“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I ask.
A small dove is perched on the window’s edge.
“Is it hurting again?” I ask.
The dove doesn’t move.
“Are you feeling hot?”
The dove flies away. He frowns.
“Do you want me to open the window?” I ask.
He turns away and irritably says, “You ask so many questions, Mom!”
I go to the kitchen. I prepare his breakfast. I set the tray next to his bed.
“How long do I have to stay like this?” he asks.
“Until you get better.”
“What if I don’t get better? What then?”
I don’t answer him.
“Huh?” he asks again.
The tedious, repetitive smiling mask. I say, “If Grandmother was here, she would say bite your tongue and don’t be a naysayer! She’s supposed to come and stay with you today.”
I wipe the sweat off his forehead with a tissue.
“So, you’re going to work today?” he asks. “Can you not go?”
“My leave is over. But if it becomes necessary, I’ll take more days off.”
He hands me the half-empty tea glass. “You mean if I don’t get well.”
I open the window and gently say, “Be patient!”
“Until when?” he snaps back.
“Until the doctors figure out why your leg hurts.”
He clenches his fists. “I will not go to the hospital or to the lab again.”
“So you don’t want to get up and walk again?”
“My leg hurts really bad when I put my foot down on the floor. You’re not the one in pain . . .”
I’m not the one in pain? Grandmother arrives. The stairs have made her breathless. She rubs the palms of her hands on her aching knees. I pour some tea for her.
“I’ve come so that you can go to work,” she says. “Just tell me what medication he has to take and when.”
I put on my coverall. “For now he doesn’t have to take anything. His fever broke. If it starts again, he should take a sedative. He knows which one it is. And for lunch . . .”
“I know! Get going!”
I take my handbag. I kiss Youssef’s damp hair. “Call me if there’s anything.”
His gaze is fixed on the dove perched on the tree outside the window.
“Did you hear what I said?” I ask quietly.
He turns and murmurs, “Don’t make it fly away again.”
I tiptoe out of the room. I open the front door. Grandmother calls me.
“When did he come back?” she asks.
Puzzled, I reply, “Who?”
Youssef says out loud, “Grandmother, she forgot her headscarf again, didn’t she?”
So the dove has flown off again. I yank at the corner of the black headscarf hanging on the clothes rack.
The road is long and the sky cloudy, but along the edge of the ruins a ribbon of green has sprouted. I see neither the female dog, nor her puppy. Young boys are lying in ambush behind the brickworks—with empty hands, without rocks and sticks and slingshots. Their stare follows me all the way to the corner of the alley. Cats and crows are prowling around the heap of garbage bags—our city, our home. Which slogan has made dogs the bane of the world? But there was no sound of a shot being fired last night! Not always, once in a while, at night the sound of dogs barking engulfs the alley. The night shatters. Finally, a hand dials the telephone number and at dawn the sound of the city services’ car breaks the silence. The wheels come to a stop. The click of a trigger and the sound of a shot . . . then . . . a howl and a moan. So when will all of this end? You release your breath out of your chest. You open your eyes. You see the faint sign of dawn through the hazy windowpane. You close your eyes again. You bury your face in the pillow and push away the blurred image of the puppy who is ignorant of the decree of execution. Can you not hear a new sound?
Old voices echo: “So there’s always a puppy left behind.”
“Not to live, but so that the sacred providence is achieved.”
“Perhaps this is a manifestation of the Satyagraha philosophy.”
“Is the female dog rejecting fate when it breeds?”
“When Adam was eating the forbidden fruit, he was giving in to fate.”
“Sin is secondary. What is primary is the ordained punishment, which is concealed by the superfluities of what is secondary. The door to the hell in which Raskolnikov was burning will not open with the death of the old woman.”
“Then perhaps sometimes sin only shows us the way to purgatory . . .”
“Was there moonlight on the night the woman left home and headed for the ruins or the temple?”
“That night is all I remember from Pearl Buck’s The Mother. Now I can’t remember if the woman considered doing this to be a sin or not.”
“. . . and, for instance, if that old woman had the same fate as Job, wouldn’t she have considered Raskolnikov to be her savior?”
“But if Raskolnikov commits a great sin, and hoping for salvation prefers certain anguish to the torment of uncertainty, then the Chinese mother, confused by the unwarranted punishment, resorts to sin.”
“When retribution is the decisive justification, being guilty is equal to being innocent. K. must be put on trial; and the principle outcome of a trial is punishment. That’s all.”
“So in the beginning there was just punishment and . . . sin came later when . . .”
Illusions are muddled, the road is long and the day gloomy . . . when my Youssef can still find joy in seeing a small fearful dove, then why can’t I hear the sounds of spring?
At the bus stop, I sit on the bench next to a bulky woman wearing a black chador. I pull my black headscarf further down on my forehead. A heavy drop falls on it. I look up. The crow sitting on the awning, which has a hole in it, doesn’t budge. I look down. I take a crumpled tissue out of my black coverall’s pocket. The woman in a black chador watches me with her mouth open. I turn away. Now and then, Grandmother says, “None of God’s actions are without wisdom, even his wrath . . .”
Old voices echo:
“It is thus that there’s wisdom in items and objects, as well . . . for instance, in Pahlavi brief shorts . . .”
“But why are they called ‘Pahlavi’?”
“There must be a wisdom to this, too. It seems that other than loose pants, the Qajars didn’t have any other clothing to cover their privates . . .”
“. . . the poor woman is flustered and stammering. Well, when from the crack of dawn, before she even opens her eyes, in addition to cooking and cleaning and sewing and the kids’ homework, she also has to worry about shopping and the race for coupons and the length and width of all sorts of lines, she can’t be carefree.”
“The woman next door brings her news of the government distributing cooking oil. She knows that if she doesn’t hurry she’ll be cheated out of her share. And as she grabs her toddler and rushes out to go to the cooperative, she forgets to cover her hair.”
“Well, the street was empty and the few passersby didn’t have the energy or the patience to order others to abide by the law, and one can’t expect anything from a toddler who has just started to talk.”
“Near the bazaar, when she catches sight of the patrol car, and even then thanks to people’s signs and gestures, she suddenly realizes that . . .”
“Her shopping bag was plastic, not cloth.”
“She sees the child’s Pahlavi shorts at the bottom of the bag . . .”
“No way! She pulls it off of the kid.”
“She can’t think of anything to do other than to pull the shorts over her head.”
“Of course . . . and when she escapes danger by a hair and a tragic story becomes a hilarious one, it sets her thinking about the benefits of the shorts.”
“Now if the shorts weren’t Pahlavi shorts and instead had legs, wouldn’t the patrols have grabbed her?”
“I agree that an insignificant p
air of Pahlavi shorts can ward off disaster, but what is the wisdom behind the can of fuel and the box of matches that in the middle of the street burn both the veil and the veiled?”
“It’s obvious. They not only set a desperate woman free, but they help the snitches and stoolies get their hands on a scrumptious meal.”
“May God save us from this sharp tongue that even when held captive won’t stop stinging.”
The bulky woman gets up and shakes her black chador. The bus approaches. The crow hasn’t moved from its place. A cat, having received his morning’s ration from the nearby butcher’s shop, saunters over and leaps up onto the bench. I stand up. The bus stops—men enter from the front door, women from the middle door. The woman holds onto the bar and moves to the left. There isn’t room to move in the women’s section. I go to the right. The seats are all taken, but not a single man is standing. A few young girls wearing full head covers and a woman carrying a child climb on board behind me. The bus sets off. The crow screams and leaps down next to the cat lazing on the bench—peaceful coexistence. Wasn’t the decree banning dogs from life introduced to parliament by cats and crows? The girls are holding the edge of their head covers as shields and they’re whispering and giggling. The woman holding a child, who is also carrying a heavy duffle bag, staggers with every jolt of the bus and grumbles in response to the child’s nagging. At the next stop, a man gets up from an aisle seat. Overjoyed, the woman flops down into it. The man sitting next to her gives her a sideways glance and pulls himself away. One of the girls who is clutching a binder and a few books mumbles, “The poor thing, his boundaries have been violated!” Her bangs are jet black and she has subtly lined her large eyes with kohl. The girl next to her, who has blond bangs and light eyes, swallows her laughter and says, “Then he should go back to where he came from.” A third girl says, “As a matter of fact, they’ve designed the buses this way to cut back on the cost of women traveling.” The bus stops. In the men’s section, a man gets up from an aisle seat on the driver’s side and gets off. The girl with the black bangs looks around, sits down, and puts her binder and books on her lap. The man next to her is a young Afghan. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the crowded street. Now there isn’t room to move in the men’s section either. I look the other way. Among the women I see the bulky woman in a black chador. She is seated. I reach for the window to open it, but it’s so filthy that I don’t have the stomach to touch it. I pull back my hand. How many more stops until we reach the circle? The woman holding a child gets off. A young man takes her seat. There is fighting and commotion at the front of the bus. The driver stands up and shouts, “Come on, move to the back! I can’t drive like this . . .” The standing passengers reluctantly move back. The driver catches sight of the girl with black bangs. He raises his voice even louder. “Get up! Are you dense, sitting wherever you feel like it? I’ll be suspended for ten days . . .” I collect myself even more to make some room for the girl with black bangs. Is Joseph’s Well more confined than a female dog’s grave? But it seems there was no sound of shots being fired last night! I peek around among the coveralls and headscarves. I press the bell. The girls are neither talking nor laughing. At the bus stop, I struggle to make my way through the crowd and hop off.
At the edge of the circle, I remember the time. The people waiting for taxis are restless. Some uselessly run after those that drive by slowly, others feign ignorance and move a few steps ahead of the person who had arrived there before them. A few, frustrated by their wrong assumptions about which taxi will stop, retreat a few steps, others will not even refrain from jabbing and kicking . . . I pull my sleeve back as far as is permissible to reveal the watch strapped tightly around my wrist. My attendance card will be marked in red now. Grandmother will be angry if she finds out I’m late. She believes my tardiness will make the halal morsel I earn to become haram. When Youssef looks at her quizzically, she holds her tongue as long as she can and when her little boy’s curiosity piques, she gravely explains, “You see, my son, all that is wrong in the world is because of this mixing up of halal and haram . . .” A passerby treads on my foot.
Halal and haram aside, Grandmother loves to talk. Was I wrong to tell her Youssef had had enough of her chattiness? But the dove shouldn’t stay silent when . . .
A dilapidated taxi pulls up in front of me. A few people climb out. A male passenger remains in the backseat. I open the front passenger door and climb in next to the driver. I eye him furtively. He doesn’t have a beard. I mumble, “Straight ahead.” He doesn’t ask how far. I sigh with relief. Perhaps I will reach my destination before the taxi becomes too crowded. It makes no difference whether the passenger in the back is fat or thin. Regardless, men usually sit sprawled out. And if you end up sitting in the middle . . . God forbid if the passenger next to you decides to pour out all that he has kept bottled up inside! The taxi stops. A stout man carrying a briefcase gets in. The taxi drives off. Right before the intersection, the driver slams on the brakes. Ignoring his curses, the pedestrian who has jumped in the middle of the street walks away. My gaze falls on the corner of the side mirror and the wide grin on the face of the stout man with the briefcase. I look down. There is a postcard with a picture of cats on it taped to the dashboard. The driver brakes. Two men run toward the taxi. The driver turns to me, casts his eyes down and says, “Lady, I’m sorry, but you need to go sit in the back.” I don’t move from my place. The two men reach the taxi. More quietly, the driver says, “Just yesterday, I was fined . . .” I open my handbag, put my fare in his hand, and climb out of the car.
Slowly and quietly, I walk past the reading room. The librarian is napping at the circulation desk—the price of spending the night taking on passengers to earn a little extra driving them around. I don’t feel like exchanging pleasantries. With my head down, I walk past the stack room. I open the door to my office. My colleague and office-mate, holding the telephone receiver, half rises from her chair. She can’t bring herself to wrap up her conversation. “A daily report of the son-in-law’s actions to the mother-in-law.” This is what the librarian at the circulation desk repeats every day at around noon, when she is no longer sleepy and stops by the office behind the stack room. I run my fingertip on the corner of the desk to check for dust. My colleague and office-mate smirks and shrugs. The tissue box is empty. I close the desk drawer and wipe my finger on the corner of my headscarf. I go through the books piled up on my desk. My colleague and office-mate covers the receiver’s mouthpiece and whispers, “You came back before the end of your leave?” I nod and smile—the usual smiling mask of the morning. The janitor walks in with a dust cloth. She is still wearing black . . . but these days black is no longer a sign of being in mourning. I open the small window behind me and turn my chair around so that I face the shaded lawn. The janitor asks about my Youssef. What can I say about her Ismael? My colleague and office-mate hangs up the telephone. When she’s done with her pleasantries with me, she tells the janitor, “You didn’t show up yesterday. There’s dust everywhere!” In a choked up voice the janitor replies, “I went to the cemetery.” My colleague and office-mate picks up a book and walks out. I doubt my memory. I ask, “Did they turn him over to you?” The deformed fingers rub the dust cloth aggressively over the desk. “You know what his father is like,” she says. “Even if they turned Ismael over and he buried him, he wouldn’t allow me . . .” The tired hand stops moving. I point to the stool in front of the cabinet. She sits down and leans her head against the edge of the cabinet. I turn away. Doesn’t the shade fall on this corner of the lawn? My colleague and office-mate returns. I hear the squeaking of her chair. She turns on her transistor radio. She can’t forgo listening to the Home and Family program. Of the economics courses she took during her undergraduate studies, she claims to only remember Charles Fourier’s theory of work: jobs should be assigned based on the worker’s interests. A crow is wandering around in the middle of the lawn. I turn my chair. The janitor solemnly gets up and resumes her work. The ho
st of the radio program is interviewing the mother of a martyr. My colleague and office-mate turns up the volume. “Even if I had ten sons, I would willingly and with a clear conscience send them all to the front . . . we are content with the saints’ and prophets’ approval . . . we yearn for heaven . . .” The telephone rings. The deformed fingers fold. My colleague and office-mate turns down the volume on the radio. I pull a large book in front of me and flip through it. Among the stories about the prophets, I find the story of Ibrahim and his Ismael. They give Ismael to Ibrahim, then demand his sacrifice and again forgive him to Ibrahim! I close the book that makes no mention of Hajar. My colleague and office-mate hangs up the telephone, and carrying a book, heads for the stack room. I swing my chair around. The tranquil crow finds it impossible to tear itself away from the lawn. “When was I ever a mother to my Ismael!” the janitor says. “After he was born, my husband threw me out of the house empty-handed . . . All these years, I tolerated being apart from my Ismael, hoping that once he finished his military service he would come to me . . .” The tired hand drops down. The deformed fingers claw at the side of the coverall. “And yesterday?” I ask. She looks up. A faint smile appears on the corner of her mouth. “I visit strangers’ graves. It makes no difference, does it?” I stand up. I take my handbag and head home.
AT SUNSET, the cloud that made the day hazy turns into rain. Is there no end to Ya’qub’s tears? Youssef’s chapped lips move.
“The dove will definitely get wet.”
I close the window and say, “It will find shelter . . . perhaps . . . shall I close the curtain?”
He restlessly shakes his head. I drop my hand.
“What was happening outside?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He looks at me skeptically. “Is that why you came back so early?”
I put the pitcher of water next to him. “I shouldn’t have gone.”
He raises his head from the pillow. “You said your leave had ended.”
I don’t look at him. “I won’t go anywhere again until you’ve recovered.”
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