The Shipwrecked

by Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone

  “I swear on my father’s grave,” he said. “You’ve got eyes. Look for yourself.”

  Sure enough, they were approaching from a side street, waving clubs and sticks over their heads.

  “They’re welcome,” I bragged, pretending not to be intimidated.

  “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  “Over my dead body,” I said, defiantly.

  “Gutsy again, huh?” Sohrab sneered. “Have you forgotten about that night?”

  THE NIGHT SOHRAB was referring to had happened the previous summer when we were hanging out and had noticed the new bouncer in front of Mermaid Café. He was such a big fellow that he could block the whole doorway with his body. He refused admittance to Hussein Jumbo and his gang.

  “Monsieur’s1 orders,” he boomed.

  “You must be kidding,” said one of the boys.

  “You’re asking for it,” said another, menacingly.

  The bouncer remained unmoved. He stepped aside reverently, allowing two regular customers in.

  The gang members, standing to the side of the café in relative darkness, kept taunting the bouncer, hurling insults at him. One of them, known as Abbas the Loner, stepped out of the dark, staggering. “I’m going in,” he announced boldly. “Get lost, out of my way,” he said, but he stepped back when he saw the size of the bouncer.

  Another member, short and plump, rushed toward the café entrance. From his pants pocket he produced a switchblade knife and pointed it threateningly at the gigantic bouncer—from a safe distance. “To hell with Monsieur. I’m coming in,” he yelled at the bouncer, who beckoned to him to come forward.

  Sohrab, standing next to me behind the boxwood hedge, was excited, anticipating the spectacle of a free-for-all between the bouncer and the gang. He started laughing uncontrollably. He was almost bent double in a paroxysm of laughter, attracting the attention of Hussein Jumbo, who ordered his gang to come after us. We sensed the danger and ran as fast as we could down the back alleys and if it hadn’t been for Mozaffari the policeman nearby, we would have been torn to pieces.

  SOHRAB TAPPED ME on the shoulder. “They’ll recognize us, don’t you think?” he asked anxiously, pointing to Hussein Jumbo and his gang.

  “Suppose they do. What of it?” I answered, trying to sound unconcerned.

  “Remember? You soiled your pants that night,” he said.

  “Shut your trap! Or I’ll chop your head off.”

  “All right, I’ll shut up. But it looks like we’re in deep shit.”

  I looked back and noticed Hussein and his gang working their way through the crowd to get a closer position.

  “I have an idea,” said Sohrab.

  “Then come out with it.”

  “What’s the point? You don’t take me seriously.”

  “Come on, spit it out,” I hissed, impatiently.

  Sohrab scratched his head and cleared his throat. “What if we join the headmaster?” he mused.

  That was a stupid idea: Sohrab knew that the headmaster had lodged complaints against the café, demanding its removal from the vicinity of the school.

  “You always say such dumb things!” I fulminated. “The headmaster is already a part of the mob, you jackass.”

  We heard a loud, scratchy voice proclaim, “Tear the place down!”

  “God is great!” Haj Yadollah excitedly cried.

  “So, now you call me a jackass,” Sohrab said plaintively.

  I almost punched his face because I felt he was trying to extricate himself from the situation. Then I would be left alone to rescue the mermaid from the vicious mob.

  “You can’t take a joke, can you?” I said amicably, holding tight to his wrist.

  Then I heard the unmistakable voice of Hussein Jumbo. “We must set fire to this corrupt, rotten joint,” he shouted loudly.

  “All it takes is a can of gasoline and a box of matches,” suggested one of the boys in the gang.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” someone with a scratchy voice yelled.

  Suddenly, Sohrab jerked his hand out of my grip.

  “What the hell do you want from me?” he asked contentiously. “What does all this have to do with me? What’s in it for me, anyway?”

  “You can get her lute,” I told him, trying to be conciliatory.

  “What good is it to me? I can’t play.”

  “You can sell it. It’s a collector’s item, worth a lot of money.”

  Several men walked out of the café, frightened at the sight of the crowd, and frenetically hurried down a dark alley. Two members of Hussein’s gang ran after them and disappeared in the darkness.

  “I’ll give you two tomans over and above,” I offered Sohrab.

  “That’s a deal,” he replied.

  The gangs who had followed the customers in the alley returned carrying a container between them. The crowd parted to let them in.

  “Don’t you dare start a fire,” warned Haj Yadollah, waving his walking stick over his head vigorously. “Somebody stop these bastards.” He tried to push his way toward them in the middle of the crowd. Some people followed him.

  “Let’s go help Haj Yadollah,” I urged Sohrab.

  “But didn’t you say he was one of them?” he asked, exasperated.

  I was confused, unable to think straight. Sohrab was trying to pull me behind him by my sleeve. “Let’s move on. Let’s get going,” he insisted.

  As we pondered the idea, I noticed a hand slowly push aside the curtain on the window of the café. I watched, motionless.

  “It’s her,” I whispered, my heart thumping.

  “Who?” asked Sohrab.

  “The mermaid!”

  “Who?”

  She was just as I had imagined her.

  “Can’t you hear?” Sohrab uttered irritably. “Who? I asked.”

  The time had stopped still. I could not make a sound.

  “She is the same woman who is there every night,” Sohrab speculated. He did not know what he was talking about. The woman behind the window was the mermaid herself, the one I had seen in my dreams. She wiggled like a fish and dove into the sea as I tried to embrace her.

  By now the crowd was behind us, pushing us forward. Some men started whistling.

  “Stop it,” Haj Yadollah yelled, sounding outraged.

  “We must stone her,” the man with the scratchy voice announced.

  “God is great!” Haj Yadollah responded.

  The woman in the window crossed herself and let the curtain drop.

  Somebody hurled a rock at the mermaid over the door of the café. It hit the goblet in her hand and shattered it. The bouncer poked his head out of the door and surveyed the crowd.

  “Who the hell is throwing rocks?” he yelled piercingly. Not receiving a satisfactory answer, he swung the door open and walked out with a broken bottle in his hand.

  “Whoever is throwing rocks,” he shouted angrily. “I’ll rip his guts out.”

  Women screamed as they retreated behind the relative safety of boxwood hedges. Children scattered all over the square.

  A contingent of policemen headed by Mozaffari arrived on the scene as the owner gathered the shards of the broken goblet. The crowd began to disperse.

  For three days Mozaffari didn’t move from his post in front of the café. He looked glum. He did not smile as he usually did, displaying his two gold front teeth.

  After that night I was stricken with high fever that kept me in bed for a month. Everybody suspected typhoid and feared for my life.

  Soon, trees blossomed and streets were cleaned. But there was no longer a trace of the Mermaid Café, or Mozaffari and his men.

  Monsieur had left the neighborhood and the mermaid holding a broken goblet had disappeared.

  MITRA ELIYATI is an award-winning writer and poet, and the recipient of Golshiri Literary Prize. Eliyati is the author of two short story collections, Mademoiselle Katie and The Mermaid Café. She is the founder and editor of a literary website, Jennie and
Fairy, and writes for several literary journals. She teaches and lives in Tehran.

  1An informal way of referring to male Armenians and members of other Christian sects in Iran. Here, it is referring to the café owner.

  Unsettled, Unbound

  Fariba Vafi

  THE MOVING TRUCK is late. I have arranged a row of cardboard boxes against the wall on one side of the room. Mammad’s mother is feeding the baby in a corner near the window. The baby lifts her hand to grab the spoon and feed herself. The old woman looks uncomfortable, perspiring heavily under her chador. Mr. Yazdani keeps talking incessantly, foam forming at the corners of his mouth. Mother keeps saying, “Yes, yes, of course,” as if she is listening to the old man’s chatter, but she is hoping he would stop talking and leave the room, so she could remove her chador to cool off. Finally Mr. Yazdani steps out and she rips the chador off her head, relieved. She then turns to me, her face registering concern.

  “Why are you leaving?” she asks, disapproval in her tone. “Your children will be unsettled,” she tells me. I feel like laughing when she says “children,” considering one is still in my belly. She’s been saying that ever since she learned I was leaving Mr. Yazdani’s house. Hearing the word “unsettled” from her mouth gives me a sense of release. The word does not evoke any negative implications in me as she certainly intends it to do. It makes me think instead of a wandering, free-spirited dervish, not a homeless vagrant. As for the “children,” I have no idea how to react. I feel I am in transition. Leila lives in Tehran and has helped us find a house to rent.

  I haven’t been sleeping well. I am worried and anxious. Things can go either way. Mammad may call and say that it is not a good idea for me to move to Tehran, that he made a mistake in agreeing with my plans, that it is not easy to live in Tehran, that it is a mistake to leave our own town and province. Or, like he did the last time, nix my idea altogether and say, “Why do you want to move?” To which I would have to reply, “You are already away from your own town and province,” and talk about my loneliness, pointing out the fact that Tehran is closer to where he works and he can come home more often, every two weeks or so.

  Everyday I pack the boxes I have picked up from the corner grocer. I label them with their contents and place them against the wall. I still have a lot of packing to do. By now I am exhausted and careless about what goes into each carton. I just fill them up and line them against the wall.

  Mr. Yazdani is a constant, bothersome presence. He is one of those old men who feel entitled to interfere in everybody’s life. His gray hair has now yellowed with age. He has a florid complexion that looks flushed when he talks. He has strangely hirsute hands. He always looks harassed and there is an urgency in his movements. One would think that at the time of his death he would hurry things up to get a more desirable place in the ever after.

  The first time I saw Mr. Yazdani, his watchful eyes darting under puffy eyelids, I had a premonition. He always seemed like he was chasing you with his eyes, constantly watching every move. But the house was attractive and I couldn’t resist because of its bothersome landlord. It took me a while to convince Mammad. He was likely to change his mind at any time, and insist that in his absence the best place for me and the baby would be his mother’s house.

  Mr. Yazdani had his acquisitive gaze fixed on me, trying to look understanding and sympathetic as Mammad signed the lease. We were now Yazdani’s tenants and Mammad stayed for a few days before going back to work. The first day, Mrs. Yazdani, with her half-covered face under the chador, turned to Mammad and exchanged greetings and pleasantries with him. She then turned the uncovered half of her face to me.

  “I told Yazdani that only one child is allowed,” she said, as she glanced at my swelling belly. Mammad had told her that we would soon be a family of four. “Well now that you are here,” she added, “it doesn’t matter. You are all welcome.”

  The Yazdanis had two sons living at home and attending college. They seemed very shy. Any time we met on the staircase, they would stand aside against the wall and slide down the stairs, eyes cast downward.

  Since our apartment was on the first floor, we could hear the traffic up and down the staircase. Visitors were supposed to take their shoes off before ascending the carpeted stairs to the Yazdani residence. We could often hear Mr. Yazdani grumble audibly for the untidy way shoes had been left at the bottom of the staircase. He picked them up and neatly arranged them by the wall.

  I fell in love with the place at first sight. It was quiet and afforded privacy. The rooms were freshly painted, sunny, and inviting. The kitchen was large with a window opening onto the alley. When I opened the window I could hear the birds singing. The alley was wide and clean, with old houses on either side. The house across from our kitchen window was well-kept, and its wall was covered with jasmine and musk-scented roses. In the afternoons, a little girl would come out to play in her toy car. With the baby in my arms, I would watch her from the window, as she appreciated the audience, pedaling faster and doing intricate maneuvers around the courtyard.

  Mr. Yazdani handed me the basement key. “Dear girl, consider this your own home,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “You’re like my own daughter.”

  “Thank you.”

  I had said “Thank you” one hundred times to get rid of him, but Yazdani had to explain the house rules over and over again. There were certain conditions for the use of the yard. The shoe rack had to be placed at a certain angle at the entrance door. I could use the garden hose, but had to roll it up and hang it on the hook every time. He talked hurriedly and in a low whisper, putting his face close to my face, staring at me with inquisitive eyes, as if he was searching for some unknown secret. I could see the pupils of his eyes moving restlessly from side to side.

  I had become aware of the old man’s disturbing energy early on. He was unlike other elderly men who would slump down in a comfortable chair and doze off. Actually, I don’t remember ever seeing him seated at all. He was always in motion, climbing up or down the stairs, or on his way somewhere. Every time I ran into him, he made a point of letting me know he was late to some important appointment, apologizing for not being able to stop for a chat, but half an hour later, he would appear again to greet me as if he had not seen me in ages and he had been longing for this encounter. Several times every morning and evening, he would knock on my door and apologize profusely for having been remiss in checking on me and offering his services.

  Manizheh and Maliheh, the young sisters of Mammad, always hung around the hallway to run into Mr. Yazdani. They were so amused by his eccentricity. It was like they were watching a movie. They engaged him in conversation and later mimicked his mannerisms.

  “Your landlord is a real gentleman,” they told me.

  The “real gentleman” always held himself upright more elegantly than usual to bid farewell to them at the door. Sometimes he invited the young guests to stay for dinner or lunch upstairs. The exchange of compliments usually continued for some time before the young girls took their leave. The girls believed that the wife must be ugly and unpleasant. For some reason, I always took the side of the wife and expounded on her intelligence and exquisite taste. She was not beautiful in the conventional sense, I told the girls, but she was uniquely attractive. I always thought, what if Mrs. Yazdani happened to come down the stairs and run into Manizheh and Maliheh, who seemed to take my description of Mrs. Yazdani with a grain of salt, wondering why Mr. Yazdani, this darling of a man, spent so much time downstairs if he had an angel for a wife upstairs.

  Mrs. Yazdani was always warm and receptive to Mammad’s mother. “Dear lady,” she told her. “Visit your daughter-in-law more often.”

  Before long, Mr. Yazdani knew one by one of the family members and friends that visited me at the apartment. He even had figured out the texture of my relationship with each. My mother-in-law approved of this level of close attention paid by Mr. Yazdani to my affairs. I could often hear
her expressions of gratitude from the alley in the extended process of leave-taking. I would hug the baby and watch from the window as the guests departed. I felt an innate desire to leave with them. But I would be brought back to the reality of my situation when I heard Yazdani as he cleaned the hallway and organized the shoes along the wall. To me, he had become an intrusive burden. The apartment that was once so welcoming, had become like a prison and, Mr. Yazdani like a vigilant prison warden, who guarded it incessantly.

  Close to the sunset every evening there is a knock on my door.

  “Yes?” I almost bark, knowing who is likely on the other side.

  “It’s me, my daughter.”

  I crack the door. He thrusts in his hand, holding a loaf of flat bread.

  “But thanks,” I say. “We have enough bread in the house.”

  “Take it anyway, dear girl. I bought it especially for you. It is fresh. This is something your husband would have done, had he been here. But he is not. You see?”

  There is no point in refusing the offer. So I take the bread. “Thank you and goodnight,” I mutter, trying to close the door. But he pleads for just a minute of my time to share “some very important information.” That means I have to listen to his gibberish for another half hour and be told again how happy he is to have a virtuous young lady like me as his tenant. So different from his former tenants, a couple that did not get along and quarreled all the time, ruining the reputation of the house in the neighborhood. He would then spend more time apologizing for assailing my sensibilities by the use of such words as “slut,” “shameless,” and “shrew” in reference to his previous tenant. I am such an angel in nature and disposition that I should consider myself as the owner of the property and him as a mere caretaker. Somehow, I am defenseless against his intrusions. I promise myself to never accept anything from such an importunate, irritating man.

  In their late teens, with clear complexions and hazel eyes, Manizheh and Maliheh were attractive. It gave them immense pleasure to have the old man stand reverentially in front of them and admire their youthful charm using quaint, archaic terms. His age and theatrical demeanor were amusing to them and his polite manner had put him beyond any suspicion, but the girls were curious to meet his wife, something that wasn’t forthcoming, given Mrs. Yazdani’s reluctance to mingle and her self-imposed isolation upstairs.