‘You have to go now,’ Dina tells her mother. ‘I’m running way behind.’
‘Ach! You never wanted to listen,’ she says and moves towards the door, just as Yael knocks loudly and barges in.
‘Who were you talking to?’
‘It was just the end of the news broadcast.’
‘Dina, are you nuts? You don’t have time to listen to the radio now. Get on with it. You’re already running over half an hour behind.’
Dina follows Yael back out into the corridor and as she reaches the waiting room she sees her mother slip into the bathroom. Evgeni is sitting in his usual seat in one corner, a ring of sweat around the neck of his T-shirt. He is staring at the cover of a magazine Sousanne has propped up on her belly. She sits across from him, flipping through the pages. Suddenly, as if sensing Evgeni’s gaze, Sousanne looks up at him, her fingers reaching for the gold cross around her neck. Dina stands behind the coat rack in the corridor leading to her room, trying to pluck up the courage to start seeing patients. She watches Evgeni lean forward in his chair.
‘I’m sorry about dog,’ he says to Sousanne.
‘It’s fine. There’s really no need to keep apologising. It’s not your fault. Someone must have let him in by accident.’
‘You like flowers? I bring flowers,’ he says, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. He pulls a handful of toffees out of his pocket and hands them to Sousanne’s girls. ‘You live Ha’tzalbanim Street, no? I see you sometimes – I work there.’
The girls wait for their mother to nod before accepting the sweets.
‘Take, take. I bring more to house.’
Dina notices Yael has taken down the painting above the play area. It’s left a mark on the wall which will need covering over. She thinks how over the years Evgeni must have spent so many hours sitting there looking at that picture of the sea, the boats and the flock of gulls circling overhead. It’s probably what helped him pass the time while he waited – that and the air-conditioning unit.
Evgeni checks his watch, fidgets in his pocket and pulls out another toffee, offering it to Sousanne.
‘No, thank you,’ she says, a faint smile on her face.
He unwraps the sweet and pops it in his mouth. ‘I am streetsweeper.’
Sousanne nods, about to say something, but Evgeni keeps talking excitedly.
‘My streets cleanest in Haifa,’ he tells her proudly. ‘I sweep carefully.’
Evgeni usually leaves his green bin parked just outside the entrance, next to the dog. He keeps a plastic bag permanently tied to the handle. Dina has often wondered what treasures he might have in there; the spoils of his daily, private war. What does he think about all day as he clears away the rubbish of people who stare down at him from their balconies?
‘I clean country,’ he tells Sousanne, flashing his gold teeth as he grins. He is pleased to have a captive audience. ‘People here too much mess. Maybe doctor help me get visa to Australia. Beautiful country. Good country.’
Dina looks over at Yael who is spinning from left to right on her chair, her leopard print G-string prowling above her trousers.
‘Carmel Clinic, shalom.’ Dina hears Yael fending off another caller. ‘No, we’re full up this morning.’ The person on the other end starts arguing with her. ‘Sorry, we have no more appointments left. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow; there’s nothing I can do. Would you like me to place you on a cancellation list?’
Seated behind the reception desk every day for the past eight years, Yael watches the patients in the waiting room looking to Dina for answers; as if doctors really have any true remedies for soul ache, she thinks. Honestly, do they really believe Dina has a direct line to God? ‘Hey there, God! Shalom. Salaam. You know what; let’s do a deal? You fix Sousanne’s crappy marriage, Tahirih’s broken heart, Evgeni’s wife’s dementia and Yalla, life will be good!’ Oh, come on. They all place too much fucking hope in Dina. Anyway, Yael thinks, a doctor’s job description is rather like being purgatory’s quack; the boatman who ferries people across to the other side, perched in a no-man’s land, somewhere between the living and the dead. On the whole, she thinks, patients are idiots. They have no idea that most of the time a doctor is only a bystander and can do little more than simply hold a patient’s hand on the inevitable journey towards the end.
Dina, who has remained motionless behind the coat rack, finally gets up the nerve to step forward into the waiting room. Tahirih notices her and smiles, hands folded in her lap.
‘Come in, Tahirih.’
Evgeni jumps up from his chair as soon as he spots Dina.
‘I don’t mind if you take this man in before me, Doctor. He seems to be in a hurry.’
‘Thank you, Tahirih, but it’s your turn. Let’s get started, shall we?’ She herds Tahirih down the corridor towards the consultation room, turning her back on Evgeni before he can accost her.
Tahirih is a woman who keeps to herself. Over the years, Dina has managed to gain her trust, sometimes peeling back her layer of polite friendliness to reveal bleak memories suffused with the ache of growing up as a Baha’i woman in Iran. Tahirih, no stranger to death, uses her faith to help embroider light onto the darkness she holds.
When Tahirih was smuggled out of Iran in 1979, her little girl was six, the same age as Shlomi is now. She had to leave Bahiya behind and to this day doesn’t know what became of her. She often has nightmares about her daughter dying alone and afraid, or else growing up as someone else’s child, sitting in other people’s chairs, eating their food, mouthing their prayers. Neither option comforts Tahirih much.
The morning they called Tahirih to the morgue in Tehran, she asked the caretaker if she might wash Fouad’s body. Her husband had always been such a clean and elegant man and she could not stand to see him lying on a steel table, covered in blood and excrement. The caretaker brought her a bucket of water and an old rag. This was the body that belonged to her all those years, the body from which she had once been so shy.
Tahirih was seventeen when she first met Fouad. Her mother called her away from piano practice to introduce her to some visitors. She was annoyed at the interruption. When she walked into the living room, she saw a young man with wavy dark hair seated beside his mother. They were all sipping cherry juice, a delicacy served only on special occasions. It was a hot day and Tahirih was feeling a little faint as she stood before everyone.
‘Come sit with us,’ her mother said. ‘I want you to meet Mrs Faizi and her son, Fouad. They are here visiting from Tehran for a short while.’ She sat down on the edge of an armchair.
‘Would you care for some fresh dates or figs?’ her mother asked, passing a tray of delicacies across to Mrs Faizi. Fouad stared at Tahirih. She looked away. Two red roses stood in a vase on the coffee table. Her mother had cut some of her prize flowers from the garden, a signal that these visitors were very important. Tahirih had certainly heard of Mrs Faizi before. Her husband was a member of the Baha’i Spiritual Assembly in Tehran, but Tahirih had never known they had a son.
‘Fouad is an engineer,’ her mother said. ‘He is visiting his parents for a few days and they have kindly come to see us today.’
Tahirih nodded, thinking only about her piano exam the following week. Her mother handed her a plate of almonds to offer the guests. She politely placed it on the table in front of Fouad. Their eyes met briefly again and this time he smiled. His moustache was streaked with grey, which made him look quite handsome.
‘I heard you playing before,’ he said. ‘“Für Elise” is one of my favourite pieces.’
Tahirih picked up her glass and brought it to her mouth before realising it was empty.
‘Would you play some more for me?’ he asked.
‘Oh, my …’ were the only words she could push past her lips before her mother interrupted.
‘Of course she will.’
Tahirih could see her mother was eager to please this man.
‘It would be an honour, wouldn’
t it, Tahirih?’ She urged her daughter to get up, holding her hand out in the direction of the parlour.
Tahirih stood and turned to go; at the same time Fouad rose from the sofa. She felt him following her as she walked slowly into the other room. He closed the curtain behind them and stood leaning against the wall. The music rose up, breaking the awkward silence. Minute after minute passed as her fingers stroked the keys, the tune a muted drone in the background compared to her pounding heart. As she finished playing the last bars, the notes sank away into silence and Fouad sighed.
He walked over to where Tahirih was seated and stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She felt him kiss the back of her neck, his warm breath on her skin.
‘You are lovely,’ he whispered.
They sent Tahirih a bill for the bullets the firing squad used to execute her husband at Tehran’s Evin Prison.
They came in the middle of the night and dragged him out of bed. It was the last time she would see him alive. A sliver of moonlight shone between the slats of the shutters onto his back. She remembers thinking she should have mended the fraying rip in his pyjama shirt.
She hid the account for the bullets in the hem of her dress when she was smuggled out of Tehran after Fouad was killed. She still keeps it in a special box in the top drawer of her bedside table, opening it from time to time, usually just before she goes to bed. She runs her fingers over the faded print. She has to touch it to prove it is real. Ten bullets fired into his chest. The bill was dated 21/4/1979 and sent by the Iranian Ministry of Finance, account payable in thirty days. She also received weekly bills for his ‘food and accommodation’.
Tahirih never thought then she would end up in Haifa. Here people are kind to her. The Arab girl at the kiosk blesses her in Hebrew every day. The tiny Jewish lady next door greets her in Arabic every morning as she beats a rug over the balcony rail.
‘Ah’lan!’ she shouts, ‘Everything will be fine, God willing.’ Tfoo, tfoo, tfoo, she spits.
She has a job in archives at the Baha’i World Centre. Baha’is visit from many countries to work as volunteers, and each one has a tale to tell. She is treated well, her every need looked after. She repays the generosity by working hard. For Tahirih, work is worship.
A lady in a fur coat steps slowly off the bus every morning, carrying a mop in her hand. Winter or summer she smiles and walks on. This land of contra dictions is Tahirih’s home now. Her friend Katya has thrown away her wedding ring. She told her she stood completely naked in front of the mirror one morning and felt part of her had been born, while another part had died. After throwing away the golden band that been a part of her body for twenty-five years, she felt free. Tahirih often fiddles with the invisible thread tied to her own ring, forever joined to Fouad. But somehow the more she tugs, the further the thread unravels. Tahirih will always remain married to a dead man.
The next time the guards arrived, Fouad had already been in prison a month. It was night. They knocked loudly, then kicked the door in just as Tahirih was about to get up and answer. She was home with little Bahiya, who was fast asleep in the bedroom. She remembers the day she was born; tiny fingers curled around her mother’s thumb, head tossing as she rooted around for the nipple. Tahirih thought they were all safe then.
The tall one was chewing sunflower seeds. He smiled at Tahirih and ran his fingers through his black, greasy hair. One of his front teeth was missing and through the gap he spat the cracked shells onto the Persian rug in the living room. He motioned with his right hand to the guard who accompanied him. The young soldier left the room and went outside.
The ugly one stayed. He walked his huge hand over the spines of the books on the bookshelf, like a concert pianist practising his scales.
‘It seems you are very clever,’ he laughed, pulling Bahiya’s favourite book down from the shelf. Little Red Riding Hood. ‘Is this one of your filthy Baha’i stories?’ he asked as he stroked the picture of the little girl on the cover.
Slowly, he tore each page, ripping Little Red Riding Hood to pieces, and threw her severed paper head onto the floor. He ran his fingers along the row of books again and, pulling one out, asked her to read him the title.
‘Don’t dare lie, you prostitute,’ he said, ‘or I will kill you here and now.’
His words cut her like glass. ‘God is my witness I would never lie to you.’
‘Shut up!’ He shoved her to the ground. ‘Don’t mention the name of God with your foul mouth.’
Lowering his black army boot onto her hair, he smiled at her, as though someone had flicked a switch in his brain. He turned away, his attention wandering back to the bookshelves. He pointed to the Koran.
‘Why is this on your shelf?’
‘It is a Holy book,’ she began, ‘the Baha’is honour its wisdom and …’
‘Be quiet!’ He grabbed a copy of the Kitab-i-Aqdas, the Baha’is’ holiest book, and threw it onto the floor. Photos spilled out from its pages.
Tahirih stared at the sunflower seeds strewn on the rug as he continued to look through her books. That particular evening, one of Fouad’s textbooks was to become victim to the guard’s scrutiny. He pointed to a paragraph and sat down on the couch, patting the cushions and motioning for Tahirih to get up. She sat next to him and started to read out loud, just as if it were Bahiya seated by her side and they were reading a bedtime story. ‘The phenomenon called migratory crystallisation consists in the growth of large crystals in a group, at the expense of small ones. The response of the system to invasion by ice molecules determines the immediate and long-term effects of freezing.’
‘It is such a warm and pleasant night,’ he said.
She tried to slow her breathing. He slowly tore out the page she had been reading and scrunched it up into a ball. He handed it to her and said:
‘Eat it.’
She didn’t move.
‘Go on. Eat some ice to cool you down.’
She took the paper from his outstretched hand. She was trembling so much she accidentally dropped it on the floor.
‘Pick it up.’
She bent down and he suddenly grabbed her wrist and forced her down onto her knees. His right hand held the back of her head firmly by the roots of her hair. He rose above her, unzipped the trousers of his dirty uniform and forced himself into her mouth, thrusting as she gagged and choked. When he finished he threw her back onto the floor and she landed on top of a photo of Bahá’u’lláh. She vomited bile and semen onto his Holy face.
She looked up for a moment towards Bahiya’s room and thought she saw a tiny shadow disappear back into the darkness of the hallway. The books on the shelf started to whirl around her head, the guard’s laughter echoing in her ears.
Tahirih sits expectantly in the armchair beside the desk. Dina asks her to lift her blouse and places a stethoscope on her skin.
‘Breathe in.’
Sometimes when Dina is examining a patient’s chest, she drifts away. The air rushing in and out of healthy lungs sounds like waves washing up onto shore and receding. But today the soggy rattle of Tahirih’s lungs won’t let Dina’s mind wander very far. She removes her stethoscope and scribbles out a form for a chest X-ray.
‘Always better to play it safe,’ she says, as Tahirih tucks in her blouse. She hands her the referral.
‘Bless you, Doctor, for squeezing me in.’ Tahirih reaches out, touching Dina’s hand lightly. ‘I would be grateful if you would give me something for this cough meanwhile, just to help me sleep a little at night.’
Dina pulls her hand away and scratches her scalp. She tries to cover up her embarrassment by turning to her prescription pad and scribbling out a script for Tahirih. The infernal itch is back – she knows what this means and what she will be doing this evening after dinner. She has to stop herself from reaching up to scratch again; she can almost feel one of the creatures scurrying around in there. Oh, the joys of motherhood. Every month she douses the bastards and every month they set up shop in her
hair again.
These are the days of her usefulness. The hair strands she pulls out of Shlomi’s comb sometimes hold a pearly egg, clinging to the shaft. He likes to examine them, holding them carefully between index finger and thumb. Dina has tried anointing her son’s scalp with a variety of potions they sell at the local pharmacy: Tchicki Tchacki (Quick Smart), Zeh-u-Zeh (That’s That), Sof-Sof (Finally). She usually ends up resorting to vinegar, which Shlomi hates. Some days the poor kid goes to school smelling like salad dressing.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Tahirih says, folding the papers.
Most patients nowadays ask Dina endless questions, bringing in some crap they’ve read in the health pages of a newspaper or glossy magazine. She just doesn’t get it. Why are they so willing to swallow hocus-pocus herbs from some witchdoctor without giving it a second thought, yet demand she explain all the side effects and possible risks of anything and everything she prescribes? A simple ‘thank you, Doctor’ once in a while, like Tahirih’s, comes as such a relief. She is so trusting. Many other patients have lost their faith in the profession, so that life in this room usually boils down to plumbing and pills. If Dina is honest with herself, she is growing tired of listening. She is becoming the doctor she never wanted to be – feels bloated with stories. They spill out from her onto the pavement as she walks down the street, and she seems to be losing pieces of herself along the way.
She is beginning to forget herself lately as well. Maybe it’s the pregnancy. More often than not, while a patient is in the midst of unfolding his life to her, she doodles on prescription pads, or prepares shopping lists, her mind edging slowly towards the door and out, waiting for the opportunity to go to the bathroom while a patient undresses. She just needs to leave the room to escape from those voices that constantly beg, help me, mend me.
She is supposed to dispense compassion and humanity along with the pills; be a healer, a listener, a therapist, a fixer, a priest, a mother, a confidante, a bloody miracle worker for all of them. The truth is, she’s worn out. She has been there for all their important milestones, stood beside freshly dug graves as the dead are buried, listening to the words of the ‘Kaddish’, over and over again. She has walked alone in cemeteries and wept for those she could not save, or for those she could have saved, should have saved, but didn’t. But the truth is she is secretly weeping for herself; for her own mortality. She is dying, little by little.
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