“That bastard had promised not to raise his hand on this kid,” he bellowed.
Mother’s response was too muted for us to understand, but he hisses vehemently enough for us to hear, “Don’t make a big thing out of it. So what if he has given her a whack or two?”
Again, an inaudible comment from Mother.
“She’s done the wrong thing. This spoiled kid packs a bag and comes over here at the slightest excuse.”
Father is now positively yelling, “Who cares if she’s got a few bruises? She’s not dead, for heaven’s sake. Does she tell us about when they’re having their touchy-feely times together? So they should keep their arguments and rough times between themselves.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” we hear him burst out, “didn’t I talk to him three months ago? Didn’t he promise to behave himself? What if he turns around and says he’d divorce her? What could I say to that?”
We can only guess what Mother has said to get this reaction from Father: “The hell she has asked for divorce herself! Has she no consideration for family honor? I’m not going to blow our reputation over this giddy-headed girl. Tell her that if she mentions the word divorce again, I’ll disown her. I swear to God.”
“MY DEAR AUNTIE,” Monir says earnestly, “I swear on the Koran I can’t bear this anymore. What have I done to deserve a lifetime of indignation and abuse?”
Auntie extends her feet into the spot of sunlight streaming in from the window and inhales deeply on the hookah pipe in front of her. The passage of air through the water in the glass urn makes the green leaves in it dance wildly. A large wasp buzzes loudly behind the windowpane. She watches the wasp as she puffs on the hookah.
“He wouldn’t beat you for no reason at all,” Auntie says finally. “Perhaps you’ve disobeyed him in some way. Perhaps you’ve done something to set him off and make him see red.”
“No, no,” Monir insists, “I swear I never do anything wrong. He just gets up and starts beating on me for no reason at all. I swear he is crazy. Mother can tell you. All my body is black and blue.” She then reaches for Auntie’s hand and holds it between hers.
“Auntie,” she pleads, “I beg of you, on your son’s grave, tell Father to pursue my divorce.”
Auntie pushes the hookah away abruptly and looks at Mother, frowning. “What is this girl talking about?” She asks, her voice laden with disapproval. “Who in our family has gotten a divorce for this to be the next?”
Mother lowers her head, clearly mortified. “I don’t know. Just my bad luck.”
Auntie now addresses Monir, glaring. “Shame on you! Suppose he’s beaten you over the head a couple of times. What of it? That’s not a reason to bring up talk of divorce.” Turning to Mother, she continues, “What a way to raise children!” She hisses sarcastically. “Congratulations!” She goes on, “I have sent five daughters into marriage. You haven’t heard a squeak from any of them. God knows what they have had to put up with so they wouldn’t be called a divorcée.”
For a long moment, Auntie stares at Monir. “I suppose,” she says bitingly, “those poor girls now have to bear the shame of your divorce!”
THE SPICE SHOP of our elder brother is heavy with the aroma of myriad spices. We stand in a corner and wait for him to take care of some customers.
“Hello,” I mutter, when the customers leave. Monir follows suit, somewhat hesitantly.
Big Brother acknowledges us, looking cool and distant.
“Father told me you’re back again after a quarrel,” he says without looking at us.
Monir nervously adjusts the chador on her head. “That’s why I came to see you, Big Brother,” she says in a tremulous voice. “Please talk to Father, I beg of you. Get him to file a complaint with the family court,1 or give me permission to do it myself. Once Rasool sets foot in the court, everyone will see he is crazy.”
Big Brother flushes, arteries in his neck throbbing visibly.
“If you’ve lost your mind, I haven’t,” he retorts. “I’m not that stupid to ask Father to get involved in that sort of thing. I suppose you mean ultimately to file for divorce.”
Silent tears roll down Monir’s face. “What if I do?” she says. “Is that God’s will for me to put up with this lunatic for the rest of my life?”
She then pushes the chador off her head to expose the injuries on her face and neck. Big Brother briefly gazes at her. Something darkens in his eyes as he lowers his glance. “Goddamn!” he mutters.
“Her whole body looks like that, Big Brother,” I venture. He looks at me as if he has just noticed my presence.
“Don’t you have school and school work to do instead of getting involved in this?” he reproachfully asks.
“No school on weekends,” I respond.
Big Brother reaches for a cigarette in the drawer of the desk in front of him. As he strikes a match to light it, his hands tremble so hard he has trouble holding the flame to the cigarette.
He points to a stool near the wall. “Take the weight off,” he says to Monir, who is now crying openly. She balances herself on the stool.
“Goddamn!” hisses Big Brother under his breath, staring at the tiles on the floor, “He’d promised not to hurt her anymore.”
“He started the next day after we made up,” Monir whimpered. “He says he can’t help it.”
Big Brother puffs on his cigarette silently for a minute. “Well,” he says, still looking down at the floor, “I know he has a temper. But you can’t file for divorce whenever you’re not having a good time at home. I suppose,” he goes on, snickering, “if you get a divorce, my wife will follow suit. She’ll fancy a divorce if I ask for a cup of tea. Things fall apart that way.”
“Take my word for it,” he says, as he throws the cigarette butt on the floor and steps on it, “It’s best if you go back home before it is too late. Don’t embarrass yourself more than you have already.”
“OH, SWEETHEART,” Grandma coos soothingly. “You make it sound like he’s stabbed you with a sword.”
The setting sun has now slid off the top branches of the locust tree and is shining on a bed of pansies near the bench where Grandma is sitting as she combs her hair.
“Grandma,” Monir responds, “I swear to God, when he gets that way, he will run me through, if he could lay his hands on a sword. He’s out of control, Grandma.” She then pushes her stockings down for Grandma to see the bruises on her legs. She grimaces at the sight.
“Oh, my goodness,” she wails, “look at my child’s legs!” she then turns to Mother. “You should have put some ointment on them,” she rebukes.
“All my body is like that,” Monir adds. “I can’t be covered in ointment all over.”
“Look here, Grandma,” Monir says tearfully, “Father listens to you more than he does to anyone. After all, you’re his mother. He will not turn you down. Please tell him to file for my divorce, or at least give me permission to do it myself.”
Grandma arranges the white scarf over her henna-dyed hair, and knots it under her chin.
“This kind of talk is inappropriate, sweetheart,” she says in a sober tone. “In every relationship there is some conflict at first. Gradually you get used to each other. Nobody is perfect. Everybody has a flaw of some kind. His problem is his temper. On the other hand, he is faithful and doesn’t have a roving eye. He is not into drugs or alcohol. Most likely, once he is a father, he’ll change completely. If you want my advice, try to have a baby.”
Monir listens silently, teardrops slowly rolling down her face. Grandma takes a deep breath and continues, “Besides, do you think I got better treatment from your late grandpa? You never heard a peep from me. I knew if I sued for divorce, that would embarrass the whole family.”
MOTHER HAS SPREAD her sewing on the floor of the balcony. Monir sits down beside her. “What have I done to get everyone mad at me?” she asks, not really expecting an answer. “None of you could bear living a week with Rasool, getting a beating on a daily basis.”
“Why cooped up?” I blurted out, knowing full well I was risking Mother’s fury. “She’s only twenty. She could go to school and at least get her diploma.”
“She’s right Mother,” Monir says, with a faint suggestion of a smile on her face. “I can go to school.”
Mother clutches the fabric and rises to her feet as she gazes at me, eyes blazing. “You need not put words in her mouth,” she says to me, wagging a finger. “She’s already got enough wrong ideas in that head of hers.”
“But what’s wrong with the idea of going to school?” I persist, refusing to be intimidated.
“Oh, Shut your trap, you punk kid!” Mother yells. “If she comes back as a divorcée, not even a dog will look at this house for a bride, and then you too will rot here as an old maid!”
AFTER WE HAVE breakfast, Monir wraps herself in the chador. “Mother,” she says, sounding resolute. “I’m going to do something about this situation myself today.
Mother looks at her, frowning. “Once you set foot in a police station or the family court—whatever—your father will never again let you in this house. I’m telling you so that you know he will not tolerate a dishonored daughter.”
Monir sinks to her knees near the door and bursts out crying.
MONIR FILLS a glass with tea and places it on a tray. “I’ll talk to Father myself,” she announces. She draws a deep breath and heads for the yard, carrying the tea tray. I watch her from the open window.
Father is moving the flower pots from the greenhouse, arranging them by the wall for later planting in the flower beds. The air is infused with the fragrance of jasmine and carnation. A flock of sparrows chirps loudly in the honeysuckle bush growing up a tree. A white puff of cloud is drifting across the blue sky.
Monir places the tea tray near the small reflecting pool in the yard. “Father,” she calls.
He places a large pot of blooming gardenia near the other pots and sits on the narrow ledge of the pool. Monir squats on the ground next to him and looks up directly into his face. He lowers his head, avoiding eye contact with Monir, who cracks her finger joints and seems hesitant. “I want to talk to you, Father,” she finally says.
“I have nothing to say to a daughter who doesn’t care about her father’s reputation,” says Father, his eyes closed.
“Please, listen for a minute, listen to what I have to say,” begs Monir. “I am not being unreasonable. I honestly can’t tolerate being beaten anymore. We’ve been married a year. The beatings started from the first week. You’re my parent. You could get the divorce thing going. I swear to God and the Prophet, he is crazy. What if he hurts me permanently, or kills me? What’re you going to do then?”
Father lifts his head. His eyes are red, moist with tears. He lifts his hand and gently strokes Monir’s hair.
“I know, dear child,” he says, his voice quivering. “I know it is hard. But divorce is not a solution. People will talk. So-and-so’s daughter is divorced. It is a stigma. It is bad for the family name. Just be patient for a while. God willing, things will improve.”
There is a momentary silence. Father continues, his voice calm and tinged with authority, “Now get you going, child. Rasool has called to say he is coming to get you tonight. Pack your stuff and get ready.”
THE DRIFTING PUFF of clouds has now left the darkening night sky. Father, Big Brother, and Rasool Agha are in the parlor. Monir is squatting on the floor of the living room across the hall folding her clothes and putting them in the sack.
“What’re you doing, Monir?” I ask, as I gently touch her tear-soaked face. “You’re thinking of going back?” Her eyes are hollow and expressionless.
“Are you going back?” I ask again. “Is that why you’re packing?”
With the tip of an index finger she wipes a tear off the corner of an eye. “I’ve made up my mind,” she says drily. She then turns toward the wall, leaning her head against it as she tucks her knees under her. She places her hands protectively to the sides of her head.
“Look,” she says in a muffled voice. “When he beats me, if I fall to the floor against the wall with my hands on my head like this, it won’t hurt as much.”
ZOHREH HAKIMI is a short story writer and novelist. Her short story in this volume was first published in the Iranian feminist journal Zanan.
1A female plaintiff cannot initiate the divorce process on her own without the explicit consent of a male blood relative, unless the right to file for divorce is indicated in the marriage contract.
Grammar
Sofia Mahmudi
THE FUTURE IS NOT easily manipulated. It is capricious, and unwilling to conform to forecasts and predictions. It is prone to upset even the best-laid plans and reasonable aspirations. It can even alter the course of life and derail projects developed over a lifetime.
The concept that the auxiliary verb “will” in conjugating a verb in the future tense dictates the sequence of events implied by the main verb is a mere illusion. My own circumstance this morning is a case in point: I will go to school; I will take the grammar test; I will return home.
But the future may have other plans for us regardless of our will. Until this morning I was a person, a male adolescent named Asghar. Grammatically, I was a concrete noun because I had material existence detectable by the senses; I could be seen, heard, touched, smelled, and even tasted.
I was a singular noun, a boy, because I represented a single specimen of my species. I was identified by a proper noun, Asghar, which distinguished me from other adolescents within the periphery of my acquaintance.
What I have said so far has been in the past tense, when I was waiting anxiously to go to school, take the grammar test, and get it over with. But the future had different plans for me: a traffic accident, as I was crossing a busy street on the way to school, necessitated my transfer to the hospital and to the graveyard shortly thereafter.
Now I have grammatical designations different from the ones I had before the accident. I am now an abstract noun in the minds of those who knew me, because I am not a material being any more, but a spirit, an abstraction. I am no longer referred to as a singular noun, a boy. I am now among the dead, a collective noun. I have also lost my status as a proper noun, Asghar. I have now become a common noun modified by an adjective, “poor kid,” a nomenclature referring to the countless unfortunate children in this world.
I have concluded that the definition of the “future tense” in grammar is not quite valid. Supposedly, it indicates an action taking place in the future:
“I will go to school for the grammar test.”
“My father will go to the store for cigarettes.”
Instead, I ended up in the hereafter world and my father in prison because, “The coroner’s report, based on eyewitness testimony and the outcome of the autopsy, has determined strangulation as the cause of death of the party injured in the accident, the perpetrator being the father of the said injured party, who proceeded with the crime as the victim was being transported to the hospital, allegedly motivated by the prospect of financial gain as part of the coverage provided by the insurance policy held by the driver of the vehicle involved in the accident.”
Those simple sentences in straightforward active voice, denoting my intention to go to school and my father’s plan to go to the store, through the failure of the future tense to perform its function, were transformed into a murky complex sentence made dimmer by a string of verbs in passive voice.
SOFIA MAHMUDI is the author of two short story collections, The Woman and Her Child with a
Sparrow and a Song and Jumbled Words Puzzle, which was a result of her work at a center for runaway girls in Tehran. She studied sociology and Russian, has translated several works from Russian and English into Persian, and works as a teacher and librarian.
Dogs and Humans
Fereshteh Molavi
IT WAS A SOUND that tore me out of the nightmare—a new sound, a small sound. The light behind the frosted windowpane has grown faint. Heavy, wounded eyelids! The sound of the abandoned puppy. How soon she deserted him! Two or three times, at dawn and at dusk, I have seen the female dog. During the day, she is cautious and keeps her distance—not a look, not a sound. Still, she is uneasy. She prowls around the ruins, disappears behind a tree, takes shelter behind a wall. A helpless sound. Was it Youssef calling me from the bottom of the well? The hand that has reached out in vain drops down. The puppy, unaware of the female dog’s anxieties, wanders along the side of the alley. Will he stay?
Behind the door to his room, I hesitate. I rest my hands on the doorframe. Hollow legs. From behind the window of that room, or from behind the door to this room? From wherever it came, it was a sound that was beckoning me. Without a response, the mouth remains closed. The front door opens. “Dad, don’t forget your promise,” Youssef calls out.
“No, I’ll buy you a toy today. Bye!”
Just this. The front door closes. So, he has been awake and has not called for me. Why did I fall asleep? A carefree female dog? I don’t think I heard a shot being fired! I swing the door open. The morning’s smiling mask. The faint light has obscured the moonlit face. Old voices echo: “Pay attention, you shouldn’t be checked in chess game so quickly and so often!”
“But I still haven’t been checkmated.”
“You haven’t? When you’re checked, you will be checkmated, too.”
The constant check. The sword overhead shakes only slightly—not to fall, but so that it won’t be forgotten. The smooth forehead is coated with sweat.
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