I found my way among the rushing crowd, stepped out in the lot, and headed toward the Northline. The Northwest had just arrived. The passengers were stepping down from the bus with stiff legs and walking sluggishly toward the building. I stood for a second to see the driver help a pregnant woman down the steps. The woman’s belly was big and she tried to find her balance between a heavy handbag, a black attaché, and a long instrument box that kept bumping against the driver’s leg.
Taara and her setar!
Taara
I could not move. People passed me in a rush and the Northline panted heavily, ready to depart. I stood in the chaos of the crowd and the rising dust. Taara wore a shapeless brown maternity dress and her dark golden hair flowed like waves of honey behind her back. I looked at the way she hugged her setar, resting its belly on her own, forming two round hills. My eyes burned. The Northline was full and ready to take off. But now Taara entered the building and I had one second to decide: Should I ignore my sister and travel to the north where a kind family waited for me, or join Taara and stay with her, no matter what her plans were?
But what were Taara’s plans? Where was she going? To Drum Tower? Didn’t she know what had happened to our house? Or maybe she didn’t know where to go—maybe she hadn’t been able to gather her thoughts. What if she needed me? I heard the last announcement for the Northline and the driver honked as if to alarm me. A strong wind rushed through my head and I ran toward the building before Taara went through the other door.
“Taara!”
She turned quickly, but didn’t find anyone she knew. She resumed walking toward the exit.
“Taara, it’s me!” She turned again. I pulled the veil down and smiled at her. She looked at me absently for a long moment, then tears filled her eyes. I fell into her open arms and pressed myself to the two mounds—her warm, hard belly and the setar’s wooden head. Weak and shaky, we sat on the closest bench and let all the buses, people, and noise fade and vanish.
Taara didn’t have any intention of going home. She was looking for the Simorgh and she was sure that the bird wouldn’t nest in Drum Tower.
“The bird lands in a pure place, where there is no crime and corruption. Baba-Ji wasted his life, looking for the Simorgh in a war tower,” she said. “The Simorgh is the bird of peace, the bird of knowledge. Why didn’t Baba think of this, it’s so obvious?” She told me that she had dreamt that the Simorgh resided on top of the Black Mountain of Azerbaijan, where Baba-Ji was from.
“In my dream, the bird told me, ‘Your grandfather was where I was, but he moved to where I was not—’ So I went all the way to that part of the country alone, to find Baba’s relatives, to stay with them for a while, just to find the bird. I went to Ahar, a small town at the foot of the Black Mountain.”
“I know, Taara. I read your letter.”
“Oh, you did? So you know.”
But like people who mutter in their sleep, she told me the whole story again with half-closed eyes. Her voice was dreamy, as if her journey to Ahar in search of the bird had happened in a delirium.
Now she opened her eyes wider to see me better; she held my hand, squeezed it, and for the first time asked me what I was doing with an old woman’s chador in the bus station. When I told her my story—from when she left nine months ago and I let her go in that busy intersection, to the moment Farid brought me here on his motor bike—her golden eyes opened with wonder.
“Nothing happens for many, many years,” she said in the same delirious voice, “then all of a sudden everything happens.” She paused for a while, thought hard and asked, “So, Assad is not Baba-Ji’s son?”
“No. He’s Khanum-Jaan’s half-brother, Grandpa Vazir’s illegitimate son, Daaye’s grandson.”
“Still a bastard!” she said this from between her teeth. “He hurt you!” She held my hands and caressed them as if making up for all the caresses I’d missed.
“He says he loves me.”
“He loves himself, Talkhoon” she said. “And Khanum—just imagine, she’d kept this secret from everyone.”
“After Assad’s mother, who was Daaye’s daughter, drowned herself in the water storage, Khanum buried her body under the tower.”
“Where? Where under the tower?” she asked, as if it mattered.
“I guess in that empty space between Baba’s dryandra tree and the tower. You remember that patch of dirt where a honeysuckle grew at its left side?”
“How do you know?”
“I read Khanum-Jaan’s letters.”
“Oh, yes, you told me.” She paused and thought some more. “I can’t believe it. So Assad is the real heir to the crown.”
“He took what belonged to him before he knew he was Grandpa Vazir’s son.”
“Thief!” Taara said from between her teeth. “He lied to me. He didn’t have any plan to cancel my engagement party. He tricked me.” She said this, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the wall. Her white, graceful hands rested on top of her belly.
To have such a big mound in the middle of her body and look so beautiful.
“Taara!”
“Hmm—”
“Where were you going?”
“To find her—”
“Who?”
“The bird.”
“Don’t joke, Taara. Please! In few hours it will be dark. There will be a curfew. We have to think where to go.”
“I’m not joking, Talkhoon. I didn’t just dream of her, I saw her. No, I didn’t see her, I saw her shadow and heard the flap, flap, flap of the wings—long wings, and not just a pair, but two pairs, one pair hard like an eagle’s, but ten times bigger, the other pair soft and flowing, twisting down to the ground like a rainbow of feathers waving in the wind.”
She didn’t say any more and I let the silence fall between us. It wasn’t easy to extract words from her. She wasn’t feeling well. What if the baby was coming? A sharp pain moved down my spine. Taara was helpless, and no one was around but me. The burden bent my back.
“Taara, when is the baby due?”
“Whenever I find the bird. I’m going to give my baby to her, to raise her like Prince Zaal. I want the Simorgh to raise my baby.”
I ignored her and said, “I know that in some cases the baby comes sooner than expected—doesn’t it? What if it comes sooner?”
“It won’t. I’ll tell her not to.” She said this and raised her head, looking at me. “Here, give me your hand.”
When she placed my left hand on the side of her belly, a lump suddenly grew under my palm and moved playfully. My heart sank.
“The baby—”
“It’s her foot. It’s kicking!”
“Taara, are you all right?”
“I’m weak. I haven’t eaten anything for a long time.”
“Let’s go out and eat.”
“Then what?”
“Then?”
“After eating—”
We sat and thought for a while. The clock on the wall showed ten minutes to three.
“Let’s go to the sea, to the teacher’s sister. They don’t mind if you join me. We’ll stay there until things calm down here.”
“No, Talkhoon, things won’t calm down until she arrives.”
“Taara, the Simorgh is in Baba-Ji’s book,” I said impatiently.
“All our grandfather tried to say was that the bird is real.”
“How do you know? He didn’t finish the book, Taara—”
“I know. I copied the whole damned thing with my own hand. I know some passages from memory. ‘Aepyornis maximus was a gigantic bird whose bones and fossilized eggs were discovered on the island of Madagascar. This sixteen-foot-tall bird is the same as the Rukh of The Arabian Nights. Sindbad used his turban to tie himself to a talon of the gigantic bird—.’”
“Taara—the guards might come here again and find me. We have to get out of Tehran. It’s dangerous here.”
“But how?”
“Do you remember what Father said about our
uncle on the eastern border?”
“Our mother’s brother, who lives with the tribesmen?”
“The Baluchi tribe is on the eastern border. Our uncle can help us.”
“But we don’t even know him,” she said.
“It’s not so hard to find people in small towns. We know our mother’s last name.”
“What is it?”
“Pardis.”
“Maybe the guy, our uncle, has changed his name,” Taara said.
“Even if he has, we can mention our father who lived with him not long ago. People in small towns don’t forget visitors.”
“Maybe Father is still there.”
“No. Father is here, doing his own revolution. Assad saw him a few days ago in a demonstration. We have to leave this city—even the country, Taara. Our uncle can help us cross the border.”
“Tribes live in tents,” she said, and closed her eyes. “I can’t give birth to my baby in a tent where native women with their dirty hands deliver—”
“Where else can we go, Taara? Do you want to go to the aunties, where Khanum is?”
“With you?”
“No. I can’t go back. Assad will get me. He wants to marry me.”
“For God’s sake, Talkhoon. Stop this nonsense! Why are you weaving these horrible stories together?”
“Weaving? So you really didn’t believe me when I said he stole a wedding gown and sewed the hem every night?”
She didn’t answer, but wiped her tears and murmured, “I’m tired. I’m tired and hungry. Confused. And someone kicks me from inside.”
“Then let me decide.”
“Decide, Talkhoon, decide—I can’t.”
Taara’s baby had filled her whole body and her head was full of cries. She had suffered. Whatever I’d decide, she’d do. I had a few seconds to choose between the north and the east. I went to the counter. A sleepy old man sat inside the booth. Soon several people formed a line behind me and I was pressured to decide.
“Excuse me. I was late—my bus left. Can I still use this ticket?”
He looked at the ticket and said, “The next Northline will leave at seven.”
I could have bought another one for Taara, but I asked, “Can I exchange it for one on the Eastline?”
“Why not? But the Eastline leaves late—at ten.”
“I need two for the east, please. How much do I have to pay for the second ticket?”
I took some money out of the teacher’s small purse, paid, and returned. We were going to the eastern border to find our unknown uncle. He’d help us leave the country.
In the Basement Restaurant
After eating platefuls of rice and Kabob in a dim basement restaurant smelling of cold grease and damp towel, we chatted the way we used to in the old days. The yogurt drink we had with the meal was a tranquilizer, and we yawned, wiped our wet eyes, and spoke sluggishly. Taara lit a cigarette (she didn’t smoke before), blew the smoke away from my face and murmured sleepily, “Mother didn’t drown herself in the water storage. I don’t believe this. She didn’t have any reason to kill herself.”
“She heard voices, Taara. The house talked to her. She wanted to move out, but Father couldn’t leave his mother.”
“Nonsense!” Taara said with Khanum-Jaan’s tone. “It’s all his work.”
“Whose?”
“Assad’s.”
“But why? He loved her.”
“Don’t call it love. He was hopelessly lusting after her. It was an impossible and ridiculous desire and everyone knew it.”
“How do you know everybody knew it?”
“Khanum told me, once. She said, ‘This crazy Assad was in love with your mother. He followed her in the dark streets where she met her lovers.’”
“Taara! What are you talking about?”
“It’s common knowledge, my dear. Our mother sneaked out of the house whenever she could. Khanum said, ‘She itched for men!’”
“How dare you repeat Khanum-Jaan’s words! How can you believe someone who hated our mother and made her miserable. It was Khanum who pushed her to suicide.”
“Hey, why do you get so upset when you hear our mother had lovers? Does this make her a bad person in your mind?”
“It makes her a bad mother,” I said, trying to be calm. “I saw a mother yesterday, Taara. Her little girl was in her arms. She rocked her and stroked her hair for a long time to get her to go to sleep. Do you have any such memory of our mother?”
“I still remember something—she hugged me once when I was two and squeezed me so hard that my bones almost broke. Maybe this was the last time—”
“But she didn’t even give me that one hug. She left when I was three days old. Assad hugged me, instead. He raised me.”
“Nonsense!”
“Who raised me, then?”
“No one!” Taara said, and broke into wild laughter. Fortunately the restaurant was empty and the only person who heard her was the mustachioed waiter who cleaned the tables and watched us from beneath his eyelids. “I’m sorry,” she said, and dried her eyes. “It’s cruel, I know. But it’s true. No one raised you, Talkhoon. You just grew up like a weed. Khanum loved only me—played with my hair all the time and put ribbons in it. Your hair was never combed. No one even bathed you regularly.”
“Baba-Ji loved me.”
“But he didn’t wash you or feed you. Never tucked you in bed. Now that I think about it, I realize that I never saw Baba-Ji doing anything that was not related to the Simorgh book! Did you ever see him doing anything else, or talking about anything but the bird?”
“He did some gardening. He had an herb bed.”
“But that was related to the Simorgh too.”
“Taara.”
“What?”
“Do you know why they didn’t raise me? Because I’m not our father’s child.”
“Nonsense!”
“That’s the reason Khanum-Jaan treated me differently.”
“No, that is not the reason. Do you know what the reason is?”
“What?”
“You looked like our mother and Khanum hated her.”
“But if Mother didn’t sleep with Father and had many lovers, as you say, then it’s very possible—”
“Shut up, Talkhoon!”
“Assad wants to marry me because he is sure I’m not related to him. He is absolutely sure. You know how religious he is!”
“Assad is religious? What a big lie!”
“Oh, yes. You don’t know him. You don’t know how he prays and whispers stuff to his Allah and rinses his mouth and fasts till he collapses.”
“Assad the alcoholic?” Taara asked. “He is faking the whole thing, Talkhoon. He wants to get somewhere in this regime.”
“He has. He is the head of Revolutionary Committee Number One!”
Taara laughed. “What a title. He is a war vizier!”
“He is, Taara! He has turned our house into a barracks!”
“Bastard!”
“We have to go now. Let’s go, Taara! The longer we stay in the city, the more we’re in danger. He can send one hundred men, even more, to search for me.”
“Our bus leaves at ten. It’s only five. Let’s go to the movies to kill time. No one will find us there,” Taara suggested.
The Knapsack
Even in this busy, central street, the honeysuckle perfumed the sidewalk and clusters of purple jasmine hung over the tall walls of old gardens. These were the scents of Norooz, only two days away, mixed with the aroma of snacks sold by vendors on their moveable tables—fresh walnuts, roasted beets, grilled liver and heart of lamb. Small boys fanned ears of corn on burning coals and called out in their thin voices, “Roasted corn, soft and salty—buy before it’s cold!” Then other vendors in competition advertised their own products with louder chants.
“Grilled liver and heart, I have—stop and have a bite!”
“Fresh, salted walnuts! Buy a bag, get another for free!”
It was
a festive holiday, Sacrifice Day, the day of killing lambs, cows, turkeys, or chickens—according to one’s class—roasting and eating them, celebrating the end of the fasting month. This afternoon there were more people in the street, trying to enjoy their freedom, before the curfew sent them back inside their dark houses.
Taara and I, as carefree as schoolgirls, found our way through the crowd, chatting nonstop. We’d left her heavy handbag and the black attaché at the bus station, and the only thing we carried was the setar which I hid under my chador. I told Taara what Assad had said about the Brothers smashing music instruments.
Letting the heavy veil slip on my shoulders, I told Taara more about my past year’s adventures. I told her how Assad ran toward the tower, lamer than ever (because I had kicked him at the water storage), pleading with me not to kill myself. Now I imitated the way Assad limped and shouted, “Talkhoon, I love you!”
Taara held her belly and laughed. When we resumed walking toward the theater, I limped on purpose, and made the lek, lek, lek sound with my shoes, repeating, “I love you, baby. I love you, bitter herb,” to entertain her.
Spending time with my sister in that sunny street, I found a joker in myself. I could make her laugh. I could take any incident, a sad one or an absurd one, and make it into something hilarious. This comic side of myself had been unknown even to me. Now Taara laughed so much that she needed to rest on the stone steps of a shop.
“Stop now!” she said, wiping her tears. “They say if you laugh too much, you’ll end up crying afterwards!”
A long line extended and curved along the wall of the theater and behind the building. Taara planted me at the end of the line and went to buy a pair of black shoes from a vendor. She threw her old pair, which didn’t look old at all, in a garbage bin. Then she bought a pair of sunglasses, put them on, and looked at herself in the vendor’s small mirror. From a distance, I looked at my sister with disbelief. I should have been on the bus, heading toward the sea. A few hours later the teacher would call her sister’s house to talk to me. Farid would want to talk too. My heart sank and I felt a hollow space in my chest. What had happened? Why was I in this line to get tickets for a movie? And was this my sister Taara, buying ice-cream sandwiches from another vendor?
The Drum Tower Page 23