The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  ‘Yes! I think it is the first time I have felt this way.’

  ‘You must be joking. I am the one who should be jealous of you. I have always wished I was like you. You are an amazing woman: well educated, brave, a capable decision maker… I always think Hamid wishes he had a wife like you. And then you say… Oh, no! You must be joking. I am the one who should be jealous, but I don’t think I even deserve to be envious of you. I would be like the commoner who is jealous of the Queen of England.’

  ‘Nonsense. I am a nobody. You are far better and more complete than me. You are a lady, a good and loving wife, a kind and wise mother, eager to read and learn, and willing to make sacrifices for your family.’

  Looking terribly sad, she sighed and got up from the chair. Instinctively, I knew she was longing to see her husband.

  ‘How is Mr Mehdi?’ I asked. ‘Has it been a long time since you saw him?’

  ‘Yes, almost two months. The last time was two weeks before I came here. Given the situation, we had to take two different escape routes.’

  ‘Do you have news of him?’

  ‘Yes, poor Hamid is constantly taking our messages back and forth.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he come here one night, in the middle of the night, so that you can see each other?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous. His coming here could make this house no longer safe. We have to be careful.’

  I threw caution to the winds and said, ‘Hamid says your marriage was arranged by the organisation, but I don’t believe him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You two love each other like a husband and wife, not like colleagues.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I am a woman, I can recognise love, I can sense it. And you are not the type of woman who could share a bed with a man you don’t love.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have always loved him.’

  ‘Did you meet through the organisation?… Oh, I am sorry, I am being nosy. I take it back.’

  ‘No… it’s all right. I don’t mind. I haven’t had a friend to talk to in years. Of course, there were people close to me, but I was always the listener. It seems the need to talk is always there. You are perhaps the only friend I have had in recent years with whom I can talk about myself.’

  ‘I have had only one true friend in my life and I lost her years ago.’

  ‘Then it seems we need each other; me more so than you. At least you have your family, I don’t even have that. You cannot imagine how much I miss them, how much I miss the gossip, the family news, the simple chit-chat and the everyday issues. How long can one talk about politics and philosophy? Sometimes I wonder what is going on in our house and I realise that I have forgotten the names of some of the children in the family. They must have forgotten me, too. I am no longer a member of any family.’

  ‘But don’t you all believe that you belong to the masses and to the global family of the working class?’

  She laughed and said, ‘You have learned quite a lot, haven’t you! Still, I miss my own family. But what was the question you asked?’

  ‘I asked, where did you and Mehdi meet?’

  ‘At the university. Of course, Mehdi was two years ahead of me. He had a great ability to lead and an astute, analytical mind. When I found out that the leaflets that were being distributed and the slogans that were appearing on the dormitory walls were his handiwork, he became my hero.’

  ‘You were not interested in politics at the time?’

  ‘Yes, I was. How could a university student claiming to be an intellectual not be interested in politics? Being a leftist and opposed to the regime was almost like an official duty for the students. Even those who weren’t true believers used politics to pose as intellectuals. There were very few real devotees like Mehdi. I still hadn’t read and learned enough. I didn’t really know what I believed in. Mehdi shaped my thoughts and beliefs. Although he came from a religious family, he had read the works of Marx, Engels and others, and he analysed them very well.’

  ‘So he tempted you to join the organisation?’

  ‘At the time, there was no organisation. We started it together much later. Perhaps if it wasn’t for Mehdi, I would have chosen a different path. But I am sure I would not have veered too far from politics.’

  ‘How did you end up getting married?’

  ‘The group was starting to take shape. I was from a traditional family and, like most Iranian girls, I couldn’t go out whenever I wanted to and I couldn’t stay out until late at night. One of the guys suggested that for me to be able to dedicate all my time to the cause, I should marry someone in the group. Mehdi agreed and like a real suitor he came to our house with his family and asked for my hand in marriage.’

  ‘Were you happy in your marriage?’

  ‘What can I say? Perhaps I did want to marry him, but I didn’t want the reason for our marriage to be the organisation and I didn’t want to be proposed to like that… I was young and romantic and under the influence of stupid bourgeois literature.’

  On a foggy and freezing February night, at one o’clock in the morning and despite all the danger they had talked about, Mehdi quietly crept into the house. I had just fallen asleep when I was jolted awake by the sound of the front door. Hamid was relaxed and reading his book.

  ‘Hamid! Did you hear that? It was the front door. Someone has opened it!’

  ‘Go to sleep, it isn’t any of our business.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you expecting someone?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Mehdi. I gave him the key.’

  ‘Didn’t you say it was too dangerous?’

  ‘They lost track of him some time ago. And we have taken every precaution. He needs to talk to Shahrzad; they’re at odds over a few issues and need to make certain decisions. I couldn’t be their go-between any more and we were forced to arrange a meeting.’

  I wanted to laugh. What a strange couple! A husband and wife who used any excuse other than love and missing each other to be together.

  Mehdi was supposed to leave early in the morning, but he didn’t. Hamid said they still hadn’t come to an agreement. I laughed and went about my work. Late in the afternoon when Hamid came home, the three of them talked and argued for hours behind closed doors. Shahrzad’s cheeks were rosy and she seemed more lively than usual, but she was avoiding my eyes and, just like a shy schoolgirl whose secret has been exposed, she was trying to act as if nothing had happened.

  Mehdi stayed for three nights and in the middle of the fourth night he left as quietly as he had come. I don’t know if they ever saw each other again, but I am certain that those few days were the sweetest days of their lives. Massoud shared their seclusion and went from Mehdi’s arms to Shahrzad’s embrace, making them laugh with his sweet-talk and all the games and tricks he knew. From behind the honeycomb glass, I even saw Mehdi’s shadow going around the living room on all fours with Massoud riding on his back. It was so strange. I never thought a man who was so serious that he hardly ever smiled could develop such a close relationship with a child. Behind those doors, Mehdi and Shahrzad were themselves; their true selves.

  After Mehdi left, Shahrzad was depressed and irritable for several days and kept herself busy reading. By then she had read almost all our books. She used to sleep with a volume of Forough’s poetry under her pillow.

  Towards the end of February, she asked me to buy for her a few shirts and trousers and a large handbag with a strong shoulder strap. Every handbag I bought, she said it was too small. Finally, I gave up and said, ‘Then you want a duffel bag, not a handbag!’

  ‘Bravo, yes! And it shouldn’t be too big, it shouldn’t attract attention, it should be easy to carry, it should be just large enough to hold everything I have.’

  I thought to myself, Including your gun? From the first day she arrived, I knew she had a gun and I was always terrified that the children might find it.

  Shahrzad was getting ready to leave. She was just waiting for an order or a piece of new
s, which arrived in the middle of March and before the new year. She set aside her old clothes and bag and asked me to get rid of them. She packed her new clothes and other belongings in her new duffel bag and carefully arranged Massoud’s drawings at the very bottom, next to her gun. She was in a strange mood. She had grown tired of living in secret, staying indoors and being immobile; she craved fresh air, being on the street and among people, but now that the time had come for her to leave, she seemed sad and depressed. She kept hugging Massoud and saying, ‘How can I tear myself away from him?’ She would hold him tight and hide her tearful eyes in his hair.

  Massoud had sensed that Shahrzad was preparing to leave. Every night before going to bed and every day before leaving the house with me, he would make her promise not to leave while he was gone, and at every opportunity he would tell her, ‘You want to leave? Why? Have I been bad? I promise not to come in your bed in the morning and wake you up any more… If you are going away, take me with you, otherwise you will get lost; you don’t know the streets around here.’ And with all this, he was making Shahrzad even more unhappy and uncertain, and he was not only making her heart ache, but mine as well.

  On her last night with us, Shahrzad slept next to Massoud and told him stories, but she couldn’t hold back her tears. Massoud, who like all children saw and understood things through his heart’s eyes, held Shahrzad’s face in his small hands and said, ‘I know when I wake up in the morning you will be gone.’

  At half past midnight, Shahrzad left the house as planned. From that very moment, I missed her and felt the void she had left behind.

  Before leaving, she held me in her arms and said, ‘Thank you for everything. I leave my Massoud in your care. Watch over him. He is very sensitive. I am worried about his future.’ And then she turned to Hamid and said, ‘You are a fortunate man; value your life. You have a wonderful family. I don’t want anything to disrupt the peace and serenity of this home.’

  Hamid looked at her with surprise and said, ‘Do you know what you are saying? Come on! Let’s go, it is getting late.’

  The next day, when I went to clean and tidy up the living room, I took the volume of Forough’s poetry from under her pillow. There was a pencil tucked in it. I opened the book to that page and saw she had underlined these verses:

  Which summit, which peak?

  Give me refuge you flickering lights,

  you bright mistrusting homes

  on whose sunny rooftops laundered clothes

  sway in the arms of scented soot.

  Give me refuge you simple wholesome women

  whose soft fingertips trace

  the exhilarating movements of a fetus beneath your skin,

  and in your open collars

  the air forever mingles with the smell of fresh milk.

  A tear rolled down my cheek. Massoud was standing in the doorway. With sorrow in his eyes he asked, ‘She’s gone?’

  ‘Good morning, my dear. Well, sooner or later she had to go back to her own home.’

  He ran into my arms, put his head on my shoulder and cried. He never forgot his darling Auntie Sheri. Even years later, when he had turned into a vigorous young man, he would say, ‘I still dream of the house I have built for her and we live in it together.’

  After Shahrzad left, I got busy preparing for the new year – spring cleaning, new clothes for the children, sewing new bed sheets, changing the living room curtains. I wanted the new year celebration to be a fun and exciting experience for the children. I tried to observe all the traditional customs and rituals and hoped that it would all be etched in their minds as a sweet memory of their childhood. Siamak was responsible for watering the seed sprouts we were growing on plates, Massoud was painting eggs, and Hamid would laugh and say, ‘I can’t believe you are doing all this. What are you wasting all this energy for?’

  But I knew that, deep in his heart, he too was excited and happy about the new year. Ever since he had started spending most of his free time with us, he could no longer avoid being involved in our daily lives and unconsciously expressed his pleasure.

  I hired someone to help me clean the house from the rooftop all the way down to the cellar. The scent of a new year wafted through the house.

  For the first time, we went on the new year social calls as a complete family. We participated in new year events and even spent the traditional thirteenth-day celebrations on a picnic outside of town with Hamid’s family. After the holidays, happier and more energetic, I again became busy with my own and Siamak’s studies and the end of the school year exams.

  Hamid was spending even more time at home, waiting for a telephone call that wouldn’t come. He was restless and impatient, but there was nothing he could do. I didn’t mind; I was pleased to have him home. With the end of the exams and the start of the summer, I planned various entertainments for the children. I wanted us to spend the entire summer together. Now that I had a driver’s licence, I had promised them that in the afternoons I would take them to the cinema, or the park, or to a party, or an amusement park. They were happy and content and I felt a strong sense of fulfilment.

  One afternoon, on the way home from the park, I bought a newspaper, some bread and a few other groceries. Hamid had still not come home. I put everything away and started cutting the bread, which I had laid on top of the newspaper. As I cut the bread, the newspaper headline gradually emerged. I shoved the bread aside. The words stabbed into my eyes like daggers. I couldn’t fully grasp their meaning. As if struck by a bolt of electricity, I was frozen to the spot and trembling. I couldn’t take my eyes off the newspaper. There was a storm in my mind and a riot in my stomach. The children noticed my strange state and came over to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Just then, the door opened and Hamid rushed in, looking distraught. Our eyes met; so it was true, there was no need to say anything.

  Hamid fell to his knees, pounded his fists on his thighs and hollered, ‘No!’ Then he keeled over and put his forehead on the floor.

  He was in such a state that I forgot my own horror. The children were staring at us with fear and confusion. I collected myself, pushed them out and told them to go play in the yard. Looking back at us, they walked out without protest and I hurried over to Hamid. He put his head on my chest and wept like a child. I don’t know how long we sat there and cried. Hamid kept repeating, ‘Why? Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t they let me know?’

  After a while, his rage and grief sparked him into action. He washed his face and ran out of the house like a madman. There was nothing I could do to stop him. All I said was, ‘Be careful, you may all be under surveillance. Be alert.’

  I read the newspaper article. In the course of a military operation, Shahrzad and a few others had been trapped. To avoid falling into the hands of the SAVAK, they had all committed suicide by holding exploding grenades. I read the article over and over again, thinking that looking at it from different angles I might discover the truth, but the rest of the article was all the usual insults and the damning of traitors and saboteurs. I hid the newspaper so that Siamak wouldn’t see it. In the middle of the night, Hamid returned home exhausted and desperate. He threw himself on the bed still fully dressed and said, ‘Everything is in chaos. All the lines of communication have been severed.’

  ‘But they have your telephone number. They will call if it becomes necessary.’

  ‘Then why haven’t they called all this time? It has been more than a month since any of them contacted me. I knew about the operation; I was supposed to be part of it, I had been trained for it. I don’t understand why they put me aside. If I had been there, this would have never happened.’

  ‘You mean you would have single-handedly fought that massive military force and saved everyone? If you had been there, you would have been dead, too.’

  And I thought to myself, Why did they not include him or contact him? Was it Shahrzad’s doing? Was she protecting Hamid’s family by excluding him?

  Two or thre
e weeks went by. Hamid was nervous and chain-smoking. He was waiting for news, jumping every time the telephone rang. He went to extreme lengths to track down Mehdi and the other key players, but he couldn’t find the slightest lead. Every day, there was news of more arrests. Hamid again checked the various escape routes. The printing house was purged and certain employees were dismissed. The days were fraught with events and incidents; danger floated in the air. We spent every second expecting a disaster or news of one.

  ‘Everyone is in hiding,’ I said. ‘Maybe they have all left. Go on a trip for a while and come back when everything has calmed down. You still haven’t been identified; you can leave the country.’

  ‘I will not leave the country under any circumstance.’

  ‘Then at least go to a small village, to one of the provinces, go somewhere far away and stay there until all this unrest quietens down.’

  ‘I will not be away from the home or office telephones. They may need me at any moment.’