“How long do you plan on pulling me in such a fashion?”
“Forever.”
“I am a patient man.”
Asher begins walking out of the room. “In the future, this is my private study. The women do not come in here unless I invite them and that is a rare occasion.” He stops and, without turning, says, “You remember the direction of your room?” Kokab walks past him silently. She continues to walk down the breezeway. She knows that he watches her bare heel against the marble, her hips sway beneath the folds of her skirt. Without looking back at him, she disappears into the darkness of her room.
A package arrives for Mahboubeh in the mail. Too big to fit in the mailbox, the mailman leaves it behind her door, rings the doorbell, and leaves before she has time to answer. She opens the door to find a box, wrapped in white paper, lying on her doormat. It is from a man in London, a certain rabbi, the husband of a distant relative. She closes the door to the empty streets, walks to her dining table, and opens the package to find photographs, handfuls of pages, the writing in diligent blue ink, carefully formed words, questions, dates, and a mass of pages taped together, when unfolded, revealing a family tree. There is an envelope, too, with a letter inside, addressed to her from the rabbi. She reads it once, then again. He asks several questions about the family history in his letter. Mahboubeh puts the letter down and looks at the family tree spread out upon her table. Beside Asher’s name, joined to him by the branch that indicates marriage, there are two boxes. In one, the rabbi writes Rakhel, in the other, a question mark. Beneath both boxes is the word childless. In the careful blue script of his letter, the rabbi asks if Mahboubeh might know the name of Asher Malacouti’s second wife.
“Kokab,” Mahboubeh says. “But who remembers her anymore?”
Beside her father Ibrahim’s name there are three branches, one for each of the wives he wedded, then buried. Those women lived in that home beneath Rakhel’s reign, neither their will nor their children belonging to them alone. Mahboubeh places her finger on Khorsheed’s name and closes her eyes. The other women’s faces she can recall, but of Khorsheed all she has is a name, and the question of how she died. Mahboubeh looks beneath her father’s name at a multitude of branches, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. She looks past that, up to see Zolekhah’s name, and finds beside it a small image. Quickly, she shuffles through the bundle of photographs the rabbi has sent, and there it is, a photograph of her grandmother. Zolekhah, the rabbi writes beneath the image, lived to be one hundred years old.
Mahboubeh remembers Zolekhah as a bent old woman. Quiet. Unobtrusive. Perhaps even apologetic for the space she inhabited, the corner of the room where she sat all day, watching the family come and go in her silence. But this portrait is of a younger Zolekhah, in her late forties, perhaps. In the image, her face is like the bark of an oak tree, the frown sealed by the creases of the forehead, the chin pulling down on the corners of lips, which appear to have been supple in her earlier youth, now pursed, in controlled sternness. Her eyes are soft, though, or softened. There is a subtle kindness in the depth of those eyes, an understanding. Zolekhah wears a white head scarf, and through it, where it parts at the chest, a sequined blouse catches the light. She wears a coat of velvet, or mink. The costume and the face are incongruous. It is the face of a great chief, a sexless face, time worn into the skin. And the blouse, the coat? Certainly her grandmother would have dressed in such finery, her sons the richest merchants of the caravansary. And yet, Mahboubeh cannot imagine Zolekhah in any other dress than the one she wore in her old age, made of simple cotton, modest blue flowers, darker hues, her sparse white hair wrapped in a head scarf. On the day of this portrait, Zolekhah must have dressed herself in wealth to indicate her power within the household, to insist on it through the ages. Mahboubeh imagines Zolekhah as she sits for the photographer in the courtyard of the old family estate, and holds still for the time it takes for him to steal his head beneath the black cloth, and set her image to gelatinous silver. Zolekhah prepares for this occasion Asher has arranged for her with her thoughts elsewhere, and in the two-minute meditation as the camera captures the sepia leather of her skin, the firm pride of her cheekbones, she thinks of her son’s ache for a child. She thinks about Kokab, alone in the farthest room, and for a moment, she allows herself to hope that the solution might be in that woman. When the photographer indicates that he is done, she rises from the chair and wanders to the kitchen to ask one of the girls to bring the photographer some tea.
From the kitchen, Zolekhah hears hurried footsteps in the courtyard and looks out to see Asher leaving Rakhel’s room. She goes back into the kitchen to save him the shame of having to explain to her why, a week after Kokab’s arrival, he has not yet consummated the marriage. When she hears the clickclock of the horse’s hooves pass the kitchen and the dull thud of the heavy wooden street door close, she steps out. The courtyard is empty. The photographer must have left with her son. Zolekhah walks to Ibrahim’s quarters, and quietly opens the door to find Khorsheed sitting on the floor beside the bed where Ibrahim sleeps, the child at her breast. “Did you sleep last night?” Zolekhah whispers.
“He kept me up.”
“Let me take him from you when he is done nursing. You go to Rakhel and tell her I need to see her, to come to the kitchen as soon as she is dressed, it is a matter of urgency.” Khorsheed rises heavily from the floor and lifts the baby. She hands Yousseff to Zolekhah and leaves for Rakhel’s room.
Zolekhah, with the baby in the nook of her arm, climbs the marble steps to Asher’s home, and walks down the breezeway to the farthest room. She raps gently on the door, then opens it slightly. “Kokab?”
“Zolekhah Khanum?”
“May I come in?” Zolekhah enters without waiting for a response. Kokab sits beside the window, looking out to the gardens.
“Did you see Asher leave?”
“This morning?”
“Yes, from the window. Did you see him leave?”
“Yes.”
“He did not stop to bid you a good morning?”
“No.”
“He has not, yet, slept in your bed?”
Kokab turns her face back to look out onto the garden. Zolekhah walks to her. “Take this child from me.” Kokab takes the baby and Zolekhah lowers herself to sit on a cushion on the floor. “Age is getting the best of me,” she says. They sit for a while in silence, Zolekhah looking out the window at the skies and Kokab rocking the baby in her arms until he falls asleep.
“He smells of milk,” Kokab says. She kisses the top of the baby’s head. She studies him in the soft blue of the light that filters through the window, then kisses the baby’s head again. “He smells of milk.”
“There is only so much time we can afford our sorrow, daughter,” Zolekhah says. She watches Kokab place her finger in the baby’s open palm. Yousseff clenches her finger in his sleep. Kokab brings the baby’s hand softly to her own lips and holds them there, her eyes closed.
“I lost my husband several years ago,” Zolekhah says. “I don’t remember my parents, very well. I was a child when I married. He was a child, too, in the way men are children even when their beards suggest otherwise. In the beginning, he thought it his duty to beat me. By the time I handed him Asher, he had learned. He became a good man, and tender toward me. He died before my sons reached manhood. I was alone, with two boys. There was no time for weeping. The boys had to become men and I was both mother and father for them. Now, they are who you see before you. Good men. Hardworking, honest men.” Zolekhah stops talking and watches Kokab cradling the baby. Kokab keeps her head bent toward the child, clicking her tongue softly.
“Asher suffers terribly for want of a child. The longing for one has changed him. He withdraws from the family more and more. He increases his wealth, his lands, and the success makes him even unhappier,” Zolekhah says. Kokab does not look up from the baby.
“I know you’ve suffered much and your heart aches for the child you have
lost,” Zolekhah says. “But Eliyahoo will not let you have her back. You must accept this loss. G-d does not take without giving. You are fortunate to be married again. You will have more children. The pain of your loss will never abate, but soon you will bear and love other children. It is a blessing, this chance to start new.”
Kokab shakes her head no, biting her lips. The child startles in his sleep and Kokab pulls him closer to her breasts and begins humming again. Zolekhah watches her. The child settles back into sleep. They sit for a while in silence, looking at Yousseff. Then Zolekhah rises and Kokab hands her the sleeping baby.
“Go to the hammam. Tonight, join us for dinner. Allow him to be a husband to you. It is the time for living.”
Rakhel sits beside Khorsheed in the courtyard and waits for Zolekhah. She watches Zolekhah emerge from Kokab’s room with Yousseff in her arms. She nudges Khorsheed. Zolekhah walks toward them, slowly as to not wake the sleeping baby. Khorsheed, her eyes round, her face drained of color, stands up and takes Yousseff hurriedly from Zolekhah.
“Where did you take him, Naneh Zolekhah?” Khorsheed asks.
“Nowhere, child. Go, I must have a word with Rakhel.”
“Did you take him to Kokab, Naneh Zolekhah?”
“For a moment, daughter. Go, now.”
“Why?” Khorsheed asks.
“What nonsense, child. I took him with me for a moment.”
“Did she touch him?”
“Khorsheed?”
“Did she touch him?” Khorsheed inspects the sleeping baby in the light of the morning. He opens his eyes and reaches for her face. She kisses his hand and looks at Zolekhah. “I will burn some wild rue seeds for him. Just to be safe.” She turns and hurries to her room, holding Yousseff to her chest protectively.
“The whole household is unsettled,” Zolekhah says. “As though some terrible omen, G-d forbid, has come upon us.” She shakes her head and mutters a quick prayer, then turns to Rakhel and says, “follow me to the kitchen, I must have a word with you.”
Fatimeh stands in the kitchen peeling and chopping onions. “Where are the girls?” Zolekhah asks.
“I sent them to clean up the chicken coop and gather some eggs.”
“Go see if they are doing it correctly, Fatimeh, you know those girls.” Fatimeh wipes her hands on her skirt and leaves the kitchen. Zolekhah turns to Rakhel. Rakhel fingers the hem of her shirt nervously.
“Did I do something wrong, Naneh Zolekhah?”
“No, daughter, not something I have seen, though G-d sees all.”
“Why did you wish to speak with me?”
“To talk to you about your responsibilities as the first wife. You understand, don’t you, that though Kokab is older than you, you have the authority of the first wife? And with that authority comes a responsibility?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do. You are to make sure that things run smoothly, not just between you and Asher, but that the whole of the household continues to live in peace.”
“I’ll try my best, Naneh Zolekhah.”
“Rakhel, you are like my own daughter. I am growing old and tired. I cannot continue doing all that I do daily. Cooking and managing the servants, ordering supplies from the markets, keeping an eye on the stock of food, calculating what’s left and what’s needed.” Rakhel watches as Zolekhah takes from the cord tied about her waist the ring of keys. “These are the keys to the cellar and the storerooms of food.” She hands the keys to Rakhel. Rakhel stands motionless, the keys a substantial heaviness in the palm of her hand. She looks up at Zolekhah.
“See to things,” Zolekhah says. She pats Rakhel’s shoulder, then holds the small of her back as she walks out of the kitchen. Without looking back, she says, “Kokab will join us for dinner this evening. You are the khanum of the household now. This is the first dinner you oversee. Make sure you welcome her.”
Rakhel stands alone in the kitchen. A copper pot of water boils on the hearth. Eggplants soak in a tub of brine on the stone floor. She looks at the keys. They feel warm, already, from the heat of her hand. She lifts her shirt and unfastens the red yarn that holds her mother’s key about her waist. That key wasn’t meant for any lock, but held all her mother’s hopes for her. If her mother could see, now, this ring of heavy iron keys she holds in her hands. Rakhel slips the bunch of keys onto the yarn, but they are too heavy and the whole of them fall to the floor with a clatter. She stoops to collect them, one by one, holding each to the light. Then she unfastens a length of rope from a bag of rice and strings each key, saving her mother’s for last. She fastens it about her waist, the rope rough against her skin. This will do for now, she thinks, until she can find a more decorative cord, one made of braided silk, perhaps. She walks into the kitchen garden, the weight of the keys against her hips. The morning air feels cool, delicate.
In the gold of the light, she kneels among the bitter herbs and fills her skirt with the young leaves of the opal basil, plucks the tender green of the tarragon, clutches handfuls of parsley. She returns to the kitchen humming and places the herbs in a bowl of water, then kneels on the floor to remove their stems. Rakhel looks up from her task to see Sadiqeh enter the kitchen with her shaliteh full of brown-shelled and blue-shelled eggs. Sadiqeh stops at the threshold a moment and looks over her shoulder, then walks into the kitchen quietly. Rakhel stands up and straightens her skirt, then moves to the hearth. “Finish cleaning those herbs for me,” Rakhel says.
“Yes, Rakhel Khanum. Soon as I set down these eggs.” Sadiqeh takes the eggs one by one from her skirt and puts them into a bowl. “Wouldn’t believe how many eggs we found here and there,” Sadiqeh says. “Those poor hens, hiding them from us.”
Rakhel pretends to mind the pot on the stove. She lifts her shirt to shift the keys and when she is certain that the girl has seen the set of keys at her waist, she says, “Put the eggs in that bowl faster and tend to the herbs. You did not find the eggs earlier because the henhouse is such a mess.” Rakhel worries that the tone of her voice is not flat, the way Zolekhah speaks when she addresses the servants. She will have to practice, later. Sadiqeh pauses, an egg in her hand. She places it carefully on top of the pile in the bowl, then brushes her hands off on her skirt.
“Yes, Rakhel Khanum.”
“The henhouse must be cleaned once a week, from now on. The smell is evil and I’m certain it carries disease.”
“Did Zolekhah Khanum say so?”
“Zolekhah has asked me to see to things around the household from now on.” Rakhel turns abruptly back to the hearth so that the keys dangling from her waist clink against one another. She hears Zahra and Fatimeh approach the kitchen from the garden, talking to one another.
“Fatimeh, they say if she pounds mandrake into a fine powder and sprinkles it in her husband’s food, he will become more fond of her.”
“Everyone else eats that food, too, child.”
“Well, maybe it will help us all. Lord knows I don’t like her much myself. Oh, and if she can put the same powder in her rival’s food, but add vinegar, Kokab will go crazy.” They stand outside the kitchen. Sadiqeh swipes her hand across the table with a rag as though to clean it, pushing a wooden ladle onto the floor.
“And I’ve heard that if you make halva and mark the surface with a silver ring inscribed with a love talisman . . .”
“Rakhel Khanum, should I wash the herbs first?” Sadiqeh asks, louder than necessary.
Zahra and Fatimeh enter the kitchen to see Rakhel standing by the hearth, wooden ladle in hand, her lips a thin, straight line. Zahra turns red from ear to ear. Rakhel addresses herself to Fatimeh. “I’m seeing to dinner tonight,” Rakhel says. “You can finish the coop today with the girls, then send them home when it is clean.” Fatimeh looks Rakhel in the eyes. Rakhel tilts her chin up slightly.
“Yes, Rakhel Khanum. You won’t be needing old Fatimeh’s help with the cooking?”
“Not today. But for tomorrow morning, make sure that the men’s breakfast i
s ready earlier. Asher has been heading out early, lately, and thirsty for tea.”
“I’ll do it right after my morning prayers, Rakhel Khanum. You’ll call me if you need me?” Rakhel nods once and motions with her hand for the servants to leave. She turns her back to them to stir the contents of the pot on the flame. She can feel the women hesitate. When they walk out of the kitchen, she turns to pick up the eggs, one after another, and cracks them into a bowl. She stirs the yolks briskly. She hears an unfamiliar footstep approaching the kitchen. Rakhel knows that Kokab stands in the doorway, but she does not turn.
“Do you need help?” Kokab asks. Rakhel turns, wiping her hands on her skirt. Kokab has the ruband covering her face and eyes. She reaches up and unfastens the cloth, so that Rakhel sees her face. “I hope I didn’t startle you. Would you like me to help?” Rakhel looks at the slant of Kokab’s eyes, the defined lips, the pale skin.
“No, that won’t be necessary. No need for you to sweat in here, I’ll see to things.” Kokab nods. She smiles at Rakhel. Rakhel strains to return the smile, but her mouth defies her in what she knows must be a menacing grimace. Rakhel turns her back to the woman with the pretense that the pot on the flame needs her tending and says, “You will join us, finally, for dinner?”
“If I am welcome.”
“It is certainly more convenient to have you at the table than to serve you in your room.” Kokab remains silent. Rakhel waits until she hears her leave. Then she walks into the empty courtyard. The pool and fountain gurgle in the center of the andaruni. The windows of Ibrahim’s house are open into the courtyard, their lace curtains catching the breeze. Rakhel looks at the potted plants in front of Zolekhah’s quarters, then up to the great hall of the panj-daree. She looks at the marble steps leading to Asher’s home, the long breezeway to her bedroom, to his study, and farther, until that last room. Kokab may have power in that one room, Rakhel thinks, but I have rule of all this, the cellar, the gardens, the storerooms, the servants, the grand room with all its antiques. She pats the keys and returns to the warmth of the hearth to finish her cooking.
The Girl from the Garden Page 13