The Drum Tower

by Farnoosh Moshiri

  What was I doing when I was her age? I thought. Burning a barb from the Simorgh’s feather on the balcony of the tower, preparing her nest with cinnamon, organizing my grandfather’s card catalogue. We were not allowed to play in the street or to watch television, which contained a forbidden world.

  But now I roamed the streets and the winter sun tickled my cheeks. A group of swallows chased me, hovered over my head, and sat on the bare branches of an almond tree. Crows cried somewhere, telling the swallows that it was still winter, too early for games, and I listened to all this and felt an urge to whistle. Then I realized that I had better not—an old, respectable lady never whistled in the street.

  When I reached a main street, I saw people, thousands of them, gathering in a mass, moving slowly like the tides of thick water, an ocean with slow-moving waves. Men, women, and children held hands, held banners above their heads and waved flags. Smaller children sat on their fathers’ shoulders as if waiting for the amusement park to open. These people were quiet, just waving their flags in silence, waiting.

  There was no way not to join them, not to become a wavelet in this massive sea. In my old lady’s dress, I found myself among the people, and when the tide moved, I moved with it. Someone held my right hand. It was a woman. A second later, someone else reached for my left hand. It was a young man. My hands were as rough as an old woman’s—the stitches, scratches, and calluses had hardened them. The woman and the boy smiled at me. I smiled back.

  I’m not sure how long we slow-walked this way—hands tangled, a human chain, bodies moving in harmony, a monstrous sea. When we reached a large square, we saw a raised platform with a podium on top. Next to the podium was the statue of an old king on a horse. A group of men had tied a thick rope around the king’s neck and were pulling hard. The king and his horse toppled, still attached to each other. The sea roared. There were hurrahs, whistles, and the clapping of thousands of hands. Someone had a trumpet with him—he blew on the horn.

  A gray-haired man climbed the steps and stood behind the podium. I saw the sudden flashes of cameras and lights; there were clicks and murmurs. “The Secretary—the Secretary—Comrade Uncle—.” Before the old man began to speak, recorded music rose from the speakers installed in the trees. It was soft music. Some people around me wiped their tears and tried to chant, first hesitantly, then proudly. Now everyone sang and raised their fists. By the time the music came to an end, thousands of throats vibrated with the song’s words, “Arise, you prisoners of starvation! Arise, you wretched of the world!”

  Now the gray-haired man raised his fist and the crowd followed. They shouted, “Freedom!” I shouted, “Freedom!” They shouted, “Justice!” I shouted, “Justice!” But I couldn’t understand the speech. People constantly clapped or interrupted by repeating, “Freedom!” and “Justice!” until the man raised his hand to silence the crowd. He said a few sentences and again the uproar of the people rose to the sky.

  Time passed at a strange pace. The whole thing took only a second, but dusk had already fallen. This must be my father’s revolution, I thought. I looked around to find him.

  With darkness descending, shooting began. From the roofs of the buildings and the tops of the trees, from behind the parked cars, bullets flew. We all lay flat on the asphalt. My wig fell into the gutter. With my small bare head hidden under my arms, I stayed on the asphalt and heard children crying, people cursing and shouting. “The Party of Allah—,” my neighbor whispered. Then everyone rose up, scattered, and ran in different directions. I lost the woman and the young man who had held my hands. I ran with my grandmother’s slippers, hugging myself to keep the knapsack from hopping inside my blouse. I followed a group of people who turned into an alley. We were safe there and could walk peacefully in a group again. But this was one small rivulet separated from that massive ocean. My iron heels were broken. I said good-bye to Khanum-Jaan’s golden, strapped slippers, kicked them off and walked barefoot with the people. Soon they held my hands again.

  We walked along a narrow alley, uphill in the dark.

  I don’t know how long we walked, but all along the way people joined us. Students handed us leaflets, women gave us candles and flowers, and by the time we reached the cemetery, I was holding a candle in one hand, a few stems of red roses in the other, and a stack of leaflets under my arm.

  We lay the candles and flowers on the ground, and for the first time I noticed the graves. I’d never been in a cemetery before, and now I saw flat stones raised above the earth, around which were wreaths of flowers and large pictures of men and women. This was the Cemetery of the Martyrs of the Revolutions—the present revolution and the past, failed ones. Women opened boxes of cookies and passed them around, and everyone sang uplifting anthems. Although I didn’t know a soul and had never known any of the martyrs of any of the revolutions, and couldn’t even sing their anthems, tears filled my eyes. I cried for my own lost ones—Baba-Ji who slept an endless sleep; my mother who was only a scent; my father, a voice trapped in a closet; Vafa, my playmate; and Taara, whom I missed immensely.

  I sat on the unpaved ground by a grave and wept as if the martyr lying under the earth was my own brother. I’d had a very long day, I hadn’t eaten and my head was filled with wind.

  Now the same gray-haired man whose speech had been interrupted by the shootings earlier spoke in a calm voice, without a microphone. Someone told his friend, “Can you imagine? Spending twenty-five years of his life in the Shah’s prison? They just released him a few days ago.” I noticed that some people called him Comrade, some Uncle, and some Comrade Uncle. They all gathered around him, just to be able to see him. I was outside the circle, but could smell the prison cell on his sweaty shirt. His voice was shaky, unused and rusty.

  When the crowd headed toward town, I walked back with them. Everyone was more relaxed now, chatting two by two, discussing the day’s events. I walked alone, avoiding conversation. Instead of wearing a pair of pants and a T-shirt like most of the students, I had on Khanum-Jaan’s silk blouse and her long, black skirt. I was barefoot and my short hair was shabby. Embarrassed, I bent my head and looked at the ground.

  But this quiet march didn’t last long. First we heard a groaning sound, then the hubbub of the crowd. Sensing something ominous, babies burst into tears. When the narrow alley opened onto a wide street, we saw the tanks approaching. Their metal bodies were muddy and they crawled toward us like legless animals, seemingly intent on rolling over us. But then they stopped, blocking the way. We all stopped and the tanks, like living monsters, stared at us. Parents took their children off their shoulders and held them tightly in their arms. We waited. The city lights twinkled in the distance and a cold breeze brought the smell of the cemetery’s fresh earth down the alley. I inhaled the scent of the graves, thinking that the martyrs of the past revolutions were telling us that it was our turn and we’d soon join them under the earth. Death looked us in the face with the rusty eyes of the mud-covered monsters.

  Someone from inside the nearest tank said something in a muffled voice and then I heard the crack of a single bullet break the silence. People lay face down on the asphalt. I lay down too. A little girl cried next to me. Then we heard more bullets. The lids of the tanks opened and black flags popped out. On the flags was written “The Party of Allah!” Now there were more bullets and we all hid our heads under our arms. I heard screams, shrieks of pain, and hoarse voices shouting, “Stop! We’re not armed; we have children with us, you fascist bastards!”

  When we heard the tanks groaning again, moving back toward town, we cautiously raised our heads and stood up. People fell into each other’s arms and cried. Some ran to the wounded or the dead. Children screamed and called their mothers. Men shouted, “Call an ambulance! An ambulance!” But I wasn’t brave enough to stay and see the blood. I walked to the other side of the square where the National Bank’s round clock showed nine and sat on a bench. There was something missing in the middle of the circular flowerbed—a statue, anot
her king on a horse.

  I realized that I’d been here before; this was the train station. I looked to my right, saw the wide steps of the station, and felt secure. Staying out in the dark night was dangerous and the air was getting colder by the minute. If I spent the night inside, the next day I could join the revolution again. It wouldn’t be hard to find Uncle and his people. I had a feeling that these were my father’s friends, and if I stayed with them I’d soon find him.

  Mother in the Water Storage

  I was only one step away from the glass door of the train station, when two men grabbed me from behind and forced me down the steps. I kicked and screamed, but they covered my mouth, pushed me into the back of a van, and closed the door with a bang. It was pitch dark inside, but someone struck a match and held it up in front of my face. It was Assad. He smiled that old, slimy smile and showed his yellow teeth. He was sober and a bit crazy, like old times.

  “Did I scare you?” He tapped on the window that separated the driver’s part and yelled at his friends, “Go!”

  The van took off. Through the dark gray windows I saw the city’s glittering lights, faded and blurred, as if belonging to another world. Smoke rose from burning tires—the remains of the riots.

  “Well, well, well!” He sighed. “I found you again, and where? At the train station! You know, Talkhoon, sometimes I’ve had doubts about your insanity, but tonight all my doubts are removed. You are crazy, and crazy as hell! If you had common sense, you’d never go to that fucking train station again. Didn’t I catch you here the first time? You could’ve gone somewhere else and I’d never have been able to find you. You’re a lunatic, Talkhoon. Mad!” With his large knuckles he knocked my head so hard it hurt.

  The van made a turn and pulled inside Drum Tower, now guarded by several Brothers, like a barracks.

  “How did you pass through the guards? Huh? I arrested all of them. These are new ones. The ones who let you out will rot in jail.”

  He jumped down holding his arm out to help me. “Come on. Let me take you to your room. Now my men know everything. They all know you live down here. I told them we were engaged. You understand? I told the Brothers that we’ll soon get married. These people are religious, they can’t digest seeing me messing with an unmarried girl. So we’re engaged. Remember! Now come down!” He pulled my hand. I screamed and crawled back into the depth of the van, as if it were a safer place.

  “Don’t act crazy in front of my men.” He lowered his voice and said this from between his clenched teeth. “Don’t make me beat you up here. Come down, I said.” He crawled into the van and pulled me out. The Brothers were around us, but pretended nothing was happening. It was a family scene and they didn’t interfere.

  Assad pulled me out and I screamed, trying to bite him and run away. He held me like a crazy monkey on his shoulder and I was afraid that he’d feel the hardness of the manuscript on my chest. I wriggled, kicked his belly and punched his back. He headed toward the courtyard. In the basement he dumped me on the bed, but I bounced up like an elastic ball and ran toward the door. He limped toward me and grabbed my shirt collar, ripping Grandmother’s silk shirt and revealing the straps of the knapsack. But in his anger he didn’t notice them. Holding my chest to secure the manuscript, I ran. He caught me in the corridor. I kicked him and screamed, calling my mother out of blind instinct.

  “Help! Mother, help!”

  “You want to see your mother, huh?” he said from between his teeth. “Are you sure you want to see your mother?” He asked again. “Come! Let me show you where she is. I’ll take you there. She’s where my mother is!” He prodded me toward the courtyard.

  “This way!” He pushed me to the other side of the pool where the water storage was. “She is right here. Let me take you down to see her! Go on down! Your mother is here. Go and see for yourself!” He prodded me with his hand and followed me down the tall stone steps. Now he took a big key ring out of his pocket, selected a key and opened the old iron door with an annoying squeak. I thought he was going to lock me in and I screamed.

  “Didn’t you call your mother? She’s here! It’s my fault that you didn’t know this before. All these years I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want to shock you, I didn’t want you to become crazier than you were. I didn’t tell you because I cared for you. Look now!” He struck a match and in the dim light showed me an empty pool at the bottom of the steps. It was a small, square hole, deep as a well. I’d heard that water was stored here in olden times. Taara and I had always been scared of this place. The smell of mud, rot, and mildew turned my stomach. Assad struck another match.

  “Do you see? Look closer. By the pool! Do you see the bones? Look at that white piece of cloth. It’s not white anymore; it’s gray now. That’s her dress. It used to be her dress. Her skull must be somewhere near.”

  I didn’t see bones, white cloth, or a skull, but I screamed from the bottom of my lungs. He pressed his wide hand against my mouth. “Shut up! You scream one more time and I’ll spank your little ass. The brothers know that you’re crazy, but I don’t want them to think I torture you. So no more screaming!” He kept his hand on my mouth and I kicked him with my sharp, bony knee. I hit him below his belly where his tattooed bird lived. He let go of me and bent forward as if he’d been shot. His bad leg gave way and he fell down the stone steps. I ran up to the garden and toward the tower. Anywhere but my room! I knew he was hurt, because it took him a long time to reach me. I was already on top of the tower when I heard him calling me from the bottom.

  “Talkhoon!” His voice was desperate. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m an idiot, okay? I know I frightened you. We have to sit down and talk about your mother. I was mad at you, because you left me again. Because you keep running away from me. Talkhoon, you know what the problem is?” He paused. “You hear me? The problem is that I care for you more than anyone in this world. Think about it for a second. Who else cares for you?” He paused, letting me think. “Name one person in the whole world.” He paused again. “No one. You’re all alone. Except for me. I want to take care of you!”

  I stood on the balcony of the tower, looking at the night sky. The smell of burnt rubber filled my nostrils. Somewhere in the west, greasy smoke curled up and formed a black cloud. A cold breeze from the north removed the odor of burning rubber and spread the scent of fresh earth. I remembered my day—the people, the banners, the cemetery, the candles, the songs, the bullets, the screams of children, and the smell of earth and blood.

  I heard him climbing the steps, panting and cursing under his breath. Any other day, I’d have thrown myself off the tower, taking care not to fall on top of the tree again. But now I couldn’t. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to go on. I wanted to see things. I was burning with a thirst to be where things happened.

  At last he reached me, encircled me with his arms and put his head on my back. He wept for a while and mumbled sweet things, “My bitter herb—my baby girl. How many times did I change your wet diapers?” He sniffled. “After she died—after she drowned herself in that smelly pool—I rocked you on my chest. You were a motherless child and I loved your mother. She went and killed herself and I witnessed it. Why was I the only one in this damned house who saw it? Because I was around her all the time. I was her shadow, Talkhoon. I always followed her.”

  He pushed me down on the floor of the tower, sat me next to him, and curled his arm around me. My knees were weak and I couldn’t resist. He sniffled and said, “I saw her—oh, I wish I had something to drink now. I’m so fucking thirsty.

  “When she plucked star jasmines and put them between her breasts, inside her laced bra, I saw her. She didn’t know I was watching. First she smelled the tiny blossoms one by one, then squeezed them between her breasts. When she strolled in the garden these little white flowers fell from inside her dress, as if she was a fairy raining star jasmines. I picked up the warm blossoms and kept them in my shirt pocket all day.

  “You don’t need to hear all this, b
ut I just want you to know, wherever she was, I was there—at the pool when she lay in the sun, half naked, her dark skin getting even darker, or on her bed, the door wide open, lying lazily reading a book, then falling asleep. I saw her legs when her skirt hiked up and her thighs showed. She stretched her long, tanned legs and I watched her, memorizing her lines, to be able to dream about her at night.

  “It was around this time that I tattooed the Simorgh on my body. Maybe I thought Baba-Ji’s bird would bring me good luck. No, I didn’t have any hope of ever possessing her. She was in love with your father. Khanum weaves nonsense when she says Soraya was loose. The witch lies and lies, then believes it’s the truth. Soraya wasn’t unfaithful. Ask me! I know the truth! I’d seen them together. I’d eavesdropped. I’d peaked through the crack of the door. They were in love. Have you seen that tapestry of Leili and Majnoon on the wall of the Tea Room? Your parents were more in love than the fairy tale lovers.

  “Then she went and killed herself—just like that.” He snapped his fingers and paused. “The voices in her head . . . Everybody knew she heard voices—” Assad sighed and the winds gathered in my head.

  “I was spying on her that night when she went to the water storage—all the way down the steps and inside the dark, stagnant pool. That was the worst kind of death. A fairy should kill herself in the clear water of a spring, not in that poisonous water. But I just stood there, behind the trees, watching. I knew—I mean I sensed what her intention was—but I didn’t move to save her. Now you’re going to hate me, Talkhoon, even more than you do now. But I can’t explain this. Why didn’t I run down and pull her out? Why? I’ve asked myself a million times.