by Ali Hosseini
“When your father was here, my father made sure to come and visit him. I guess they loved to talk about the things that were happening in the city. I have a clear memory of those days. As far as your eye could see, there were fields of poppies. At that time poppy cultivation was not forbidden. The lemon grove was much smaller then. This building was not like it is now—it was only a one-room house—and they used horses to draw water from the well.
“I remember I was ten years old when a terrible thing happened that was the end of our happy family.” He grew quiet for a while. “One of the villagers, a man, found out that when my father traveled to the city, he went to the synagogue there. Well, the villagers got upset, saying that he was not a real Muslim and had lied to them. My grandparents and especially my mother couldn’t have cared less whether he was a Muslim or not—I know because she told me herself many times that she didn’t care what God he prayed to as long as he had a belief. No one had ever seen anything like it. People were so angry. They put fire to the shop and everything inside. I can still see the flames and the dark smoke. It was the darkest smoke I’d ever seen.”
His voice was tense with emotion, and I felt very uncomfortable and sad.
“I’m sorry, Musa,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I want to. I want you to hear this. I’ve told you that I owe a lot to your parents. You know I always had a job at Naranjestan. I used to help your father with the accounting during the harvest, which was only a few months, but he would pay me a full year’s salary. Ruzbeh was kind enough to continue and offer me the same. But I really owe your father for something grave and that’s what I want to tell you about.
“After the shop was burned down, a few of the villagers, ‘the troublemakers,’ were going to kill my father, but he managed to get away somehow. They saw him heading for the Naranjestan, and they followed him, but it was his luck that your father, God rest his soul, was there at the time. My grandfather told me that your father stood in front of the door of the farmhouse and said, ‘Anyone who wants to enter must step over my dead body. This is my property and if you don’t leave now, you’ll be dead!’”
I looked at Musa in silence, thinking about my father. I knew he had no tolerance for wrongdoing and that he told us many times to be strong and stand up for ourselves.
“Anyway,” Musa continued, “that’s the reason that some villagers called your father a ‘Jew lover.’ It was forgotten for years, until, at the time of the revolution, when all sorts of strange things were happening, some of the villagers used this as an excuse to take the Naranjestan.”
He poured two more cups of tea. There were many questions I would have liked to ask, like where he was while all this was happening. I decided not to intrude and let him talk.
“It must have been hard for my father to give up the city and his family and friends. He had a radio and listened to the news. But I know he missed being part of the conversations that must have been going on among his friends.”
He drank his tea quickly and poured another cup before speaking again. “You know, the burning of the shop was the doing of a few stupid men in the village. During the month of Ramadan, a mullah would come to the village and talk about the historical problems between Jews and Muslims at the time of Muhammad the Prophet and the famous wars between Medina and Mecca.”
He filled up my teacup. “Maybe you know all this,” he said.
“No, tell me,” I said.
“Well, Prophet Muhammad had many wars—or, as it is said, was faced with many wars. I don’t exactly know how many—seventy or so. One famous one was the Battle of Ohod, when Abu Sufyan, the head of Mecca, attacked Medina and many Muslims were killed. Muhammad was injured and his uncle Hamzeh was killed by a spear. Hind, the wife of Abu Sufyan, was participating in this war. Her father had been killed by Hamzeh in the previous battle, and she was seeking revenge. It’s written that after Hamzeh fell, she personally opened his body, pulled out his liver, and took a bite out of it. She is famous for this and is called ‘Hind the liver eater.’ I don’t know why I’m telling you this, the story has always made me shiver … Anyway, there was the Battle of Khandagh—the trench—which I wanted to tell you about. At one time, there was the danger of Medina’s being attacked by the Meccans. Salman the Persian, one of the Prophet’s disciples, came up with the idea of digging a trench around the city, a defensive tactic used by the Persians and Byzantines. It was in this war that the relationship between Jews and Muslims went sour. The Jews didn’t want to help in financing the war and later were accused of spying. It is written that after the war, five hundred or more Jews were put to death by Muslims and the rest had to leave Medina. They went to the rich village of Khaybar to live with another Jewish tribe. A few years later, this village was attacked by Muslims and was taken, and all the Jews had to leave.
“It was these wars that the mullah would talk about during Ramadan, and the result was devastating for my family. After all the trouble, my father never came back to the village. When my mother died a few years later, my grandparents from the city came and got me, but I was miserable in the city and didn’t want to stay because my father’s new wife—Ebrahim’s mother—was a mean woman. Ebrahim was a year old when I came back. I was safe here because of my grandfather. Also, because I didn’t stay in the city, people saw it as a sign that I had nothing to do with my father or his faith and would grow up a Muslim in the village. Later, when I was older, I would go and see my father and Ebrahim once in a while, but we didn’t really know each other well. By then my father was weak and fragile, but he had his ears to the radio day and night, listening to the news about the great war in Europe and the fate of millions of his people. We were very far from the war, but there were many disturbing stories and rumors around.”
He stopped and reflected for a long time. “Well,” he said finally, “now Ebrahim is trying to convince me to go with him to Israel. I just don’t have the desire anymore. I did at one time, when I was younger. I could imagine going to the big cities, to the Persian Gulf, or even to another country. But time passed and I never left. It was much easier to go to Israel those days. Today it’s a different story, as I’m sure you know.”
I looked at him and thought of the Palestinian friends I used to have in the United States and how passionately they talked about their homeland. “I can’t go back,” I still remember one of them saying. “I’m not allowed to go back.”
“Behruz,” he said after a moment, a curious look in his eye, “have you ever read One Thousand and One Nights and wished that you could meet Scheherazade? That one summer night under the stars of this old desert she would appear to you, like one of those magical things that happen in stories and make you wonder about the wonders of the world? I have. Many nights I have wondered and wished for her to appear and take me to a fantastic place outside of this world.”
For a moment I wondered what sort of place he was imagining. Was that his promised land—a place of tranquility that humans have been searching for since they gained consciousness? A magical world existing only in the mind?
“I used to visit Ebrahim once in a while,” he said, sipping the last of his tea. “When I went to the city I would go by his shop and try to spend a couple of hours with him. The day you sent me to the city to bring back your father’s briefcase, I went there. Ebrahim believes that I’m still a Jew, even though I was brought into this world by a non-Jewish mother and have never practiced the religion. He’s always talked abut the Promised Land, but there was no reason to leave our birthplace and go live there. But, now, after the revolution, things are different and I don’t blame him if he wants to leave. I actually hope he can go. Because he’s a believer. He needs to see the place and should be able to do what he wishes. He wants me to go with him and says that he has worked everything out and all we need to do is to get to Cyprus. From there it is very easy to go to Jerusalem.”
I wished I could have met Ebrahim when he came to vi
sit Musa—two brothers, yet so different. One staying and one striving to go. I would have wished him luck reaching the Promised Land.
“As for going to Jerusalem,” Musa said, “well, I’ve seen enough for one lifetime, enough of good and bad, of people not getting along and then of unique people like your father. There’s no need for me or my wife to go anywhere. Pain, loneliness, greed, sadness. The nature of humans is the same anywhere you go. There’s no getting away from it. You probably know that too,” he said, looking at me. “This brother of mine is a believer—but me, I don’t know what I am, really. I only know to be kind to all fellow human beings.”
Sixteen
I HAVE DECIDED TO GO SEE Mother at the village house. Maybe it’s because of last night’s dream that I can’t get her out of my mind. I struggle to keep the bad images at bay, try in vain to fight them with more pleasant thoughts but can’t keep from thinking about the dream.
… There was a fire burning on the hillside and hundreds of people, all with sheets of paper in hand, pushed and shoved to get to me. I signed sheet after sheet, handing them over, not caring who grabbed them. They took the papers and threw them on the bonfire. With each sheet, the fire flared. I recognized many people in the crowd. The two brothers Musa brought to the Naranjestan, Kemal with his wife and children. Musa was there with his brother, suitcase in hand. Haji Zaman, white as a ghost, chuckled in a horrifying manner, his dentures rattling together. At the edge of the crowd a tall man in a bright-yellow outfit holding a rifle was trying to keep order. Father and Mother stood apart from the others and stared at me, grinning. Mother’s hair was disheveled and she waved me toward her. Suddenly, sensing the heat on my face and hands, I realized I was about to be pushed into the fire …
I’m tired from being in the orchard among the old trees and go to the well and draw a bucket of water to wash. I don’t know how Mother will react to my visit. She may not be pleased to see me with long hair and a beard. I wish there were some flowers in the fields I could pick or that I had some sweets to take to her. Chocolates would be perfect—she loved the ones I brought from America.
I wait until late afternoon and then put on the clean clothes I asked Kemal to get me a few days ago and start off. It doesn’t take long to get there. The village, with its sand-colored mud-brick houses all cramped so close together, seems to have grown out of the earth. When I get nearer, I start to walk quickly, hoping not to attract any attention, especially since the briefcase I’m carrying makes me look like an outsider. I’m afraid that children will gather around trying to figure out who I am and what I’m doing there or that dogs will attack me. I listen but hear only a lone dog barking. The village seems empty, as if all the people had picked up and left.
The house sits at the entrance to the village and is the only two-story house in the area. The large yard used to have a garden and a small pool that was filled by water drawn from the well. My grandfather built it. It was his summer and fall house. Every year he would come from the city to oversee the harvest. Father didn’t like to stay here. He preferred to stay in the Naranjestan and built the farmhouse there.
I walk into the yard, and when I am halfway to the house, an old woman, bent and wearing dark clothes, looks at me for a moment and then rushes toward me. “Oh, Ruzbeh,” she says excitedly, “where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you.”
When she steps closer, she looks puzzled for a moment. “Ah, Behruz,” she says, “it’s you.” She tries to smile, but I see disappointment on her face. “Come in, come in”
It’s Bibi Khanom, Shireen’s mother. She seems much older than when she came to see me in the city after I got back from the United States. Seeing her, I think again about the many problems my affair with Shireen has caused and wish I hadn’t come.
“How are you, dear?” she asks as she hugs and kisses me.
“Salaam, Bibi. I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Praised be God.” I can hear her labored breathing. “Where is Ruzbeh? He hasn’t been here for weeks. And where have you been?”
“I’ve been at the Naranjestan. I haven’t seen Ruzbeh either.”
“Musa’s wife told me you were staying there. Why did you wait so long to come and visit? Come, your mother is in her room.”
I follow her down the long hallway where the sun shines in through large windows. The panes of colored glass at the top of the windows remind me of how we liked to play in the hallway when we were children, stepping on patches of color on the floor cast down through the windows. Bibi leads me through the sea of colors and opens a door. I hesitate and then step in.
The room is large and the blinds are drawn. Mother is sitting up in bed, propped up by big pillows and looking at an album of family pictures. She closes the album and puts it beside her when she sees me come in. On the table by the bed are piles of books and papers that she brought with her when she came here to escape the nightly bomb raids on the city.
“Ah, Ruzbeh-joon, aamedi. Kojá boodi? Nime joonam kardi. Bia, bia pish-am”—You’re back. Where have you been? You’re killing me by staying away. Come, come to me.
“Hello, Maman,” I say, “It’s Behruz. How are you?”
She opens her eyes in disbelief but tells me to sit down. She looks the way I saw her in my dream, her white hair uncombed and looking like she’s seen a scorpion in her bed. It’s not like her not to take care of herself, to be so unaware of her beauty. Her hands shake as she holds them out toward me. My heart sinks, seeing her like this. I set the briefcase on the floor, sit on the edge of the bed, and hold her hand. She pulls me to her and kisses me.
“Don’t you think you’re a bit too old to play that boyhood game on me,” she says. “Do you think your own mother can’t tell you two apart?”
I want to tell her I’m not Ruzbeh and not playing any game, but she goes on talking. I wonder how she could be confused. She never confused me with Ruzbeh, even when we tried to trick her. I push my hair back from my forehead hoping she can see my face better or at least notices that there is no sign of injury there.
“Ruzbeh, where have you been? Where is Shireen? Why didn’t you bring her?”
I feel empty and useless and don’t dare to utter a word about Shireen, not knowing what she knows or what her mental state is.
“I’m so happy to see you.” A soft smile lights up her face. “What is this long hair and beard?” Then tears come to her eyes.
“I want to go back home,” she says. “Back to Shiraz. I don’t know what’s become of our house. I want to go. I don’t care if there is a war and the city is being bombed. Did you go to the Naranjestan? I’ve heard Behruz is there. Let’s go get him and go home.”
“Maman, I’m Behruz.”
“Tell me about Shireen.” She goes on as if not hearing me. “She hasn’t come for I don’t know how long. I think everyone is hiding something from me.”
I sit still, feeling the warmth of her hand.
“You know Behruz came here the other day. He came when I was asleep. I was taking a nap and when I opened my eyes he was standing right there.” She points to the door. “Can you understand that? He was standing there looking at me without saying a word and as soon as I opened my eyes he walked away.”
I wonder if Ruzbeh was here after all. Musa mentioned that he had been, but Bibi said she hadn’t seen him recently. Now I don’t know what to think.
I can see she has been alone here too long. After a long silence, she asks, “Do you know what happened to them?”
“Who, Maman? Who are you talking about?”
“They were innocent young girls. Why were they taken away?”
I realize she is talking about her students at the girls’ high school where she used to teach. After the revolution, Mother resigned her teaching post to protest the arrest of a few young girls accused of antirevolutionary activities and the expulsion of others for being Baha’i. I wonder if she often thinks about her teaching days. Maybe she talks to Bibi about the w
ay things turned out and what she could have done differently.
“He wanted to sell the place.”
“Who? What place, Maman?”
“Your father. He wanted to sell the Naranjestan. How could he? I didn’t let him. The place that I love, full of memories of my children. Do you remember the summer we went north to the Caspian Sea? You twins loved the sea. Would you like to go again? What a wonderful trip it was. We should go to the sea again.”
She goes on talking, jumping from one thing to another until she exhausts herself. She closes her eyes and her face grows peaceful. I hold her hand, listening to her calm breathing. I want her to be well, to be the way she always was, hopeful and full of energy. And serious, she was always serious. I need to do something for her. I should talk to Musa. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting when I feel her hand move. She shifts a little but stays asleep. On the wall beside the bed are pictures of the family. In one Ruzbeh and Shireen are standing by a rosebush and in another one all of us are together. From one of the pictures Father looks down on me as if to ask, why are you here? Haven’t you done enough damage? You should let your mother be. You should leave her in peace.
I break into a cold sweat and tear my eyes from his gaze.
Mother’s hand feels damp in my grip. “I’m sorry, Maman,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for all the misfortunes that happened to us. I know I haven’t been much help to you. Please forgive me. Forgive as you always have. Be strong the way you have always been. I’ll do my best to find Ruzbeh”—and to find Shireen, I add silently to myself.
Slowly I take my hand out of hers, kiss her on the forehead, and leave the warm and stuffy room.
I don’t see Bibi but hear what I think is a soft sobbing coming from one of the rooms. I’m in the middle of the yard when I hear her call from a window.