The Drum Tower

by Farnoosh Moshiri

  The rest of the day I heard their boots stamping on the tiled floors over my head. I heard their loud voices too, but couldn’t make out most of the words. Sometimes they chanted, “One party, Party of God—” in a rough, angry tone. The rice and meat sat on my desk for a long time and cold grease covered the dish. I didn’t have an appetite, but I reminded myself that hard work was awaiting me and I needed to be strong. I called Jangi to the door and sat with him and we shared the cold dish. I put pieces of meat in his wide, slobbering mouth and told him, “Slow down—don’t bite!” and he took the meat slowly, trying not to bite my fingers. It had been a long time since I had eaten with anyone. In Jangi’s company, the cold, greasy food tasted better. Now I let him inhale the rest of the rice and lick the dish. After lunch, Jangi didn’t leave me. He lay by the door, rested his chin on his paws and looked at me. I lay next to him on the floor and stroked his gray, prickly hair. He licked my hands in return and watched me with love in his eyes. Soon he fell asleep.

  All afternoon I lay next to the dog’s warm body and heard the Brothers walking upstairs, singing, even running. When dusk fell, Assad came down with two large burlap sacks, dropped them on the hallway floor next to where Jangi and I were lying down, and ordered me to get up.

  “Dogs are filthy,” he said. “Never sleep next to the dog again. Now get up and sort these sacks. These are all that was left in the closets upstairs. They’re old clothes and knickknacks of God knows which fucking aunt, uncle, or ancestor. See if you can find anything valuable. Gold buttons, dress pins, jewelry, or money in the pockets or purses.” He paused and when he talked again his voice was different. He was excited and worried at the same time. “Tonight is the biggest night of the revolution. The main event is about to happen.” He hesitated for a second and said, “Pray for me to stay alive, Talkhoon, because there might be a bloody battle.” His voice dropped and shook a little. “In case I don’t come back, break this clay bear and take all my savings for yourself.” He handed me a fat, heavy, clay bear. “When I was a little boy, Daaye brought me this from her village. I’ve put all my money in its fat belly since I was a child—occasional tips, New Year coins . . .”

  He said that under no circumstances should I let anyone take his savings. They belonged to me. Now he knelt beside me and murmured a prayer. His voice was sad, as if he was sorry for himself even before anything had happened. Finally he bent over me and kissed my forehead.

  “Bitter herb, baby girl, forgive me for being rough to you sometimes. Forgive me for everything, Talkhoon!” Now he got up and limped away to hide his tears. Using Grandpa Vazir’s ivory cane, he passed the courtyard and climbed the steps.

  I sat for a long moment with the clay bear in my lap, trying hard to imagine myself free in this world, without Assad hunting me. I fantasized his death. I could travel with his money. I could go to the four corners of the country—to the sea, the mountains, desert and forest. I would carry Baba-Ji’s book in a secret purse sewn inside my shirt and I’d take it out only on the day that better people wanted to publish it. In this way, I saw myself as a solitary traveler of remote lands, shielded with my grandfather’s book, secure with dead Assad’s money. I saw myself as someone who didn’t need friends, family, or even a dog. I’d be self-contained, invulnerable, free, and almost invisible.

  I imagined myself strolling on long streets, whistling.

  But the dog woke up, yawned, and pulled me out of my daydream. Assad was not going to die tonight. If he were, I’d feel it in my guts. A vague joy would tickle me. No, I had to get up, go to the garden, and cut the vines and the thick ivy. I had to open that gate with my own bloody hands.

  The Visit

  Before long my hands bled. Cutting tough branches was more difficult than I’d thought. After a few minutes, blood bubbled from the old stitch wounds in my palms. I needed gloves. I returned to my room, angry and disappointed, afraid I’d get an infection. I washed my hands, poured plenty of Mercurochrome on them and wrapped them with gauze.

  It was dusk now, the air outside was blue-gray and black clouds promised rain or snow. I heard distant shots from the streets, explosions, and people’s shouts. The big event was happening. What was my father doing? Was he there too? Was this the same revolution he was anticipating?

  I noticed the burlap sacks in the corridor and began to sort the clothes. I didn’t look for gold buttons or money for Assad, but for a pair of gloves. With two fingers I fished out strange things—old, long-forgotten objects: a green, silk scarf with a flowery design, now wrinkled and pale, smelling faintly of violet perfume; a brown felt hat shaped like a salad bowl, with two black feathers sticking out, one broken and hanging loose; a little sequined velvet purse, nothing inside; a leather wallet, beaten and old, containing a yellowed invitation card: “Peace Concert: June 14, 1942. Open air Concert in the National Garden, celebrating the Tehran Conference. Guests of Honor President Roosevelt, Prime Minister Churchill and Secretary Stalin will sign the historic peace document. Entry only with invitation cards.” I found an old calendar with someone’s small, shaky handwriting noting certain dates with red ink: “Negaar’s birthday—”

  At last, I found a pair of black velvet gloves—soiree gloves. Long, and not very old. They covered my burning hands and came up to my elbows. This will do, I thought. I also found Taara’s turquoise dress, the one she wore last year when the General and his son came to propose. It was all wrinkled. I brought it close to my face and smelled the warm, tropical perfume. This was the scent that drove the father and son crazy that evening. I found a deep blue taffeta evening gown and I decided this belonged to my mother. It wasn’t old-fashioned enough to be Negaar’s and I was sure it wasn’t Taara’s. It belonged to a slim woman with a narrow waist. Soraya.

  In haste, I went through the rest of the clothes. I was surprised to find Khanum-Jaan’s golden, strapped slippers. Why had she left them behind? I picked them up to see if she’d really hammered nails into the heels. She hadn’t. The short heels were made of iron. I smiled and kept the slippers for myself.

  I didn’t check for gold buttons or money, but I found a white wig and put it on. Now I put on the blue gown—it fit me well, but swept the floor. I wore the golden strapped slippers too. With this strange costume I lay on the bed thinking about all the women who’d occupied this house and had not even remained as names. Forgotten ghosts. Soon, I fell asleep.

  Assad didn’t show up that night. I woke up early in the morning and heard the rain hitting the windows. I climbed a chair, pressed my face against a windowpane, and cupped my hands around my face to see if the parrot was still on the wall. She was. She’d die in the rain. I ran out in the wet, blue air. There was no way to unchain the parrot, so I lifted the loose brick and brought the bird inside. I dried its wet, broken feathers and for the first time held her in my hands. A small heart beat inside that green, fragile body. I set her and the brick on my desk next to Khanum-Jaan’s black marble box. She shook herself once or twice and began biting on the box. Now I took off my carnival costume, put my work clothes on, and went to the garden with the other knife, the sharper one.

  I cut the vines under the cold drizzle for a long time, until the rain turned to snow and the velvet gloves tore. Then I went back to my room, exhausted but happy. I had cleared one third of the gate. The cedar wood showed now. I ran up to get something to eat before the Brothers came back from their war. I found some stale bread, a jar of olives, and one wrinkled cucumber in the refrigerator. I ate them with Jangi, sat and contemplated my new project. My head was strangely calm and I had a determination I’d never had before. Everything seemed possible. If the gate existed, I would open it.

  The next project was to make a purse the size of Baba’s manuscript with four straps attached, so that I could wear it on my chest. If I wore a loose fitting shirt over the purse no one would notice I was carrying something. I had no problem finding the right material. I picked Soraya’s blue taffeta gown and cut off the beaded front. For the back,
I used Taara’s turquoise dress. The purse would be the color of the Simorgh’s tail feather and it would be beaded too. This was nicer than I’d imagined. Didn’t Baba-Ji and his bird deserve this luxury?

  When I sewed, Boor-boor stared at me with her one eye and nibbled on Khanum-Jaan’s marble box. “Eat the box, birdy,” I told her. “I don’t have time to find sunflower seeds for you now.”

  It took me the whole morning to make the purse. Since my Catholic School sewing classes, I hadn’t held a needle in my hand. But soon the old skill came back to me and I stitched hard and fast, like a seamstress in a sweatshop. When the purse and its straps were ready, I slipped the manuscript inside and tied it on my chest. After making sure I’d done a good job, I hid my product in the closet.

  The Brothers didn’t show up in the afternoon either, and I thought I shouldn’t waste the time. I should go to my gate.

  By evening, half of the gate was unveiled.

  Early in the evening I cleaned myself up and sat on the bed looking out the window. My burning palms, red from the Mercurochrome, rested on my lap. I was hungry again and didn’t have anything to eat except three olives, but I couldn’t go upstairs because I was afraid the Brothers would arrive. When it was dark and I couldn’t see outside anymore, someone tapped on the door. I opened it a crack and saw a tall man in khaki, a bandana covering half of his face. I knew those eyes. For a long moment I stared at him, trying to remember. He pulled the bandana down and said, “Talkhoon, don’t you remember me?”

  “Vafa?”

  “Himself!”

  “How did you get in? Are you a Revolutionary Guard too?”

  “No. This is a disguise. I tricked the guards at the gate. Let me come in.”

  “Come in. But Assad will show up any minute.”

  “So he’s occupied our house—”

  “He’s turned Drum Tower into a headquarters.”

  “You mean he’s become a Revolutionary Guard?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why are you still here, then?”

  “Khanum-Jaan has given me to Assad.”

  “What?”

  “She’d always had doubts about me. Apparently Grandpa Vazir in the last seance session assured her that I’m not—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This was around the time when Baba-Ji—”

  “I came here once, with my wife. Doctor Shafa and Kia insisted I should apologize. How stupid I was to listen to them. Were you here that night?”

  “I was looking at you from my window upstairs.”

  “Why didn’t you come down to talk to me? Did you come to my wedding?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “No. I didn’t see you.”

  “I guess no one saw me in those days. I was invisible.”

  “You can’t stay here with this man.”

  “Where can I go?”

  “I’ve heard that Taara has gone. Do you know where she is? Can you join her?”

  “No.”

  “Zahra and I change places all the time. She is pregnant. We have to find a new hiding place. That’s why I came here.” He paused and said, “Last night we lost the revolution. I don’t see any chance for our organization, or any civilized organization, to be able to play a role in this country. Suddenly an Ayatollah fell from the sky to run the country.”

  “But I thought you believed in a religious government.”

  “Not run by the mullahs! The teachings of Islam must be adapted to a modern society, in a government that is formed by the representatives of the people. Freedom, democracy, and justice are our first slogans. Haven’t you read any of Doctor Soulati’s books? How can a bunch of ignorant clergy run the country, huh?”

  “So, they won last night?”

  “They won. They shipped the old man in from Paris.”

  “Assad is alive then.”

  “There is going to be a big purge.”

  “And they’re going to arrest you?”

  “Us and the leftists. But don’t worry about your father—the commies are supporting the Ayatollah.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes. That’s probably what Moscow dictates. Listen—I came here to hide.”

  “You know that the house is occupied.”

  “I was thinking about the tower.”

  “I wouldn’t do this, Vafa.”

  “Just for one night. I sent my wife to her aunt’s. I’m hoping her family will find us a place somewhere out of Tehran.”

  “Where in the tower do you want to hide?”

  “In the hollow space, where we left cinnamon sticks for the Simorgh.”

  “You remember?”

  “Oh, yes. How can I ever forget my crazy childhood? Is Baba still sleeping?”

  “Still.”

  “Is Assad taking care of him?”

  “He wants to take him to a hospital.”

  “That’s the best for him, Talkhoon.”

  In the dark room we sat on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. The vague shadow of the broken wall and beyond that, the gray tower, blended into the black night. Boor-boor chewed on Khanum-Jaan’s marble box with a steady crunching sound.

  “Vafa, I can’t believe all this. It was only yesterday that we sat under the dryandra tree and Taara played her setar to call the bird.”

  “Baba’s idealism drove us all insane. We’re all insane.”

  “Vafa!”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t sit here anymore. Go. He’s coming.”

  “Does he come down here to your room?”

  “He does.”

  “Does he . . . bother you?”

  I didn’t answer. He sighed and held my hand. He felt the gauze, removed it and brought my hand close to his eyes. “What have you done to yourself?”

  “He wants me to remain a virgin. He wants to marry me. Now go, Vafa.”

  In silence he put the gauze back on my hand and held it in his palms like a broken china plate badly glued together. After a long moment he said, “Did you know how much I hated my mother? Even as a child. All that’s happening to us is her doing.”

  “You’re sitting here blaming Baba and Khanum for everything. Go and try to save yourself and your wife.”

  “I’m done for, Talkhoon. They’ll kill me.”

  “Go, Vafa, go!”

  “My mother and her rotten, bankrupt aristocracy! Rotten and stinking to the core. This disaster happened in our country as the result of centuries of rotten-to-the-bone monarchy. And now that we have a republic, look! They send us an Ayatollah to run it! As if we people are a bunch of imbeciles, needing either a Shah or an Ayatollah.”

  “Go, Vafa, go! You’re raising your voice!”

  “And leave you here like this? To become Assad’s wife?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve come here to save me. You’ve come to hide in the tower and I’m telling you that’s the worst place.”

  “You’re angry with me, Talkhoon. You think I abandoned you.”

  “You were only seventeen when you left. I don’t blame you. You had to save yourself from Drum Tower.”

  “From Baba’s book.”

  “And Khanum’s ghosts.”

  He was silent for a while, then he said, “It’s not that I wasn’t thinking about you. I thought you were safe. How would I have known?”

  “Go now. He’ll arrest you. He never liked you, remember?”

  “I remember. Of the three of us, Assad was closest to Sina. He resented me, and was afraid of Kia. Kia was gone, and when he came back he was an intimidating bastard.”

  “He must be hiding too.”

  “Oh, he and his kind are the main target now. The mullahs are putting the monarchists against the wall. They put this woman minister in a burlap sack—a potato sack—and executed her.”

  “Go, Vafa, please!”

  “Talkhoon, I’ll find a place. I’ll come back and get you. You can live with us. Then we’ll see what happens. Mayb
e the tide will turn.”

  “Go now!”

  We embraced quickly, then he wrapped the bandana around his face and left.

  For a while I sat motionless in the dark, holding my palms up. A cold wind blew in my head, blurred my mind and confused me. Where was Vafa? Did I imagine this visit?

  Grandpa Vazir’s Son

  When I heard his footsteps I rushed to the closet, but something told me I shouldn’t go inside. Baba-Ji’s book and the knives were there; if he pulled me out, he’d see them. So I took out the shorter knife and hid it under my arm. The thick handle was inside my armpit, the sharp tip tickled my waist. Then I sat on the bed, leaned against the wall and watched Boor-boor. She had seriously damaged Khanum-Jaan’s marble box and was still eating.

  The knife’s blade warmed against my body and my heart pounded loudly.

  From the corner of my eye I saw him limping into the courtyard, carrying a fat paper bag. He stopped at Jangi’s cage, peaked in, and dropped some bread inside. So he wasn’t in a bad mood. But he looked disheveled. His khaki uniform was muddy and torn at the shoulders. When Jangi jumped up to reach the bag, he didn’t scold him. He dropped another piece of bread on the floor and came down the steps, shouting in the corridor.

  “I’m alive! Hey, girl, I’m back!” He took off his muddy boots at the door and entered. “You have to talk tonight. Enough is enough! You have to start talking to me. We won the revolution! Do you hear me? We won!”

  He put the paper bag on the floor, fished out a cardboard picture and rested it on the desk, next to Boor-boor. This was an old man in a black turban—an angry cleric with bushy tangled eyebrows. An old, bad-tempered mullah.

  “You took some interest in your parrot finally, huh? It’s a good sign. First the dog, then the parrot. Maybe now it’s my turn. Did you hear what I said earlier? We won! This is the picture of the Great Leader of the Holy Revolution: The Imam. We escorted him to his holy home today. He is a modest man. He lives in a regular house, not a palace. No more Shahs in this country, hear me? No more American servants. We have a holy leader now. And this will be a holy state. But the war is not over. We have to get rid of the monarchists, the infidels, and the satanic elements. Traitors like your Uncle Vafa who claim to be Moslems but hide underground like rats, and spies such as your father who pretend they support the Revolution, but are really the agents of the East.”