The bastard had taken him to a hospital—or he had died. Assad had killed him by not feeding him.
But I had to move on.
Move, stupid girl! He’ll kill you too. You have to run away, before the boy wakes up.
I got to my feet, fighting to suppress a scream forcing itself out of my throat. Before I left, I opened the small closet room—Khanum-Jaan’s cell—and threw the beam of light ahead. Baba-Ji sat opposite the door, staring at me. He was in his recliner, eyes wide open.
“Baba, it’s me, Talkhoon.” I approached him. “Are you awake?”
But he was asleep with his eyes open. Did he open his eyes one day, wake for a minute, and fall asleep again? Did he wake, trying to call us, but seeing the bare room and no one around, panic and fall into the dark hole again? There was no way to know. I checked his IV bottle; it was full of the transparent liquid. I cast the small circle of light on my grandfather’s head and face. His hair and beard had grown long, as if he was still alive. Daaye was not here to trim them. I brushed his dry, lifeless hair with my fingertips and caressed his white beard. Oh, how far away he was, how far away and inaccessible. But Assad had cleaned him, fed him, and put him here, in this closet—until a bed in a hospital became available. He hadn’t disconnected the tube. How could he? Wasn’t Assad Baba’s son?
“Baba-Ji, if you’re going to wake up at all, now is the time. I’ll take you to the back gate, and we’ll fly off together. Where, you’re asking? I don’t know. Maybe the Simrogh will see us and pick us up. Maybe you’ll burn a barb of the sapphire feather and we’ll both disappear. Baba, wake up, please!”
My childish words surprised me. Whenever I was around Baba-Ji, I spoke as if I believed in the Simorgh and the miracles of its blue tail feather.
“Baba-Ji, wake up! Please! It’s me, Talkhoon!”
He didn’t wake up. I assured him I would make his manuscript into a real book. I also told him that he shouldn’t worry about the last chapter. Who could tell? Maybe I’d be able to write it some day. This surprised me. Why was I committing myself to such a huge task?
Before I left, I told my grandfather about my dream—his book with its hard brown cover sitting next to Taara’s setar. If Baba could speak, he would say, A bright dream! Both the book and the instrument are signs of promises. Unread words and unheard songs. I could even hear his voice interpreting my dream.
I kissed his forehead, said farewell, and left.
In the lobby I heard moaning. I stood still and listened. Were these the ghosts of Khanum-Jaan’s ancestors mourning the loss of Drum Tower? I concentrated. These were real voices echoing in the empty second floor. People were in pain up there.
On the dark porch, I held my hand to the wall to keep from falling. The boy was still sleeping in the courtyard. A half moon swam smoothly beneath the dark clouds, now and then throwing light on the boy’s prayer book. I could easily bypass him and run into the garden to the eastern gate. But Jangi would bark. I should have brought a piece of bread for the dog. Lingering for a few seconds, not knowing what to do, I heard voices from the direction of the pool. It was Assad, giving orders in a loud whisper.
“This way!” he said. “Move, or I’ll shoot you right here!”
“Where are you taking me?” Someone said. “I’m not going with you!” This voice was muffled, as if rising from behind a thick cloth. It was hard to tell if this was a man or a woman.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” Assad ordered. “Mustafa, you know where the laundry room is? Here, take this key. Now be careful, I don’t want the girl to wake up—I have to go back to the van and get something.”
From behind the wall, Mustafa appeared, prodding someone with the tip of his machine gun. He kept saying, “This way, watch out!”
Now I could see a head hidden in a brown paper bag and a pair of black pants and tennis shoes. This person was either a girl or a young man.
“Go down the steps!” Mustafa pushed his prisoner.
“No!” the prisoner protested.
“Shut up! There are people sleeping here. Shut your mouth, or I’ll beat you up!”
The boy in the courtyard woke and picked up his bandana and book.
He was startled. His lantern was out and he couldn’t see much. He looked around, trying to figure out where the voices had come from. Mustafa returned from the basement and noticed him.
“Sleeping, huh? Is this the way you’re serving the Holy Revolution? There is a prisoner down there. An infidel. Brother Sheeri wants to do the interrogation himself. If I tell him you’d slept on your shift, he’ll shoot you on the spot. Understood?”
“I’m sorry, Brother Mustafa. I was praying, and suddenly I passed out. I haven’t slept for two nights in a row.”
“Sheeri is coming back. He has a few hours off to get some sleep, then we have an important meeting at the Leader’s house. It’s your responsibility to keep this prisoner quiet. You know that Sheeri’s girl is nuts. She may wake up and make a commotion. Here, get the key.” Mustafa handed the boy a key and left.
I stood in the shadow of the porch, not knowing what to do. If I ran into the trees, the boy would chase me and the secret gate would be revealed. No hope of flight would remain. If I just walked down to my room, he’d still see me and report me, but at least the gate would remain hidden. So I went down the steps to the courtyard and casually walked toward the basement.
“Hey, stop! You’re not allowed to go down there!” The boy shouted after me. He thought I was one of the Brothers going down to the basement.
I ignored him, went down to my room and closed the door. I knew that he wouldn’t dare open that door.
“Hey, come out!” He ran upstairs, calling, “Brother Sheeri! Brother Mustafa!”
Meanwhile the prisoner in the laundry room banged crazily on the door, “Open! Open!” This was a woman’s voice.
I ran to the bathroom, took off Assad’s uniform and hung the knapsack behind the door. I didn’t want him to see me in his dirty clothes. I was about to jump into the shower and draw the curtain when the door flung open and Assad aimed a machine gun at me. I tried to cover my body with my hands.
“Is it you? They said a guard came down here—” He saw the uniform piled under my feet. “You wore my uniform, huh? To run away again?” He waited for my answer. Someone was knocking violently on the door. Assad yelled, “It’s okay, Brother. Go back to your post!” They knocked again. Assad went out and sent the worried guards away. Now he came back and stood in the frame of the bathroom door, gazing at me. I was shivering. He pulled the woolen hat off my head, saw my clean-shaven scalp, and broke into a horselaugh.
After laughing enough, in a good humor and in one of his caressing tones, he said, “Talkhoon, Talkhoon! Crazy baby!” He hugged me and rubbed my bald head with his hand. “You little cantaloupe! But you don’t look ugly at all. Anyone else would look horrible. Look at you, you silly girl!” He turned me toward the mirror, embraced me from behind, and made me look at myself. “You shaved your hair, put on my clothes, and tried to run away again. But where? And how? How could you get past all these men?” He knocked his knuckles on my bare head. “When will you get some sense, huh? Maybe I’ll have to get some pills for you again—the kind that used to make you easy to handle. But I don’t have a prescription and your doctor has fled the country. I’m too busy to find a brain doctor for you. Come now, let me wash you. Now that you’re naked, let me wash my stinky sweat off your body. You know? It’s nice that you wore my stuff. Doesn’t that mean that you don’t hate me anymore?” He turned on the hot and cold water, and then the shower. He led me into the bathtub and began to soap my back, mumbling broken sentences.
“This is all I want in the world—is it too much to ask? I just want to wash you, girly. I want to care for you, protect you, and you keep running away from me as if I’m the one who has hurt you. Have I ever hurt you, Talkhoon? Oh, God, look at your thighs; I can’t believe I’m finally running my hand inside your thighs. God Almighty
, have mercy on me, give me strength just for a few weeks, help me to wait. I’m touching Talkhoon’s slippery body, the way I did when she was only a baby and I changed her diapers.”
I shut my eyes and heard deafening drumbeats from beyond the whirling winds in my head. This was the prisoner, banging crazily on the door. Now a storm gathered in my brain—Hoo! Hoo!—and dry winds blew and washed the insides of my body. Was I all body? Or was my real self somewhere else? Could he touch that self? Could he take that away? Hoo! the tearing winds answered.
Now the parrot screamed, the dog barked, the prisoner banged, and someone tapped on the windowpane. A thin voice shouted, “Let me in! This is my own house, bastard! Are you asking me who I am? Who are you, vagabond?”
Assad dropped the soap, cursed, and went out. A few seconds later he came back, and in a controlled rage, said, “Turn off the shower and stay in the bathroom. Your grandmother is here!”
It’s Dark! It’s Dark!
“What is going on here, Assad?” I heard Khanum’s voice from behind the bathroom door. “There are guards at the door of my house! I said I’m Assad’s mother. They said, ‘You mean Brother Sheeri?’ Have you changed your name?”
“Calm down, Khanum. Sit down and catch your breath.”
“Catch my breath? This puny little bastard kept asking who I was. What is going on? Tell me, or I’ll die this minute and you’ll be responsible for my death! What is this uniform you’re wearing? Are you a guard? Have you let these vagabonds stay in my house?”
“Sit down, Khanum, let me explain everything—”
“First tell me, what are you doing in the girl’s room? I can smell her. Is she here?”
“No. I put her in a hospital.”
“Oh, Assad. You took the girl to a crazy house? This is an awful thing to do. I dream all the time—I dream she has long black hair, all tangled around her neck, choking her. She is a fragile girl, Assad, only fourteen—”
“Talkhoon is seventeen, Khanum.”
“Seventeen? I thought she was fourteen. But what difference does it make? Anyone would perish in a crazy house. Now they call it clinic. But it’s really the same. And she wasn’t that crazy in the first place. Now that the whole country is going crazy and everybody is acting like lunatics, she could be out too. But tell me, why are you here? Are you using her room?”
“They’ve occupied the house—”
“What?”
“Temporarily. They’ll leave. I’ll take the girl out, soon—”
“Who has let them occupy my house?”
“This is a revolution, Khanum. Haven’t you followed the news? Don’t your sisters have a TV or a radio?”
“To hell with them. I’m fed up. They’re vain and stupid. That’s why I came back. I can’t stand them anymore. I want to live in my own house and die here. I want to go upstairs, where Anvar is.”
“Baba is fine. I feed him everyday. I clean him.”
“Oh, Assad, Assad, how could I do this to him? To my own husband? How could I just leave him like this? He’s alive, Assad. Do you understand?”
“If I didn’t understand, would I feed him and clean him and take care of him? But this can’t go on forever. We have to find him a good hospital. He’ll get weak like this. Nurses have to take care of him, give him vitamins.”
“Nonsense! I won’t let him out of my house. I’ll take care of him myself. I’ll get vitamins or whatever he needs from Doctor Shafa.”
“Doctor Shafa has escaped the country, Khanum—haven’t you heard?”
“Without even saying goodbye?”
“Many have left without saying goodbye.”
“What happened to Kia, Assad? They shot my son, huh? Tell me the truth. Did they shoot him?”
“I don’t think so. If he was executed, I’d see his name in the paper.”
“He is hiding somewhere. And Vafa—”
“If they catch Vafa they’ll torture him to death; they won’t just put him against the wall. He is an infidel.”
“Whatever that means. I hate these names. I hate all these ugly words they’re using these days to label people. That mushroom head, that Imam—the butcher—”
“Hey, hey—watch out, Khanum! These boys out there are all devotees of the Great Leader. If anyone hears you talking like this, you’ll lose your head.”
“Do you think I’m afraid of a bunch of vagabonds?”
“Okay, you’re not. Say whatever you want. I’m just warning you. You’ve got to understand the changes that have happened in this country. There is no Shah anymore. You know this, don’t you?”
“To hell with the Shah. He and his illiterate father ruined our country. If England hadn’t ended the Ghajar dynasty, these disasters would’ve never happened. Sons of bitches, traitors, all— they sold our land to a bunch of ignorant shitheads.”
“Okay now, don’t hurt yourself over nothing. Let me take you home.”
“Home?”
“To your sisters. This place is occupied.”
“Have you done this?”
“Done what?”
“Given away our house?”
“I didn’t give away anything, Khanum-Jaan. The Revolutionary Guards occupied the house.”
“And you cooperated with them. You’re wearing their uniform.”
“They forced me to wear it.”
“Nonsense!”
“Let me take you to your sisters, Khanum. It’s dangerous here. There are bombs and ammunition upstairs. You have to leave.”
“Is Anvar sleeping among bombs and ammunition?”
“I said I’m trying to find a vacant bed.”
“No way! I’m staying. I’ll go up by myself, and if this little vagabond stops me, I’ll teach him a lesson!”
“Listen, Khanum. Upstairs is full of men. It’s not a house anymore. All I’m trying to do is to chase them out.”
“You?”
“Yes. Why do you think I’m staying here? I could’ve left. Do you think I like to live in a barracks? I’m trying to do my best to chase them out. But I can’t do it by force. You understand? They’re armed to the teeth. They’re dangerous. I have to be careful with them and trick them. I’m working on it. I promise you it won’t take more than a month. You’ll be back home and I’ll bring Talkhoon, too.”
“How about Taara?”
“Taara is gone, Khanum.”
“Gone?”
“She’s married, Khanum. Now don’t start crying!”
“Married to a junky? Did you say he was a junky?”
“How would I know? It’s almost a year now, Khanum. If she was unhappy, she’d come back.”
“She may still come back, Assad.”
“She may. She may. Now wipe your eyes and let me take you home.”
“Let me see him for a minute, Assad. Please! I beg you, son. Let me look at Anvar for a minute. He’s all I have. I dreamed about him. Didn’t you read my letters?”
“No, Khanum, I didn’t receive any letters. It’s a revolution. Letters don’t go through.”
“I dreamed he had woken up—”
Their voices faded away. In the corridor, Khanum said, “I can’t see anymore, even with the glasses you bought me. The whole world is dark. It’s dark—”
Charcoaled Shish-Kabob
Between the day Khanum-Jaan visited and the day men began to cut the trees, my hair grew a bit. After hanging the gray curtain, Assad put a lock on the door, and now whenever he left he locked me in. Drum Tower was now officially a Revolutionary Committee center, a jail, and a barracks in one. Through the crack of the curtain I could see a black flag waving on the roof of the tower. When the spring wind blew hard the flag slapped itself.
I sat all day in my uniform and slept in it. The black shroud and the scarf enveloped me, securing me like a coffin. When Assad was in my room, I moved into the closet and stayed there. He came whenever his revolution was on pause, or he was too exhausted to do more revolution and needed some rest. He sneaked bottles of
vodka in and hid them inside my desk, and when he drank, he lay the half-chewed picture of his Imam face down, so that the old man wouldn’t see him. He was too tired to bother me, but he hadn’t forgotten that we were supposed to marry on Sacrifice Day.
So he cut hours from his sleep, sat cross-legged on top of the bed, spread the multilayers of gauze, satin, and lace around him, and stitched the hems. The white gown had many layers. Each gauze, lace, or satin skirt needed to be trimmed and hemmed. In his yellowish undershirt and old pants, he sat Buddha-style on my bed, sewing. His beard was now full and beginning to show gray. His belly was bigger and his fleshy breasts rested on top of it in a grotesquely feminine way.
The gown was taking him forever and Sacrifice Day was approaching. So he swallowed a gulp of vodka, filled his mouth with salted chickpeas, cursed, and stitched. If I was in the bathroom, he raised his voice so that I could hear him; if I was in the closet, he talked in a low voice as if I was next to him. If by accident he caught me out of the bathroom or the closet, he cast his blood-shot eyes on me and cursed me for not helping him fix my wedding gown. Once in a while, when he was in a good mood, he told stories of his revolution—how millions participated in the Friday mass-prayer and how the Great Leader
stood on the platform and led it. The moon was full and the crowd raised their heads to see the image of their Imam on the surface of the moon. “He’s so holy, Talkhoon,” he concluded. “The moon reflects his image.”
Or, “We occupied the Opera House today. The house of sin and blasphemy. You can’t imagine what strange things we found there. A whole warehouse full of tiny gauze skirts these little whores wore—the kind of skirts that show all of their naked legs. We burned them. We burned their satin dancing shoes and their half-naked pictures on the walls. We broke their mirrors and destroyed all the pianos. On the second floor, the symphony floor, the boys smashed all the instruments. They were out of control. I couldn’t stop them. I told them not to destroy the instruments, but they didn’t listen to me. They said this was the center of sin and the house of Satan. So bang, bang, bang, they broke the violins, took hammers to the pianos, and tore up the drums. It was a sight. It made me a little sad, because I like music. In a few hours they turned the seven-story building into the Central Mosque. The damned shah had spent millions on that fancy opera house.”
The Drum Tower Page 20