The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  I did my best to resume our normal routines, but nothing was normal. My soul was grieving and I was terrified for Hamid’s life. Shahrzad’s face and the memories of the few months we had spent together did not leave me for one instant.

  The day after the news broke about the military operation, Siamak found the newspaper, took it to the rooftop and read the article. I was in the kitchen when he walked in looking pale and clutching the newspaper.

  ‘Did you read it?’ I asked.

  He laid his head on my lap and cried.

  ‘Don’t let Massoud find out,’ I said.

  But Massoud had figured it all out. He grew sad and quiet and often just sat in a corner. He stopped making things and drawing pictures for his Auntie Sheri. He stopped asking about her and was obsessively careful never to mention her name. A short time later, I noticed that his drawings now featured dark colours and strange scenes; colours and images that I had never seen in his pictures. I would ask him about them, but he wouldn’t tell a story or offer any explanation. I was afraid that the sadness that he neither spoke about nor forgot would permanently affect his gentle and cheerful soul. He was made to laugh, love and comfort others, not to grieve and suffer.

  There was little I could do to shield my children from life’s painful experiences and the bitter realities that they would have to face. This, too, was part of their growing up.

  Hamid was in an even worse condition than the boys. He aimlessly wandered around, sometimes he would disappear for a few days, but he would return no less distraught and I would know that he had not found what he was searching for. The last time he left, we had no news of him for more than a week. He didn’t even call to see if anyone had tried to contact him.

  I was constantly anxious. Ever since Shahrzad’s death I no longer liked to buy the newspaper, but now every day, earlier than the day before, I would hurry to the news-stand and wait until the daily newspapers were delivered. I would stand on the street and leaf through each issue with trepidation and when I was certain there was no bad news, I would calm down and walk back home. In reality, I didn’t read the newspaper to learn the news, I wanted to make certain there was no news.

  Towards the end of July, I finally read the news that I had dreaded. The twine that held the bundle of newspapers together had still not been cut when the large, black headline made me freeze. My knees started to shake and I gasped for air. I have no memory of how I paid for the newspaper and how I made my way back home.

  The boys were playing in the yard. I quickly went upstairs and closed the door behind me. Right there behind the door, I sat down and spread the newspaper on the floor. I felt as though my heart was about to leap out of my throat. The article stated that the leadership of a terrorist organisation had been decimated and that our beloved country had been cleansed of those traitors. The list of names marched before my eyes. There were ten of them. Mehdi’s name was among them. I read the list again. No, Hamid’s name wasn’t there.

  I felt faint; I didn’t know what emotion I was experiencing. I mourned those who had lost their lives, but there was a spark of hope gleaming in my heart. Hamid’s name wasn’t there. I thought, Then he is still alive, perhaps he is on the run, perhaps he has not even been identified and can come home. Thank God. But, what if he has been arrested? I was dazed and confused. Without much hope, I called the printing house; there was still an hour left of the work day, but there was no answer. I felt I was going to lose my mind. I wished there was someone I could talk to, someone I could consult with, someone to console me. I told myself that I had to be strong, that one single word of what was inside me could destroy us.

  I spent the next two days in darkness and fear. Hoping to distract myself, I worked like a madwoman. On the second night, what I had subconsciously expected happened.

  It was past midnight, I was about to fall asleep. I don’t know how they suddenly appeared in the middle of the house. Siamak ran to me, someone tossed Massoud who was screaming into my arms, a soldier was aiming a rifle at the three of us huddled on my bed. I don’t know how many they were, but they were all over the house, grabbing and throwing everything they could get their hands on into the middle of the rooms. I could hear Bibi’s terrified voice downstairs and it added to my panic. They threw the contents of every dresser, cabinet, closet, shelf and suitcase in a heap; with knives they tore through sheets, mattresses and pillows. I didn’t know what they were looking for. I kept thinking, This is good news, Hamid must still be alive, he has not been arrested, that is why they are here… But what if he has been caught and they are gathering all these books and documents and letters as evidence… and who gave them our address?

  All these thoughts and a thousand other vague ones were rushing through my mind. Massoud clung to me and stared at the soldiers, Siamak sat quietly on the bed. I took his hand; it was ice cold and trembling faintly. I looked at his face. He was all eyes; he was monitoring their every move. I saw something on his face other than fear and it made me shudder. I will forever remember the flames of rage and hatred that blazed in the eyes of that nine-year-old boy. I thought of Bibi and realised that I hadn’t heard her voice for some time. I wondered what had happened to her. I wondered if she was dead. The soldiers told us to get off the bed. They tore through the mattress, then again told us to get back on the bed and to stay there.

  The sun had risen by the time they left our home, carrying documents, papers and books. Massoud had been asleep for about half an hour, but Siamak still sat there, pale and silent. It took me a while to muster the courage to climb down from the bed. I kept thinking one of them must be hiding somewhere, watching us. I searched the rooms. Siamak followed me everywhere. I opened the door and walked outside. No, there was no one there. I ran down the stairs. The door to Bibi’s bedroom was wide open and she lay sprawled sideways on her bed. I thought, My God, she is dead. But when I reached her, I heard her rasping and trying to breathe. I propped her up on a couple of pillows, poured a glass of water and tried to trickle some in her mouth. There was no longer any need to try to conceal anything. There was no secret left for me to be afraid of divulging. I picked up the telephone and called Hamid’s father. He tried to remain calm and I sensed that the news wasn’t all that startling to him; it was as if he expected it.

  I went through the house. Everything was in such disarray that I thought I could never put things back in order again. My house was in ruins. It looked like a ravaged country after the enemy has left. I wondered, Do I now have to sit and wait for casualties?

  There were such huge piles of odds and ends in Bibi’s few rooms that I wondered how she had fitted in so many useless things. Old curtains, hand-stitched tablecloths with stains that had not come out after multiple washes, old decorative pieces of cloth, small and large pieces of leftover fabric from clothes that had been sewn, worn and thrown away many years ago, warped and yellowed old forks, chipped and broken plates and bowls waiting for a china repair man who never came… Really, why did Bibi keep all those things? What part of her life was she searching for in them?

  There was true mayhem down in the cellar – broken chairs and tables, empty bottles of milk and soda scattered around in the dirt, mounds of rice that had poured out of slashed burlap sacks…

  Hamid’s parents walked into the house and looked around in disbelief. Seeing the state everything was in, his mother screamed and burst into tears. She kept crying, ‘What has become of my child? Where is my Hamid?’

  I looked at her with surprise. Yes, one could cry, but I was as cold and hard as ice. My brain would not cooperate with me. It refused to grasp the magnitude of the disaster.

  Hamid’s father quickly carried Bibi to the car and forced Hamid’s mother to follow them. I had no will or energy to help or console anyone or to answer any questions. I was void of emotion. All I knew was that I couldn’t sit still and I kept walking from room to room. I don’t know how long it took for Hamid’s father to come back. He took Siamak in his arms and broke into tea
rs. I watched him with indifference. He seemed to be miles away from me.

  Massoud’s unrelenting and terrified screams finally brought me back. I ran towards the stairs and picked him up. He was drenched in sweat and trembling.

  ‘It’s all right, son,’ I said. ‘Don’t be afraid. It’s all right.’

  ‘Gather your things,’ Hamid’s father said. ‘You will stay with us for a few days.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I am more comfortable here.’

  ‘You can’t stay here. It’s not wise.’

  ‘No, I’m going to stay. Hamid may try to contact me. He may need me.’

  He shook his head and firmly said, ‘No, my dear. There is no need. Collect your things. If you are more comfortable at your father’s house, I will take you there. I guess our house isn’t all that safe either.’

  I realised he knew more than he was saying, but I didn’t have the courage to ask. I didn’t want to know. Amid all that chaos and confusion, I managed to find a large duffel bag. I grabbed any piece of the boys’ clothing that I could see and stuffed them in the bag, then gathered a few things for myself as well. I didn’t have the energy to change my clothes; I just threw on a chador over my nightgown and walked down the stairs with the boys. Hamid’s father locked the doors behind us.

  I didn’t speak a word during the entire drive. Hamid’s father talked to the boys and tried to distract them. As soon as we arrived at Father’s house, the boys jumped out of the car and ran inside. I looked at them. They were still wearing their pyjamas. They seemed so small and defenceless.

  ‘Look, my girl,’ Hamid’s father said, ‘I know you are scared, you are in shock, it has been a terrible blow, but you have to be strong, you have to face reality. How long are you going to sit there dazed and silent and in a world of your own? Your children need you. You have to take care of them.’

  At last, my tears started to flow. I wept and asked, ‘What has happened to Hamid?’

  He leaned his forehead on the steering wheel and remained silent.

  ‘He is dead! Isn’t he? He has been killed, just like the others. Hasn’t he?’

  ‘No, my dear, he is alive. That much we know.’

  ‘Have you heard from him? Tell me! I swear I won’t tell anyone. He is hiding in the printing house, isn’t he?’

  ‘No. They raided the printing house two days ago. They turned it inside out and shut it down.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell me? Was Hamid there?’

  ‘Almost… he was near by.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He is under arrest.’

  ‘No!’

  For a while, I couldn’t say anything. And then I impulsively said, ‘So in fact, he too is dead. He was more afraid of being arrested than of being killed.’

  ‘Don’t think like this. Have hope. I will do whatever I can. I have called on a thousand people since yesterday. I have met with a few well-connected officials and lined up a whole lot of acquaintances, and I have an appointment with a lawyer later today. Everyone says we should be hopeful. I am optimistic. And you have to help me by staying in constant contact with us. For now, we should thank God he is alive.’

  I spent the next three days in bed. I wasn’t sick, but I was so drained and exhausted that I couldn’t do anything. It was as if the fears and anxieties of the past several months, together with that final blow, had sapped me of all energy and strength. Massoud would sit next to me and stroke my hair. He would try to force me to eat and watched over me like a nurse. All the while, Siamak walked around the reflecting pool in total silence. He didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t fight, didn’t break things and didn’t play. There was a disquieting glint in his deep, dark gaze that scared me more than his temper tantrums and aggressions. Overnight, he seemed fifteen years older and had the temperament of a tense and bitter man.

  On the third day, I finally got out of bed. I had no choice. I had to carry on with my life. Mahmoud, who had just learned what had happened, came to Father’s house with his wife and children. Ehteram-Sadat was talking incessantly but I had no patience for any of it. Mahmoud was in the kitchen, talking to Mother. I knew he had come hoping to gather more information. Faati came into the room, put the tea tray on the floor and sat down next to me. Just then, I heard Siamak’s thunderous and hysterical screams come from the yard. I ran to the window. With hatred in his voice, he was shouting obscenities at Mahmoud and hurling rocks at him. Then he suddenly swung around and with surprising force pushed poor Gholam-Ali into the pool, then picked up a flowerpot and flung it to the ground, shattering it. I didn’t know what had made him that furious, but I knew it wasn’t without cause. I actually felt relieved. After three days, he was finally releasing his emotions.

  Ali ran over to Siamak, yelled at him to shut up and raised his hand to strike him in the mouth. The world turned dark before my eyes. ‘Put your hand down!’ I screamed. Then I jumped into the yard through the window and lunged at Ali like a tigress protecting her cub. ‘If you ever raise a hand to my child again I will tear you to pieces!’ I shouted.

  I held Siamak in my arms. He was shaking with rage. Everyone was staring at me in silence and surprise. Ali took a step back and said, ‘I just wanted to shut him up. Look at the havoc he has raised. Look at what he did to this poor boy.’ And he pointed to Gholam-Ali who was standing next to his mother like a drenched mouse, sniffling.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the horrible things he said to his uncle?’ Ali said.

  ‘His uncle must have said something to make him this angry,’ I retorted. ‘He hasn’t made a sound in this house for three days.’

  ‘This urchin isn’t even worthy of me talking to him,’ Mahmoud scowled. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for selling out your brother for an imp of a child? You will never learn, will you?’

  By the time Father came home, the house was again quiet. It was the calm after a storm that gives everyone a chance to take a measure of the damage. Mahmoud and his wife and children had left; Ali was in his room upstairs; Mother was crying and didn’t know whether she should side with me or with her sons; Faati was hovering over me and helping me pack the children’s clothes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Father asked.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘My children shouldn’t grow up being mistreated and castigated, especially not by their kin.’

  ‘What happened?’ Father snapped.

  ‘What can I say?’ Mother lamented. ‘Poor Mahmoud was only showing his concern. He was talking to me in the kitchen and the boy overheard us. You won’t believe the hell he raised. And then the sister and brothers got into a fight.’

  Father turned to me and said, ‘No matter what has happened, I will not let you go back to that house tonight.’

  ‘No, Father, I have to go. I haven’t enrolled the children in school and classes start next week. I haven’t taken care of anything yet.’

  ‘Fine, go, but not tonight and not alone.’

  ‘Faati will come with me.’

  ‘Wonderful! What a great protector! I mean there should be a man with you. The house may be raided again. Two women and two young boys shouldn’t be there alone. Tomorrow, we will go together.’

  He was right; we had to wait another night. After dinner, Father asked Siamak to sit with him and he started talking to him the way he used to do when Siamak was younger.

  ‘Well, my son, now tell me what happened that made you so angry,’ Father quietly said.

  And just like a tape recording, and unaware that he was imitating Mahmoud, Siamak said, ‘I heard him tell Grandmother, “The louse is a subversive. Sooner or later, they will execute him. I never liked him or his family. I knew they were up to no good. I guess we shouldn’t have expected any better from a suitor that Mrs Parvin introduced. How many times did I tell you to marry her off to Haji Agha…”’ Siamak paused for a few seconds. ‘Haji Agha something or other.’

  ‘Probably Haji Agha Abouzari,’ Father said.

  ‘Yes, that’
s it. And then Uncle Mahmoud said, “But you said he was too old, that he had been married before, and you ignored the fact that he was a pious man and had a shop in the bazaar stocked with merchandise. Instead, you gave her to a faithless two-bit communist. That filth, he deserves what he gets. He should be executed.”’

  Father held Siamak’s head against his chest and kissed his hair.

  ‘Don’t listen to any of this,’ he said gently. ‘They are not smart enough to understand. Your father is a good man. Rest assured that they will not execute him. I talked to your grandfather today. He said he has hired a lawyer. God willing, everything will work out.’

  I spent the entire night thinking about how we were supposed to live without Hamid. What was I to do with the children? What were my responsibilities? How was I going to protect them from what people said?

  The next morning we returned to our war-torn house with Father, Mrs Parvin and Faati. Father was shocked to see the state of my home. As he was leaving he said, ‘I will send the boys from the shop to come and help. This is more work than you three women can handle.’ Then he took some money from his pocket and said, ‘Take this for now and let me know if you need more.’