She narrows her eyes and shakes her head as she remembers. She asks, “Why do you think the son kept his mas skeleton?”
I hadn’t thought about Psycho from this angle. I wanted to explain that every film has a distractive gizmo. The mother’s skeleton is the distractive gizmo of Psycho. But I figure that this explanation is too long and complicated. For this reason, I use Hitchcock’s own term and say, “Agha Baji, the mother’s skeleton is the MacGuffin.”14
I instantly regret having said it. Showing off my knowledge of cinema to Agha Baji, of all people. Filled with shame, I look at her. Her face, furrowed from the sheer incomprehension of what I had said, suddenly opens up. With a bitter smile, she nods her head knowingly. She looks at the sky from the window and says, “Yes. You are absolutely right. . . the last nail in my coffin . . . the final touchstone!”
I now see that the matter has become even more complicated. When I said MacGuffin, Agha Baji heard “my coffin.” I let the matter go at this point, but I am deep in thought about what Agha Baji’s own MacGuffin could possibly be.
Agha Baji does not survive the hospital. A month and half later, when my grandmother returns from the burial service, she is in a foul mood from the heat and rage. I put a pitcher of ice water and a fan next to her and leave the house to get out of her way. When I return at night, I see from her red eyes that she’s had a good cry. Dinner consists of leftovers. We sit in silence on the floor around a tablecloth. I take my time and eat little mouthfuls so that she’ll begin talking. She finally lets out a long sigh, and says, “What is a human being? Sighs and blood . . . God rest her soul — no one respected her will — either when she was alive, or when she died. I hope at least they’ll respect her will in the next world.”
I look at her with curiosity. She recounts that according to Agha Baji’s will they were supposed to bury a box beside her, but the grave diggers refuse to comply. The matter was referred to the higher authorities. They too opposed it, claiming that it was against regulations. Finally, they put all their heads together, and the matter was resolved by buying another grave site next to Agha Baji’s and burying the box there. Astonished, I ask, “Box? What box?”
She says that it was a metallic box, somewhat larger than a box of candy; it had a lock, and was sealed on three sides. But what was in the box? She thinks for a few moments and says, “God only knows.”
I feel my hair standing on end. I get up and begin pacing this way and that. I say, “MacGuffin, MacGuffin was in the box!”
As if she has heard an insult, she screws up her face and says, ” What was in there?”
I say, “The touchstone . . . Jeff’s hand . . . don’t you remember?”
She freezes. Without blinking, she moves her eyes from side to side. She is probably rummaging about in her memory for details of the past. She looks like she suspects something. But then she shakes her head back and forth several times. As if she is erasing something unpleasant from the tablet of her mind. She waves her hand toward me dismissively and says, “Oh go on, go and get your head examined! This is all a lot of hot air
She can’t accept what I said, or maybe, she just doesn’t want to.
That night in bed, I decide to go visit Siavosh the next day. But then I change my mind. What would I tell him? Give him the good news? And anyway, how do I know that my speculation is correct? There could have been anything in the box. Anything, including Jeff’s hand. By the way, “Why did the boy keep his mother’s skeleton?” I don’t know, but I think that in a world this big and among the three billion people who live in it, only Agha Baji, and possibly Hitchcock, could have known the answer.
— Translated by Nahid Mozaffari
Footnotes
1 This story takes place in the mid-1960s, during the reign of Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi. Much of the political subtext and the allusion to the Third National Front (a faction of the nationalist opposition to the Shah) refers to the atmosphere of political persecution and fear that accompanied the royal dictatorship. “Fishy talk” is subversive or implicit political talk, an indication of opposition to the Shah’s regime. Secret police informers existed among the students and in the school administration.
2 Persian string instruments.
3 Refers to a crude street poem, a derogatory comment about Christian Armenians whose role in the afterlife is supposed be to sweep the streets of hell.
4 Examples of fantastic tales from Persian folklore, the Alexander legend, and the Quran.
5 The pasty sweet halvah, made from flour and saffron, is offered in commemoration of the dead.
6 Karbala is a holy city for Shi’ites.
7 A mountainous province in northwestern Iran, mainly inhabited by nomads and semi-nomads.
8 “Qajar coffee,” made with poison, was used on occasion by Qajar kings and their allies to kill their adversaries. Torture and assassination methods evolved to more sophisticated techniques during the Pahlavi dynasty (1925-1979), such as injections of air into the veins and water into the knees.
9 The unstained handkerchief is allegedly proof that the bride was not a virgin.
10 Opium addicts have diminished sexual desire and prowess.
11 Siavosh, son of Kay Kavous, is a prince whose life and tragic death has a prominent place in Ferdowsi’s epic poem, the Shahnameh. Siavosh was made to go through fire to prove his innocence against the allegations of his stepmother, Soudabeh.
12 Probably a famous singer or dancer of the time.
13 ‘Abu-ata is one of the dastgahs or scale systems of Persian classical music. This proverb essentially means that really strange things happen during unusual times.
14 Hitchcock’s MacGuffin referred to some object that was significant to the characters but not of great interest to the story — for example, the secret formula in The 39 Steps and Torn Curtain, and uranium in wine bottles in Notorious.
Farkhondeh Aghai
Farkhondeh Aghai was born in 1956 in Tehran. She earned a master’s degree in sociology at Tehran University. Her first collection of stories, Green Hills, was published in 1987. Her second collection, A Little Secret, was published in 1993, and won the Gardun Literary Prize for that year. Her later publications include two other short story collections, One Woman, One Love and Clay Cats, and a novel entitled The Lost Gender. Aghai often writes about women in contemporary Iran, depicting their inner psychological turmoil as well as the ways in which they have learned to cope with or resist social and gender injustices.
A Little Secret is from her collection of stories by the same name, published in 1993. It takes place in the women’s ward of a hospital in Tehran during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988). Vaji, like many other women, has spent her entire life nurturing and worrying about other people. In her poignant story, she gradually comes to grips with her own affliction and reality by witnessing the tragic unfolding of the life of a young, gravely injured soldier convalescing in the same ward.
A LITTLE SECRET
Vaji pulled the blanket up over her chest. She pursed her lips and braced herself. The pain was getting worse. A pain that started in her legs and moved up to climax in her belly. She clutched her stomach. A cold sweat drenched her body. A shudder ran through her spine. She heaved a tired and heavy sigh. Her mouth was dry, it tasted bad. With great effort she picked up the glass of water and took a sip. The cold water touched her lips and made its way down her parched throat. She fell back on the pillow. The pain was gone. Comfortable, calm. There was no sign of the agony that had her twisting only a moment ago. She closed her eyes and heard the calm and constant voice of a young man whispering lovingly.
“If you don’t come tomorrow I’ll be really hurt. For God’s sake, please come. I miss you. It’s so easy to get here. You go to the station and take the bus to Hasan-Abad. You get off in the big circle and it’s a two-minute walk. Everyone knows where it is; people will show you if you ask. Then you come to the fourth floor. The women’s ward. Well, don’t tell them. Pretend you’re going to school.
Fine, don’t come alone. Come with one of your friends. Why don’t you just come with A’zam? Where is she? Give her the phone; let me talk to her. What’s there to be shy about? We’re going to be family. I have something to tell her. Something. Don’t get upset. I just want to thank her for getting my letters to you. She’s been great. The guy who falls in love with her is going to be really lucky. Not everyone is like you. I’ve been here for two months. You haven’t even come to say hello. I’ll wait for you tomorrow. Come on, you’re making excuses again
The man’s voice seemed to go on forever. Vaji knew that as long as she listened she would hear him. She got up, closed the door, and went back to bed. She pulled the blanket up over her head and went to sleep. For the past two months the mornings at the hospital had started very early. The night nurse, with tired and bloodshot eyes, would shake the thermometer in the air and put it in the patient’s mouth and walk away. Another nurse would show up with a notebook. “Any bowel movement?”
She would make a note, take the thermometer, read it, make another note, and leave. The next nurse would come carrying bedpans. She would check the numbers on the beds and hand them out to some of the patients and leave. Another nurse would follow with a basket full of syringes. She would look at her notebook and walk up to a bed.
“Roll up your sleeve.”
She would tie the plastic strap tight around the arm and say as she prepared the syringe, “How many days have you been in bed here? How many kids do you have? Girls bring good luck. I have two. When was your operation? Okay, that’s it.”
She would put the syringe, now filled with blood, back in her basket and leave. The head nurse would arrive pushing a cart full of bottles of pills. For each patient she would count one, two, three pills, put them in a paper cup, and place it on the counter.
“Well, take them. It’s better if you take them while I’m here. I’ve heard you don’t take your pills. Are you trying to save some money?”
Another nurse would bring the injections, and then it was the janitor’s turn to sweep the floor and mop it with a piece of burlap. An orderly followed him with sponges and detergents to clean the bathroom, and then a woman with a wet rag dusted the dresser and the window ledge. She would throw away the wilted flowers, rinse her rag, and with her departure, “Mr. Mohammad” would put the breakfast tray on the counter. The head nurse would report on the beds in a loud voice and turn them over to the morning shift and leave. And then everything was like the day before, with people constantly coming and going, noon and night.
Vaji picked up her teacup and walked out of the room. Her roommate was combing her hair. Vaji knew that if she waited another minute the room would reek of the pungent and repulsive smell of toothpaste. Work was well under way in the ward, but the patients who still had the energy to walk had not yet left their beds. In the hallway Vaji sat down on the couch by the window. Hasan Azarmi, the patient in the room next door, was the first to finish his breakfast and was walking over with his cane to sit next to her. They had seen each other every day for quite a while. Azarmi said hello under his breath and sat next to her, facing the elevator. He lit a cigarette and ran his hand over his bandaged eye. He did this every few minutes. It was as though he wanted to make sure it was still there. Vaji didn’t have the patience for Azarmi. With that cigarette that never left the corner of his mouth and the smoke that made her nauseous. As always, she opened the window and sat with her back to him. By the time Azarmi lit his second cigarette Vaji got up and walked back to her room. The doctors would be there at nine.
“How do you feel today?”
“I’m better, but last night I was in terrible pain and had a fever again.” “The nurse didn’t give you a shot for your pain?” “I didn’t want any. But Doctor, you said I would get better after the operation.”
“Definitely. The pain you have now is because of the operation and the stitches. Today at noon we’re having a meeting to discuss your case. We’ll decide on your treatment and medication.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“No. It’s just a small tumor the size of an egg. If it becomes necessary, we’ll talk more about it later.”
The doctor walked over to Vaji’s roommate, who had kidney trouble. Under the sheets Vaji pressed on her stomach. She thought the tumor was larger than an egg. Perhaps the size of a round and solid ball that had hardened.
Her roommate was sitting next to the window. “The doctor said I’m released.”
“Good for you.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be released soon.”
“Yeah.”
And with her thin yellow hands she counted: five, six, seven. She was the seventh person who had roomed with her and was now leaving, and still her situation was unclear.
“I’m going to the room at the end of the hall. Everyone’s there. Aren’t you coming?”
“I’ll come later.”
The woman left. Vaji thought, “Mrs. Amini was my first roommate, and now the seventh one is leaving. Mrs. Amini had cancer. It was her breast. Her left breast. She was a nurse. How could she have not realized? She was in the hospital for two months.” Vaji had just been admitted. And Amini had died a week later. Vaji thought, “Mine isn’t cancer. It’s been two months and I’m still in good shape. Only the occasional chill, fever and pain. That’s not unusual after an operation. Everyone has it.”
And she touched the egg in her stomach. No, it was bigger. The doctor had made a mistake. In fact, they had taken two-pound tumors out of some patients’ stomachs. The doctor had said, “It’s a small cyst. A one-hour operation.” And they had opened up her stomach but the cyst was still there.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I know.”
She listened. She could hear Azarmi’s quiet voice through all the noise and confusion.
“But sweetheart, why didn’t you come? I had my eyes on the door all day. Someday I’ll make up for all these days. You’ll see. I’ve been waiting since this morning. I had put out fruits and pastries, thinking Miss Ashraf would be here any minute. In another minute. In another minute. In another two minutes . . . You’re really cruel. I smoked a whole pack. Don’t worry about my cigarettes. I get them somehow. I dreamt of you all night. I was sure you’d come. Of course you couldn’t come in the morning. By six-thirty I went downstairs and told the guards. They’re nice guys. I told them if you come on your way from school to bring you over to me. All you have to do is give them my name. Why? The doctor came. He said in two days he’ll open up my left eye. Don’t worry about it. One eye is better than none. I shouldn’t have called you. But frankly I didn’t have the heart. I thought maybe you came but couldn’t find me. Obviously you didn’t care at all
Two nurses started laughing.
“She stood him up again.”
“Next time find a better fiancee.”
The head nurse started yelling, “Mr. Azarmi, Mr. Azarmi. Please be a bit more considerate. Dr. Sedaqat has been waiting for a free phone line for an hour.”
“All right, sister.1 All right. Okay, fine. I’ll call back tonight. For now, good luck.”
The nurse asked, “She didn’t come today, either?”
“No. But she’s definitely coming tomorrow. I’ll talk her into it.”
They’re lucky not to have a telephone at home and that her daughter isn’t interested in this sort of thing, Vaji thought. She didn’t like Azarmi’s pushiness.
Slowly her body became hot. The pain was quietly crawling up her legs, heading for her stomach. Vaji curled up. She knew that in another minute she would be in agony. With all her might she pulled herself up and rang the buzzer. She passed out before the nurse could inject the painkiller.
When Vaji opened her dark and swollen eyes, a cool breeze from the window was stroking her body. In the dim light coming from the hallway she saw that the other bed was empty. From the corner of the door she could see the large circular nurses’ station. One of the nurses, still holding her knitting needles, was napping. Two c
hairs were pulled together, and another nurse was sleeping on them. Vaji got up. She felt a dull pain in her stomach. She picked up her veil and wrapped it around her. From the corner of her eye, a nurse was discreetly watching her slow and heavy walk. There was no one there, not even Hasan Azarmi. The telephone, black and silent, was hanging on the wall. Vaji wondered how long she had slept. Was it noon or afternoon? She couldn’t remember. She thought her husband and daughter, Farrokh, must have come while she was asleep. She sat by the window. Maybe they hadn’t come. If they had, she would definitely have awakened. She got up, went back to her room, and turned on the light. A bag of fruits was sitting on her bedside table. So they had come when she was asleep. Was it her husband, Mokhtar, or Farrokh? Or both? What had they done with Reza? Cute little two-year-old Reza. Farrokh had said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll take care of him.”
Strange Times, My Dear Page 36