Next to the radio was a strange square box. I walked over to the table. There were a number of small and large envelopes with pictures of orchestras on them. I recognised the box. It was a gramophone, just like the one Parvaneh’s family had. I opened the lid and ran my fingers over the black, round rings nestling inside one another. Too bad, I didn’t know how to turn it on. I looked at the envelopes. It was fascinating; the stranger listened to foreign music. If only Mahmoud knew!… The books and the gramophone were the only interesting items in the house. I wished they would just leave me alone there with those few things.
Well, there was nothing else in the apartment. I opened the front door and found myself on a small terrace. There were stairs that led down to the front yard and up to the rooftop. I went downstairs. In the middle of the brick-paved yard was a round reflecting pool with old blue paint and fresh clean water. Two long and narrow flowerbeds flanked either side of the pool, a relatively large cherry tree in the middle of one and another tree in the middle of the other. When autumn eventually came, I realised it was a persimmon. A few Damascus rose bushes with dusty, thirsty-looking leaves had been planted around the trees. Next to the wall, an old withered grapevine hung from a time-worn trellis.
The façade of the house and the walls surrounding the yard were made of red bricks. I could see the bedroom and living room windows of the upstairs apartment. There was a toilet at the far end of the yard, the kind we used to have in Qum and that I was always afraid of using. A few steps separated the yard from the wraparound terrace of the ground floor, which had tall windows with rolled-up wicker shades. The curtain at one of the windows was open. I walked over to it, shielded my eyes with my hands and peered inside. The furnishings consisted of a deep red carpet, several floor cushions and a bedding set that was folded up and stacked next to the wall. There was a samovar and a tea set next to one of the floor cushions.
The front door of the ground-floor apartment looked older than the front door of the apartment upstairs and there was a large padlock on it. I assumed this was where the stranger’s grandmother lived. She was probably at some social gathering. I remembered seeing at the marriage ceremony an old, slightly bent woman wearing a white chador with tiny black flowers on it. I remembered she had put something in my hand; perhaps a gold coin. The stranger’s family must have taken her somewhere else so that the bride and groom could be alone for a few days. The bride and groom!… I snickered and went back to the yard.
A staircase led down to the cellar. Its door was locked. Narrow windows below the ground-floor veranda cast some light into the underground room. I peered through them. The cellar looked cluttered and dusty. It was obvious that no one had gone down there in a long time. I turned to go back upstairs when my eyes again caught sight of the dusty Damascus rose bushes. I felt sorry for them. A watering can stood next to the reflecting pool. I filled it and watered the plants.
It was around one o’clock and I was starting to feel hungry. I went to the kitchen and found a box of pastries from the marriage ceremony. I tasted one. It was very dry. I wanted something cold. There was a small, white refrigerator in the corner, containing cheese, butter, some fruit and a few other things. I took a bottle of water and a peach, sat on the kitchen windowsill and ate. I looked around; what a cluttered and messy kitchen.
I took a book from the shelves in the hall, went back to the unmade bed and lay down. I read a few lines, but I had no idea what I had read. I couldn’t concentrate. I tossed the book aside and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. Thoughts kept dancing around in my head: now, what should I do? Do I have to spend the rest of my life with the stranger? Where had he gone in the middle of the night? He must have gone to his parents’ house. He may have even complained to them about me. What should I say if his mother scolds me for having kicked her son out of his own home?
I tossed and turned for a while until the thought of Saiid erased all other thoughts from my head. I tried to push it aside. I chided myself that I should not think about him ever again. Now that I had failed to kill myself, I had to watch how I behaved. This was how it had started for Mrs Parvin, and now she was comfortably cheating on her husband. If I didn’t want to turn out like her, I had to stop thinking about Saiid. But my memories of him wouldn’t leave me alone. I decided the only solution was to start collecting pills so that if one day life seemed unbearable and I found myself being drawn down immoral roads, I would have an easy and painless means of suicide. Surely, God would understand that I had taken my life to escape from sin and would not assign me a horrifying punishment.
I felt as if I had been in bed for hours and had even dozed off, but when I looked at the large, round clock on the wall, I saw that it was only three-thirty. What could I do? I was terribly bored. I wondered, where did the stranger go? What does he plan to do with me? I wished I could live in that apartment without him having anything to do with me. There was music, a radio, plenty of books and, most important of all, there was peace, seclusion and independence. I had no desire at all to see my family. I could take care of all the household chores, and the stranger and I could live our separate lives. Oh, if only he would agree.
I remembered Mrs Parvin saying, ‘Perhaps you will grow to like him. And if not, you can have your own life.’ I shuddered. I knew exactly what she meant. But was she really guilty and at fault? Would I be an unfaithful woman if I were to do the same? Unfaithful to whom? Unfaithful to what? Which is the greater disloyalty: sleeping with a stranger whom I don’t love, whom I don’t want to touch me, to whom I was married after someone spoke a few words and I was forced to say yes or someone else said it on my behalf; or making love with a man I love, who is everything to me and with whom I dream of living, but no one has spoken those few words for us?
What strange thoughts were spinning around in my head. I had to do something, I had to keep busy; otherwise, I would lose my mind. I switched on the radio and turned up the volume. I had to hear voices other than my own. I went back to the bedroom and made the bed. I crumpled up the red nightgown and stuffed it in the carton that was there. I looked in the closet; it was untidy and many of the clothes had fallen off their hangers. I tossed everything out and arranged my clothes on one side and the stranger’s clothes on the other. I tidied up the odds and ends in the dresser drawers and organised the items that were sitting on top of it. I dragged the heavy carton into the storage room across the hall, which contained only a few boxes of books. I tidied that room, too, and then I took the unnecessary items from the bedroom and stored them there. By the time I finished rearranging these two rooms it was dark outside. Now I knew where everything was.
I was hungry again. I washed my hands and went to the kitchen. Oh, it was in such a state, but I didn’t have the energy to tidy it up. I boiled some water and brewed some tea. There was no bread. I smeared some butter and cheese on the dry pastries and ate them with a cup of tea. I went over to where the books were in the hall. Some had strange titles that I didn’t quite understand; there were several law books, clearly the stranger’s textbooks, and there were a number of novels and volumes of poetry – the works of Akhavan Saless, Forough Farokhzad and a few other poets that I really liked. I remembered the poetry book that Saiid had given to me. My small book, with an ink drawing on its cover of a stem of morning glory in a vase. I would have to remember to bring it. I leafed through Forough’s The Captive. What courage she had and how boldly she had expressed her emotions. I felt some of her verses with my entire being, as if I had composed them myself. I marked a few of the poems so that later I could copy them in my poetry scrapbook. And I read out loud:
I am thinking of taking wing from this dark prison in a moment of neglect,
To laugh in the face of the prison-keeper and to start life anew beside you.
And again, I scolded myself to have some shame.
It was past ten o’clock when I picked up a novel and went to bed. I was exhausted. The title of the book was The Horsefly. It described terrible and horri
fying events but I couldn’t put it down. It helped me to not think and to not be afraid of being alone in the stranger’s home. I don’t know what time it was when I finally fell asleep. The book fell from my hands and the light stayed on.
It was close to noon when I woke up. The apartment was still drowned in silence and solitude. I thought, What a blessing to live without being bothered by anyone; I can sleep as late as I want. I got up, washed my face, brewed some tea and again ate a few of the pastries. I said to myself, Today is Saturday and all the shops are open. If the stranger doesn’t come back, I will have to go out and do a little shopping. But with what money? In fact, what am I going to do if he doesn’t come back? He must have gone to work today and, God willing, he will come back late in the afternoon. I wanted to laugh; I had said God willing, meaning I would like him to come back. I wondered, Do I really value him in some way?
I remembered one of the stories in Woman’s Day magazine. A young woman is forced into a marriage, just like me. On her wedding night she tells her husband that she loves another man and cannot go to bed with him. The husband promises not to touch her. After a few months, the woman starts to discover the man’s virtues and gradually forgets her past love and develops feelings for her husband, but he is not willing to forget the promise he has made and never touches her. Could the stranger have made a similar promise? Excellent! I had no feelings for him; I just wanted him to come home. First, I needed to clarify where we stood with each other; second, I needed money; and third, I had to make it clear to him that under no circumstances was I willing to return to my family. The truth was that I had found a refuge and I liked living without being pestered and plagued by them.
I turned the radio on loud and went to work. I spent many long hours in the kitchen. I cleaned out the cabinets, lined their shelves with sheets of newspaper and neatly arranged the dishes and other odds and ends in them. I stacked the large copper pots under the countertop near the gas range. In the carton of towels and linens, I found some loose fabric. I cut it into different-sized tablecloths and since I didn’t have a sewing machine I hand-stitched the borders. I spread one on the kitchen table and the others on the kitchen counter and cabinets. I put the new samovar, which was obviously part of my dowry, on one of the cabinets and set the tea tray next to it. I washed the gas range and the refrigerator, which were both very grimy, and spent a long time scrubbing the kitchen floor until it looked clean. There were a few embroidered tablecloths among my things. I took them to the living room and spread them on the mantelpiece, on the table where the radio and gramophone were, and on the bookshelves. I rearranged the records and books according to height and I fiddled with the gramophone a little, but I still couldn’t turn it on.
I looked around me. The apartment had taken on a different look. I liked it. A noise out in the front yard drew me to the window, but I didn’t see anyone there. The flowerbeds looked parched and thirsty. I went outside and watered them, and then I poured water in the yard and on the stairs and washed them. It was dark outside when, tired and drenched in sweat, I finally finished the work. I remembered that we had a bath in the apartment. Although there was no hot water and I didn’t know how to turn on the large kerosene water heater in the corner of the bathroom, it was still a welcome prize. I washed the bathtub and the sink and then I took a cold shower. I quickly washed my hair, lathered my body and got out. I put on the floral house dress Mrs Parvin had made for me, gathered my hair in a ponytail and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked very different. I was no longer a child. It was as if I had aged several years in just a few days.
At the sound of the door to the street my heart sank. I ran over to the window. The stranger’s parents, his youngest sister Manijeh, and his grandmother Bibi were in the front yard. His sister was holding his grandmother under the arm and helping her up the steps to the ground-floor veranda. His father was walking ahead to unlock the door. I heard his mother panting up the stairs to the first floor. With trembling hands and legs, I opened the door and after taking a deep breath I said hello.
‘Well! Well! Hello, madam bride. How are you? Where’s the groom?’ And before I had a chance to answer, his mother walked in and called out, ‘Hamid? Son, where are you?’
I sighed with relief; they didn’t know he had left on our wedding night and had not come back to the apartment. ‘He is not home,’ I said quietly.
‘Where did he go?’ his mother asked.
‘He said he was going to visit his friends.’
His mother shook her head and started inspecting the apartment. She poked her head into every nook and cranny. I didn’t know how to interpret the way she kept shaking her head. I felt as though a tough teacher was reviewing my exam paper. I was nervous, waiting for her final judgment. She ran her hand over the embroidered tablecloth I had spread on the mantelpiece in the living room and asked, ‘Did you embroider this?’
‘No.’
She went to the bedroom and opened the closet door. I liked how neat and tidy it was. Again she shook her head. In the kitchen, she looked inside the cabinets and examined the plates and platters. She picked one up and turned it over. ‘Is it a Massoud?’
‘Yes!’
Finally, the inspection ended and she returned to the hall. She sat down on a floor cushion and leaned against a backrest. I went to prepare some tea. I put some pastries on a platter and took it to the hall.
‘My girl, come sit down,’ she said. ‘I am so very pleased. Just like Mrs Parvin said, you are pretty, meticulous, have excellent taste, and in just two days you have managed to straighten up this apartment. Your mother said a day or two after the marriage we would have to come and help you clean your home, but that doesn’t seem necessary. I can tell you are a great homemaker and my mind is at ease. Now, my girl, where did you say Hamid is?’
‘With his friends.’
‘Look here, my girl, a wife must be a woman. She must keep a tight grip on her husband and manage him. You have to keep your eyes open. My Hamid has thorns and his thorns are his friends. You have to make sure he cuts himself off from them. And let me warn you, his friends aren’t meek and obedient. Everyone said, if we get Hamid busy with a wife and kids, he will lose interest in them. Now it’s up to you to keep him so distracted that he won’t feel time fly by. And in nine months you should hand him his first child and nine months later the second one. In short, you have to keep him so busy that he will lose interest in all that other stuff. I did my best; by weeping, fainting and praying I finally managed to marry him off. Now it’s your turn.’
It was as if a veil had suddenly been lifted from before my eyes. Aha! So just like me, the poor stranger had been forced to sit through that marriage ceremony. He was not interested in his spouse or married life. Perhaps he, too, was in love with someone else. But if that was the case, why didn’t his family ask for that girl’s hand? After all, their son and his desires were very important to them. Unlike me, he didn’t have to sit and wait for suitors to come calling; he could choose anyone he wanted. His parents were so desperate to see him get married that they would not have objected to his choice. Perhaps he was altogether against marriage and didn’t want to be burdened by it. But why? After all, he was a man of a certain age. Could it have been just because of his friends? His mother’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
‘I cooked herb stew with lamb shank. Hamid loves it. I didn’t have the heart not to give him some. I brought you a pot. I know you’re not going to have time to wash and clean herbs for quite a while… By the way, do you have any rice here?’
Surprised, I shrugged.
‘It’s in the cellar. Every year his father buys rice for us and he always buys a few sacks for Bibi and Hamid as well. Make some smothered rice tonight; it will go well with the stew. Hamid doesn’t like steamed rice. We are leaving tomorrow and I had to bring Bibi back home; otherwise, I would have kept her with us for a few more days. She is a harmless old woman. Look in on her once in a while. She usually tak
es care of her own cooking, but it would be nice if you could drop in on her and take her some food. It would please God.’
Just then, Manijeh and her father walked in. I got up and said hello. Hamid’s father smiled at me and said, ‘Hello, my girl. How are you?’ Then he turned to his wife and said, ‘You were right. She looks much prettier than she did at the marriage ceremony.’
‘Look and see what a home she has made in just a single day. See how she has cleaned and organised everything. Now let’s see what excuse our son will come up with this time.’
Manijeh peeked around and said, ‘How much time did you have? You two were probably sleeping all day yesterday and you had to go to the mother-in-law greeting.’
‘We had to go to what?’ I asked.
‘The mother-in-law greeting. Isn’t that right, Mother? Don’t the married couple have to go visit the bride’s mother the day after the marriage?’
‘Well, yes. You should have gone. Didn’t you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know we had to.’
They all laughed.
‘Of course, Hamid has no clue about these customs and traditions, and how would this poor girl know?’ his mother said. ‘But now that you do know, the two of you must go visit your mother. They are expecting you.’
The Book of Fate Page 12