“Breakfast!” It was the young guard.
The tray that had been laid out for them overnight had been taken. How could she have slept so deeply that she had not heard anyone come in? Mu’mina scrambled to grab a wrap off the floor. She hastily covered her head and body, then nodded to Tansholpan, who was now standing with her robe on.
Tansholpan called out, “Come!” She wanted to cross the room to sit by Mu’mina when the guard entered, but the door was opening before she knew it. She could smell the goat stew before it was fully open. She glanced at the girl to see if the strong smell would make her sick, but Mu’mina was looking out the balcony window, ignoring him. She had to admit that she liked this girl’s fire. Not giving him an inch.
The young guard carried a small tray with two bowls of steaming stew on them, keeping his eyes on it as if he were someone who couldn’t balance the thing. Absurd. Who hadn’t grown up, boy or girl, carrying trays to guests? What is he up to? The guard put the tray down hard in-between them, turning it so that one bowl faced Mu’mina, the other her. It clattered on the stand. Some of the stew splashed out of the bowls onto the spoons and one of the glasses beside them. Angry with himself, he went back out and took a pitcher from someone she couldn’t see. He returned to place it on the table, then left, shutting the door behind him.
She looked down at the stew then to Mu’mina. “How are you taking the smell of that?”
“I should have some bread first.” The girl tucked her legs under the edge of the tray, pulled the cloth underneath it over her lap, then tore off a small piece of bread, eating it slowly.
Tansholpan was relieved she was speaking to her this morning. Her voice sounded even. Maybe she’d thought it through. Maybe she understood. She asked, “Are you feeling sick?”
“No, just taking care I don’t.” Mu’mina chewed another piece of bread, bigger this time, then a sip of water to wash it down. “I’m hungry.” She examined the two bowls and said, “I want that fatty layer in your bowl.”
Tansholpan wondered how she would stomach it but held her tongue. She took the bowl on her side of the tray and switched it with Mu’mina’s, saying, “Eat it with health.”
Mu’mina was ravenous. She took a large chunk of bread and soaked it in the thick sheen of hot fat on top of the stew, then put the entire thing in her mouth. Her cheek ballooned as she chewed and swallowed. Tansholpan dipped a small piece of bread into the broth. It was strongly spiced with cinnamon and clove. She laughed and said, “This feels like a taste of what waits for me in the next world!”
Mu’mina tore off a piece of meat and chewed, then asked, “Will they execute me if I’m pregnant?”
“They wait until the baby is weaned, but that won’t happen.” Tansholpan didn’t know how to assure her. God had answered all her prayers. But she knew saying so would only anger this girl.
Tansholpan watched the girl wipe her bowl clean then got up to step out into the open air on the balcony and left the table. Mu’mina called out, “May I finish yours?”
She wanted to stop her, but didn’t dare, answering, “Of course!”
Somewhere, not far away, even this early in the morning, someone was playing music. A boy’s voice lifted out over the breeze. From the balcony, she could just see the top of the green dome of al-Mansur’s Mosque with the statue of a mounted horseman at its tip over the roofs the grand houses on the other side of the Tigris. The river was already filled with skiffs and round-reed boats making deliveries. The cries of the boatmen mixed with noise from the lines of people crossing the pontoon bridge. She heard Mu’mina come up behind her and turned to welcome her.
They leaned over the balcony together. She tried to start a conversation, but the girl didn’t want to talk. Every question was met with sharp one-word answers or no answer at all. What a prickly thing. After a while, they became tired again and lay down for a nap. Tansholpan lay in the soft bed and watched the watery reflection of light as it moved on the ceiling. Not moonrise, she thought as she drifted off, but beautiful.
Tansholpan woke up suddenly to the sound of Mu’mina moaning and turning in her sleep. She got out of bed and went to the girl and shook her lightly. “You’re having a bad dream.”
Mu’mina turned towards her, her eyes wide open in terror, and grabbed Tansholpan’s arm so hard that she yelled from the pain and tried to pry Mu’mina’s hand away. Then she saw that the girl’s other hand was pressed low on her belly. Mu’mina’s mouth opened in a gasp, then she screamed. Tansholpan leaned back from the force of it, then put her hand on the girl’s belly too.
Mu’mina was breathing heavily. “It’s a knife. A knife is stabbing me.”
She’s losing the baby. Tansholpan got up and ran to the door, banging on it. “Open! We need a doctor! Bring a midwife!” She didn’t hear anything immediately. Mu’mina was screaming. Why was there no one coming with all this noise! Finally, the door opened and the guard came in, upset. She expected him to hit her, to push her aside, but he said with the force of a prayer pulled out from deep in his gut, “God forgive me,” and ran to the girl.
Tansholpan dropped to the floor, softly, entering into a trance state she did not recognize. She fell away from herself without her will.
When she came out of her trance, she found she had been laid out on her bed and the light had shifted again. The door was still wide open. A woman was bent over Mu’mina; she hoped it was a midwife and not just some woman from the household.
The guard stood half in the door, half out, obviously fearful for Mu’mina. He noticed her sit up and his face changed; lines drew down his mouth into a hideous mask of disgust. He hissed at her, reciting from the Qur’an,
I seek refuge from the Lord of Daybreak,
from the evil of what He created,
from the evil of darkness when it settles,
from the evil of the blowers on knots,
from the evil of the envier when he envies.
It wasn’t the first time those verses of protection had been whispered at her by someone who did not understand her gift. Does he think I did this to the girl? Shaking her head, she desperately insisted, “No! This was not me.”
He walked toward her slowly, as if his body were floating outside of time. She didn’t understand why she wasn’t reacting. He took her by the neck, then she relaxed under his grip and felt herself falling unconscious. Why are you not fighting? Then her body jerked, violently gasping for air. He was no longer on top of her. She rolled to her side, coughing and pulling breaths deep within her.
The woman who had been tending to Mu’mina was pushing him with her whole body, yelling, “Stop!”
He shoved the woman to the floor and stood. Pulling his head back, he spat on Tansholpan from the back of his throat then retreated, shutting and bolting the door behind him. She began breathing slowly, in her own way, and the burning pain in her neck started to ease. The woman sat on the bed next to her, and reached out to touch Tansholpan’s neck, but she brushed her hand away.
The woman said, “You were in a trance when I got here. You were saying things we couldn’t understand. It looked like you were rubbing a bow across some invisible instrument. He thinks you consort with the jinn. He stood in the doorway, praying for her protection from you.”
Tansholpan had trouble speaking but managed, “Are you a midwife?”
“Yes. I gave her what she needed. The pain’s gone.” The midwife looked at her seriously. “Did you do this?”
Tansholpan tried to get up, and objected as well as she could, croaking, “On the soul of my parents, no!”
“What happened?”
The extra layer of oil on the stew, she realized. “Food. Poisoned!”
“Why aren’t you sick too, then?”
She sat up and pointed to the pitcher of water. The midwife got up and poured her a glass. Tansholpan sipped from it, then tried to speak. Her voice came out in croaks and whispers, “Maybe it was meant for me. The girl took my bowl, it had an extra layer of
fat on it.” Tansholpan looked over at Mu’mina, sleeping. “She wanted my bowl. A craving. I let her eat it. We need to tell someone.”
“You can’t tell that guard.” The midwife pulled out a knife from her bag and placed it in Tansholpan’s hand. “Keep this.”
She took the knife and placed it on the table. “Will she lose the baby?”
“If the bleeding doesn’t come in the next few days, the baby is safe. I gave her something to stop the cramping and rubbed a salve to close her cervix.” She stood. “I’m going to go. I stalled because I did not want to leave until you were awake and could defend yourself.”
“Can you do something for me?” Tansholpan pleaded, “I need you to tell a friend what’s happened here. Her name is Yulduz.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Saliha strode out to the tavern courtyard, leaving Tein behind. The prostitute turned away from the tavern keeper and walked toward her. “Assalamu alaykum, Hushang says you can help me with the police, but…”
Saliha took her by the arm, saying to Hushang, “Don’t let my friend in there get lonely, would you? I’ll just be a moment,” and tried to lead her away from the room where Tein sat. “Let’s find a place to talk.”
The woman pulled against Saliha, “I don’t need any help; the man who killed her has been killed himself. God’s justice is swift.”
Hushang whispered something in the woman’s ear, then said to Saliha, “This is Chandi.” He gestured toward the three-story building, “Please, go and chat.”
Chandi sighed, then turned to Saliha, “Maybe something can be done.”
She took Saliha’s hand as they walked toward the central door of the three-story building. As they entered, Saliha let her wrap fall so that her face could be seen. Another woman was there, lying on one of the low couches hugging the walls, half-asleep, under a pile of moth-eaten blankets. Saliha thought bitterly of the men who came to take Farzaneh’s body. They had covered her in a blanket just like this to take her to the mosque for her funeral prayer, and she had thought it was the best they could do. They could have afforded more, something better, but they didn’t think her worth it. And the living women here? What were they worth?
The half-asleep woman lay on her back, her bare arm thrown over her head, her fingers toying with strands of her long blond hair. Her unusual pale skin seemed transparent, blue veins traced up her arm and neck, whereas Chandi’s skin shone like copper. Chandi’s long nose was just a little too close to her full lips and pierced with a large filigreed gold stud giving her a kind of beauty that Saliha longed for herself. They were an extraordinary pair but what was this life for them if Farzaneh was treated without respect in death? The pale-skinned woman lifted her head and nodded in Saliha’s direction, then let it drop back onto the pillow, her eyes half-closed. Chandi waved her hand, “Don’t mind Agnes, she had a long night.”
Agnes said in heavily accented Arabic, “We all had a long night.”
The room was lavishly decorated. Saliha had never seen a place like this. She imagined this must be what it was like where the Caliph’s women live. The carpets were so thick she couldn’t feel the texture of the reed mats laid out underneath them. Small octagonal tables with bone and precious stone inlay were set out here and there before luxurious couches. A set of copper pitchers were on a small bureau near a door that led to a room beyond. Lanterns with designs cut out of them hung from the ceiling. The only thing wrong was the smell of the place. For all its beauty, it wasn’t clean. The smell of vanilla, sweat, and burnt, bitter herbs saturated the room. She said, “Maybe I should stop working on my own and join you all here?”
Chandi drew her to sit on one of the couches, then took a delicate glass from within the bureau and poured her some water, saying, “That is why Hushang made me bring you in here. He wants me to talk you into joining us. Look, this room is for the men. We don’t live like this. We get them drunk and randy enough here that by the time they get to our rooms, they don’t notice the pitted walls or the rough bed they fuck us on.”
Saliha laughed in return but heard the resignation in Chandi’s voice. “I’ll stay my own boss, then. At least I get to choose my men,” she winked, “and my mattress.”
“Yet, Hushang tells me you chose Imam Hashim.”
“It sounds like he was different with me.”
Chandi sounded suspicious, “When did he even find the time for you?”
Saliha leaned in, realizing he must have been here most nights. “I was his midday meal.”
Chandi handed Saliha the glass. “How much do you make? Maybe I’ll leave myself.”
“It’s not what you think,” Saliha scrambled, not knowing what to say. “All I have is the choice over who lies on my belly. I don’t make much, and I don’t have any protection.”
“You think these men protect us if the customer has money and reputation? You think we didn’t try to get Imam Hashim removed? Word came back that the Amir wouldn’t allow it. Hushang helped how he could, but none of us has any power.”
“Good old Hushang,” Agnes said lazily.
“But we have a family here. That’s something. I wouldn’t give up my sisters.” Chandi sat down by Saliha. “And the children have a safe place to grow up. For a while, at least.” She looked out the window onto the courtyard. “If the children are blessed with ugly faces, the Amir gets the boys an apprenticeship and marries off the girls.”
“And the pretty ones?”
Chandi pulled her head back. “You act like where the pretty ones end up is news to you.”
Agnes laughed. “Who is this woman?”
Saliha asked quickly, “What happened to your friend?”
“Farzaneh.”
“Yes, Farzaneh. Maybe I can help? One of my clients is in the police. I could say something.”
“Imam Hashim is dead,” Chandi said with angry satisfaction. “He’s the one who killed her. We have retribution. I want to kiss the face of the girl who murdered him.” She laughed suddenly. “And how fitting that he died by a curse!”
“God has a sense of humour,” Agnes said.
Saliha replied, nodding, “I worship the God who laughs.”
“You can tell your man that the police wouldn’t help,” Chandi said. “I saw her belly growing and I knew it wasn’t a baby. We got a midwife in here who confirmed it was a tumour. She tried to tell us it’s a sad fact of life, but we knew Farzaneh was cursed by Imam Hashim. Toward the end, I went as often as I could to get them to question the Imam. They turned me away. I even went to the police on the morning they washed her. Nothing.”
“May God have mercy on her soul,” Saliha prayed.
Chandi looked disgusted, “He came the night she died. When he heard, he simply demanded another woman. I had to spend the night with that murderer’s cock riding me while my friend lay dead in a room downstairs.”
“My God,” Saliha exclaimed. “How could they force you!”
Agnes laughed at her. “You should stay your own boss.”
Saliha ignored her, asking Chandi, “How do you know he cursed her?”
“He admitted it! He told her he had an African slave who knew how to call the jinn. Farzaneh said he told her that the girl was jealous and would do anything to protect him.” She leaned over. “He said she uttered the curse in her language as she counted out spells on the scars cut into her face.”
“She what!”
“You didn’t know that is what their scars are for?” Chandi looked shocked. “Imagine keeping a girl like that around!”
“If the slave killed Farzaneh to protect him, why would she kill him, too?”
Agnes lifted her head and looked at Chandi. “Is she stupid?”
Saliha realized what she’d missed, then said, “Of course, her jealousy destroyed both lovers.” She paused. “It is only that Hushang said he thought it was her brother who killed him.”
Chandi scoffed, “The brother’s barely a man. He had an obligation to kill Imam Hashim. She even told
me once that she prayed in front of him that the Imam would be damned, and he chastised her for it.” She said sarcastically, “Apparently, the scholars are the representatives of the Prophet and we must have a good opinion of them no matter what they do.” Waving her hand dismissively, Chandi added, “Her brother didn’t have what it takes to protect her. He only came here once a week to preach to her and leave.”
“Maybe you could get blood money out of the family for her son?”
“Blood money? You are out of your mind!”
Saliha stammered, “But my friend could help.”
“I appreciate you wanting to help, but there’s money for the boy. She gave it to me. He’ll get it. We’re family.” Chandi sighed again and looked out the window, tears coming to her eyes. She raised her sleeve to wipe them away, “I miss her.”
“You’ll raise her boy?”
“We all will. He can’t go back to her family.”
“But the money?”
Chandi said harshly, “It’s something, but it’s not enough to escape here.”
Saliha suddenly realized the beautiful young boy out front was the child of the woman she had washed. He looked just like her. She froze for a moment in the despair of it, then found her voice, “He has her curls. Her beauty. He’s going to end up here. For the men?”
“He’ll be fine, Chandi,” Agnes chimed in. “Stop worrying. One of the older boys is already teaching him how to sing, recite poetry, the rest.” She raised herself up onto her elbow, “He’ll be in demand.”
She was about to reply to Agnes when she realized Chandi was giving her a skeptical look, “How do you know that boy out there looks like her?”
The Jealous Page 28