The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  I was shaking with anger and was about to answer him when Mr Zargar walked in and asked, ‘What is going on? Mr Shirzadi, what is the matter?’

  ‘What is the matter?’ he snarled. ‘She doesn’t know how to do her job. She is two days late and she hands me a report full of mistakes. This is what happens when you hire an illiterate woman just because she is pretty and has the right connections. Now you have to live with the consequences.’

  ‘Watch what you are saying,’ Mr Zargar snapped. ‘Control yourself. Please come into my office, I would like to have a word with you.’ And he put his hand on Mr Shirzadi’s back and practically pushed him into his office.

  I was holding my head between my hands and trying hard not to cry. My friends gathered around me and tried to comfort me. Abbas-Ali, the janitor on our floor who always looked out for me, brought me a glass of hot water and candied sugar and I busied myself with work.

  An hour later, Mr Shirzadi walked into my office, stood in front of my desk and while trying to avoid looking into my eyes, he begrudgingly said, ‘I am sorry. Please forgive me.’ And he quickly walked out.

  Stunned, I looked at Mr Zargar who was standing in the doorway and I asked, ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget what happened. This is how he is. He is a good man with a kind heart, but he is also tense and sensitive about certain things.’

  ‘About me, for instance?’

  ‘Not you exactly, but anyone who he thinks has usurped someone else’s rights.’

  ‘Whose rights have I usurped?’

  ‘Don’t take it seriously,’ Mr Zargar said. ‘Before we hired you, he recommended we promote one of his assistants who had just earned his university degree. We had almost finished the process when you were referred to me for the position. Before I interviewed you, I promised Shirzadi that I would not be influenced by Motamedi’s request, but I hired you and he considers this unfair and prejudicial. Naturally, being as sensitive as he is, he can’t tolerate what he calls an “injustice”. Ever since then, he has become my adversary and yours. He already disliked Motamedi because he has an inherent animosity towards executives and superiors.’

  ‘It seems he is right,’ I said. ‘I really have taken someone else’s rights. But knowing all this, why did you hire me?’

  ‘Come on! Have I now ended up owing you something? I thought with his qualifications, the other candidate could find another job. As a matter of fact, he was hired a week later. But given your circumstances, you would have had a difficult time finding work. In any case, with my profound apologies, I had to tell Shirzadi about your husband. But don’t worry, he is a trustworthy man. Between you and me, he has been tangled up in politics all his life.’

  The next day, Mr Shirzadi came to my office. He looked pale and sad and his eyes were red and swollen. For a while he stood there looking uncomfortable, but finally he said, ‘You know, I can’t help it. My anger runs too deep.’ And he went on to recite one of his poems about how rage has taken root in his soul and turned him into a rabid wolf. ‘I have mistreated you,’ he said. ‘To be honest, your work is actually quite good. I had a tough time finding errors in it, when the two-sentence letters these bosses and executives write are filled with a thousand mistakes.’

  Mr Shirzadi became one of my best supporters and friends. Unlike Mr Zargar, he was very curious about Hamid’s political activities, the group he belonged to and the circumstances under which he was arrested. His passion and excitement to hear what I had to say made me open up when in fact I had no interest in talking about any of this. At the same time, his compassion was laced with such anger and hatred towards the regime that it frightened me. Once as I was talking, I noticed that his face had turned almost blue.

  ‘Are you well?’ I asked, concerned.

  ‘No, I am not,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, I often feel this way. You have no idea what goes on inside me.’

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps I feel the same way but I just can’t verbalise it.’

  As usual, he started to recite a poem. This one was about a city mourning the massacre of the masses while he remained as thirsty for revenge as a fasting man thirsts for water on a scorching-hot noon.

  No! I who had suffered the greatest blows had never experienced anger and sorrow this profound. One day he asked me about the night our home was raided. I told him a little about what had happened. Suddenly he lost control and fearlessly shouted in verse that the tribe of aggressors had turned the city into a city of wild dogs and the lions were nowhere to be found but in the pastures.

  Terrified, I leaped up and closed the door. ‘For the love of God, people will hear you,’ I pleaded. ‘That SAVAK agent is on this floor.’ In those days, we believed that half our colleagues were SAVAK agents and we treated them with dread and caution.

  From then on, Mr Shirzadi started reading his poems to me, just one of which would have been enough to result in the execution of whoever composed it or recited it. I understood and grasped their meaning with my flesh and blood and committed them to memory. Shirzadi was one of the survivors of the political defeats of the 1950s, which had left his young and sensitive spirit crushed and had led him into a life of bitterness. I observed him and wondered whether the harsh experiences of childhood and youth were always this everlasting. And I found my answer in one of his poems about the failed 1953 coup d’état, in which he wrote that, from that moment on, his eyes always perceived the sky as floating in a sea of blood and saw the sun and the moon only through the glint of a dagger.

  The more I got to know Mr Shirzadi, the more I worried about Siamak. I often recalled the rage and hatred I had seen in his eyes on the night our house was raided and I asked myself, Will he become like Shirzadi? Will he, too, surrender to loathing and loneliness instead of embracing hope, joy and the beauties of life? Do social and political issues leave such permanent scars on susceptible souls? My son! I had to find a solution.

  Summer had come to an end. It was almost a year since Hamid’s arrest. Given the court’s sentence, we had to live another fourteen years without him. We had no choice but to get used to our circumstances. Waiting had become the main objective of our lives.

  The time for registering for classes at the university was getting close. I had to decide to either give up for ever on continuing my education and take that old wish to my grave, or sign up for classes and accept the hardship it would place on myself and on my children. I knew the courses would become more difficult each term. I also knew that with the limited time I had, I would not be able to coordinate my classes so that they would not interfere with my work. Even if my superiors didn’t complain, I felt I didn’t have the right to take advantage of their kindness and consideration.

  Yet, my job had proven to me the value of higher education. Each time others bossed me around and felt that they could blame me for their mistakes simply because they were better educated than me, I felt sorry for myself and the desire to go to university rekindled in my heart. Also, for years to come I would have to single-handedly manage and support our lives, and I had been thinking about finding a means to earn a higher salary that would meet the future needs of my children. Clearly, having a university degree would make a big difference in my situation.

  As I expected, everyone in my family believed that I should give up the idea of going back to university. But what I found surprising was that Hamid’s family felt the same way.

  ‘You are under a lot of pressure,’ Hamid’s father said sympathetically. ‘Don’t you think managing both a job and the university will be too much for you?’

  With her usual anxiety, Hamid’s mother interrupted him and said, ‘You are at work from morning until late afternoon, and I guess you will then want to go to the university. But what about these boys? Why don’t you think about these innocent children who will be left all alone?’

  Manijeh, who was in the last months of her pregnancy and who had for years failed the university entrance exams and had finally given up
and got married, turned to her parents and said with her usual smugness, ‘Don’t you understand? It’s all about rivalry! After all, our Mansoureh went to university.’

  I tried to control myself, but I had become less tolerant. I was no longer an awkward and clumsy girl from the provinces to put up with snide remarks and to have my needs and desires dismissed as unimportant. The anger that simmered inside me washed away my doubts and fears.

  ‘Now that I have to be both mother and father to my children and to financially support them,’ I said, ‘I have to think about earning a higher salary. My current income is not enough to pay for their future needs and their expenses are increasing from one day to the next. And please don’t worry; your grandchildren will not suffer from any lack of love and attention. I have thought of everything.’

  In truth, I had thought of nothing. That night I sat with the boys and tried to explain everything to them. They listened carefully as I listed the pros and cons of my going back to university. When I said that the biggest problem was that I would have to come home later than I already did, Siamak pretended he was no longer listening to me and started playing with his toy car that made a hideous noise. I realised he was not willing to accept spending any more time alone than he already did. I stopped talking and looked at Massoud. With innocent eyes, he was observing the expression on my face. Then he got up, walked over to me, stroked my hair and said, ‘Mummy, do you really want to go to university?’

  ‘Look, my dear, if I go back, we will all benefit. It will be a little difficult, but it will end soon. And in return, I will be able to earn more money and we will have a better life.’

  ‘No… I mean do you really like going to university?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘I worked hard to be able to go to university.’

  ‘Then go. If you like to, go. We will do our own chores and when it gets dark we will go downstairs and stay with Bibi so we don’t get scared. Maybe Dad will come back by then and we won’t be alone.’

  Siamak threw his toy car across the room and said, ‘What a stupid child! It’s not like Dad is some place where he can come back whenever he wants to. He can’t!’

  ‘Look, my dear,’ I said gently. ‘We have to be optimistic and hopeful. Just the fact that Daddy is alive is reason enough for us to be grateful. And he will eventually come back home.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Siamak snapped. ‘You want to fool a kid? Grandfather said Dad has to stay in prison for fifteen years.’

  ‘But a lot can happen in fifteen years. As a matter of fact, every year their sentence is reduced for good behaviour.’

  ‘Yes, then it will be ten years. What’s the use? By then I will be twenty, what would I need a father for? I want my dad now, right now!’

  Again, I wallowed in doubt. At the office my friends believed I should not lose the opportunity to finish studying for my degree. Mr Zargar encouraged me, saying he would arrange for me to take classes during the day on the condition that I finish my work after office hours.

  Coincidentally, it was during those days that the authorities finally agreed to my repeated requests for us to be granted permission to visit Hamid. I was both happy and nervous. I called Hamid’s father and he quickly came over to the house. ‘I won’t tell his mother and you shouldn’t tell the children,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what shape Hamid is in. If we see that he is presentable, we will take them next time.’

  His words added to my anxiety. All night, I dreamed that Hamid was brought to me, broken and bloody, just so that he could spend the last moments of his life in my arms. Tired and nervous, we set out early the next morning. I don’t know whether the visiting room and its windows were all dusty or I was seeing everything from behind a veil of tears. Finally, they brought Hamid. Contrary to our expectations, he was clean and neat, his hair was combed and his face was shaven. But he was unbelievably thin and gaunt. Even his voice sounded different. For a few minutes none of us could speak. His father regained his composure before we did and asked him about the conditions in prison. Hamid gave him a sharp look that suggested he had asked an inappropriate question and said, ‘Well, it’s prison. I have got through the tough times. Tell me about yourselves. How are the children? How is Mother?’

  Evidently, he had not received most of my letters. I told him that the boys were well and growing up fast, that they were both among the top students in their class, that Siamak had started year five and Massoud was in year one. He asked about my job. I told him that because of him everyone was good to me and watched over me. Suddenly, there was a gleam in his eyes and I realised that I shouldn’t talk about such things. Finally, he asked me about university and I told him about my doubts. He laughed and said, ‘Do you remember how you dreamed about getting your school diploma? Even a university degree isn’t enough for you. You are talented and hard working. You have to advance. You will even go for a doctorate degree.’

  There was no time for me to explain what a heavy burden continuing my education would put on my shoulders and how much of my time it would devour. All I said was, ‘It will be difficult to study and work, and take care of the children, too.’

  ‘You will manage it all,’ he said. ‘You are no longer the clumsy girl you were ten or eleven years ago. You are a capable woman who can make the impossible possible. I am so proud of you.’

  ‘Do you really mean it?’ I said with tears in my eyes. ‘You are no longer ashamed of having a wife like me?’

  ‘When was I ever ashamed? You have been a dear wife and you have grown and become more complete with every day that has passed. Now, you are every man’s dream. I’m just sad that I and my children have tied you down.’

  ‘Don’t say that! You and my children are the dearest things in my life.’

  I so desperately wanted to hold him in my arms, put my head on his shoulder and cry. Now I felt filled with energy. I felt I could do anything.

  I registered for a few courses that were being held at times that were convenient for me. I talked to Mrs Parvin and Faati, and they agreed to help with the boys. Mrs Parvin’s husband was ill, but she said she could spend one or two afternoons with the boys, and Faati and Sadegh Khan agreed to take care of them three nights a week. Faati was in the last months of her pregnancy and it was difficult for her to come and go. So I gave our car to Sadegh Khan so that he could bring Faati to our home or take the boys to their house, and occasionally take everyone to the cinema or on outings. Meanwhile, I took advantage of every opportunity to study; during my free time at the office, early in the morning, and at night before I went to bed. I often fell asleep at my books. The chronic headaches I had suffered since my youth were getting worse and more frequent, but I didn’t care. I took painkillers and went on with my work.

  My responsibilities now included those of a mother, a housekeeper, an office worker, a university student and the wife of a prisoner. And I tended to the last with the greatest care. The food and other necessities that I wanted to take to prison for Hamid were prepared by every member of the family with great ceremony, almost in a religious ritual.

  Over time, I learned how to manage my workload and grew accustomed to it. It was then that I realised we are capable of far more than we believe. After a while, we adapt to life and our rhythm adjusts to the volume of our tasks. I was like a runner on the track of life and Hamid’s voice saying ‘I am proud of you’ echoed in my ears like the applause of spectators in a huge stadium, intensifying my strength and agility.

  One day I was sifting through the previous day’s newspapers when my gaze fell on the funeral notices. I rarely paid any attention to these, but that day my eyes suddenly froze on a name. The notice was for the funeral of Mr Ebrahim Ahmadi, Parvaneh’s father. My heart ached. I remembered his decency and kind face. Tears welled in my eyes and memories of Parvaneh filled my mind. Time and distance could not erase my love for her and my desire to see her again. After the telephone conversation I had had with her mother several years earlier, I had never
heard from them, and I was so overwhelmed with life that I didn’t try to contact her mother again.

  I had to go to the funeral. It was perhaps the only opportunity I had to find Parvaneh. No matter where she was, she would certainly go to her father’s funeral.

  Walking into the mosque, I was nervous and my palms were sweaty. I searched for Parvaneh in the row where the bereaved were sitting, but I didn’t see her. Could it be that she hadn’t come? Just then a rather fat lady whose blonde hair had escaped her black lace headscarf looked up and our eyes met. It was Parvaneh. How could she have changed so much in twelve or thirteen years? She threw herself in my arms and we spent almost the entire ceremony crying without speaking a word. She was mourning her father’s passing and I was pouring out all that I had suffered over the years. After the ceremony, she insisted that I go to their house. Once most of the visitors had left, we sat facing each other. We didn’t know where to start. Now that I looked at her, I saw that she was still the same Parvaneh, except that she had gained weight and dyed her hair lighter. The circles under her eyes and the puffiness of her face were because of all the crying she had done in recent days.