“I’m aging,” she told herself as she stood in front of the mirror powdering her nose. At twenty-eight years and two months she was not old; she just looked prematurely aged.
She put on her shoes and picked up a handbag before going downstairs. Nana Jan, her ancient grandmother, was sitting on a bench gazing at the reflecting pool in the middle of the courtyard. The clacking of Fa’iza’s heels on the steps distracted her.
“Are you going out?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Not a good idea. Demonstrations everywhere.”
The neighbors had the radio on and the noise reached the courtyard. Fa’iza stopped momentarily. Nana Jan was right.
“At least wear a chador,” advised Nana Jan.
Wordlessly Fa’iza turned around and went upstairs. From under piles of clothing she brought out the black chador she wore at funerals and on religious occasions. She put it on. The heavy folds of the material made her look somewhat angular. Amir Khan would tease her, should he be there. She didn’t mind being teased by him most of the time, for instance, for her inability to find a husband, but not for looking the way she did in a chador. That would likely make her cry—not a wise thing to do in front of Amir Khan. Any way, she had no choice, so she went downstairs wearing the chador. Nana Jan made no more comments; it had been a while since she’d stopped bossing people around.
Fa’iza stepped outside into the side street. The noise of the demonstration in the distance was clearly audible. A taxicab arrived almost immediately.
“Sezavar Street,” she said as she got in.
The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror.
“Aren’t you scared?” he asked. “It is chaotic out there.”
“I have no choice.”
“I have to take detours, you know,” the driver said. “Main streets are dangerous.”
“No problem,” Fa’iza answered.
Through a maze of back streets and alleys the driver negotiated his way until he had to stop at a minor traffic jam at an intersection. In the middle of the intersection a man appeared to be directing traffic. But all of a sudden he left the spot and ran down the sidewalk into an alley, chased by another man. The traffic began to move slowly. Suddenly a man hurled himself onto the back of Fa’iza’s cab and started knocking on the rear window with a knife. Fa’iza turned her head and buried her face in her lap. The driver jammed on the brakes, making her lurch forward and hit her head against the front seat. He then accelerated, which threw Fa’iza violently against the back seat. The maneuver made the man slip off the trunk of the car.
“I told you it would be dangerous,” said the driver. “You’re my last fare for sure.” Fa’iza made no response.
“Goddamn!” exclaimed the driver, “Serves me right for being nosy! My old lady told me ten times not to get on the road today.”
Fa’iza remained silent. She didn’t like the way the driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. She was anxious to get out.
Finally they arrived at the destination. She put a two-toman bill in the driver’s outstretched hand, shuddering at the touch of his skin. Not waiting for the change, she burst out of the cab.
The house overlooked the street, which was humming with the noise of the crowds at some distance. Fa’iza rang the doorbell. She had a bitter taste in her mouth for the two minutes before the door was opened. The maid, Alia, opened the door, looking groggy.
“You were still asleep?” said Fa’iza accusingly. “My God!”
Alia muttered something by way of greeting and stepped aside to let Fa’iza in.
“Is Madam Munis home?” Fa’iza asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the living room, I suppose.”
Fa’iza started in that direction. Would Amir Khan be there, she wondered. As she took the first step, she told herself “There,” and with the second step, “Not there.” She alternated the thoughts at each step until she reached the living room door, coinciding with “There.” Apprehensively she pushed open the door. Munis was by herself sitting in front of the radio listening intently. Amir Khan was not there. He might be asleep upstairs, she guessed.
“Hello!” Fa’iza exclaimed.
Munis turned, her face suddenly flushed with pleasure at the sight of Fa’iza. “What a surprise,” she squealed. “Long time no see! Where have you been hiding yourself, young lady?” Slowly she rose to her feet, turning down the volume on the radio.
“Long-time-no-see to you, my dear,” returned Fa’iza. “No word, no message, for God’s sake.” The women embraced and continued the stream of pleasantries as they settled on a couch next to the radio.
“Are you alone?” Fa’iza wanted to know.
“Yes, I am,” declared Munis. “Mother and the others have gone on a pilgrimage to Mashad.”1
“Why didn’t you let me know?” Fa’iza asked, complainingly.
“They’ve been gone two days.”
“I see. What is Amir Khan doing?”
“He’s not home. He is at work.”
“What? At work? In the middle of all this commotion?”
“Every time he leaves the house he says he is going to the office. What do I know?”
“That’s interesting.”
“Interesting is the way you are.”
“I take it as a compliment.”
“I’m not sure about that,” said Munis with a touch of playfulness. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be nice. If it’s not too much trouble.”
As soon as Munis left to get the tea, Fa’iza turned off the radio. It could interfere with the conversation that she had delayed long enough. When she returned, Munis sat directly across from Fa’iza, not saying a word. Somewhere Fa’iza had read that people with round faces are mentally defective. She had run to the mirror to make sure she did not belong to this retarded group, although she had been made aware many times before, mostly by Nana Jan’s pejorative, hurtful comments, that she had horse-like features. Since she’d read this, Fa’iza had developed the habit of evaluating people based on the shape of their faces. Amir had decidedly an oblong face with a strong, square jaw. Munis, on the other hand, had a round face, like the full moon, or an egg. For the past ten years she had thought of Munis as an imbecile. Fa’iza had cultivated a friendship with her despite the fact that Munis was ten years her senior because she found in her a winsome sincerity and personal magnetism. A couple of years after their bonding as friends, Munis’s brother, Amir, entered the picture. Now, every time she paid Munis a visit, it was mostly in hopes of catching a glimpse of Amir Khan. If Munis had had a longer face, Fa’iza had speculated often, she would have been smart enough to arrange Fa’iza’s marriage to Amir Khan. Poor girl, Fa’iza thought to herself, why is her face so round?
Alia brought in the tea tray. As they sipped tea, Munis kept glancing at the radio. Although she was older and in her own house, she did not have the self-confidence to exert her will and turn the radio back on. “Is it bad out there?” she asked.
“It is utterly chaotic,” Fa’iza answered.
“Amir Khan warned me not leave the house. He said I might get my head cut off.”
“Well, he is right. Someone jumped on the trunk of my cab,” Fa’iza added.
Thinking that she should focus the conversation on her intended topic, she immediately asked “Have you seen Parveen lately?”
“I haven’t seen her in a month,” answered Munis.
“Well, why not?”
“The last time I saw her was when her child was sick with rubella. She told people to stay away to avoid spreading the virus.”
“Just as well you didn’t see more of her.”
Munis looked at her companion quizzically. Fa’iza waited for her to pick up the thread of the conversation, but the older woman remained silent, staring at the patterns on the rug. So Fa’iza had to continue.
“Never in my life have I seen such an indecent person,” Fa’i
za blurted.
Munis lifted her head and looked at her with eyes awash in surprise. “But why?” she asked in bewilderment.
Oh, God, I wish her face wasn’t so round, Faiza thought to herself.
“She’s mean and vicious,” she said venomously. “It is terrible to find this out about a person you have been friends with for fifteen years. She’s all pretense and not an ounce of sincerity in her.”
There was something close to fear in Munis’s eyes as she asked, “What has she done? Sued for divorce?”
“Oh no. What divorce?” Fa’iza hissed. “That is the last thing she’d do, that filth. My poor brother is wasted on her.”
Munis pursed her lips, completely absorbed. In her mind she was trying unsuccessfully to find a reason for such a view of Parveen. She had known the woman through Fa’iza at parties, funerals, and other such functions and had come to have a casual friendship with her. She’d never detected any serious flaws in her character.
Munis stared at Fa’iza, expecting an explanation. Fa’iza returned her gaze, her eyes turning red. Suddenly she began to cry. This evoked a sympathetic response in Munis who started sobbing uncontrollably. She had always had a tendency to cry at the sight of other people’s tears. She never knew why.
“Don’t cry,” Munis pleaded. “Oh, please don’t cry for God’s sake. What is the matter?”
Fa’iza was looking for a handkerchief, and not finding one dabbed her eyes with the corner of her chador, now fallen in a heap around her.
“Do you know how nice I was to her?” Fa’iza asked, not waiting for an answer. “She wouldn’t be so fortunate had it not been for me. It was just this past year when she had a row with my brother. It was her fault. The stupid woman packed up and ran to her mommy’s. No decent woman with a lick of sense would do such a thing. And who do you think patched things up between them? Poor me! I gave a dinner party that is still being talked about all over town. I went to the best meat market and tipped the butcher for extra-fine cuts of meat. I made eggplant stew with lamb and rice. And grilled chicken. What a grilled chicken! I marinated it in lemon juice and spices and spent a whole hour roasting it on an open fire in the courtyard. I made yogurt and spinach. Do you think it was easy to find tomatoes out of season? I went all the way to the farmer’s market to get them. I had Colonel Sarvbala’s orderly get enough vodka for Parveen’s father to drink all night.”
As if to keep down the bitterness welling up inside her, Fa’iza pressed her lips together. Munis was looking at Fa’iza, her eyes bulging. “Then what?” she asked.
“What do you think? It was like another wedding.” Fa’iza said with a shrug of her shoulders. “My brother took her back. Then two months later she supposedly wanted to reciprocate, but actually the bitch wanted to outdo me and make me look bad. She gave a dinner party serving a European menu. She threw a few pieces of shoe leather on a china plate calling them steaks, like we are peasants, like we have no taste. I knew right away that she wanted to antagonize me. All right, I said to myself, you want war, I’ll show you war!”
“She never told me she was at war with anyone,” Munis muttered , trying not to sound defiant.
“What do you think she could say?” Fa’iza retorted. “Could she say she was trying to upstage me? All these years those who have tasted my cooking have had nothing but compliments. How could this upstart go around challenging me? She is just malicious by nature.”
“I see,” Munis said resignedly.
“Well,” Fa’iza continued, “I went and got myself a cookbook. If I can make the rice and lamb dish the way I do, I can make steaks out of a rubber mat. I learned all about it.”
“I’m sure,” said Munis in confirmation. “It is not a big deal. There is a cooking show on the radio every morning. It makes it sound so simple.”
“That is exactly what I was trying to prove. So I gave another dinner party,” Fa’iza said with a touch of self-satisfaction.
“When was that?” Munis asked.
“Just about a month ago,” Fa’iza replied. “I invited the same group to dinner with a European menu. I went to the meat market and tipped the butcher five tomans for eight prime-cut filets. I bought green beans. I bought snow peas. I bought tomatoes and small potatoes. I mixed rice with beans for the salad. I also made yogurt and spinach. The sauce I made for the filets was delicious. From the fruit stalls downtown I bought the largest peaches and nectarines, as well as sweet and sour cherries. I asked Colonel Sarvbala’s orderly to get me the best vodka again. I poured it into a decanter. I put some ice in Grandma’s crystal fruit bowl and put the decanter in the middle of it.”
Munis was fascinated, staring at Fa’iza admiringly. “Why did you do that?” she wanted to know.
“To keep the vodka chilled,” Fa’iza replied triumphantly.
“Wow!”
“I wish you were there to see.”
“Why didn’t you invite me?”
“Well, Amir Khan was in Shiraz and you couldn’t get back home alone late at night.”
“I see,” said Munis, somewhat crestfallen.
“What can I say, they just ate and ate and gave me compliment after compliment. The little bitch was bursting with jealousy. She’d turned red like a slice of beet.”
“You mean Parveen?” Munis asked, somewhat perplexed.
“Of course. Who else?” answered Fa’iza. “You know what she did then?” Not waiting for an answer, Fa’iza continued, “Without warning she turned to me and said ‘Foozy dear’—giving me a nickname, ‘Foozy,’ as if she couldn’t bring herself to call me by my full name—‘Foozy dear, let me tell you something. You don’t put sauce on filet mignon.’ She said it so loud the whole neighborhood could hear.”
“Really!”
“You can’t guess how that made me feel. ‘Who says you don’t put sauce on filet mignon?’ I asked. She said she’d heard it on the radio. I said I have read the instruction in a book. She said she’d also read it in a book. I said the book she read must have been garbage. At this point my brother intervened and said with or without sauce it was just delicious. The little woman blew up like a balloon because my brother had taken my side, and she continued to sulk through dinner.”
By now Munis was so engrossed in the account that Fa’iza felt she had to add a few more embellishments to her narrative.
“She acted uptight until the men went on the balcony,” Fa’iza went on. “She stayed behind supposedly to help me clear the table.”
Fa’iza went silent, her lips pressed tight and tears streaming down her cheeks, as if in anticipation of the enormity of what she was about to relate.
“Oh, God. Please don’t cry,” Munis implored, her tears flowing.
“Then,” Fa’iza went on, “the bitch turned to me and said ‘A woman who messes around with Fetty in the hall should think more of protecting her virginity curtain than throwing dinner parties.’” By now tears were streaming down Fa’iza’s face to her lap. Munis, equally tearful, asked, “Who is Fetty?”
“That son-of-a-bitch, her brother,” Fa’iza answered. “He looks like shit, like a overflowing toilet. I was outraged. I thought of slapping her so hard to burst her eardrums, something she’d never forget. But for better or worse my brother was nearby and I thought better of it. But if she was taunting me, I’d taunt her back. ‘First of all,’ I told her, ‘only the Angel of Death would mess around with your brother. The way he looks only the Angel of Death would be interested in him. Secondly, virginity is not a curtain; it’s an orifice, and you wouldn’t know the difference after three kids. And you go around talking behind people’s back.’”
Munis had ceased crying. With her mouth open, she was staring at Fa’iza, who continued to talk after a short pause. “I told her if she opened her filthy mouth once again and talked like she did I’d teach her a lesson she’d remember for life. Good thing she is afraid of my brother, who was nearby. So she shut her trap.”
Without a word, Munis stared at the floral pa
tterns on the carpet. Fa’iza, as she dried her eyes, intently watched the expression on her face.
“I know she is a snake,” Fa’iza said, “and won’t let go until she injects her venom. Now she is going around badmouthing me. But I don’t care. My conscience is clear. I was so incensed I wanted to get a virginity certificate from the midwife and frame it on the wall for all to see.”
Munis continued to stare at the rug.
“According to my mother,” Munis said softly, “the hymen is a membrane that can rip open, even if a girl falls from a height.”
“What talk is that?” Fa’iza said dismissively. “It’s an orifice. It is constricted and it will expand as a result of penetration.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Munis, the color draining from her face. Alarmed, Fa’iza asked, “Something’s the matter?”
“No, no, it’s nothing. But it must be a membrane,” Munis insisted.
“No, dear woman,” Fa’iza said emphatically. “I have read it in a book. I read a lot, you know. It is an orifice.”
Carrying a fruit tray, Alia entered the room, followed almost immediately by Amir Khan. Fa’iza acknowledged him demurely. The squarely built man made himself comfortable in an armchair in the corner of the room as he greeted the women.
“It is really crazy out there,” he said. “Don’t plan on going out.”
He noticed the women’s red eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Munis.
Not satisfied with the answer, he asked more firmly, “I’m asking, what is the matter?”
“We were just having a girl talk,” said Fa’iza, trying to lighten the mood.
“Why are you crying?” He wanted to know.
“Well, we’re women, you know.”
This brought a faint smile to his lips.
Women Without Men Page 2