“Oh, with pleasure. I don’t really see many city people here. You guys are very welcome. Hey, why don’t you take off your dusty cap?” she told me. Air your head a little!
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Keeping your sister company all the time, eh?” she said while pouring tea into small, narrow-waisted glasses. “What is your name, by the way?”
“Farid.”
Taara pierced me with her eyes.
“And you?”
“Taara.”
“Where is your husband, Taara?” She asked what she was dying to know.
“He’s dead.”
Now I gave Taara a burning look. She smiled, winking. This was a lying contest.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mehri said. “It must have happened just recently, a few months ago, maybe,” she pointed to Taara’s belly.
“Very recently. Did you hear about that movie theater that was bombed in Tehran?”
“No. I don’t read the newspapers. Was your husband . . .?”
“Yes,” Taara said, and bent her head.
“Horrible! Horrible!” She said this and slid the tray of tea toward us. “Have some tea. You’re tired. It’s refreshing. So horrible,” she said, and left the room.
When I came back from the outhouse, which was just a bit cleaner than the ones on the road, Master Memaar was spreading a long, rectangular tablecloth in the middle of the room. Mehri kept bringing different dishes of appetizers—fresh herbs, garlic pickles, yogurt and spinach, four-seasons salad, olives, sliced lime. It was obvious that this amount of food was meant for more people. At the end, she brought some candles and a shaving mirror and planted them in the middle of the cloth, saying that these were the only items she had for the Norooz decorations. We should at least light some candles.
I sat next to Taara and looked at the cheap candles that burned fast and made a whizzing sound. In a minute three men entered, nodding politely. They sat at the other side of the tablecloth. Two of them were in some kind of native clothes—baggy pants, embroidered vests, and dark turbans, an extension of which hung on their shoulders. One man was in a regular gray suit, but wore no tie. He was middle-aged and avoided eye contact.
“These are our guests,” Memaar said, “Mr. Amaani is from Tehran, too. And these brothers are our Baluchi friends, Safdar and Samandar.” He introduced us to the men and added that there was another gentleman who stayed upstairs, resting.
“We eat together every night,” Mehri said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Otherwise it feels so lonely. We’re all foreigners here, so to speak; it’s better to keep each other company. I hope you don’t mind?” She said this to Taara.
“Oh, no. I’m so grateful for the food,” Taara said, and ate greedily.
“Enjoy it!” the house builder, said. “Eat as much as you can. There is more in the kitchen. As you can see, they don’t make bad kebobs in our desert, do they?”
Now he poured vodka into small tea glasses for everyone and passed them around. Mehri asked Taara if she drank. Taara said she did, and with a quick jerk of her head, emptied the vodka into her mouth. The men noticed, bent their heads, and pretended they hadn’t seen her.
Mehri poured some Pepsi for me without asking what I liked to drink. The men began a broken conversation. It was about the latest news in Tehran. The bombings, assassinations, resignations. Master Memaar and the older Baluchi man talked more than the others. The younger Baluchi gazed at Taara and ate slowly, barely looking at his food. Mr. Amaani, the Tehrani man, was silent.
After dinner, everyone, including Mehri and Taara, smoked cigarettes, drank vodka, and talked about the desert weather. Taara’s cheeks were pink and her irises danced playfully. I wanted to talk to her, to urge her not to drink any more, but I couldn’t even whisper to her. Five pairs of eyes stared at us—at her. Taara took her setar out of the box and began to play.
When the house builder’s wife started to clean up, I got up to help her. In and out of the room, I saw Taara playing, her eyes half-closed and the dark-eyed Baluchi, the younger one, staring at her, mesmerized. Whenever Taara came back from where the music had taken her, she opened her drunken eyes and responded to the young man’s gaze with a faint smile.
I was the only person in the room without alcohol in my blood, but I was the most confused. I had lost the sense of time and place, and wasn’t sure what exactly had happened that I was here and not somewhere else. I remembered the town’s intersection—the four streets extending from the only square—and I wondered where we would be now if we’d taken another street and another car had stopped for us? All this and Taara’s music, which crept into my soul and summoned all the ghosts of the past, disoriented me such that the old winds in my head whistled once again.
The moment I sat down, my eyelids felt like iron curtains and closed shut. When I heard the young Baluch’s voice rising, I tried to look at him, but instead drifted on the slippery surface of the yellow desert tides. Was Samandar singing along with Taara, or was I dreaming? I fell into a dark abyss and didn’t hear, see, or smell a thing.
A Nightmare
I woke up with the unmistakable shriek of the old parrot shouting, “Boorrr!” The scream came from somewhere above my head and not far away. I sat up, my blood cold, my pulse slowing to a near stop. The room was dark, except for a faint red light penetrating the holes of the kerosene heater. When my eyes became used to the darkness, I saw Taara’s body next to mine. We were each on a single mattress, under goose-feathered quilts. Who had put me to bed? I tried to see the rest of the room. Someone slept on the other side, close to the door. It was the house builder’s wife.
I sat for a while, holding my breath. I thought I heard the flapping of wet wings, a bird trying to dry itself. I shook Taara; she half opened her eyes.
“What?”
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Boor-boor.”
“Who?” she asked again, her eyes wide open now.
“The parrot. I heard her screaming. Assad must be here.”
She sat up, looking at me. In the faint red light of the heater she looked unreal, a creature of imagination. Her hair was all around her, as if on flames.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I woke up with Boor-boor’s shriek—”
“You were dreaming, Talkhoon. How can Assad be here? Use your head!”
We sat and listened. The house builder’s wife began a rhythmic snore. We listened to it for a while, then we heard men’s voices behind our window. Someone struck a match. Taara said, “Sleep now.”
“Who put me on this mattress?”
“Mehri did. They wanted you to sleep in the men’s room. I told them not to bother you.”
“Why is she sleeping here?”
“I guess all the men sleep in the other room. She doesn’t sleep with her husband.”
“Strange.”
“I know.”
“That boy sang. Didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Samandar. He has such a warm voice—and hot eyes!”
“Taara!”
“What?”
“How is the baby?”
“Kicking all right.”
“Regular kicking?”
“The same old kicking.”
“Did you ask Master Memaar about our uncle?”
“Yes. He doesn’t know him.”
“Then what are we doing here in the middle of nowhere?”
“He said he’ll inquire.”
“But didn’t he say he knew everybody? Our uncle has lived in this area all his life. Our father visited him not long ago.”
“Maybe our uncle has changed his name. If he has, then there is no way to find him. We’re in the desert. They don’t have a newspaper here to put an ad in.”
“What are we supposed to do now?”
“Let’s wait till Memaar inquires. It’s not such a bad place here, after all. They’re nice people.”
“Who are al
l these men out there?”
“How do I know, Talkhoon?”
“Who are Safdar and Samandar?”
“Safdar is a real Baluch, but his brother is just visiting him. He is from Tehran. He is a mechanic.”
“That’s what he told you?”
“We talked a little. He works as a mechanic and goes to night college. He’s wearing Baluchi clothes because he’s visiting his tribe.”
“And what is his brother doing in the house builder’s house?”
“Shut up, Talkhoon! You wake me up in the middle of the night to ask stupid questions? I want to get some sleep now.” She lay down, turned her back to me and pulled the quilt over her head.
“Taara!”
“Now what?” She uncovered her head.
“Where would we be if in that intersection we’d stood on the other side?”
“Where would we be if you hadn’t stayed at your friends’ house that night and we’d come to Zabol one day earlier?”
“Where would I be if I hadn’t seen you in the bus station the day before?”
“Where would I be if I hadn’t met Vahid at all?”
“You’d be General Nezam-El-Deen’s daughter-in law.”
“Oh, yes.”
“They killed him.”
“The old General?”
“Yes. They pulled him out of his car and shot him.”
“Where is the boy with the big nose—my fiancé?”
“Who knows? Maybe arrested. You’d be in prison too.”
“So things didn’t turn out that bad, Talkhoon. We’re together and we’re safe now. Either we’ll find our uncle here or we’ll return to Tehran.”
“What a bright future!”
“Shut up now! I thought you were tough!”
The rest of the night I lay on my back, listening. I didn’t hear the bird’s scream or the flapping of her wet wings any more. But I heard the men outside in the dark courtyard, speaking in whispers. They struck matches and poured something into glasses. A while later I smelled a bittersweet odor, so strong that it nauseated me. Taara raised her head and murmured, “I know this smell. Opium.”
Bathing
When the buckets of warm water were ready, Mehri and I carried them to the bathhouse. The morning heat was intense and we had to walk a long way under the blazing sun. Mehri walked in front of me, her wide transparent pajama pants showing her legs and the shadow of her dark panties. As a top she wore a tight, sleeveless shirt—red again—and her braless breasts hopped with each step.
Now that she had washed off all her make-up, she looked older. She hadn’t brushed her hair either, and her sticky, disheveled curls stood up on her head. She said she had a bad headache; I thought it was a hangover. But in spite of the heat and the headache, she carried the heavy buckets for Taara all the way to the bathhouse.
The bathhouse was a spacious, windowless room with a couple of cement platforms in the middle facing a small, empty pool. A round hole the size of a serving plate was on the ceiling. A column of light entered through it, lit the floor, and created a spotlight. Taara was in the middle of this spotlight, getting undressed. Her naked belly was huge and unreal, her breasts swollen, her dark nipples like ripened figs.
“Hey, boy, get out of here!” Mehri pushed me out. “Do you always look at your sister?”
I had forgotten I was a boy. Taara covered her breasts and I left the bathhouse.
“Let’s go and warm up some water for you,” Mehri said. “Two will be enough. You’re little and you don’t have much hair.”
In the kitchen, she asked all of a sudden, “Now tell me, sugar, what are you guys doing here, huh?”
“We’re looking for our uncle.”
“Why are you looking for an uncle you don’t even know?”
“We need his help.” This honest answer popped out of my mouth and surprised me. It was too late to take it back.
“You guys are planning to cross?”
“Cross?”
“You know what I mean. Cross the border—to the other side. You must be planning to cross.”
I didn’t say anything.
“If you’re here to cross, this is the place to negotiate,” she said. “And it costs. Whether your uncle helps or not, it’s going to cost.”
I decided to get as much information as I could. “How much?”
“Government people pay thousands. In dollars. They give their houses and villas, their cars. What do you guys have?”
“Our uncle won’t charge,” I said.
She laughed, loud and hard, slapping my shoulder. “Your uncle won’t take you across, sweetheart. We will.”
“You?”
“Master Memaar.”
“So he is not here to build a barracks?”
“Of course he is. But he’s got himself involved in this business too. Now he is nose deep in it. He’s making money, of course, and he doesn’t want to quit. Besides, how can the others let him quit?”
“Because he knows everything.”
“You’re a smart boy, aren’t you? Now tell me what happened in Tehran? Was your sister involved in politics? Her husband?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me. I don’t like it. Call me Mehri. So, you’re running away. She got herself pregnant and took you with her.” She ran her hand over my hair. She said, “What a precious brother you are!”
Before she could get further with her scenario about Taara and stroke my hair again, her husband called out. He needed to unload the trunk.
From the kitchen window I saw Taara, flushed, rolling toward the building, her wet hair piled on top of her head. She had washed the blue chador and was trying to hang it on a rope that ran across the yard. She looked around to find me. I went out and before Mehri caught us again, whispered in her ear.
“Master Memaar smuggles people over the border,” I said.
“Okay. I got it. Go inside now.”
“Don’t hang your panties here.”
“They’re under the chador.”
“They won’t get dry.”
“They’ll dry in five minutes. Don’t you feel the heat?”
We walked toward our room. All those whispering shadows had vanished, but I felt their burning stares on our backs. In the room, Taara sat down and leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her breath came heavily. The heat and bathing with the buckets had tired her. Mehri brought a fan and planted it in the middle of the room. Taara lay down, moaning faintly. Soon she was asleep.
I sat on the wet cement platform with two buckets of warm water at my feet, enjoying the breeze that blew through the hole in the ceiling. The remains of the night were still cool in the air. My naked body had never been exposed to a breeze and I wanted to extend the pleasure. I wanted to let my skin breathe. I touched the column of light as if it were something tangible and ran my hand through it and played with it. I’d wash myself and save some water to rinse my shirt and pants, I thought. Then I’d wear the wet clothes and sit in the sun for few minutes to dry. I felt a tickling joy. All of these were privileges I’d never had before. My body and soul were free.
First I filled a small metal bowl with water and poured it over my shoulders, then I covered my body with the suds from a cheap, green, hand soap and inhaled its sharp, grassy smell. I sat, soapy, listening to the winds of the desert—strong, steady winds that originated here and traveled all the way to Drum Tower, pounding on its heavy gate. I listened some more and heard the voice of the wind rising from the faraway horizon where a pencil line marked the end of the earth.
Where am I? Where am I going?
The iron door of the bathhouse creaked open, as if in answer.
“Need help to wash your back?” Mehri stood in the frame of the door against the sharp light.
“No. Please go out!” I covered my chest.
“Come on! I just want to help you,” she came forward.
“Please don’t. I’ll scream.”
She laughed. He
r voice echoed in the bathhouse. “Go ahead and scream! No one will hear you, anyway.”
I bent forward, my chest touching my knees. She picked up a bucket and poured the hot water on my back.
“Don’t waste my water! Please go!”
She laughed. “If you don’t sit up straight, I’m going to tickle you.” She ran her fingers over my arm, reaching my armpit. I screamed, rose and ran into the dark shadows around the column of light. She was like a wild cat, a leopard, chasing a fawn in the dark, circling her prey. Her red hair was frizzled in the damp air. She almost groaned and leaped toward me. My soapy feet slipped on the wet floor and I fell on my face. She was still laughing, saying silly things.
“You shy little boy! See what you did? Did you hurt yourself? Get up!” She extended her arm.
“Go!” I screamed. I was angry.
“Don’t shout at me, you little brat!” she was serious now. She took her blouse off and bent over me. Her breasts were so large that they touched my back. “Turn now!” she whispered. “I said turn! How can I fuck you if your back is to me! Let me see how little your thing is!” She giggled.
I stayed hunched over on all fours, hiding my breasts. She ran her hand between my thighs to find what she was looking for. Not finding anything, she grabbed my shoulder and, with a sudden surge of strength, turned me over. Now she sat on me, as if to ride. She looked at my chest, my small, girlish breasts, and moved her gaze down to my underbelly to make sure. She froze for a long second, defeated. Now she moved away from me and broke into a hysterical laughter.
“Devil! You’re a devil! Aren’t you?” She wiped her tears. “You were a girl all the time. All the fucking time!” she sobbed.
“Hey,” I sat up. “I’m sorry —”
“Sorry for what? For being a fucking girl?”
“If I were a boy, I’d definitely desire you. You’re so . . . charming.”
“Shut up now! I should’ve known that . . . so close to your sister . . . too mature to be a teenage boy . . .” She cried some more, then sobbed into her palms.
I put my shirt and pants on my wet body and lifted her up. We both sat on the platform. I rubbed her shoulders, comforting her.
The Drum Tower Page 27