The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  ‘Then let me talk to Ali,’ I said. ‘I want to know what is going on.’

  When Ali came to the phone, I said, ‘What is going on, Ali Agha? Are you feeding the poor?’

  ‘Please, sister. It was my duty.’

  ‘What duty? I have never asked for anything.’

  ‘Well, that’s because you are gracious and noble, but I have to live up to my obligations.’

  ‘Thank you, dear Ali,’ I said. ‘But my children and I don’t need anything. Please come right now and take all these things away.’

  ‘Take them and do what with them?’ Ali asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Do whatever you want. Give them to the needy.’

  ‘You know, sister, this has nothing to do with me. Brother Mahmoud sent them. Talk to him. And it wasn’t just you; he did the same for a lot of people. I just delivered everything.’

  ‘Really!’ I said. ‘So it is alms from the gentleman? Of all the unimaginable…! Don’t tell me he has gone mad!’

  ‘What sort of talk is this, sister? And here we were, thinking we were doing a good deed!’

  ‘You have done enough good deeds for me. Thank you. Just come and take this stuff away as soon as possible.’

  ‘I will, but only if brother Mahmoud asks me to. You should talk to him yourself.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘I will do just that!’

  I called Mahmoud’s house. The number of times I had called that house were fewer than the fingers on one hand. Gholam-Ali answered and after a warm hello he handed the telephone to his father.

  ‘Hello, sister! What a surprise. What made you finally think of us?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said dryly, ‘that is exactly what I wanted to ask you. What made you finally think of us? You have sent alms!’

  ‘Please, sister. It’s not alms, it’s your right. Your husband is in prison because he fought for freedom and against these godless people. We who don’t have the strength to fight and to endure prison and torture are obliged to at least watch over the families of the brave.’

  ‘But my dear brother, Hamid has been in prison for four years. Just as I have so far managed without needing anyone, with the grace of God, I shall continue to do the same in the future.’

  ‘You are right, sister,’ he said. ‘Shame on us, we were fast asleep and clueless, we were oblivious. You must forgive us.’

  ‘Please, brother. All I mean is that I can manage my own life. I don’t want my children to grow up on charity. Please send someone to take these things…’

  ‘Sister, it is my duty. You are our beloved and Hamid is our pride.’

  ‘But, brother, Hamid is that same insurgent who deserved to be executed.’

  ‘Don’t make snide remarks, sister. You really hold a grudge, don’t you?… I have already confessed that I was ignorant. To me, any man who fights this system of tyranny is praiseworthy, be he a Muslim or an infidel.’

  ‘Thank you very much, brother,’ I said sternly. ‘Still, I have no need for the food. Please send someone to take it away.’

  ‘Give it to your neighbours,’ he snapped indignantly. ‘I don’t have anyone to send over there.’

  And he hung up the telephone.

  During the months that followed, the changes became more palpable. No one at the office was supposed to know that my husband was a political prisoner, but almost everyone knew and until then they had all treated me guardedly and took care not to frequent my office too often. But now all those cautions and constraints had disappeared. People did not seem to be afraid of associating with me and my circle of acquaintances was rapidly growing. And my co-workers no longer complained about my excessive absences and the hours I spent studying.

  Soon, the transformation became even more pronounced. My family members, my friends at the university, and my colleagues at work started talking openly about my life and my circumstances. They enquired about Hamid’s well-being, expressed sympathy and concern, and praised him. At social gatherings, I was often invited to sit at the head of the room and found myself the centre of attention. As uncomfortable as I was with all this, for Siamak it was a source of pride. Elated, he talked openly and proudly about his father and answered people’s questions about how Hamid had been arrested and the night our home was raided. Needless to say, given his young, imaginative mind, he often embellished his recollections.

  Barely two weeks after the start of the school year, I was summoned to Siamak’s school. I was worried, thinking he had again started a fight and beaten up a classmate. But when I walked into the school administration office, I realised I was there for a different reason. A group of teachers and supervisors greeted me and closed the door to make sure the principal and other administrators wouldn’t become aware of my presence. Obviously, they didn’t trust them. And then they started to ask me about Hamid, about the political situation in the country, the changes that were under way, and the revolution. I was stunned. They acted as if I was the source of secret plans for an insurrection. I answered their questions about Hamid and his arrest, but in response to all other questions, I kept repeating, ‘I don’t know. I am not involved in any way.’ In the end, it became clear that Siamak had talked about his father, the movement for a revolution, and our involvement in it, with such exaggeration that enthusiasts and supporters had thought to not only verify his claims, but to establish direct contact with key players.

  ‘Of course, from a father like that, we should expect a son like Siamak,’ a teary-eyed teacher proclaimed. ‘You can’t imagine how beautifully and passionately he talks.’

  ‘What has he told you?’ I asked, curious to know what Siamak told strangers about his father.

  ‘Like an adult, like an orator, he fearlessly stood in front of all of us and said, “My father is fighting for the freedom of the oppressed. Many of his friends have died for the cause and he has been in prison for years. He has persevered under torture and not uttered a single word.”’

  On my way back home, conflicting emotions simmered in me. I was happy that Siamak was asserting himself, gaining attention and feeling proud. But I was troubled by his hero-building and hero-worshipping personality. He had been a difficult child all his life and now he was in the confusing and delicate stages of early youth. I worried how after being subjected to all those insults and humiliations he was now going to digest the praise and approval. Would his undeveloped personality be able to withstand such highs and lows? And I wondered why he needed so much attention, approval and love. I had tried as far as possible to give him all that.

  The respect and admiration of those around us was intensifying from one day to the next. It all seemed exaggerated and far-fetched and I wondered if it was rooted in mere curiosity. Regardless, it was gradually becoming difficult and annoying for me. At times, I felt insincere, hypocritical and guilty. I would ask myself, What if I am taking advantage of my circumstances and deceiving people? I constantly explained to everyone that I didn’t know much about my husband’s beliefs and ideals and that I had never collaborated with him. But people didn’t want to hear the reality. At work and at the university, during every political discussion people pointed to me and in every election chose me to represent them. Each time I said that I didn’t know much and that I had no connections, they interpreted it as my being inherently modest. The only person who did not change his behaviour towards me was Mr Zargar who carefully monitored the changes taking place around me.

  The day the employees decided to elect a Revolution Committee and announced their support for the roaring swell of the masses, one of the staff members, who until recently had only warily said hello and goodbye to me, made an eloquent speech in praise of my revolutionary, humanitarian and freedom-loving character and nominated me as a candidate. I stood up and, with a confidence that I had gained from a difficult social life, I thanked the speaker but objected to his claims, saying earnestly, ‘I have never been a revolutionary. Life put me in the path of a man who had a particular view of politic
s and I fainted the first time I had to face a small part of the foundation and framework of his beliefs.’

  Everyone laughed and a few people applauded.

  ‘Believe me,’ I said. ‘I am telling the truth. This is why my husband never involved me in his activities. With all my being, I pray for his release, but when it comes to political ideologies and political clout, I am of no use to anyone.’

  The man who had nominated me shouted in protest, ‘But you have suffered, your husband has spent years in prison, and you have single-handedly managed your life and raised your children. Is all this not a reflection of your sharing his ideologies and beliefs?’

  ‘No! I would have done the same if my husband had been thrown in prison for theft. This is a reflection of the fact that as a woman and a mother, I have a duty to manage my life and my children’s lives.’

  There was uproar, but from the approving look on Mr Zargar’s face I knew I had done the right thing. But this time, the employees made a heroine of me because of my humility and sincerity, and elected me.

  The excitement of the revolution was growing and with its scope broadening, every day there was a new blossom of hope in my heart. Was it possible that what Shahrzad and the others had given their lives for, and Hamid had suffered years of prison and torture for, could become a reality?

  For the first time, my brothers and I were on the same side, we wanted the same thing, we understood each other and we felt close. They behaved like brothers and were supportive of me and my sons. Mahmoud’s kindness had extended to the point that whatever he bought for his children, he bought for my sons, too.

  With tears in her eyes, Mother would thank God and say, ‘What a shame that your father isn’t here to see all this love. He always worried and said, “If I die, these children won’t see each other from one year to the next, and more alone than all of them will be this daughter of mine whom her brothers will not lend a helping hand to.” I wish he were here to see how these same brothers would now give their lives for their sister.’

  Mahmoud’s connections allowed him access to the latest news and communiqués. He brought flyers and tape recordings, Ali reproduced them, and I distributed them at work and at the university. Meanwhile, Siamak and his friends were on the streets shouting slogans and Massoud was drawing pictures of the demonstrations and writing ‘Freedom’ across them. Since summer, we had been participating in meetings, lectures and protests against the Shah’s regime. Not once did I consider which group or party was organising the events. What difference did it make? We were together and we all wanted the same thing.

  With every day that passed, I felt one step closer to Hamid. I was starting to believe that having a complete family and a father for my children was no longer an unattainable dream. With all my being I was happy that Hamid was alive. Seeing his tormented face no longer made me wonder whether it would have been better if he had died with his friends instead of enduring years of torture. I was starting to believe that all he had suffered had not been futile and that soon he would reap the rewards of his struggles. This was their dream that was becoming reality; the people had risen and were shouting in the streets, ‘I will not live under the burden of tyranny.’ When Hamid and his friends talked about such days, it had all seemed too far-fetched, idealistic and unreal.

  With the revolution gaining strength, I found that I had less and less control over my children. They had grown very close to their uncle. With a devotion that was truly strange and new to me, Mahmoud would come and take the boys to speeches and debates. Siamak delighted in these events and happily followed his uncle. But soon Massoud started to distance himself and used different excuses to not join them. When I asked him why, he simply said, ‘I don’t like it.’ I pressed for a more convincing answer and he replied, ‘I get embarrassed.’ I couldn’t understand what he was embarrassed about, but I decided to not push him any further.

  Siamak, on the other hand, was becoming more enthusiastic every day. He was in high spirits and had stopped causing trouble at home. It seemed as if he was letting out all his anger and frustration by shouting slogans. Gradually, he developed a particular discipline in observing religious practices. He had always had a difficult time waking up in the morning, but now he was making sure he did not miss his early morning prayers. I didn’t know whether I should be happy or concerned about the changes in him. Some of the things he did, such as turning off the radio when music was being played or refusing to watch television, took me back many years and reminded me of Mahmoud’s fanatical behaviour.

  Towards the middle of September, Mahmoud announced that he wanted to hold an elaborate memorial for Father. Although it was already a month after the one-year anniversary of his passing, no one objected. Honouring the memory of that dear man and offering alms in commemoration of his pure soul were always welcome. Given that martial law and strict curfews were in force, we decided it was best to hold the ceremony at noon on a Friday and we all got busy, eagerly cooking and preparing for the event. The number of guests was increasing every minute and I was privately praising Mahmoud for his courage in arranging the ceremony during those volatile times.

  On the day of the memorial, we were all busy working at Mahmoud’s house from early in the morning. Ehteram-Sadat who was getting fatter every day was panting and rushing back and forth. I was peeling potatoes when she finally dropped down next to me. ‘You have gone to a lot of trouble,’ I said. ‘Thank you. We are all grateful to you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ she said. ‘After all, it was about time for us to hold a proper prayer service for Father, God rest his soul. Besides, given the circumstances, it is a good excuse to gather people together.’

  ‘By the way, dear Ehteram, how is brother these days? Knock on wood; it seems you two no longer have problems with each other.’

  ‘Please! We are beyond all that. I hardly ever see Mahmoud to want to fight with him. By the time he comes home he is so tired and preoccupied that he leaves me and the children alone and doesn’t complain about anything.’

  ‘Is he still as obsessive?’ I asked. ‘When he performs his ablutions, does he still say, “That wasn’t good enough, that wasn’t good enough, I have to do it again”?’

  ‘May the devil’s ear be deaf; he is a lot better. He is so busy that he doesn’t have time to keep washing his hands and feet and repeating his ablutions. You know, this revolution has completely changed him. It is as if this was the cure to his pains. He says, “According to the Ayatollah, I am in the forefront of the revolution, which is no different than a jihad in the name of God, and I will merit God’s greatest blessings.” In fact, much of his obsession is now over the revolution.’

  The speeches started after lunch. We were in the back room and couldn’t hear very well. Fearing that voices could be heard out on the street, no one was using a loudspeaker. The living room and dining room were packed with people and there were others in the front yard standing outside the windows. After a couple of speeches about the revolution, the tyranny of the government and our duty to overthrow the current regime, Ehteram-Sadat’s uncle spoke. By then he was a well-known mullah who because of his outspokenness had spent a few months in prison and was considered a hero. He first spoke a little about Father’s virtues and then he said, ‘This honourable family has for years fought for faith and country and they have suffered the wounds. In 1963, after the events of 5 June and the arrest of Ayatollah Khomeini, they were forced to leave their home and they migrated from Qum because their lives were in danger. They suffered fatalities, their son was killed, their son-in-law is still in prison and only God knows what tortures he has had to endure…’

  For a few seconds, I was confused. I couldn’t understand who he was talking about. I nudged Ehteram-Sadat and asked, ‘Who is he talking about?’

  ‘About your husband, of course!’

  ‘I mean the young man who was killed…’

  ‘Well, he’s talking about Ahmad.’

  ‘Our Ahmad?’
I exclaimed.

  ‘Of course! Haven’t you ever wondered that he died under mysterious circumstances? In the middle of the street… and they informed us three days after the fact. And when Ali went to the coroner’s office to identify his body he saw signs of assault and battery on his corpse.’

  ‘He probably got into a fight over drugs with another addict.’

  ‘Don’t say such things about the dead!’

  ‘And who told your uncle all that rubbish about our move from Qum?’

  ‘Don’t you know? It was after the events of 5 June that your family left Qum. Father and Mahmoud were in terrible danger. You were probably too young to remember.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I remember very well,’ I said irately. ‘We moved to Tehran in 1961. How could Mahmoud allow himself to say such lies to your uncle and to take advantage of people’s passion and excitement?’

  Now the speech was about Mahmoud, saying that from a father like that a son like him was expected: a son who had dedicated his life and wealth to the revolution and who had not turned aside from any toil or sacrifice… He financially supported the families of tens of political prisoners and watched over them like a father, the most important among them being his own sister and her family for whom he had shouldered the burden of life and had never let them feel needy or alone.