The Girl from the Garden

by Parnaz Foroutan

  Mahboubeh remembers how Rakhel carried those keys with her until the day of her death. Even after Yousseff’s widow sold the family estate and the locks those keys opened didn’t exist anymore. Mahboubeh opens another kitchen drawer and rummages through it. She slams that drawer shut. Frantically, she opens another. She takes out the contents, folded dish towels, clothespins, envelopes with yellowed letters, batteries. She stops and looks at the items crowding the countertop, littering the ground. So many objects. A panic takes hold of her. She can’t remember what she searches for, or how long she has been searching. She closes her eyes and waits for her mind to clear. She opens her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins putting things back in the drawers and cabinets.

  Mahboubeh’s dinner sits cold and untouched on the table. Rice, a bit of stewed lamb. She sits down before it, in the silence of her empty kitchen. A spoon. She needed a spoon. She does not rise to fetch one. She has no appetite these days. She cooks rarely, a big pot of something that lasts days. Meals are no longer the events they once were, when her husband was alive, or when she herself was a child, at the family sofre. In those days, Rakhel controlled and allocated the food. The men, of course, Uncle Asher and her father, simply sat down and ate their fill. But the women and the children looked to Rakhel for permission before they ever ate anything.

  Mahboubeh imagines Rakhel, preceded by the sound of her keys as she walks slowly through the courtyard after returning from the cellar, eating a handful of something. A group of children surround Rakhel and their voices crowd Mahboubeh’s mind, shrill with anticipation, please, Dada, please, do you have dried mulberries? Please, some for me? Did you bring figs, Dada, can I have a fig? Rakhel reaches into her pocket and takes out a handful of sunflower seeds, puts one between her front teeth, cracks it, flicks the shell, and eats the meat. And another, and another. The children become more frantic. Some for me, Dada, some for me? Mahboubeh stands among them. She is hungry. She bounces from foot to foot. In her haste, she forgets and grabs at the hem of Rakhel’s shirt. Rakhel turns and slaps her hand away. Mahboubeh’s eyes sting with tears. She looks at the untouched plate of food before her and pushes it away.

  A car passes in the street outside. Dusk settles. The kitchen grows darker. The crickets take up their song. Mahboubeh rises from the table, turns on the kitchen light, and scrapes the food on her plate into the trash, then places the plate in the sink. She turns on the water. The sink fills with warm water and Mahboubeh dips her hands in, closes her eyes a moment as the steam rises.

  Rakhel sits quietly at the sofre and watches the steam rise from the mound of saffron rice, from the bowl of eggplant and okra stew. She looks at the basil and green onions she arranged in the fine silver tray used only for the most special occasions. Asher sits at the head, in his usual place, and Ibrahim beside him. Zolekhah, at the other end. And Khorsheed beside her. Then, Kokab. Rakhel tries to keep her eyes on the food, and find a way to busy herself with eating. She reaches for bread, but then she notices Asher glance at Kokab, a quick spark in his eyes. Rakhel’s hand remains outstretched until Asher clears his throat and startles her. She grabs a piece of bread and puts it in her mouth, almost choking. Asher looks away from her and resumes his dialogue with his brother.

  “So when do you think you will be well enough to return to the caravansary?”

  “I am sorry, Asher. My ribs are still mending, I can sit and stand with little assistance. Though I ache to lift or walk.”

  “It is the wheat harvest, soon. I will need to leave for the villages to oversee the farmers. Do you think you might be able to manage in my absence?”

  “In a week’s time, I should be on my feet again.”

  “Not much is needed from you but to make sure we are not robbed.”

  “Yes, yes . . .”

  “It will not be physically taxing.”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you come with me to the caravansary, tomorrow. You can rest there, too, and see how things are faring.”

  “I’m not sure . . . If I can walk the distance.”

  “Take one of the mules.”

  “Asher, the jostling of that beast will kill him,” Zolekhah says. “What is your hurry, the farmers have been harvesting the wheat for centuries without you overseeing them. Allow Ibrahim a bit more time to convalesce. Besides, you have your own business at home that needs tending to. This is certainly not a time for you to leave, with Kokab just arriving.”

  Asher turns to his mother. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, then looks at her and says, “Thank you, Mother, but perhaps it’d be wiser for you to see to other matters and allow me to care for the business and the lands.”

  “Yes, son, certainly. As a matter of fact, Rakhel, you can help me clear the plates, and Khorsheed, why don’t you help your husband to bed?”

  Khorsheed rises dutifully from the table and reaches to assist Ibrahim. Ibrahim looks apologetically at Asher, but Asher glares at Zolekhah, instead, his jaw tight.

  “Perhaps I may come with you tomorrow, brother,” Ibrahim says as he stands. He leans on his wife and walks slowly toward the door. “Perhaps a good night’s sleep will have me feeling more capable in the morning.”

  “Well, Rakhel?” Zolekhah says. She kneels and brushes crumbs with her hand. She stacks one plate on top of another. “Get up, daughter, and help me.”

  “I can be of help, too, Naneh Zolekhah,” Kokab says.

  “Not you, dear. You stay here and keep Asher company. His sour mood needs some sweetening.”

  Rakhel does not move. She looks at the plate before her. She can feel Zolekhah waiting for her to do as she has been told, but her legs are treasonous and she worries about what her hands might do. Should she reach for a plate, she might drop it, just to hear it shatter.

  “Rakhel?”

  She looks up slowly and sees the look of warning in her mother-in-law’s eyes.

  “Have you gone deaf, Rakhel?” Asher asks. “Does Mother need to repeat her request more than once?”

  Rakhel shakes her head no and rises. She picks up the pile of plates Zolekhah has stacked and walks out of the room.

  Outside, the night is silent, black, with the scent of impending rain. Rakhel walks to the pool, places the plates on the ledge and sits on the edge of the fountain. She turns her back to Zolekhah and puts her fingers in the water.

  “Rakhel?” Zolekhah says.

  “I’m here,” Rakhel says.

  “Asher will spend this night in Kokab’s room,” Zolekhah says. “You understand why it is necessary for him to do so?”

  Rakhel looks at her feet. She holds her breath.

  “Rakhel?”

  “Yes, Naneh Zolekhah?”

  “Do you understand why he needs to do so? Because you cannot give him a child and he is not a man to sacrifice all he has built for want of a child.”

  “Yes, Naneh Zolekhah.”

  “It will get easier with time, Rakhel. This first night without your husband may seem long, but it will get easier with time. You have seen to breakfast for him in the morning?”

  “Yes, Naneh Zolekhah.”

  “You did well with dinner, I am very pleased. I know you have the capacity to be the khanum of this estate, to take the role of the first wife with grace.”

  Rakhel remains silent. She can stop breathing at will, whenever she chooses. She continues to look at her feet. Zolekhah reaches out and lifts her chin. She bends close and kisses Rakhel’s cheek. Rakhel sobs once, then holds her breath again, but she cannot stop her tears.

  “Time, daughter, time is a salve upon an aching heart. I will tell Khorsheed to come out here and keep you company. Better to busy yourself with a task, than sit alone and think. And better to be with a friend.” Zolekhah rises to fetch Khorsheed.

  In the stillness of the courtyard, Rakhel looks at the lit guest hall. Asher stands by the window. Kokab stands beside him.

  “Rakhel?”

  “Did you see that?” Rakhel asks without turning
to look at Khorsheed.

  “See what?”

  “Are you deaf or blind?”

  “Why?”

  Rakhel wipes her face with her shirt, then turns to Khorsheed. “Didn’t you see what she has done to Asher? Haven’t you noticed the changes in your own baby? She is taking what she wants from us, my husband and your baby. Right before our eyes.”

  Khorsheed takes a step back. She pauses, then picks up a plate. She scrapes the contents into a bucket. “What are you talking about, Dada. She has done nothing to my baby. Yousseff is fussy lately because he is teething.”

  “Some mother you are. This very afternoon the poor lamb screamed like someone was tearing his liver out of his body.”

  “Well, it hurts to cut teeth,” Khorsheed says. She picks up another plate. It slips from her fingers, but she catches it. She breathes in heavily and dumps the remains.

  “Khorsheed, you’ve seen babies cut teeth before. Have any of them ever suffered like Yousseff?”

  Khorsheed doesn’t respond for some time. She continues to scrape the food off dishes and stacks them by the fountain with her back turned to Rakhel.

  “Well, have they?” Rakhel asks. “Isn’t Yousseff’s pain different?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think for a moment.”

  Khorsheed takes another plate from the pile. She holds it for a moment. Then she tilts her head to the side. “That’s him. He’s crying again,” she says. She places the plate down and walks with haste back to her room.

  “Lord knows what she plans for him,” Rakhel calls after her.

  Khorsheed rushes into her room. A warm light comes from inside. Rakhel waits in the still darkness. She wipes plate after plate, deliberately. After several minutes, Khorsheed comes back out to join Rakhel.

  “Did she stop tormenting him?”

  “He just needed a little milk to soothe him, that’s all. The little sparrow misses me when I leave him.”

  “Probably because he senses something menacing. You noticed Asher, too, no? The spell she’s put on him? Like a man walking in his sleep.”

  “He is a bit distracted.” Khorsheed grabs a handful of spoons and dips them into the pool. She hands them to Rakhel, who shakes them dry.

  “I’m doing what I can to bring him out of it,” Rakhel says. “You can’t be naive, Khorsheed. You have to do your part. You are a mother, and that helpless little sparrow depends on you.”

  “Rakhel, I’m not stupid. You are saying this to make me dislike her.”

  “Like her all you want, Khorsheed. But don’t come running to me when black calamity comes your way.”

  “It won’t. And I won’t come running to you if it does, either.”

  “You don’t have to be mean.”

  “Who’s mean, Dada? All you do all the time is try to frighten me. From the very beginning, when I was pregnant with Yousseff, without regard for me or my baby, you’d do things to scare me. To hurt me. And now all this talk about Kokab being a djinn. You know, I’m nursing, and fear turns my milk sour. It can even dry me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Happened to my aunt.”

  “No, I know that. Nonsense that I’m trying to scare you. You are my only friend, Khorsheed. More than that. My sister. I’m saying what I say to protect you, and Yousseff, whom I love as much as you do. Don’t worry, though. I know you won’t believe me. Who’d believe a woman’s accusations against her havoo?”

  “Oh, Dada, just stop worrying. Asher hasn’t even been with her, yet. If he wanted her so much, he’d have taken her by now. He just brought her for one thing only, and he’ll do what he needs to when the time comes, and he’ll be done with her after that.”

  “So you don’t see what I see?”

  “Maybe you see what you see because you are jealous.”

  Rakhel turns swiftly toward Khorsheed, a plate clutched in her hand.

  “I am not jealous of that harlot, Khorsheed. And I’m certainly not jealous of you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Rakhel raises the plate and hurls it to the ground. It shatters, the sound crystalline in the night. Shards of porcelain scatter about.

  “What do you mean, Khorsheed?”

  “What was that?” Zolekhah asks from the window of her room.

  “Just dropped a plate accidently,” Rakhel says.

  “Be careful,” Zolekhah says and closes the window.

  Rakhel grabs Khorsheed’s wrist. Khorsheed tries to twist her arm out of Rakhel’s hold, but Rakhel doesn’t let go.

  “Listen to me, Khorsheed.”

  “Let go of me, Dada.”

  “I am not jealous of anybody. I have everything, Khorsheed. You know what Zolekhah gave me, right? All the keys. You know what that means, right? I’m in charge. Not Zolekhah. Not that harlot. And not you. What do I have to be jealous of?”

  “Let go of my hand or I’ll scream.”

  Rakhel releases her hold. Khorsheed pulls back and nurses her wrist.

  “You hurt me, Dada. You know, your envy is really getting the better of you these days. Sometimes, I don’t even want to be around you.”

  Rakhel turns and slaps Khorsheed. Khorsheed cries out. Rakhel grabs her neck and places her hand over Khorsheed’s mouth. Zolekhah peers out of her window.

  “Tell her it was a rat,” Rakhel whispers. Khorsheed struggles. “You tell her it was a rat or you’ll pay dearly.” She removes her hand from Khorsheed’s mouth.

  “Just a rat,” Khorsheed says. “A dirty, little rat.” Khorsheed looks at Rakhel quietly. Then, she turns and walks away.

  “Where are you going, Khorsheed?” Rakhel asks. “Did I tell you that you could leave?”

  Khorsheed walks into her room and closes the door. Rakhel stands alone in the empty courtyard. She looks up at the night sky. Not a single star. Rain in the morning.

  “Go ahead,” she says. “Abandon me like the rest of them. I don’t need You.”

  Eight

  Asher remembers a zoo he visited as a child with his father, at the foothills of Doshan Tepe in Tehran. In his memory, the colors are muted and warm. It was before Ibrahim’s birth, one of Asher’s earliest memories. He recalls seeing a fox, curled on the packed earth beside an amputated tree trunk, behind the thick iron bars of a cage. And the fluid movement of a leopard, the contrast of those bars against the black spots of the animal’s skin. And a fly’s impunity against a wolf. And that pacing lion. Its cage not much longer than his own body. One step, two step, turn, one step, two step, turn.

  What is this pulsing urge to live, to breathe? Asher thinks. In the confine of four paces, the lion still gnaws the bare meat of the donkey’s head thrown it, tears at the meager flesh of the cheeks and ears to sustain his own life, even when wanting is a wide, wide savanna. When wanting is louder than the thunder of a thousand hooves. Why not just lay the head down on the cool of the earth, gaze at the clouds rushing overhead, the insistence of the sun, the perpetual games of the moon, watch quietly until you reach the edge of days?

  Asher walks across the four paces of the room. The flesh, in essence, is a prison, he thinks. Asher kneels before Kokab and takes her hand in his hand. Something breaks open inside him. He brings her fingers to his lips.

  “The days pass so slowly here,” Kokab says.

  Asher inhales the musk of her wrist.

  “Today I watched a flock of gray pigeons against the gray skies,” she says.

  He leans in to her hair. He breathes in and exhales against the lobe of her ear. He notices the rise of the fine hairs on the contour of her neck in response to his breath. He buries his hand in the thick of her hair, holds it out at arm’s length, and watches the gleam of light captured in its blackness.

  “You would not think their flight so majestic, to see them,” she says. Then, she pulls back and looks at him. “You will take what you want from me, but it is not something I choose to give.”

  “Then push me away.”

  She looks at
him silently. He catches the quickness in her eyes. It is a melting darkness. Had he not been kneeling beside her, he thinks, he might have fallen to his knees. “Then burn for me,” he says. He places his finger against her mouth before she can speak. He touches the moist softness of her lips. He traces his fingers on her skin to the smooth of her throat and notices that his hands shake, subtly. She tilts her head back slightly and he feels an explosion of heat inside his own body, a ripple that passes from the skin of this woman into his own hand, and from there, fast toward his heart. Suddenly, he feels the proximity of his own death, but the terror of this thought abates to his hunger to taste, again, the salt of her skin.

  One night passes, then another. At first, each evening before dinner, Asher visits Rakhel in her room and asks about her day. She prepares chai for him and he sits before her, impatient to leave, sipping his hot chai quickly, his eyes distant. Often, she catches him as he glances at the door. He clears his throat before he begins the formalities of good-bye. Then, he leaves hastily to see Kokab in her room.

  So that each night Rakhel might recount for Asher reasons why she is indispensable to him, she spends her days from dawn to dusk engaged in household industry. And when Asher asks her about her day, she begins a detailed account of her preserving, stewing, pickling, brewing, sewing, cooking, and carrying on without a pause until Asher pats her hand and says, “Well done. Well done, indeed.” She closes her eyes when he touches her hand, briefly. The way you might pet a child upon the head. His hand feels cold on her flesh.

  One night, in desperation to keep him a moment longer from leaving, Rakhel says, “Asher, the valley you say you pass before reaching the village of Gahvareh, don’t only goats and sheep graze there? If the shepherds move them up into the mountains, you can buy that land and have the farmers plant wheat in that valley, too, no? I remember my father used to say that the man who holds the grain is the man that has power. No matter what happens, everybody still needs to eat bread.”