The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  ‘I didn’t do much,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you did. You gave me back my son.’

  Two days passed in a frenzy of family visits. Mansoureh and Manijeh kept a close eye on their mother who was becoming more fragile, forgetful and confused. She believed Siamak was Hamid.

  I had made so many pledges and promises to God that I didn’t know where to begin. I dropped everything I had to do and the four of us went on a pilgrimage to Imam Reza’s shrine in Mashad. From there we went to Qum to thank my aunt, Mahboubeh, her husband and my saviour angel her father-in-law.

  What sweet, happy days. I felt alive again. With my children at my side, nothing could bring me sorrow.

  Siamak would soon turn eighteen. He had missed one year of school, but because I had entered him in school a year sooner than usual, he was not behind agewise. He had to enrol in school, but given his prison record, they would not accept him. I had always hoped my children would reach the highest levels of education, but now I had to accept the fact that my son would be deprived of even a school diploma.

  Not being allowed to finish school was a heavy blow to Siamak. He was agitated and restless. Being idle, staying at home and living an unstructured life was not prudent. Especially since a few of his old friends had started coming around again. Although Siamak didn’t seem too interested in them, their presence made me nervous.

  Siamak decided to find a job. He saw how hard I worked and how frugally I managed our lives and he wanted to help. But what sort of work could he do? He had no capital to start a small business and no education. At the same time, the war with Iraq was still raging and moving closer to us. I was grappling with these thoughts and worries when one day Mansoureh came to see me and I shared my concerns with her.

  ‘As a matter of fact, that is exactly why I came to see you,’ she said. ‘Siamak has to continue his education. Among the new generation of our family, everyone has gone to university. It is unacceptable for Siamak to not even have a school diploma.’

  ‘I have looked into it,’ I said. ‘He can go to night school and take the general education exams. But he says he wants to work. He says if he can’t go to university, a school diploma serves no purpose. With or without it he will have to work and he might as well start now.’

  ‘Well, Massoum,’ she said, ‘I have another plan in mind. I don’t know how you will react to it, but please keep it between us.’

  ‘Of course!’ I said, surprised. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You know that my Ardeshir finished secondary school last year. He has to go for his military service and this war doesn’t seem to be ending. Under no circumstances will I let them send my son to the front. Besides, as you know, he has always been somewhat cowardly. He is so terrified that if a bullet doesn’t kill him, his fear will. We have decided to send him out of the country.’

  ‘Send him out? How? Everyone who has to serve in the military is banned from leaving the country.’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Mansoureh said. ‘He has to cross the border illegally. We have found someone who charges a quarter of a million tumans and takes kids across the border. I was thinking of sending the two of them together. They can look after each other. What do you think?’

  ‘Well, it sounds like a good idea,’ I said. ‘But I have to come up with the money.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘If you are short of some, we will help. But it is very important that they go together. Siamak can take care of himself, but Ardeshir will need help. If he knows he will not be alone, he will agree to go more easily. And we will be less worried.’

  ‘But where would they go?’ I asked.

  ‘There are many places they can go to. Every country accepts refugees. They will receive a stipend for a while and they can continue their education,’ she said. ‘But tell me, what are you really concerned about? The money?’

  ‘No. If it is to my child’s benefit, I will sell everything I have and I will borrow. But I have to be sure it is to his advantage. Give me a week to think about it and to discuss it with him.’

  I spent two days deliberating about what I should do. Was it wise to leave a boy Siamak’s age in the care of a smuggler? How dangerous was it to cross the border illegally? He would have to live all alone somewhere on the other side of the world. If he ever needed help, whom could he turn to? I had to seek advice. Privately, I explained the situation to Sadegh Agha.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Everything has its own risks and this is going to be dangerous. I have no notion of life in the West, but I know of many people who have recently sought asylum in different countries; a few of them were actually returned.’

  The next day, Mr Zargar was delivering some work assignments to me. He had gone to university in the West and could offer me reliable advice.

  ‘Of course, I have no experience of crossing the border illegally and I don’t know how dangerous it is,’ he said. ‘But more and more people are taking the risk. If Siamak is accepted as a refugee, which as a former political prisoner he certainly will be, he won’t have any financial difficulties and, if he has the will, he can get the best education. The only problem is loneliness and life in exile. Many youths his age become depressed and develop serious emotional problems and not only do they fail to study, but they can’t lead a normal life. I don’t want to frighten you, but the rate of suicide is high among them. Send him only if you know a truly caring person over there who can to a certain extent fill your place and keep an eye on him.’

  The only person I knew and trusted overseas was Parvaneh. I went to Mansoureh’s house and called her from there. I was afraid our telephone at home was tapped. After I explained the situation, Parvaneh said, ‘Definitely do it. You cannot imagine how worried I have been for him. Send him by any means you can and I promise you I will take care of him as if he were my own son.’

  Her sincerity and eagerness lessened my worries and I decided it was time to talk to Siamak. I had no idea how he would react.

  Shirin was sleeping. I quietly opened the door to the boys’ bedroom and walked in. Siamak was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Massoud was sitting at his desk, studying. I sat down on Massoud’s bed and said, ‘I want to talk to you two.’

  Siamak jolted up and Massoud swung towards me and said, ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Nothing! I have been thinking about Siamak’s future and we need to make a decision.’

  ‘What decision?’ Siamak said sarcastically. ‘Do we have the right to make decisions? All we can do is say yes to whatever they tell us.’

  ‘No, my dear, it’s not always like that. All this week, I have been thinking about sending you to Europe.’

  ‘Huh! You are dreaming!’ he said. ‘Where would we get the money from? Do you know how much it will cost? At least two hundred thousand tumans for the smuggler and just as much to live on until the request for asylum is processed.’

  ‘Bravo! And how accurate!’ I said. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve looked into it extensively. Do you have any idea how many of my friends have already left the country?’

  ‘No! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what? I knew you couldn’t afford it and it would just make you sad.’

  ‘The money isn’t important,’ I said. ‘If it is for your good, I will find it. Just tell me if you want to go or not.’

  ‘Of course I want to go!’

  ‘And what do you want to do over there?’

  ‘I want to study. Here, they will not let me go to university. I have no future in this country.’

  ‘Don’t you think you will miss us?’ I asked.

  ‘I will, a lot, but how long can I sit here and watch you type and sew?’

  ‘You will have to leave the country illegally,’ I said. ‘It is very dangerous. Are you willing to accept the risk?’

  ‘The risk is no greater than military service and being sent to the front, is it?’

  He wa
s right. In another year, Siamak would be drafted and the war didn’t seem to be ending.

  ‘But there are a few conditions and you have to promise you will do them and you cannot ever break your promise.’

  ‘All right. But what are the conditions?’ he asked.

  ‘First, you have to promise me that you will not go anywhere near the Iranian political groups and organisations. You cannot get involved with them. Second, you will study as far as the highest degree possible and you will become a well-educated and respectable man. Third, you will not forget us and, whenever you can, you will help your brother and sister.’

  ‘You don’t need to ask me to make these promises,’ Siamak said. ‘They are exactly what I intend to do.’

  ‘Everyone says that, but then they forget,’ I said.

  ‘How could I possibly forget you three? You are my entire life. I hope that one day I can make up for all your love and hard work. You can be sure I will study well and I will stay away from politics. To be honest, I am sick of every single political group and faction.’

  We spent hours talking about how Siamak would leave the country and how we could come up with the money. He was alive again; excited and hopeful and at the same time worried and nervous. I sold two of our carpets and the few pieces of gold jewellery I had left. I even sold my wedding ring and Shirin’s small gold bangle, and I borrowed some money from Mrs Parvin. But I still didn’t have enough. Mr Zargar, who always kept an eye on me and understood my problems even before I spoke of them, showed up one day with fifty thousand tumans and said it was my back pay.

  ‘But I didn’t have this much money due to me!’ I said.

  ‘I added a little to it.’

  ‘How much? I need to know how much I owe you.’

  ‘It’s not much,’ he said. ‘And I will keep account of it and take it out of your future pay.’

  In exactly one week, I gave Mansoureh two hundred and fifty thousand tumans and confidently announced that we were ready. She looked at me with surprise and said, ‘Where did you get all this money? I had put aside a hundred thousand tumans for you.’

  ‘Many thanks, but I managed it myself.’

  ‘What about the money they will need for the few months they will be in Pakistan? Can you cover that, too?’

  ‘No, but I will come up with it.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘This money is here and it’s ready.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I will pay you back over time.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Mansoureh said. ‘This is your money, it is your children’s share. If Hamid had died a week later, half this house and everything else would have been yours.’

  ‘If Hamid hadn’t died,’ I said, ‘your father would still be alive.’

  Contacting the smuggler, a young, skinny, dark-skinned man dressed in the traditional clothes of his province, was another story in itself. His secret name was Mrs Mahin and he would talk on the telephone only if the caller asked for her. He said the boys should be ready to leave for Zahedan, a city in south-eastern Iran, at a moment’s notice. He promised that with the help of a few friends he would safely take them across the border into Pakistan and deliver them to the United Nations’ offices in Islamabad. He said he would dress them in sheepskin and they would move across the border among a herd of sheep.

  I was terrified, but I tried to hide it from Siamak. He was a fearless adventurer and found all this more exciting than frightening.

  The night we received the order from the smuggler, the boys left for Zahedan with Bahman, Mansoureh’s husband. Saying goodbye to Siamak, I felt as though one of my limbs was being severed from my body. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing or not. I vacillated between sadness over our separation and horror over the danger he faced. That night, I did not leave my prayer rug. I prayed and cried and put my son in God’s hands.

  Three days passed with fear and anxiety until we received word that the boys had safely crossed the border. Ten days later, I spoke to Siamak. He had arrived in Islamabad. He sounded so sad and so far away.

  And then for me there was the pain of separation. Massoud missed Siamak terribly and my crying every night upset him even more. Mansoureh was in far worse condition. She had never been separated from her son for even a day and was now inconsolable. I kept telling her, and myself, ‘We must be strong! In these times, to save our children and for the sake of their future, we mothers must bear the sorrow of their absence. This is the price we have to pay; otherwise we will not be good mothers.’

  Four months later, Parvaneh called from Germany and handed the telephone to Siamak. I screamed with joy. He had arrived. Parvaneh assured me that she would take care of him, but he had to spend a few months in a refugee camp. Unlike others who idled away the days, Siamak spent the time learning German and was quickly accepted in school and eventually to the university. He studied mechanical engineering and never forgot his promises.

  Parvaneh had arranged for him to spend his holidays with her family and she diligently kept me informed of his progress. I was happy and proud. I felt I had accomplished one-third of my responsibility. I worked with great energy and gradually repaid my debts. Massoud took meticulous care of me and our lives. While studying, he also played the role of the family’s father and with his unfailing love engulfed me in happiness and hope. And Shirin, with her playfulness, her antics and her sweet-talk brought spirit and joy to our home. I had found peace, albeit a temporary one. There were still problems and worries circling us and the ruinous war with Iraq seemed eternal.

  In the days when I had again learned to laugh, Mr Zargar, gravely and with his eyes glued to the coffee table, proposed to me. Although I knew his daughter and his French wife had left Iran several years earlier, I didn’t know he was divorced. He was a wise and learned man and suitable in every way. Life with him could solve many of my emotional as well as material needs. And I was not indifferent to him. I had always liked and admired him as a man and a dear friend and companion, and I could easily open my heart to him. Perhaps he could give me the love and affection that Hamid had never completely given me.

  After Hamid’s death, Mr Zargar was the third man to propose to me. In the case of the first two, I had said no without a moment’s hesitation. But in Mr Zargar’s case, I wasn’t sure what to do. From both a logical and an emotional point of view, marrying him seemed the right thing to do, but for some time I had noticed how Massoud was carefully observing me, seeming restless and on edge. One day, without any overture, he said, ‘Mum, we don’t need anyone, do we? Whatever you need, just tell me and I will provide it. And tell Mr Zargar not to come around so often. I can’t stand him any more.’

  And so I realised I should not disrupt the newly gained peace in our lives nor divert my attention away from my children. I believed it was my duty to be at their service with my entire being and that I should be the one filling their father’s empty place, not a stranger. Mr Zargar’s presence might have been welcome in my life, but it was very clear that it would make my children, especially my sons, uncomfortable and unhappy.

  A few days later, with profound apologies I said no to Mr Zargar, but asked him to never deprive me of his friendship.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The events in my life unfolded in such a way that I always had a chance to breathe and fortify myself in the interim, and the longer the period of calm, the worse the shock of the next incident. Believing this, I was plagued by hidden anxieties even in the best of times.

  With Siamak safely gone, it seemed my gravest concern had been resolved. Although I missed him terribly and at times my longing to see him seemed unbearable, I never regretted sending him away and never wished that he would return. I talked to his photograph and wrote long letters to him about everything that was going on in our lives. Meanwhile, Massoud was so gentle and kind that he not only didn’t create any problems for me, but was often my problem solver. He went through the difficult and turbulent years of adolescence with patience
and poise. He felt a deep sense of responsibility towards Shirin and me, shouldering much of what needed to be done in our daily lives. I had to be careful not to take advantage of all that kindness and self-sacrifice and not to expect more from that young man than he was capable of.

  Massoud would stand behind me, massage my neck and say, ‘I’m afraid you will get sick working so hard. Go to bed and rest.’

  And I would say, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. No one gets sick from hard work. The fatigue goes away with a good night’s sleep and two days’ rest each week. What makes you sick is idleness and useless thoughts and anxieties. Work is the essence of life.’

  More than being my son, Massoud was my partner, my friend and my adviser. We talked about everything and we made decisions together. He was right, we didn’t need anyone else. My only concern was that later in life, people would take advantage of his goodness and his willingness to give way; just as his sister could make him do anything she wanted with a kiss, a tear, or a plea.