The Drum Tower

by Farnoosh Moshiri

  “Sit down,” the woman said.

  We were in a small hall they used as a living room. The floor was bare cement and the house felt cold. A few cardboard boxes sat against the wall. An old couch was the only comfortable seat. There were several wooden chairs, hard and narrow. All of a sudden my body felt tired, drained of life, and I sat down on the couch.

  The woman was middle-aged and had the same shiny black hair as the girl, but rolled in a bun behind her neck. Her eyes were strange. One looked at me and the other didn’t. She wasn’t cross-eyed, but one eye seemed not to be alive. She sat down beside me. The boy sat too, and questioned me with his dark eyes. The girl kept standing.

  “Why don’t you make some tea, dear?” the mother said to the girl. “And you can take your stuff and go—the jeep must have passed,” she told the boy. “But be careful! Don’t go too far.”

  The boy picked up a stack of papers and opened the door a crack.

  “Have they left?” the woman asked.

  “They just turned onto the main street. I’ll be back.”

  The boy left and I could hear the girl in the kitchen making tea. The woman bent forward on her chair and looked at me with her one good eye.

  “Who are you?”

  “Please let me stay until the streets get crowded. Then I’ll go.”

  “Don’t you want to tell me your story?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She got up and went to the door, opened it and looked out. “He’s going too far,” she told the girl who was back in the living room. “I told him not to go so far.”

  “Don’t be worried, Mother. He knows what he’s doing,” the girl said.

  “Are you hungry?” the woman asked me.

  I nodded.

  “Bring some bread and cheese for all of us. I’m hungry too. Wash some grapes. We’ll eat an early breakfast today.”

  When her daughter went back to the kitchen, the woman asked how old I was. I told her. Then she asked other questions—what was my name? why was I running away? who were my parents?—one question after another. She didn’t give me a chance to speak.

  Now her daughter came with the breakfast tray. She’d changed into a skirt and a blouse. She had Taara’s tall, proportioned body. Large breasts, narrow waist, rounded hips. She could never disguise herself as a boy the way I did. The mother was still asking me questions.

  “When exactly did you leave your house?”

  “Mother, leave her alone!” the daughter said. “You’re interrogating her!”

  “I’m sorry, child. I’m under strain myself.” She said this, rose, and opened the door again. She looked worried. “I’ll go after him,” she said.

  “Are you crazy, Mother?” the girl said.

  “I can’t see him anymore. The boy is reckless. They’ll arrest him.”

  “Calm down and have some tea.” The girl poured tea for all of us. I was thankful she didn’t speak to me.

  “Eat, child!” the mother ordered me.

  We ate in silence. I drank the warm tea and instantly felt better. Toward the end of our breakfast a little girl in her pajamas appeared from one of the rooms and hid in her mother’s arms. She was half-asleep. The woman stroked her uncombed hair and rocked her in her arms. She was the same girl I’d seen playing in the street. She looked younger than I remembered—four or five.

  “Where are you planning to go?” the woman asked me, and this time she paused, waiting for my answer.

  “I don’t have any plans,” I said. “Not yet. I just need to get far away from here. Maybe I’ll go to the eastern border where I have an uncle, my mother’s brother. He lives with the Baluchi Tribe.”

  “Sounds very adventurous,” the woman said and sighed. “Do you know what is happening in the country?”

  I nodded. Who knew better? I lived in the house of Revolutionary Committee Number One!

  “You won’t make it to the east like this,” she said. “And I think you don’t even know if your uncle is there.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Now do you want to tell me the whole thing?”

  I nodded. There was something both soft and strong in her voice. She caressed her daughter until she purred like a kitten and laid her face on her mother’s chest.

  “Get Grandmother some breakfast dear,” she ordered the older daughter. “She must be up.”

  She said this to dismiss her and encourage me to speak. But the door opened and her son came in.

  “I won’t let you do this again!” she said. “Why did you go so far?”

  “I dropped one at each house. I had some extra, so I went to the next alley.”

  “Is the curfew over?” she asked.

  “Yes. That’s why I went to the next alley.”

  “Okay, get some breakfast from Minoo. We have a lot of work to do today.”

  The boy glanced at me and left.

  “Well? I’m all ears!”

  When I told the story, my voice shook and I sounded like a small beetle under a kitchen sink. I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me. Mother’s suicide in the water storage, Father’s wanderings, Grandfather’s bird book, the tower, the dryandra tree, Grandmother’s letters to her dead father, the ghosts, the garden, the lame uncle-servant—in fact, Grandmother’s brother and now the head of the Revolutionary Committee—Taara’s elopement, the endless hem of a multi-layered wedding gown, a jail in the house, my circular flights, and, finally, releasing another prisoner in my last flight. How could she believe any of this?

  Several times, the son or the daughter opened the kitchen door, saw their mother still listening and pulled his or her head inside. When I finished my story, the woman sighed and didn’t say anything for a long moment. She just rocked the small girl in her arms. Now she began talking about herself.

  “I’m still mourning. My husband died last year. He was an activist twenty-five years ago—nationalization of oil. We both participated in the uprisings. Look!” She pointed to her left eye. “It’s a shame. In the middle of a demonstration a thug, hired by the Shah’s police, hit me in the eye with a sling. I was not shot by a bullet, but a pebble! I never recovered from the shame of not being shot in a heroic way! But now I’m much older and I don’t ask for trouble. Of course, I’m continuing my political work, but I don’t wish to get shot!” She looked at me with her one good eye and smiled. When she smiled I felt that she trusted me. She said. “Some kind of fascism is taking over this country. What is happening here is unique in the world. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I nodded and she continued. “The elections are near. My children and I work very hard to inform people about the real nature of these incidents. Our neighbors suspect us; we have to leave. This is where my children were born and my husband died. But we have to move.” She paused for a second, then said, “There is no way I can keep you with us. You’ll be in more danger. Now that you’re finally out of that tower, you have to be very careful not to get caught. Did you say the house is only a few blocks away from here?”

  “The first house on the south side of the College Intersection. Drum Tower.”

  “Oh! That dirty looking fort!”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know people lived there. I thought it was a neglected historical building. A ghost house.”

  “It is a ghost house,” I said. “Do you think I can sleep here just for a couple of hours before I leave?” As I said this I felt dizzy and grabbed my forehead. I hadn’t slept for a long time.

  “Yes, you can, dear. You can sleep a few hours, and meanwhile I’ll think about what to do. I’ll check on a few places for you.”

  She called her daughter and told her to take me to her room and let me sleep. Minoo smiled at me and I followed her. When we passed a narrow hallway, a very old woman with a large, white scarf covering her head and shoulders entered from the backyard. Against the strong morning light she looked like a small, transparent angel. A breeze from the open door played with the wings of her scarf.

&nb
sp; “Grandma, this is my friend! What is your name?”

  “Taara.”

  “This is Taara, Grandma.”

  I said good morning to the old lady and she stood watching me.

  Her spine was bent. She came up to my chest. Through round, thick lenses she observed me and said, “Welcome, dear!” She made smacking sounds as if tasting something, and asked, “What happened to your hair?”

  “Nothing, Ma’am. It’s just too short.”

  She shook her head, walked away and mumbled something.

  “She is ninety-eight years old,” Minoo said. “My mother’s grandmother. Come in. You can sleep in my bed. Here, wear these pajamas. I’ll see you later.”

  I hung my clothes and knapsack on a hook behind the door. Without my burden and in Minoo’s cotton pajamas, I felt light and comfortable. When I slipped under the blanket and closed my eyes for a few seconds, the image of the white-winged grandmother filled my head. Then I fell into a deep sleep.

  At the Bus Station

  The smell of cooking meat woke me up. I found Minoo on the carpeted floor, lying on her belly, reading a fat book. On my right, a tall window framed the backyard. At the center of the yard’s brick floor, a square flowerbed lay under the spring sun. Yellow tulips glowed on green grass. Minoo smiled, rose and led me to the bathroom. She showed me the shower and gave me one of her dresses to wear. She said her mother believed that if I was disguised as a boy, I’d attract more attention. So I showered and wore Minoo’s summer dress. The flowery cotton dress was large for me and the wide collar showed my bony chest.

  In the living room, food was on the table. Mother, her grandmother, Minoo, and her little sister, Mina, and I sat around the table and ate meat broth with fresh bread. The boy was not around. When I glanced at the clock on the wall, I realized I had slept for six hours. This was lunch.

  “Today is Sacrifice Day, we’re all off,” Mother said. “The mullahs have slaughtered a thousand cows. There is a big feast at the university. They’re all going to pig out, pray, pour into the street, and scream their fascist slogans. They will harass people—especially women.” She paused, bunched her eyebrows in a frown, and with a lower voice said, “Yesterday, in front of the post office, this bearded guard hit a pregnant woman with a baton and knocked her into the gutter. Why? Because she wasn’t wearing a scarf!”

  “When I was a young girl,” Grandmother said, “Reza Shah ordered his soldiers to pull women’s scarves off their heads; if they resisted, they’d hit the women and unveil them. The old Shah wanted the women to dress like Europeans.”

  “It’s so funny!” Minoo said. “Once they beat up women to unveil, now they beat them to wear veils.”

  “Because we’re a bunch of minors, my dear. We can’t decide for ourselves,” Mother said. “First we have to free ourselves from oppression, then see who dares dictate to us what to wear!”

  The door opened and the boy came in. He had some newspapers with him.

  “What’s happening? Did you put the flyers in the stores?”

  “In stores, restaurants, and bus stops,” he said proudly. “The cabinet has been dissolved. The Prime Minister has resigned. An army general has been shot in his car.” He reported the important news. He was panting slightly.

  “Give me the papers! Which army general?”

  Mother began reading the headlines and the boy sat down to eat. He tried hard not to look at me, but he couldn’t keep his eyes away. Our gazes tangled in mid-air. Something strange was happening. My heart ached with pain and pleasure and blood rushed down into my belly. There was an invisible bridge between us.

  “Oh, this is General Nezam-El-Deen.” Mother said. “One of the shah’s military advisors. His U.S. liaison.”

  I knew General Nezam-El-Deen. He almost became Taara’s father-in law.

  “The Party of God dragged him out of his car and executed him right there by the wall. They shot his chauffeur too.” She paused and added, “An unidentified terrorist group is burning the movie theaters.”

  “They want to close all the restaurants and movie theaters,” Minoo said.

  “A bank is robbed by masked people. A group of youth are vandalizing mansions and smearing tar on the walls and carpets,” Mother read.

  “When the revolution for the constitutional monarchy happened,” Grandmother said through smacking lips, “I was just a little girl.”

  “Do you remember anything, Grandma?” Minoo asked.

  “Nothing.”

  The children laughed. The old woman laughed with them, showing a few yellow teeth.

  “Come, girl, follow me!” Suddenly Mother dropped the newspapers and stood up. “Things are getting worse by the minute. We have to talk. Come.”

  She took me to the room next to the kitchen and offered me a seat. This was a dim room with one of those small, barred windows overlooking the street. It was crowded with stacks of leaflets, newspaper clippings, papers, and an old typewriter. She sat at her desk and I sat on the other side, like a student having a conference after class time.

  “I called my sister. She lives in the north, by the sea. I’m going to send you there. You’ll be safe with her. When things calm down here—if they ever do—you’ll come back. By that time, we’ll have moved, hopefully, and you may want to live with us. Fine?”

  I nodded. Then I said, “I can’t travel by train.”

  “Oh, I know. The bastard searches the train stations. I’ll send you by bus. Farid will take you to the bus station with his motor bike. He’ll buy you a ticket. Get up now. I’ll give you my grandmother’s chador to wear. If you wrap yourself in a long veil, you won’t have any identity. You’ll become invisible.”

  At the door, they all hugged and kissed me as if they’d known me for a long time. The old woman slid her crooked index fingers behind her round lenses, and pressed her red eyes to stop the tears. Mother gave me a small change purse containing her sister’s address and some money. I sat behind Farid on the motor bike but the chador slipped off my head. Farid told his mother that the wind would blow the veil off, so they decided I should put it on at the bus station. Mother assured me that she would call me tonight and Farid took off. I almost fell off the bike and screamed. “Hold me!” he yelled into the wind. I encircled his chest with my arms and as he sped up the alley I turned back to see the three women and the child waving at me. If I had not seen this little girl playing by the door one day, I would never have sought refuge there. I couldn’t imagine where I’d be now. Back in my closet, holding my breath?

  The wind blew in my face, almost blinding me. I hid behind Farid’s back and held him tightly. I didn’t want this ride to end. He sped up and passed all the cars. When he pressed the hand brake at an intersection, I slid forward and my chest touched his back. My blood froze and my fingers became conscious of the flesh on his hard belly. His muscles moved when he pushed the gas again, responding to my fingertips, playing with them. When we reached the bus station, I was dazed and I didn’t want to get off.

  “Got dizzy, huh?’

  I nodded.

  “Come in. Be careful, you’re tripping over the steps. Let me hold your hand.”

  He helped me up the few steps and at the counter bought me a ticket for the Northline, which departed at two p.m. The big clock on the wall showed one o’clock. He handed me the plastic bag containing the chador and told me to put it on in the restroom. In a minute I came out with the long, pale blue veil hanging all over me. I tried hard to hold it under my chin the way I’d seen Daaye holding hers when she went to the mosque. Farid laughed quietly and shook his head.

  “You look funny!”

  “I know.”

  “You look better with your boy’s clothes.”

  “I know.”

  “But this is safe—I don’t know your name.”

  “Taara.”

  “This is safe, Taara.” His voice quivered a little. He coughed to hide it. “Don’t take it off. Even in the bus.” His pleading tone left me no do
ubt that he’d eavesdropped. He knew my story.

  “I won’t take it off.”

  Now we stood for a long embarrassing moment. We didn’t have anything else to say. It was only five past one. I looked around—all the benches were taken.

  “Listen,” I said. “I can get on the bus by myself. Why don’t you leave? I know you’re very busy.”

  “I have a few stacks of flyers to take to the university, before the ceremony starts.”

  “Then go. I’m fine. I’ll wait here for my bus and I’ll be at your aunt’s tonight.”

  “When my mother calls, I’ll talk to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Take care.”

  “I will.”

  He lingered for a second, then left. I expected him to turn back and look at me, and he did. Our eyes met again and he smiled. My muscles went slack. But he was out now, moving his motorbike onto the street. He glanced up the steps at the glass door, but I stepped back, to avoid seeing him again. His bike coughed and groaned and I heard it sputtering for a short time. Then I heard nothing but the confused hubbub of people’s conversation in the large waiting room. I sat on the first empty bench I saw and my heart ached with pain and despair.

  Through the thickening crowd that rushed into the waiting area from the outdoor garage, I saw the Northline arriving. I tried to secure the damned slippery chador on my head and went out to the dusty lot to sit in the bus and wait. But the driver, who stood by the door, told me that I needed to wait half an hour. They were cleaning and fueling the bus.

  When I went back inside I saw a dozen Committee Brothers standing behind the glass door, peering inside the sitting area. I recognized Mustafa, Hassan, and Morad. There were others I hadn’t seen before. Their black van was parked in front of the bus station. I pulled the veil over my face and rushed into the restroom. My heart thumped in my throat. There was no bench in the restroom and the smell of the toilets was revolting. I stood for a long time, blocking the way of the women who went in and out. The winds blew hard in my head and confused me. I could barely hear the voice of the man announcing something in the speaker. Maybe it was time for the Northline’s departure. I didn’t have a watch so I asked the time from a woman. It was fifteen minutes to two. From the fear of losing the bus, I stepped out. The guards were not behind the glass door anymore.