The Drum Tower

by Farnoosh Moshiri

  “The next day, they began to search for her and I searched with everyone else. Khanum said since she was a loose woman, something had happened to her in the streets where she walked all night. After a few months, I spread the rumor that she was in Bandar—she’d become the Big Sheikh’s wife. I wanted to end the gossip, to shut Khanum’s and her sisters’ damn mouths. I said my friends had seen her in Bandar. They’re stupid, your grandmother and her ugly sisters. They believed me. They wove more stories and added to mine. They believed their own tales. At the Shah’s Coronation Ball, the Arab sheikh fell in love with her, they said. One said the Arab kidnapped her, the other said she went of her own will. Fantasies. They cooked them. I added salt and pepper.

  “Sina stayed for a while, a few months, in the hope that she’d return. We drank together every night, Sina and I. In the rose arbor we cried. We grew very close to each other. Then he left. I knew he didn’t believe the Sheikh story. I don’t know what he believed. He never talked much. He scribbled poems on small pieces of cigarette paper and read them for me. I didn’t quite get them, but they brought tears to my eyes. When he left, Khanum said he left because of his wife; he went crazy, became Majnoon of the deserts. But this was not the whole truth. Sina was involved with the leftists. Even then he was doing underground work—in a radio station or something. But I kept his secret because I liked him. I liked your father because Soraya loved him. I saw the world through her eyes.”

  Assad sighed, then continued. “Years passed. I never removed her body. The contaminated storage was a problem now. Mosquitoes for one thing, and snakes. All the neighbors who had water storages had emptied them and filled them with cement. It was three or four years after Soraya’s death when Khanum talked about emptying the pool. I was scared. It was stupid, but I was frightened, as if I had killed her. I thought if they pulled her corpse out, they’d accuse me of murder and I’d spend the rest of my life in prison. How can I explain this? I felt I’d killed her. I believed it, and suffered from guilt and remorse. So, one night, before the workers came to pump out the water, I pulled her out. Don’t ask me how—I couldn’t explain this to you even if I wanted to. It wasn’t her anymore. I kept telling myself, this is not Soraya. I buried her. This is a damn big garden. I buried her near the tower, not far from Baba’s herb bed.

  “They pumped out the muddy water and found some bones at the bottom. They said they were the bones of people of past centuries—a miserable servant girl of one of the viziers, or a poor harem woman. Years passed. I never married.”

  Assad wiped his face with his bandana and tried to continue. Now that his arm was not on my shoulder, I slid back.

  “I saw her in you for the first time when you were thirteen. I saw Soraya in your face and growing body—in the lazy way you walked and the quiet way you did everything. When you lay on your side, studying, when you listened to your grandfather’s stories, your black eyes wide and shining. You were nothing like your sister who was rude and bossy, and spoiled like a pet. I said to myself, I’ve raised this girl; I’ll wait for her to grow ripe. She’ll be my Soraya. She’ll be mine.”

  There was silence for a while. Assad stayed in the depths of his past, reminiscing in his head. My brain pulsed and my guts sensed danger. He was going to marry me tonight. He was remembering all this and he was going to marry me.

  Now a huge explosion shook the city. It was so strong that I feared the tower would collapse. Assad jumped to his feet, hit himself on the head with both hands and said, “They killed my Imam! They blew up his holy house. The infidels!” He pulled my hand, ran with me down the steps, and said in delirium, “Stupid ass that I am. I should’ve been there, but I sent Mustafa instead. We knew something was going to happen tonight, but I didn’t go. All because of you, Talkhoon! You ruined me.”

  He took me to the basement, picked up his cane and machine gun and went to the door. “I don’t know what’s happened and I don’t have any idea when I’ll be back. But a guard will be behind this window all the time, watching you. And some are at the gate. So there is no way out. If you get hungry, tell the boy behind the window to buy you some food. Here, keep this money for food. Don’t break the clay bear before I die.” He threw a bank note on the bed and rushed out.

  Two Letters

  A short while after Assad left, the lights went out and my room sank into darkness. A young man came down to the courtyard and sat on a chair, his back to my window. I lay on my bed, breathing calmly, relieved that Assad was gone. I didn’t want to think about his story—true or not. I still liked the old tale, the one I’d been raised with: Once upon a time, there was a sheikh who fell in love with the beautiful Soraya at the Shah’s coronation ball. He kidnapped her and took her to his castle in Bandar; he made her the flower of his harem and she was happy to be loved. I had lived so long with this fairy tale that I was not able to replace it with another one.

  The next morning I opened my eyes to the hoarse voice of an adolescent boy repeating, “One party, party of God! One party, party of God!” Boor-boor was on the half wall, one of her legs tied to a loose brick. The guard—a boy of thirteen or fourteen—with shaven head and a machine gun on his shoulder, sat on Grandmother’s folding chair, facing the parrot. He was teaching her to say, “One party, party of God!” and repeated this so many times that Jangi came out of his doghouse and barked at him.

  I rolled over on my side. I felt heavy. I’d slept with Baba-Ji’s manuscript strapped to my chest under Khanum-Jaan’s torn silk shirt. My stomach burned. I tried to remember my last meal. It was the night before, when Assad had read Khanum’s letters. I sat up and glanced at my desk. The will was not there. The half-eaten picture of the old Ayatollah lay against the wall—the turban and frown gone. What if the Leader was dead? What if he had been killed in the explosion? I picked up the bank note and looked at it. It still had the Shah’s picture, but someone had drawn two sharp horns on top of the monarch’s head. Now I looked at Assad’s clay bear. It was still sitting on the desk, but at the far end of it, on the verge of falling.

  If the courtyard were not guarded I’d take all this money and escape out the back gate. I would avoid the train station. I was mad at myself, not because I was crazy, but because I didn’t have experience. I lacked judgment and made rash decisions. I hadn’t seen anything in my life, hadn’t done anything. I even half-believed in ghosts! How could I know better? How could I know he’d find me in the train station again? I had to become wise.

  I could escape again. What if I sent the child-guard away? I wouldn’t starve, would I? I tapped on the window. The boy squatted on the floor, cupped his hands around his face, and tried to look inside. I’m not sure if he saw me, but he motioned with his hand, inviting me out.

  I changed into a shirt and a pair of pants and went up to the courtyard.

  “Listen—I’m hungry.”

  “So?”

  “Brother Sheeri said you’ll buy me some lunch.”

  “I can’t leave my post,” he said.

  “You disobey your boss?”

  “He’s not my boss. We don’t have bosses anymore—he is the head of the Committee.”

  “What committee?”

  “The Revolutionary Committee Number One. Our mosque opened the first committee in the city. Other mosques are following our example.”

  “I’m hungry! Take this money and buy me some bread and cheese. Please! I haven’t eaten for two days.”

  “I said I can’t leave this place.”

  “I’ll report you to Brother Sheeri!”

  “He’ll praise me for not listening to a crazy girl like you. And you’re a dirty aristocrat too.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I wonder why Brother Sheeri wants to marry you.”

  “If I’m related to Brother Sheeri, then you have to respect me. You’re a rude boy.”

  “Don’t call me ‘boy,’ my name is Brother Hassan.” He lifted his gun, aiming at my chest. He was agitated; he could shoot me.

&
nbsp; “Okay, okay, put your gun down. I’ll wait for Brother Sheeri to come back. Then we’ll see.”

  I went back to my room, fell on the bed and wept.

  An hour later another boy came to the courtyard and handed Hassan a long barbari bread. I saw a bunch of green grapes and a big piece of feta cheese on top of the bread. The boy had a small paper bag full of sunflower seeds too; he emptied it in Boor-boor’s cage and left.

  Hassan sat on the folding chair to eat. Now he turned and glanced at my window. He ate some more and once in a while said to the parrot, “One party, Party of God!” He looked at my window again and finally tapped on the glass. I went out. He tore his bread and gave me half. With his dirty fingers he broke the big square of the feta cheese.

  “You want grapes?”

  “No. Just bread and cheese. Thank you.”

  I grabbed the food and ran toward my room.

  “You can stay here and eat in the fresh air, if you want.”

  I lingered.

  “Sit on the chair. I’ll sit on the floor.”

  I sat on the folding chair and ate. Each bite that rolled down my throat gave me immense pleasure. The mild winter sun tickled the right side of my face. My hands shook.

  “Your hands are shaking.”

  “I was sick.”

  “What sickness?”

  “Asthma.”

  “If you have such bad asthma, why did you run away? There is a war outside; they burn tires and set off dynamite.”

  “I’m sure you want to be in the streets and do all of these things.”

  “You’re right—that’s all I want.”

  “Then why don’t you go?”

  “My shift ends at five.”

  “All sorts of things are happening between now and five—explosions, everything.”

  “I know. These infidels blew up a mosque last night. Three leaders were killed.”

  “The Great Leader?”

  “Oh, no. Thank God. Not him. Three ayatollahs—very important ones. We’re going to wipe out these infidels.”

  “But you’re here all the time,” I said, chewing my cheese sandwich. Jangi sat at my feet and, like old times, begged for scraps. I threw a little piece of bread to him.

  “This is a nasty dog. Barks all the time,” Hassan said. “I almost shot him this morning.”

  “This is Brother Sheeri’s dog.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Brother Sheeri kept him since he was a little puppy.”

  “It’s good you told me. I was going to shoot him.”

  “You want to shoot real bad, huh?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Taara.”

  “What?’

  “Taara!”

  “You look like a boy. It’s like I’m talking to a boy.”

  “Why?”

  “Girls are different. They’re shy. They blush when they talk to a boy,” he said. “They’re pretty—”

  I laughed and enjoyed his comments, and this way we sat and chatted for a while. He asked me questions about the house and I told him horror stories—my great grandmother’s ghost roaming in a rusty wheelchair, bones and skulls at the bottom of the water storage, the hollow space on top of the tower where the Simorgh once landed and left one sapphire feather. I told him about my grandmother’s séances, ghosts turning the tables, talking and whining, flying and smearing tar on the walls and carpets. The more I said, the wider his eyes became, until he stopped me and said that I was lying. I said I was not. He made me swear on the Great Leader’s dear life. I did and he believed me. At the end, he was very friendly and showed me how to hold the machine gun. When I went back to my room, all I thought about was to find a way to send Hassan away and escape.

  Later that day, I was taking a nap when Hassan tapped on the window and woke me. When I went up he handed me a stack of letters.

  “Hey, the mail just came. I thought maybe you should hold it for Brother Sheeri.”

  “Thank you, Hassan.”

  “I’m leaving now. It’s five. Brother Morad has the next shift. Listen, I’m going to the Imam’s house. He’s speaking tonight. Poor Morad has to listen to the Imam’s sermon on the radio. ‘Bye.”

  He ran, his machine gun bumping against his back.

  I sat on my bed looking at the letters. There were several from the light, water, and telephone companies. The last ones were from Khanum-Jaan and Taara. With trembling hands I hid Taara’s letter inside my shirt, to postpone the joy or the grief. I opened Grandmother’s envelope. She still used a fountain pen and her small cursive danced shakily.

  Assad,

  This is my third letter to you. What has happened? Why don’t you bring me home? I can’t come to that part of the town by myself, and the phones are disconnected. Please, son, I’m waiting for you! I don’t want to die here away from home.

  I dreamed that poor Anvar had finally awakened and I was not with him. He woke up and went into the garden, all the way to the tower, to his dryandra tree; he sat under it and waited. Guess what he waited for? The Simorgh? No, son, no. He waited for Taara to come and play her setar, but she didn’t. Anvar sat and sat and sat. He cried and pulled his hair, but Taara didn’t come.

  Take me away from here. My eyes are terrible and I can’t go anywhere alone. My sisters are tormenting me with their stupidity—their tarot cards and ghost calls. I don’t believe in this nonsense anymore, Assad. I’m not writing to Papa anymore. Papa died forty-six years ago and his spirit died with him. I want to come home and burn all those silly letters I wrote him. But Anvar is alive and will wake up any moment. I know that. The thought that I’ve neglected him is tormenting me. Come and take me home, Assad. I’ve dreamed. . . .

  Khanum

  I read the letter several times and heard Grandmother’s voice in my head. Her worry for Baba made me uncomfortable. What if her dream was real and Baba woke up, saw all these guards, panicked, and died? But what if he was dying now? I paced my room. How could I see my grandfather, just for a few minutes, to make sure he was fed and sleeping sound and safe? There was no way to go upstairs. I could hear the Brothers stamping their boots above my head. There were many of them now and I was sure all three floors were full of bearded guards. I lay on the bed, thoughts and worries circling in my head, twisting and tangling with the wild winds. I caressed Taara’s letter, but didn’t dare open it. Postpone! Postpone her news!

  All afternoon the Leader’s sermon blasted through the small speakers of Morad’s transistor radio. “The West must go! The East must go! This is the government of God!” He sermonized angrily, with a villager’s accent. Late at night, Morad left with his radio and a third boy came with a gas lantern and a book. It was blackout again. I lit a candle and opened Taara’s envelope.

  Through the Ash Trees: A Letter to Talkhoon

  Talkhoon,

  At last I’m writing to you, on this bus, on this shady road, and I’ll mail it at the next town, hoping that Assad won’t hide it from you. I also hope he won’t give this to Khanum-Jaan. She’ll die of grief.

  This is my story: Vahid takes me to his room on the second floor of a two-story tenant house. Men occupy all the rooms. Most of them are addicted to drugs. The ones who smoke opium consider themselves healthy. They hold some kind of a job. Those who shoot heroin are the hopeless. They buy the drug by selling it to the younger kids. Hashish and marijuana, rolled in cigarette paper, are ordinary things. They smoke them between the hard drugs. The men bring women, their drug companions, to their rooms.

  Talkhoon, there is a beautiful college girl with large green eyes and the husky voice of a movie star who shares needles with Vahid. She passes out on the floor and I have to drag her to bed. This is repeated like all the rituals that repeat themselves here—the foggy music, the broken, nasal conversation—dialogues in a dream.

  In our room, there is a squeaky metal bed that sinks and touches the floor each time we lie do
wn on it. Vahid and I seldom have privacy, but even when we do, we don’t make love. He kisses me and sometimes when he wants more, he falls asleep. But why am I saying this to you? To my little, innocent sister?

  In spite of this, my belly is growing and it gets bigger every day. Marriage is not even an issue here. These people are beyond these matters. Besides, who is going to work? Vahid doesn’t really work, but he goes out every day and comes back with a bag of food and some liquor and a little money that he keeps in a drawer for my needs. He says he adores me; he calls me his golden muse and writes poems about my beauty. Sometimes, when we’re alone, he sits me in a chair in front of the window and brushes my hair. He murmurs his poetry and runs the brush slowly from the top of my head to the ends of the long strands with the rhythm of his verse, and this takes a long time. I sit quietly, feeling the blood running under my skin and his poems pulsing in my veins.

  Every morning I roam around the house and inhale the burnt, bittersweet aroma of opium. There is this jobless actor who invites me to his room. He never sleeps and his eyes are wide and hollow like an owl’s. He wears this small, black velvet jacket that smells of smoke and old sweat. His hair stands up, stiff and unwashed. He shows me an oval mirror on the mantle place, covered with the dust of years. He writes TAARA on the dust with his index finger, and smiles. Now without a word he lies down on his dirty bed and opens his arms for me. That’s when I leave his room and roam around some more.

  Sometimes I go out, but I never leave the neighborhood. I’m afraid of getting lost. I stroll to the nearby market and buy myself a pair of cheap earrings from an accessory store, or a blood-red nail polish for my nails. The dangling earrings and my red glossy nails make me happy for few hours.