The Drum Tower

by Farnoosh Moshiri

  When I heard a tall iron wall collapsing somewhere, I came to myself. “Explosion!” someone said. “It’s in the south,” another man said. We all turned and looked toward the south. A cloud of greasy smoke rose from behind the tall buildings. In a minute, helicopters began circling over us. It was chaos now and people ran toward the south as if they could do something. The carefree holiday afternoon had changed into a violent scene. Tanks appeared out of nowhere and a group of fifty or more black-shirted, bearded Brothers hit their chests, screaming slogans familiar to my ears, “One party, Party of God. One leader, chosen by God!”

  Taara stood close to me, holding my hand. Her ice cream melted, running down. She wasn’t happy anymore and looked around in confusion.

  At the box office when she opened her handbag, I saw a thick stack of green hundreds rolled and stuffed in her small change purse. She pulled one out. When she noticed my gaze, she said:

  “I worked all of last year.”

  “Where?”

  “Around here. In this area. I taught music. Setar mainly. Sometimes guitar.”

  “Vahid didn’t work?” This was the first time I’d mentioned him. I regretted it immediately.

  “No, he didn’t,” she said. Now she corrected herself and added, “He couldn’t.”

  The movie was about a dolphin that had feelings like a human and could even talk. The mean guys wanted to kill him. The dolphin cried like a baby. Someone, a woman in our row, wept.

  “Do you remember chapter three of Baba’s book?” Taara whispered in my ear.

  “No,” I said.

  “He mentions dolphins. There is a list of intelligent animals in the chapter.”

  I thought that the moment we got to the first comfortable place, I’d take Baba’s manuscript out and find the passage. Now I touched my chest to feel the manuscript and my heart almost stopped. I wasn’t wearing the knapsack. For how long had I not been wearing it? When I reviewed what I’d done today, every pulse in my body slowed. I remembered that this morning I had changed into Minoo’s summer dress. I must have forgotten to put on the knapsack. So it was still hanging behind her door.

  I had lost the handwritten draft—the only draft—of my grandfather’s bird book, the pages that contained his entire life. Now I remembered that Father’s poem and the document of the house were in the bag too.

  “Taara!” I whispered. “We have to leave this minute!”

  “But why? I like this movie!”

  “Come out, I’ll tell you everything.”

  People complained and some cursed us when we stepped on their feet or tried to keep the setar above our heads, and banged it on theirs. Outside, in the lobby, I told Taara about the knapsack. I was surprised that all the while I’d been telling Taara different stories of the past year, I’d missed this one story—how I’d used her turquoise dress and Mother’s sapphire gown to make this knapsack to carry Baba-Ji’s manuscript under my shirt.

  “You took Baba-Ji’s original manuscript with you?” She was overjoyed.

  “Yes, but I lost it. Stupid, damned, dumb imbecile that I am.”

  “But it’s not lost. It’s in your friend’s room. Let’s go and get it.”

  “But I can’t go there again. I’ve placed them in so much danger helping me, and now I’m still in Tehran.”

  “When they see me they’ll understand everything. Come on, let’s get a taxi. It’s only six-thirty.”

  In the taxi, Taara talked excitedly. She said that having Baba’s manuscript would change everything. It would definitely help us to find the Simorgh. She said in some chapters there were specific signs as to where and when the bird would appear. She thought that leaving the country from the eastern border would make it possible for us to go to India and live there. She said she was sure that Garuda, the flute-beaked Indian Simorgh, could be found there. She didn’t make much sense and again all she said sounded like feverish delirium. She was dreaming aloud. But I couldn’t ask her anything. I was anxious about seeing the family and Farid again.

  From the taxi’s dirty windshield I saw how the darkening city changed shape. Within an hour the peaceful, festive afternoon had turned into menacing night. Now darkness added to the horror. Piles of burning tires flamed here and there, and people ran, shouting slogans or screaming for help. The rattle of machine guns came from the distance and the crack of dynamite or bullet broke the peace. Five blocks away from the movie theater a massive explosion shook the ground and traffic stopped. People got out of their cars to see what had happened. We saw tall flames rising to the sky. When the driver came back, he said, “They blew up the theater! People are trapped inside, burning alive!” Taara closed her eyes and held my hand. Her fingers were icicles.

  The taxi and a thousand other cars had stopped. There was no way to move on. The driver told us to get out and walk. He said traffic wouldn’t move for hours. “Women should go home now,” he advised. We got out and looked around. It was a long way to the teacher’s house and an even longer distance to the bus station. So we began to walk in the chaos on the sidewalk towards the College Intersection—toward the walls of Drum Tower.

  “Let’s take the back alleys, Taara. There are too many Guards here and I can’t walk well with this chador on top of my head. In the alley I can take it off.”

  She didn’t say anything, just followed me across the street where we zigzagged through the parked cars and sought refuge in a back alley. Now I took off the veil, folded it, and dropped it on my shoulder like a shawl. I took the setar and let Taara walk freely. But she walked slowly and the teacher’s house was at the end of the alley, at least two kilometers away. It would take us a long time to get there. Taara’s watch showed seven-thirty—we were two and a half hours away from the curfew and the departure of our bus.

  Finally I suggested that Taara should sit somewhere and wait for me. Without her I could run, get there in few minutes, pick up my knapsack, and return. But where could she sit? This was a narrow alley onto which the back doors of shops opened. No one was around to help us, to take her in. We walked another block until we reached a small, dingy shop—a smelly, neighborhood deli selling old feta cheese swimming in a jar of gray water, dried rolls of salami, and stale bread. The whole store could accommodate two people standing in front of the counter.

  An old Armenian, with shabby gray hair and long, fuzzy whiskers said in a thick accent, “We’re closing.”

  I pointed at Taara’s belly and told him she couldn’t walk anymore. I had to find a taxi. I pleaded with him to keep her inside until I came back. Through a door the height of a child he went to a place in the back, bending so as not to knock his head against the frame. We waited for more than five minutes, inhaling the sharp odor of pickled cucumbers and sour yogurt. Taara was nauseated and her face had become gray like the block of feta cheese floating in the murky salt water. I looked around—there wasn’t even a stool or a stone step for her to sit on. At last, the shabby man came out and a chubby, middle-aged woman followed him. The traditional Armenian chignon was coiled behind her neck like a snake. She told Taara she could go inside and rest until the taxi arrived. We thanked the old couple. I handed the folded chador to Taara and waited for her to pass through the small door beyond which nothing was visible. Then I stepped into the alley and began to walk fast, thankful that Minoo had given me a pair of canvas shoes, not something with straps or high heels. I was alone, I was unburdened, and I felt strangely light. I ran into the darkness, penetrating the thick wall of the night.

  Night in the Vacant House

  Farid’s motorcycle lay on the sidewalk like a dead corpse, its front mirror shattered. I looked for a bell, didn’t find one, so I knocked with the brass paw, but the door opened by itself. Hesitant to raise my voice to call the family, I stepped into the darkness and ran my hand along the wall. I found the switch and turned it on. A yellow bulb lit the living room, the same room in which I’d eaten two meals with the family. The table, the old sofa, and the six wooden chairs wer
e broken, the boxes they had packed for moving were open, odd objects scattered around. In the teacher’s room, the desk had been tipped over and all the drawers opened. Papers, leaflets, books and clothes were strewn everywhere. I ran to Minoo’s room and turned on the light. The same chaos. I looked behind the door—my shirt and pants still hung on the hook and my knapsack was under the shirt. I unzipped it—everything was there. The guards had not looked behind the door.

  Now I took off the summer dress and put the knapsack against my bare chest. I thought I’d be safer looking like a boy, so I put on my cotton shirt and slipped into my pants. Both pockets were heavy. I found the flashlight and Assad’s handgun in them. How could I ever forget this gun? What an imbecile I was. How could I survive with such a numb mind?

  In the corridor I saw the great grandmother’s white scarf on the floor. I remembered how this morning a light breeze had lifted its corners and the ancient woman had looked like an angel.

  Next to Minoo’s room was another door. I entered and turned on the light. The first thing I noticed was Farid’s black cap on the floor. The room was an earthquake scene. They had broken his desk into pieces. I picked up the cap and found a wallet under it. It was empty, except for a motorcycle license with Farid’s picture. I learned the family’s last name: Royaie, meaning “from the dream.” Had they been real, or images of a dream?

  I put the wallet in my pocket, placed Farid’s hat on my head, and left the house. Outside, in front of the door, I panicked. What if I was being watched? I stood in the dark and checked either side. A couple of yellowish bulbs on top of the posts poured dim light into the dark alley. Only when I shut the door behind me did I realize I shouldn’t have closed it. It had been open before. And I had left all the lights on. There was no way to undo what I’d done, so I ran toward the Armenian deli, the knapsack hopping on my chest. I wasn’t light and free anymore and the old wind howled in my head.

  I couldn’t think coherently while I was running—only fragments of thoughts dashed through my mind. I should have taken Taara’s change purse from her. What if the old couple robbed her? Carrying all that money and stepping through a short door, entering an unknown place? I kept looking back to see if anyone followed me. I was out of breath and couldn’t run anymore. A sharp pain knifed into the lower side of my belly. As I slowed down, I became aware of time. Was it nine? Could we find a taxi and get to the bus station by ten? Hadn’t I told the Armenian man that I was going to find a taxi? Maybe I should find one first, then get Taara. She couldn’t walk. We would be left in the streets and the curfew would begin. The guards would arrest us and send us to the closest jail—Drum Tower.

  Fear is the brother of death . . . fear is the brother of death— I repeated Baba-Ji’s old mantra and ran. It had been a mistake to go for the knapsack. It had been a mistake to waste the time. We could be sitting in the bus station now, waiting for our bus. But the manuscript—oh, how I hated it. I hated the bird and the book.

  I burst into tears and slowed down again. I had cursed Baba-Ji’s book, his breath and blood, the years of his life. Baba— I whispered and walked, weeping and panting. Baba-Ji, are you alive? Are your eyes open? Is Assad feeding you?

  I cried like a lost child and forced myself to run again. The damned alley seemed much longer than before, as if its length had expanded. At last, I reached the deli and found its double wooden door closed, a big lock hanging on it. I could run to the street, find a taxi and bring it here, or I could find a way into the deli, get Taara, and walk with her to the street. This was the hardest decision of the whole day. My brain was tired and I couldn’t weigh the advantages and disadvantages of each option. Oh, how badly I wanted to take a warm shower and go to bed.

  I had to get Taara first. What if they had taken her to a hospital? What a mistake to separate from each other. I muttered all of this to myself and walked crazily in front of the shabby shop, trying to find another entrance. There was none. On the left, an old vacant house with broken windows sat in darkness, stray cats screaming inside. On the right, a soot-covered, four-story apartment building stood in absolute silence. I pressed the button for the first floor, and waited. Now I rang all eight bells, two apartments on each floor, but no door or window opened. I looked up—all the rooms were dark. The building was vacant. I paced up and down the sidewalk, looked at the closed deli, kicked and banged on the door and showered it with stones. But no one opened it. Time passed with the speed of light. In the distance, traffic on the main street was thinning. It was close to curfew and I stood in this vacant alley, not far from Drum Tower. Had I ever visited a family in this alley? Had I ever found Taara? Or was this whole day a long dream, confused visions in a distant mirage?

  I went to the dark, vacant house and sat in a broken plastic chair on the porch. A dusty fig tree with branches extending from either side concealed the porch from the alley. I could see small green figs among the leaves. Where would I be in a month or two, when these figs ripened into juicy, golden fruit?

  Soon I realized that this house had sheltered homeless people before the revolution. Empty beer bottles and cigarette butts were scattered around and cats screamed in the dark rooms, mating or fighting. Once, when they were quiet, I heard shouting. It was a familiar cry, something like, “Boorrr!” The blood almost froze in my body. Did I imagine it or was it Boor-boor crying a few blocks away to inform Assad that I was nearby? I was going mad now. Wasn’t I the crazy Talkhoon, after all? The fool, the runaway, the wind-headed girl? Why did I ever think that I was sane or smart?

  I held the gun with both hands and aimed at the fig tree’s dark shadow on the asphalt. I kept holding it until my heartbeat slowed and the winds in my head settled into a breeze. I would have to spend the whole night in this broken chair until, early in the morning, the old Armenian opened his smelly shop. Then Taara would bend her big body and step out of that short, wooden door and we’d go to the bus station and change our tickets again. We’d travel to the eastern border where our uncle would help us leave the country.

  I repeated this hopeful scenario in my head in a state between sleep and wakefulness. This one night—one night among wild alley cats in this filthy place—wouldn’t kill me. I pulled the hat down over my brow and leaned my head against the metal frame of the chair. With the gun pressed against my chest, I fell asleep.

  Sometime in the middle of the night the groan of a jeep and a blinding light woke me. Through the branches of the fig tree I saw it crawling through the alley. One Brother with a flashlight searched the houses on the right side and another threw his beam on the left side. I thought about creeping into the house, but I couldn’t move. The column of light was on the fig tree. Could they see me? I aimed the gun at the shadows of the tree.

  Now a dog barked and I thought everything was over. I thought they’d brought Jangi to find me. If I hadn’t been so stupid as to change into my own clothes, I might have survived. I thought that in a minute or less I’d be in my basement room and Taara and the baby inside her would be buried somewhere near here, in a hidden hole on the other side of a short door at the end of a dingy shop.

  But the dog was not Jangi and the bark was not for me; it was for the gang of cats inside the house. When the jeep passed, the dog ran toward the house and cats flew from every direction and leaped into the darkness, crying jungle cries. The stray dog stood in front of me, panting. His thick slobber hung from the sides of his wide mouth. I didn’t move. After the panic of seeing the jeep, after the flight of the cats above my head, this miserable, undernourished dog couldn’t scare me. I assumed the pose of a statue and the dog, which suddenly seemed exhausted, fell flat on the floor and slept next to my feet. Dogs liked me.

  Close to dawn, I heard Taara’s setar. Her songs penetrated soot-covered brick walls to reach me. How could she play so late, or so early? Were the Armenians awake? She played and I felt the lightness I’d lost last night. The dog snored, Taara played her melodies, and I smiled and waited for the dawn. Happy to be awake a
nd out of the darkness, I waited for the old man to open his shop.

  “Where is my sister?” I asked, pressing the gun in my pocket.

  “Is it you?” the Armenian asked. “You’ve changed.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “In that vacant house, all night—because I couldn’t find a way in.”

  The old man burst into laughter, showing two rows of tar-stained teeth. Then he coughed and spat somewhere behind the counter. All the while, he weighed a yellowish piece of cheese on a small brass scale, picking it up and putting it down with his nicotine-stained fingers. Someone was in the shop, standing behind me, waiting for his cheese. He was a sleepy house servant, a boy my age.

  “You should’ve gone to the other alley, the one parallel to this. That’s where the door of my house is.”

  I was puzzled.

  “Come, come, lower your head and come in. Be careful, don’t knock your forehead on the top.”

  The shabby man was in a better mood early in the morning. He let me through that ominous door and, without telling me where to go, closed it behind me. I was in a shady yard, square and small, but full of trees. Old metal tables and chairs sat rusting under the trees. The plastic, red-and-white-checked tablecloths had lost their gloss. This had been a café.