The Drum Tower

by Farnoosh Moshiri

  In a good mood, Assad told stories, swigged vodka, and collapsed with layers of white lace covering him. When he woke up, he hurried to rinse his mouth, prayed, and asked his imam to forgive him. Then he put on his uniform and left in haste.

  In the next room, the prisoner pounded on the door and cursed the guards.

  When a crew of twenty men came to cut the trees, Assad was not home. I saw them from the crack of the gray curtain. They had chain saws and axes. The Brothers gathered in the courtyard, watching. They began from the left side, the western edge of the garden, and moved to the east. It would take them a few days to get to my gate. My stomach twisted and dry winds circled in my head.

  Boor-boor, who didn’t have anywhere to sit, stood right behind my window, one leg chained to a loose brick. She screamed as the men sawed the trees, “Boorrr . . . boorrr . . .” The bird called Khanum-Jaan and her ancestors to rescue the trees. Jangi barked incessantly and the girl in the laundry room banged on my wall, thinking I was a prisoner too.

  Twice a day Brother Mustafa entered the laundry room and beat up the girl. I heard smacks and slaps, screams and curses. The girl cursed back.

  They cut the ancient trees of Drum Tower one by one and I sat on the edge of my bed, weeping. When the girl next door heard me, she knocked on the wall in sympathy. Now a knot opened in my stomach and I threw up green bile. It was as if the winds were now loose in my guts, trying to clean my insides.

  Assad came early that evening and saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the garden, vomit all over my uniform. I was so weak that I couldn’t hide in the closet or the bathroom. There was no energy left in me. He put the package of food on the table, washed my face, and sat talking to me.

  “Crying for the trees?” He paused as if I would finally speak to him, as if I would choose this very moment to begin a conversation. “Crying for these fucking trees, huh? These are the damned ministers. Each tree is one of my fucking ancestors. Now wipe your eyes and look at this.”

  He stretched his arm toward me. Two pieces of paper were in his hands. He held them in front of my face. One was a typed document and it looked like Khanum-Jaan’s will—the one I’d found among her letters. But instead of “—all goes to my beloved sisters—,” the document said, “—all goes to my beloved brother, Assad-Allah Vaziri, the only son of my deceased father, Hessam-Mirza Vaziri.” The second letter was the ancient, hand-written document of the house. Khanum’s name was erased skillfully, but the space was blank.

  “I forged a will. Now I need to find someone to write my name in cursive on this document. Then I’ll be the sole owner of Drum Tower. I had to change my last name from Angha to Vaziri, because that’s what I really am—I’m Grandpa Vazir’s son.” He said this with a mixture of pride and disgust, then paused for a long moment and added, “It’s a shame, isn’t it? Nowadays no one attaches himself to the aristocrats, especially someone in my delicate position. But I had to do this for us. For us, you hear me? This revolution and the war won’t last forever. I’m not flattening the garden for the guards to practice shooting. They can do that anywhere; I’m following my old plans. Remember what I told you? I want to build apartment houses here and make money. I’ll furnish the whole three floors of Drum Tower for you. Not with old, rotten junk, but with the best furniture you can imagine. I’m confiscating land too. Soon we’ll own villages, with farms and cattle and businesses you can’t even fathom. One, for example, is a carpet-weaving business. I’m putting some money in it until the day that I can buy the whole operation. I’ll have five hundred skillful weavers. I’m talking about fortunes, girl, fortunes!” He paused, lowered his voice, and continued, “But I’m the same Assad, your loyal devotee, Talkhoon. My love is deeper than you can ever imagine. My love for you and your poor mother are mixed together in one huge lump, here in my chest.” He hit his chest with his fist to show the lump of love. “Come and eat now. I brought your favorite dish. I’m sorry that I can’t cook for you these days, but this won’t last long. I’ll cook for you and our kids. Come now. It’s charcoaled shish-kabob—it’ll get cold.”

  Into the Gray Alley

  That rainy March day when the crew reached the dryandra tree, the old winds sang strange, harsh and stormy songs in my head. I looked at the men through the curtain of the rain, chopping down the silk trees around the dryandra. When they secured the saw on the thick body of the Simorgh’s tree, I took Assad’s clay bear and thrust it toward the window. The bear and the glass pane broke with an explosion—gold and silver showered into the courtyard.

  “Not that one, not the dryandra!” I screamed like a wounded animal and climbed a chair. I pulled myself out of the narrow hole of the broken window and shouted, “Not that tree!”

  It was Hassan’s shift. “Stop! Stop, or I’ll shoot you!” He yelled.

  “Shoot me! Shoot me!” I ran toward the men who had stopped to watch the commotion.

  “No, no! Not this one—keep this one tree, please!” My black uniform was wet, the large scarf had slipped off my head and I was barefoot in the mud, pleading for my grandfather’s tree. Jangi joined me, barking. He showed his fangs and circled around the men like a hungry wolf. Boor-boor shrieked and the prisoner in her windowless laundry room, sensing chaos, pounded on the door and yelled.

  The men looked at me as if I were a lunatic. The knife I waved in front of their faces and the layer of prickly hair on my scalp didn’t leave any doubt that I was dangerous. Without a word, they distanced themselves from the dryandra and went toward the other trees.

  “Couldn’t you just ask them not to cut that one tree?” Hassan asked. “Do you always have to act crazy? No wonder Brother Sheeri locks you up. Get inside now. I hope he doesn’t punish me for the broken window.”

  All night I sat in my wet uniform on the edge of the bed, looking out at the Tree of Knowledge. It stood tall and solitary, the top branches forming an open umbrella, protecting the dry ground beneath. This was where we used to sit. Taara played the setar, Vafa and I held our breath and waited for the bird to come.

  Wind blew in from the broken window and sprayed rain on my face. The night-shift boy sat on the folding chair with his umbrella in one hand and a prayer book in the other. The parrot sat on his shoulder, craning her neck as if reading. Under the umbrella, the dim light of the boy’s lantern flickered now and then.

  I sat for hours, motionless, listening to my neighbor’s quiet sobs. It was more than a month now that she had been locked up. Once a day, they fed her stale bread and cheese. Brother Mustafa interrogated her and beat her, and nothing changed. They neither took her to a different jail nor released her. Now I knew which part of the day she screamed, when she kept quiet, and when she sobbed. She always cried from midnight until dawn.

  Some time after midnight, the girl was quiet for a short time and I heard the squeak of Grandma Negaar’s wheelchair. The young guard raised his head too and glanced at the pool where once ancient weeping willows bent over the water. The girl, who’d stopped sobbing to hear the noise, cried louder—like a child who stops crying, listens with hope, then, disappointed, resumes wailing.

  I sat still until the sky outside became gray.

  Assad came and saw the broken window. He was not in a good mood, but he was too tired to make a commotion. He dropped himself onto the chair and held his forehead in his hand. He was still for a while, then asked, “What happened?” as if we had always conversed and I had always answered his questions. “You broke the window to run away—with the guards and all these men out there. Do I have to commit you? Do I have to cancel our wedding and lock you up instead?”

  I sat motionless, staring at the dryandra and the tower. The girl in the laundry room was quiet, trying to hear our conversation. Assad talked with long pauses between his sentences. He didn’t have food or vodka with him. His voice was scratchy and I could hear the dryness of his mouth.

  “Tomorrow is Sacrifice Day. It was supposed to be our wedding. But look at our life! Your gown
is not finished. You’re crazier than ever, and I’m a corpse. They needed me for the security of the Imam’s house. And I’m responsible for this place too. It’s a month that I’ve kept this bitch down here and a bunch of bastards upstairs, but I haven’t had time to interrogate them. I’m overwhelmed. Mustafa is doing my job and he is an ignorant imbecile. And you constantly torment me.”

  He kept quiet for a long moment, his head bending. I thought he was dozing, but he raised his head and said, “I saw your father today.” He knew I would react, so he paused and studied my face. I didn’t turn my head or utter a sound. But my heart ached. “It was a mass demonstration to support the Holy Republic. He and his buddies were there. I saw him. For an instant I thought I’d missed him. We hugged. Then I told myself this bastard is a communist, had always been. But then he was Soraya’s husband. Only he knew who Soraya was, only he loved her. Then I thought he was a goddamn hypocrite who pretended he supported the Government of God. An atheist was supporting the

  government of Allah. Then I remembered that for forty years I thought he was my brother and I loved him. But again, I told myself, he was cheating—his party was cheating. They were the servants of Communist Russia. Spies. So to make a long story short, we hugged like brothers and he asked about the house. I told him everything. The truth. That Khanum was with the aunties. The house was not a house and I was the head of the Committee. He asked about you and Taara. I said Taara was still missing and you had run away too. This last part was the only lie. I couldn’t say you were here and I wanted to marry you. It was crowded and we were in the middle of a noisy demonstration. Then I lost him in the crowd. But he is fine. A bit wind-beaten and aged, but not much.”

  Assad said all this and took off his boots. Then he stood, undressed, and with only his underpants on, lay down on the bed. Now he crawled toward me like a slow-moving spider. He reached me and pulled my sleeve the way a child pulls his mother’s. I didn’t have a knife with me. I’d lost one in the garden yesterday, when I threatened the men, and the other was in the closet with the knapsack.

  “All I want from you is to sit on this bed and let me put my head in your lap. That’s all. You can stroke my hair, the way women do to their children or lovers; you can sing for me, but even if you don’t do these things and just let me put my head in your lap, I’ll be content. Just come close. I feel so lonely, Talkhoon.”

  I went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat for a long time. When I heard him snoring, I came out. He was on his back, the massive wedding gown covering his face and torso. On his hairy belly the blue Simorgh breathed silently. The layers of satin, lace and gauze formed fluffy clouds around the blue bird.

  From the crack of the curtain I looked outside—the rain had stopped. The boy closed his umbrella, looked up at the sky and yawned. I sat on the chair next to the desk and looked at Assad’s gun, his belt, his key chain, his flashlight, Khanum-Jaan’s black marble box, the Great Leader’s half-chewed picture, still face down from Assad’s last drinking binge. Instead of the clay bear, a paper bag sat on the table. Hassan had collected the coins in this bag.

  I sat and stared at these objects, then I looked around the room—my room—my cell. The familiar spider web, the orange-headed spider tangled in her own web. Slowly, I went to the closet and took out the knapsack. In the bathroom, I took off the black uniform and threw it in the bathtub. I wore the knapsack on my bare chest, then put on a pair of pants and a baggy shirt. I wore my boots and my woolen hat and slipped the flashlight into my deep pocket. I picked up Assad’s handgun and shoved it into my other pocket. The paper bag full of gold and silver tempted me, but it was too heavy and noisy and the bag was thin and could fall apart easily. The money had to stay. Instead, I took the deed for the house, folded it and put it in my pocket. A few pieces of dried bread were left from the other night’s dinner. I took a piece for Jangi. I picked up the key, stepped into the corridor, and locked Assad inside the room.

  In the courtyard, I approached the boy from behind his chair and aimed the muzzle of the handgun at his head. In a whisper, I said, “Give me the key to the laundry room.” He bounced. I pushed him down and pressed the gun against his temple. “This is not a toy, this is Brother Sheeri’s handgun. You don’t want to die now, do you?” He shook his head. “You know that I’m crazy, don’t you?” He didn’t answer. “I’m crazy enough to shoot you. But you want to live and do your revolution, your Holy Revolution. Don’t you?” He nodded. “Give me the key.” He handed me the key. “Now get up!” He got up. His machine gun was on the floor next to the lantern and his prayer book. I pressed the tip of the handgun into his back and pushed him down the basement steps. I opened the laundry room and pushed him inside. He fell.

  “Get up!” I commanded the girl. She was shocked—she couldn’t move. “Tie your scarf around the boy’s mouth! Come on!”

  She was panicked and her hands shook. They had put a long black uniform and a wide scarf on her. She tied the scarf over the boy’s mouth and made a straight jacket out of the uniform and put it on him and tied the sleeves. She stepped outside.

  I locked the door and told the girl to run behind me and keep running if the dog followed us. We ran toward the eastern gate and I heard the girl’s labored breathing behind me, then before long Jangi caught up with us, barking. I called his name and dropped a piece of stale bread for him. He caught it in mid-air and swallowed it while running. When we opened the gate and stepped out, I told the girl to turn right and keep to the narrow alley. In a few minutes the curfew would be over and she could mix with the city crowd. Having no doubt that I was an important revolutionary and more experienced than herself—a guerrilla fighter perhaps—she looked at me with admiration, shook my hand with a firm, comradely grip, and turned right.

  “Well, do you want to walk with me like old times?” I asked Jangi. He looked at me as if considering the offer. “Hurry up, dog! Decide! Do you want to go back, or come along with me?” I left the gate open and took a few steps away from it. The dog stood for a second, looking at me with large, desperate eyes, then dropped his head and walked back to the garden. I shut the gate, turned left, and stepped into the gray alley.

  Book III

  The Last Circle

  The wind blows to the South,

  And goes round to the north;

  round and round goes the wind,

  and on its circuits the wind returns.

  —Ecclesiastes

  At the Teacher’s House

  A block away from Drum Tower, I found myself whistling in a wet, narrow alley. This was the same alley I’d passed through a month ago—the same row of old brick houses, the same barred kitchen windows giving out the smell of stale food. A door opened—an arm extended and put a garbage can on the steps. Birds woke and chirped in the top branches of an almond tree.

  Gray clouds rapidly shifted and made room for the sun. I felt dew on my skin, inhaled deeply and let every moving limb of my body enjoy the wet dawn. More birds chirped and crowded the sky. Now I heard a car’s groan intruding on the peace. A jeep approached from the far end of the alley. I pressed myself against the brick wall of an old house. If they caught me I’d end up in Drum Tower—the Revolutionary Committee Number One, my permanent jail. The jeep crawled slowly and the guards looked around, searching. I slid back and hid in the hollow space of the entrance. The jeep approached. These were Assad’s men.

  On the surface of the narrow sidewalk I saw some drawings in pink chalk. I remembered a little girl playing here last month, drawing stick figures. Her mother gave her a bowl of fruit and she spat out the seeds as she ate. What if I knocked on this door before the jeep got closer? But the door opened by itself and a woman, the same one, looked out from the crack and said to someone, “No, not now. They’re here. Let them pass.”

  Before I could show myself and say something, she shut the door. My heart sank. I had lost the opportunity. The jeep was closer now, reaching the almond tree. Soon they would see me. I should have knoc
ked on the door.

  While debating whether to knock or run, the door opened again. This time, a young man’s head appeared. “They’re still here,” he reported. “They’re moving slowly. Must be looking for someone—” Now he turned his head to the right and saw me in the corner against the wall.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who is it?” the woman asked.

  “A child,” the boy said.

  A child? I blushed and felt smaller. I hadn’t thought losing so much weight would shrink me into a child.

  “A child?” the woman said and came to the door. “Who are you, son?”

  “Please let me come in,” I pleaded.

  The woman glanced at the jeep that was only two houses away. Two armed guards stood looking around, a third one drove.

  “Are they searching for you?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. But if they see me, they’ll arrest me.”

  She looked at me from head to foot and said, “Come in!”

  I slipped inside the house and she shut the door.

  “Are you a girl?”

  I nodded. Hearing this she relaxed, shook her head, and circled her arm around my shoulder. “You’ve run away?”

  I nodded again.

  The young man, who was eighteen or nineteen, stood by the door, staring at me. A girl in cotton pajamas came out of a room, her black hair covering her shoulders like a woolen shawl. The family circled me, looking at me.