“Mrs. Vajiheh Vassel, bed number twenty-two.”
Vaji shuddered at the sound of the words. She turned around. A beautiful young woman dressed in white, holding a folder, with a smile on her lips and light hazel eyes, was waiting for an answer. Vaji, who had never seen the woman before, went toward her bed. She was bent over as she walked, it seemed to lessen her pain.
“That’s me.”
The woman’s smile vanished. “I’m the social worker. I wanted to speak with you, if it’s okay.”
And now the woman was pulling a chair up to Vaji’s bed. “What is your husband’s ID card number?” “Two-zero-eight-one.”
The woman looked at her folder and read: “Place of employment, Rey. Place of residence, Shahr-e-Rey. And you are thirty-five. You have two children. Daughter seventeen, son two. A fifteen-year age difference is a lot, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t have children. I went through treatment until God gave me Reza.”
“Who is he with now?”
“He’s with my daughter, Farrokh. When Farrokh is in school my mother keeps him.”
“You’ve been here for two months. The hospital in Rey referred you, a Dr. Farsi. Well, excuse me for asking, but do you have any problems or issues with your daughter?”
“No.”
“Look, Mrs. Vassel, I’m a social worker. I visit most of the patients here. My intention isn’t to pry into anyone’s private affairs. But to the extent possible, I have to solve the problems that I can handle. I mean, I want to, and my job requires it. How? Well, for example, if you are a patient here and there is no one to take care of your child, we will introduce him to a child-care center or other things of this nature. So you have no problems with your daughter. Do you want to use a child-care center?”
“No. My mother is there.”
“And about your husband, his job, salary, his behavior. Does he really treat you and the children well?” “Yes. He just won’t bring Reza.”
The woman, made a note with her delicate white hands,
“I’ll speak with your husband. Now, about the hospital. For example, your roommates, nurses, doctors, is the food good? Do you have any complaints?”
“People leave me alone.”
“You mean they ignore you?”
“No. I mean I don’t care. There’s always food and everyone is always around. They don’t bother me.”
“So you have no complaints about these things. If you have any questions or concerns I’m all ears.”
The woman did not expect Vaji to say anything. But perhaps just to have said something, Vaji replied, “This Mr. Azarmi talks too much. He’s always on the phone.”
The woman looked at her file.
“He talks a lot. He thinks of nothing else.”
“Put yourself in his shoes. Twenty years old, in love with a schoolgirl. His left leg is paralyzed, his left eye is blind, and soon he will lose sight in his right eye as well. With a body full of shrapnel that cannot be removed. You only see his laughter and his appearance.”
“He says his eye will heal.”
“I spoke with him. He is just beginning to find out about the extent of his medical condition. In any case, I will ask the head nurse to change your room so you won’t be bothered by his phone calls anymore.”
“No, no. It’s fine here. If I want to change rooms then . . .” “As you wish. Do you have any other questions?” “About my illness. When can I go home?”
“The doctor says you have a small cyst in your stomach and intestines that will gradually go away with medication. But you shouldn’t be in a hurry, you have to be patient. Your attending doctor believes your recovery is certain. The only problem is that it will be slow and gradual. You have to bear with it until you are one hundred percent well.” “That’s what the doctor said.”
“Yes, there is nothing more to it. Do you have any other problems?”
“No. Thank you very much.”
“If you need me, dial extension 280 or come over to my office on the first floor, room 109.”
Vaji followed the woman with her eyes and saw her waiting in front of the elevator. So she doesn’t visit all the patients. She only sees some. Yesterday it was Mr. Azarmi, and today Vaji.
She tried to get up but couldn’t. With every movement, the subtle pain in her stomach soared and dug deep into her bones. The phone rang and the voice of a woman echoed in the hallway.
“Bed number six, telephone.
“Bed number six, telephone.”
Two men dressed in green wheeled in the woman with the bandaged face. One of them climbed up on the patient’s bed and stood there, and the other one, strong and bulky, stared at Vaji.
“Sister, turn your face away.”
Vaji turned to the wall. She had already seen how two men lift a patient up and throw her on the bed with full force. She still remembered the pain. When she opened her eyes she had for a moment seen the man’s round fat face with that green cap standing over her and pushing her bed back and forth. They had just lifted her up like a piece of sacrificial meat and thrown her onto the bed, so that the man waiting there could grab the corner of the sheet and pull it to the middle of the bed and then, with one leap, jump down so that the nurse would bring a gown to cover her up. The bandaged face was wearing a gown, but the nurse came anyway to tidy her up, pull the sheet over her, hook up the IV and hang the urine bag to the bottom of the bed, and then she was done. The operation was over and now Nahid was standing over the patient and watching her.
“Indecency is all over her face. All these people from Tehran ever think about is their getup and their appearance. Oh, look how big my nose is. Oh, how ugly I look with this nose. What if I have it fixed?!”
Vaji muttered indifferently, “She had an accident.”
“Its an excuse. It’s just an excuse. Why do you believe it? I know these people from Tehran. The accident is an excuse.”
Vaji closed her eyes. She didn’t have any patience for Nahid’s comments. Nahid left the room without another word. Azarmi was talking again:
“You go every day? In this heat? Don’t get too tired. No. Who am I to disapprove? Actually, you were right to register for the make-up classes. No, I swear it’s not because of me. Whether you get out of the house or not, I know you won’t be coming to see me, I’m sure of it. Yes, well, your family and friends could think you failed because of me. Your classmates could say her love went to war, came back lame, and she has failed her exams. I’m not kidding. Then they’ll start picking on you by singing the wedding song . . . and add: Watch out for the groom’s lame leg! Hey, don’t cry. I was just kidding. Ashraf, I swear I’m so down that I want the world to disappear. Come over so I can see you. Don’t even come to my room if you don’t want to. It’s okay in the yard. What? Really? Congratulations. What did your sister have? Twins? That’s great. How many kids do you want. . . ?”
This man will never run out of breath, Vaji thought. But oddly enough, Azarmi’s voice didn’t bother her anymore. She saw that there, outside her room, life went on. From the corner of the door she could see the hallway. The old Arab, holding his IV stand, walked slowly down the hall. His gown was completely open in the back and with his right hand the old man had bunched the two sides together and held them tight in his fist. Slowly, he pushed the IV stand forward and walked. From behind, you could see his dark and wrinkled thighs. He would go as far as the elevator. And then he would slowly pull the IV stand and walk back. Now he was wearing a white Arab headdress. He saw Vaji from the hallway. He nodded, she smiled, and he set off again. The wheelchairs came and went. A man with a missing leg, a missing arm, or a missing eye. Pain filled Vaji’s stomach. She closed her eyes. With all her strength she clenched her stomach. Cold sweat drenched her body. She tried to think of Reza, of Farrokh and of Mokhtar, but pain did not release her until the moment of unconsciousness. When she opened her eyes Farrokh was standing at her bedside.
“Mom, do you feel better?”
�
�Yes, my girl.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Real soon. Did you do well on your exam?”
And Farrokh laughed, with that peaceful smile and those perfectly straight teeth framed in that black veil that drew one’s eyes to her face. And her smile began to fade until it was no longer there, and now Farrokh was far away and the pain no longer crawled up Vaji’s legs, it was constant, there inside that large egg that did not resemble an egg at all.
Every few hours, the pain would start again, no longer from the legs but from the stomach, and it would climb all the way to the head, and from the other end it would stretch down as far as the knees. Then the body was feverish and the pain would climax. And then it would shrink, and inside the egg it would flutter, while heavy beads of sweat would cool on the skin and the moment would arrive when Vaji would let herself go limp on the sweat-drenched mattress.
In the morning Nahid came to Vaji’s bedside with her duffel bag. She kissed her, said good-bye, and left. Vaji looked around, and the bandaged face was no longer there, either. She too was gone. Without farewells. Yesterday or the day before? She couldn’t remember. How many is it so far? Six, seven, eight, nine. The ninth person had left, too. Mrs. Amini was the first one — she had cancer. She was a nurse, how come she had not figured it out? Carefree, she would stroll along the hallway. She would put her hand on her left breast and squeeze. She had a secret there, which she kept all to herself. She had shared a room with Vaji for a week. She had not even guessed what was really wrong with her. She had said that her heart ached and then one morning she was gone. They said she had cancer. One word: cancer. And every day, every hour, every minute, she had kept her hand pressed on that secret to make sure it wouldn’t pop out. And now the ninth person had left. Vaji thought that one day it would be her turn to get up and kiss her roommates and to say, “I have been released. Good-bye. I don’t have cancer. I know. If I did, I would know it. I’m not that clueless.” Mrs. Amini had told Vaji that she was a nurse. How could she not have realized she had cancer? Why couldn’t she have taken that secret and thrown it away? And every day she would press her hand on her left breast and caress it as though it were her child. As though it were her husband and she must spend night and day with him, caressing him. Vaji thought it is more intimate than a husband, than a child, than anything. It is one’s self, that secret that you have to cover, to caress. And there is no place to leave it so that it won’t come back, because it will, and it will come and sit there on your left breast. And when you raise your arm to pull it out by its roots, you unconsciously caress it again. As though it’s your child, as though it’s your husband; no, even more intimate than them, as though it’s your own self. “What is wrong with you?”
Vaji looked at the large belly of the woman sitting on the bed where the bandaged face used to be. She had lost count of the patients who came and went. The woman was sweetening her tea.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I mean I know what’s wrong with me, I just can’t explain it.”
The woman did not understand.
“A small cyst. It will go away with medication.”
“I’m seven months pregnant. The doctor says the baby has died in my belly. I don’t believe it. It’s impossible for something to die inside someone without them realizing it. They’re operating on me tomorrow. Are operations tough?”
“Not too tough.”
“Do you want some tea?”
“No.”
And when the woman was silent, there was Azarmi’s calm and familiar voice:
“Why not? Every time I look in the mirror I’m ashamed. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re right not to come. Those days, when I was healthy and on my two own feet, you barely answered me when I said hello. Now? Well, it’s obvious. Lame and carrying a cane. I guess tomorrow, when I lose this other eye, too, you’ll have to take me around by the hand. I’m not talking nonsense. The doctor said so himself. If I go abroad, with lots of expenses and many procedures, they may be able to save this eye, or they may not. For the love of God, don’t cry. I don’t have the heart to tell you all this, but I owe it to you. Look, I didn’t go there for fun. I went for God and for the Prophet. I know this is a test. But why should you suffer? No, I swear I’m not kidding. I am begging you, please don’t cry. Listen, one day I fell in love with you, and now I kiss your angelic face and say, you go your way and I’ll go mine. No more you and me. Just pretend I was blown to pieces right there. Finished. If you want your letters back, send your mother to pick them up, otherwise I’ll burn them myself. Don’t cry. You’ll cry for a day, a week, a month, and then you’ll forget. But if I’m there in front of you every day, I won’t be able to stand it myself it’s no big deal. God is testing me. The more I think, the more I know that our paths are separate. I swear if you torture yourself I’ll never forgive you. Don’t sob like this. Don’t break my heart. Don’t make me feel worse than I do already. Forget it. Good luck. Good-bye.”
And he broke into sobs. Vaji arched her entire body forward, hoping to see Azarmi leave, but she didn’t. Two nurses sat quietly at the table with their backs to him. And now it was the pain again that gripped Vaji’s stomach and it would soon fill her entire body. She closed her eyes and bit her lips. For a second she opened her eyes. Her roommate was ringing the emergency buzzer. Vaji pressed her fist to her stomach; she knew that painkillers would not work, and she passed out. When she opened her eyes Farrokh’s hand was on her forehead.
“Mom, I love you. How are you? Can you hear me?”
Vaji smiled. She smiled at that face, at those bright eyes in their black frame. Mokhtar was standing to the side.
Vaji whispered, “How many more days do I have to stay here?”
Mokhtar’s upper lip quivered. His face paled. Quietly he said, “Bear with it for another day or two and we’ll go home.”
Vaji had wanted to say, “Come here,” but her breath would not cooperate. And Mokhtar came without having heard her. By the movement of the woman’s lips he knew he had to come close to hear what she had to say.
“Mr. Azarmi, do you remember him? Next door. Go see him.” And Mokhtar was about to go when Vaji’s lips moved again and she whispered:
“Take Farrokh. Take Farrokh with you. He’s a good boy, don’t leave him alone.”
— Translated by Sara Khalili
Footnotes
1 After the revolution, it became customary to address women as “sister” and men as “brother” to relay the sense that all Muslims are brothers and sisters.
2 Dezful is a town in southwestern Iran, near the border with Iraq. The city, under constant missile attack, was devastated during the Iran-Iraq War.
Asghar Abdollahi
Asghar Abdollahi was born in the southern city of Abadan in 1955. After graduating with a degree in theater from Tehran University, he began a productive career in literature and film. He writes novels, short stories, and screenplays, and directs films.
His first novel, The Sun in the Darkness of War is about victims of the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988). He has published two collections of short stories, The Wicker Shelter and Beyond the Fog. His stories touch upon life in southern Iran and the persistence of the human spirit through the horrors of war.
The story that appears here, A Room Full of Dust, takes place in a large southern city, at the height of the Iran-Iraq War. It won the 1999 Gardun Literary Prize.
A ROOM FULL OF DUST
CHAPTEE 1
Elfi’s little room was bathed in semi-darkness: the walls and the furniture, the clothes hanging on the wooden coat rack, even the lampshade, everything was yellow, brown, or red. The candle burned with a still flame. Not a breath of air penetrated the room. “What is that sound, Adna?”
Adna was looking through the window. The street wound along the metal wall around the oil refinery. On the right side were the deserted gardens of the oil company employee housing. A caretaker stood alone under the red brick doorway of the administration
building, rubbing his hands together and shifting his feet.
“Is my voice so weak you can’t hear me?”
“It’s raining outside.”
Adna turned and looked at Elfi’s bed. His old head stuck out from under the blanket. His eyes stared at the gray ceiling.
“There’s probably no rabbi left in town. Do you think, Adna, there’s someone left in the synagogue if I . . .”
Adna smoothed the back of her long skirt with her hands as she sat down on the Polish chair near the window.
“That gesture, Adna! You look like a sixteen-year-old girl.”
“What gesture?”
“Straightening the back of your skirt.”
“You never stopped being a professional voyeur, Elfi! I used to watch you in the store when you showed magazines and books to your customers. I could see your wandering eyes. You haven’t changed, Elfi! Not one bit.”
“Was I a bad husband, Adna? I admit I wasn’t a very good bookseller. But as a husband? You’re still in love with me, aren’t you? I knew you were watching me from behind your cash register. I would rush the ladies’ orders. I always sent them to you. You have always loved me, haven’t you, Adna?”
Strange Times, My Dear Page 38