says I shouldn’t have let Amir leave and have fun by himself in Baku while I am left alone with two kids. I don’t say anything.

  By late night my body is on fire. Maman didn’t come. The phone doesn’t ring any more. Shahin and Shadi are sitting by my side. I tell them I can’t get up, and they should go to the fridge and find something to eat.

  I close my eyes. When I open them everything is clean and organized. The kids have put things away. Shahin has brought a wet cloth, putting it on my forehead. Shadi is trying hard to remove my socks. Shahin tells her to leave my socks alone and get a glass of water for me. Their tiny little hands move all over my body. They talk very quietly with each other and are careful not to wake me up. I am shivering.

  I am in a swimming pool that has no water. I say, I have come here to swim. Why isn’t there any water? A few fat women are all dressed and sitting around the pool, but they don’t talk to me. They are cleaning vegetables and dumping them in the pool that by now looks green and slimy. The air is hot. I have come a long way to swim in the pool. I want to get my body wet but there is not even one drop of water. Holding their heads down, the fat women are cleaning vegetables in silence. I scream, “Water.” My lips are dry. I open my eyes. The kids have thrown a couple of blankets on me and are fast asleep at my feet.

  38

  Amir says, “You’ve become really fat, like a buffalo. I like the slim girls who stroll in the streets, thin and slender.”

  I laugh. I gently stroke my arm. It’s silky and smooth. My hand should remain on my arm to feel its softness. If I remove my hand, I might think I have the skin of a rhinoceros, the thick skin of a rhinoceros that would mistake hitting for caressing.

  I laugh.

  If a marriage lasts, the woman becomes tough. On the surface the skin feels smooth, but it is becoming thick. This woman doesn’t pass out or faint. Neither does she agonize day and night. She doesn’t beat herself up, sleep hungry at nights, or want to kill all the slim girls.

  I laugh.

  Not a nervous laughter, but a happy one, happiness for what makes any woman rich: self-confidence.

  My silence further agitates Amir, because his skin has become thin and my loud laughter passes through it and penetrates his heart.

  “What are you laughing at, chubby?”

  39

  My belly might get bigger. Mahin’s hips might grow bigger. One day we may look in the mirror, see our faces, and feel sorry for ourselves. One day Mahin may no longer be able to dance so energetically, and perhaps one day I will become less patient and surrender to fate. Destiny can do whatever it wants with me.

  That’s why Shahla forces me to go for walks with Mahin. Because all these horrible things may happen to us. As we occasionally walk shoulder to shoulder, I feel that anxiety is pushed away. I say, “To hell with hip and belly.”

  I think out loud, “It’s our soul that needs air.”

  Mahin objects, “But not this polluted air. This is dirty. There is also too much noise. You know what I want?”

  Mahin doesn’t talk about what she wants; she acts it out. Now, she is extending her arms. “Clean air.”

  It’s like a dance. Her hands almost reach the ground.

  “Clean earth refreshed by rain.” She pushes her arms forward. “And a bicycle.”

  Now she is biking. I have been left behind. Even as a child, she was always too smart to get stuck in any kind or unkind person’s web. She always managed to get away.

  “Lady athlete, what about me?”

 
“What do I want you for? I want a sweetheart.”

  A strong, well-built man passes by. I say quietly, “Here is your sweetheart.”

  Mahin says, “You’re a woman with no dreams,” and that’s why she is sorry for me.

  But I don’t give up. “So, who else looks good?”

  And I look at the faces of every single man in the park. But Mahin’s love doesn’t look like any of these men. Her love wouldn’t burp or scratch himself; he wouldn’t stare or curse. He would just bike by her side. I will wait till her sweetheart gets off his bicycle. The bicycles finally have to stop somewhere.

  Mahin says, “Now he smiles at me and asks me, ‘Are you tired, my dear?’”

  “But I think he smiles and says, ‘Honey, what’s for dinner?’ And the sound you hear isn’t coming from his loving heart. I hate to disappoint you but the sound comes from a little lower, from his empty stomach.”

  After dinner, the sweetheart’s eyes become heavy and his yawns are as big as the pictures in the dentist’s office. I’ll point out that yawning has one positive outcome. It reminds you that your sweetheart has a cavity, and you have to pay for it with your next paycheck.

  Mahin says, “Poor you, you hear the sound of yawning and I hear soft music after dinner.”

  “But dishes, dishes, honey, dishes.”

  Mahin says, “Shut up. You’re mean and jealous. God help Amir. You ruin everything.”

  I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t want them to write in your obituary ‘unfulfilled young woman.’”

  She starts walking fast, “And I am sorry for you because that’s all you see. That will be exactly what you get in life, and nothing more.”

  40

  I put the kids to sleep. Leaning on the wall, I stretch my legs as if I have returned from a very long trip and not from Shahla’s house. My back hurts and my mind is preoccupied. I have no choice but to return and live with my kids.

  I change Shadi’s diaper. Shahla is watching my hands to make sure I wash them carefully. She walks behind Shahin and picks up the junk on the carpet. I seat the kids next to me to make sure they don’t get the table dirty, and don’t pound on the door with the palm of their hand, or that they don’t touch the phone, or make noise with the knife and plate. Shadi likes to walk on the couch, and she makes the cover fall off every time. The clean kitchen floor makes Shahin excited, and he wants to slide on it.

  I want to help Maman and Shahla with cooking. They say it’s better if I watch after my kids to make sure they don’t do anything wrong. At lunch I make sure they don’t put the yogurt spoon on the table cloth, don’t spill rice, and hold their glasses carefully.

  Maman says, “Put the kids to sleep so we can all take a nap.”

  She brings a pillow and tells them to keep quiet; otherwise the boogeyman from downstairs will come up and eat them. The kids can’t sleep. They want to play. Shadi crawls under the couch. Shahin is bored and whiny.

  I am back in my own house. I tell myself I’ll stay right here till the kids grow up. I won’t go anywhere anymore. We’ll stay here within these walls, the three of us. It’s as if for the first time I face the reality of my life. As if only tonight I am able to throw away such nonsense like a shared life, the warm family unit, and other rubbish, and make up my own definitions. This is my life and these two kids belong only to me. Now I have all the responsibility to continue as I see fit. The heavy pain makes me wipe away my tears. I feel I have become stronger.

  41

  Mahin squeezes Shadi and makes her scream. Then she gets up and plays dodge ball with the kids. Shahla laughs, “Big kid!”

  Maman watches Mahin and her eyes fill with tears. These days Mahin sings. She shops and speaks English. She writes letters. Makes a list of things she wants to take with her, and now she has turned to the kids.

  “What do the little ones want their aunt to send them from abroad?”

  Shahin says, “A gun.”

  Shadi says, “I want a gun too.”

  Shahin quickly says, “Monkey see, monkey do. Are you a monkey?”

  Mahin teases Shahla. “Come on, tell me: shampoo, soap, lotion, toothpaste, perfume, and . . .”

  “There is no need. I buy them here. The Iranian ones are better.”

  Mahin says, “You don’t like to spend money, Miss Stingy.”

  Maman says, “Thank God, she does have money.”

  Shahla laughs, “I am saving for a rainy day.”

  Mahin wrinkles her nose.

  “What’s a rainy day anyway?”

  “It’s a cloudy and sad day. Somebody might die on a day like that.”

  Maman whispers, “Dear, I have money for my own funeral.”

  Mahin raises her voice, “If somebody dies on such a day, it won’t be a rainy day. It will be a day of mourning. Can you tell me what use you have for money on a mourning day?”

  “There might be a day when only money can prevent a disaster. There must be a day that I can let go of my savings after all, because there won’t be a tomorrow to worry about.”

  Shahin has changed his mind. “I don’t want a gun. I want a sailboat.”

  Mahin brings her eyebrows together the way she usually does and makes her mouth look small and beautiful. “What about you, pretty girl?”

  Shadi looks at Shahin. Shahin is giggling. He knows that Shadi doesn’t know what a sailboat is. Shadi takes her finger out of her mouth and laughs, “A balloon.”

  Everybody laughs. Mahin looks at me.

  I say, “I don’t need anything.”

  “You’re taking it too seriously. Say something.”

  Shahin is hanging from my neck, “Say something, Maman.”

  I look down. I think about what I want. I don’t know. I want to say something. I want to laugh. I hold my head up, “Letters.” I bite my lips. I know my nose has turned red. Mahin comes closer. She hugs Shahin and me together and starts sobbing.

  42

  A love letter has arrived from Amir. He has written that only when you are far from your everyday life do you begin to realize what you actually had.

  He has written that he is only beginning to appreciate me, and that he misses home and the kids. He can’t work like he used to and besides, with winter coming, work won’t be profitable any longer.

  He has written that he is lonely most of the time. His neighbor invites him over once in a while. They are hospitable people. Their daughter plays piano for him, and he remembers me in those moments.

  Shahla says, “Amir is farsighted. He can only see things from a distance. When he gets closer . . .”

  I say, “Everything gets blurred.”

  “No, everything is crystal clear. But Amir is blind.”

  Shahla is waiting for me to agree with her. I should throw my vicious memory at the wall. I have to remember everything. All those hurt feelings, all the feuds. Where did all that hatred go? But my memory works magic. Everything has vanished, and I feel guilty for wishing that Shahla would leave as soon as possible so I can read Amir’s letter again and again.

  43

  I don’t write Amir about highways and the new construction. Neither do I write about the supermarket that drove away the customers from the very beginning. I write about me and the world around me, about every corner of our new house. I write about the landlord, and Shahin and Shadi who are growing up and becoming sweet.

  You can hear Shadi’s voice from every corner of the house. She talks, sings, and makes up stories. You can hear her singing even when she is in the bathroom washing her hands.

  Shahin says he is the man of the house, and everybody should obey him. He puts on Amir’s winter hat. Wears his coat and walks around the room. Shadi laughs hard.

  “I order you . . .”

  He turns to me and doesn’t know what orders to give. His finger is left in the air.

  “I order that . . .”

  Shadi joins him and gives orders too. Unclear orders are floating over my head. Shahin screams. He has found an order after all
.

  “I order you to laugh.”

  You can’t disobey an order given with so much effort. I laugh. To follow his next order, I get up and we chase each other and play. At night I feel like a queen with my devoted ministers sleeping by my side.

  I continue writing to Amir. I write that we are all well, and he’d better not misbehave like the kids. He should stay there till the end of the winter and finish his job.

  44

  Shahla’s maman says, “A man shouldn’t take off and leave his wife and small children all alone.”

  But my maman says, “The farther a pest, the less problematic life is.”

  Shahla’s maman says, “A woman who has an income or a salary doesn’t need a husband.”

  But my maman says, “It’s better to at least have the name of a husband anyway.”

  Mahin writes that they raised us as the sons who were never born, and among us Shahla is the worst victim. She became neither a man nor a woman. She is male.

  Shahla’s maman doesn’t eat breakfast.

  “I have no appetite.”

  And to convince herself she says, “A big breakfast is not good for you.”

  But my maman stops her weeping after everybody leaves the house, like a radio that is suddenly turned off. Then she sets the table. Brews the tea and is careful the tea has a nice color and flavor and doesn’t taste like bath water. She puts preserves, walnuts, and cheese in separate dishes and eats her breakfast as she watches the sparrows outside her window.

  Shahla’s maman is a thoughtless woman who has reached this age without saving a single penny. My maman has so much savings that nobody knows the exact amount, and in those evenings when she feels down and nobody is around, she brings it out. Counting her money over and over, she wraps a thick rubber band around each bundle.