5

Hasti rose. She had counted. Grandmother had finished her fifth round of prayers and was standing for the sixth when the pale sun of the last day of winter peeked through the window. Grandmother went to get the photo album of her son, his worn and yellowed letters, and the three poems that he had composed during his lifetime—one, advice for teachers like himself; one, counsel for parents; one, guidance for students. All three poems had been published in the Ministry of Education’s journal, Education and Socialization. Grandmother looked for her glasses and found them.

Hasti opened the window and looked out into the courtyard. At the front, the sun said hello to the top branches of the weeping willow—a tree that had its head down, not out of shame but as its usual habit. It seemed as though the sun also kissed it. Then the sun rested on the pine trees, and, as a good deed, it went to visit the naked trees too. “Good morning,” it said and gave them the good news that they would soon bring out their green New Year’s clothes and, if they were patient, their buds and flowers would form colorful patterns on their clothing. The trees shook their heads as though they were complaining, “But we haven’t bathed.” The sun shone with a smile and said, “May your sorrow be short. The sky has a lump in its throat and when it bursts into tears, it will wash you from head to foot.” The trees did not believe the sun. They didn’t have much of a memory. Again, they shook their heads, and the sun said, “Each day I will be warmer and shine on you more than the day before. Don’t you remember?” The trees were coy and said, “But when it hails it will rip and wreck our clothes.” The sun laughed boisterously and said, “Then you do remember.”

A morning songbird called, and the sparrows answered happily from among the needles of the pine trees. They were deliberating about spring. The sun was teasing the violet jasmine bush that was under the window, quoting the poet and satirist, Obeyd Zakani, “‘You have made merry without me.’ You have even started budding.” It happens suddenly, Hasti thought, like a miracle. The naked trees that survived the winter find new life by sucking in the essence of the earth and the spirit of the sun and the moon, and by becoming moist from the sky’s tears of enthusiasm. In the morning one day, you see that a powdery green substance has been scattered all over them. A little later, their clothes are completely and perfectly ready with those bright colors—green, yellow, blue, red, violet, purple, white, orange, pink, and maroon. You say to yourself, “What beautiful makeup they’re wearing. And with what mastery the dressmaker of creation has decorated them.” No, my dear, this dressmaker rarely uses black, gray, navy blue, and brown. Look at the rainbow. It’s imitating their makeup, and because it’s imitating, it’s short-lived . . . Oh, the sweat of the sun is golden, the light of the moon is silver, the raindrops are pearls, and the trees are ornamented by all these divine jewels.

Grandmother said, “God is great!” in the middle of her prayers to get Hasti’s attention. Her voice was rough and commanding, and Hasti knew that she should close the window. If she had softly asked Hasti to swear by the sun and its light, the poetry of Hasti’s mind would not have inclined toward such bitterness that she would say to herself, The sky is a lie. It’s no more than accumulated air. The moon is a cold, dark, stony place, and the sun is just a mass of fused matter.

Hasti put on her dark red skirt and jacket and touched up her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. Soon those large black eyes will seem even larger behind glasses.

As a gift for Grandmother, she had bought a navy blue wool cardigan that had been wrapped in blue flowered paper. She put the package on Grandmother’s bed. For Shahin she had bought a bottle of Sauvage cologne, which she put on his bed. Shahin’s room seemed neat and empty without him. Dust had settled on the dumbbells, chains, and push-up board in the corner of the room, and the air of the room was heavy and stuffy.

Last night she had packed in her bag a wool sweater, a pair of jeans, a pair of slippers for herself, and her gifts for Parviz and Mr. Ganjur. Her gift for Mr. Ganjur was the same as her gift for Shahin and had been wrapped in the same paper. Her gift for Parviz was a child’s drawing notebook and a cardboard box of variously colored pencils. And for her mother she will buy some tulips on the way. She knew that when she gives Parviz his gift, he will curl his lip and complain, “I told you to buy a lovebird for my gift,” and her mother will say, “And I told you several times, lovebirds are not good omens.”

Hasti went to the kitchen, where Grandmother was setting out breakfast. “Touran Jan, shall I set up your New Year’s table?” she asked.

“Don’t bother,” Grandmother said. “I’ll do it myself.”

Touran Khanom put the dishes of butter and jam on the kitchen table and said irritably, “You go, Miss Artist, and set the splendid table of that slut. You know well how to set up lifeless nature, though the fish for the table are alive.”

Anger was in the air. She had awakened on the wrong side of the bed. And that on a morning that held good tidings.

Courtesy until when? She poured tea for Grandmother and asked, “My dear, when will you forget your grudge against my mother? At least, she gave you two grandchildren from her womb.”

“Forget my grudge? The first anniversary of your father’s martyrdom had not even passed when that slut went and married that garage owner, Grease Monkey. She never acknowledged that they had martyred your father. She always said, ‘He was shot accidentally.’ That hussy was still living in this house when she went to the Valiabad bathhouse attendant and gave me away, saying, ‘So and so has passed menopause.’”

“My dear,” Hasti said, “today is the celebration of New Year’s; don’t spoil it for me.”

Touran Khanom stood, put her hand on her hip, and said, “It’s a New Year’s celebration for you, but not for me, a stay-at-home old woman. I suffered all this torment until you grew up, but your heart is not with me.”

Out of breath, Grandmother sat on a chair. She took a fresh breath and said, “Your eyes are on the colorful table of that slut . . . God forgive me.”

She calmed down a bit and said, “For God’s sake, confess that both of you are so close to her. Do you know why Morad is leaving you waiting? Because you are like your mother. A learned, intellectual person like Morad is weary of that type of woman. Women who are controlled by their sexual desires. Lewd and lusty women. You, with your wisdom, grace, and art . . .”

But when Hasti kissed her good-bye, she had become calm. Grandmother embraced her and opened her closed fist in the palm of Hasti’s hand. It was an antique gold coin. “Come home early tonight, won’t you?” she said.

“Okay.”

“If Salim is also there, he’ll probably bring you home; bring him in.”

“Sure.”

After Hasti left, Grandmother said to herself, Well, old woman, now you’re left alone with your foolishness. I’ve heard many times that solitude is a quality of God. Good! This quality befits only God. I’m among His servants, and I will endure. Didn’t God create me in His own image? Didn’t He put His light in my heart? Is this kind of talk only good for the classroom? Didn’t Morad say, quoting Sartre, “I struggle; therefore, I am?” Well, I also struggle. With everything—with old age, with backache, with leg pain. What do I fear? That I won’t be able to breathe, and that I will die alone in this house?

I’ll sit on the veranda, on the padded wooden chair, under the sun. The light of the sun will warm my hollow bones. The essence of life no longer circulates freely in my veins and in my nerves and bones. It has been sucked out. First, I’ll loosen the muscles of my eyes. No. First I’ll moisten my hand towel with cold water. I’ll squeeze it and put it on my eyes. Ten times. I’ll loosen my jaw. My tongue, my dentures, my skull. From the top of the head to the tip of the toes, I’ll relax my whole body and dream. And when the entire body is relaxed, the brain wouldn’t dare become stressed. My heart wouldn’t dare become agitated.

I needlessly picked on my little child, Hasti. But what can I do? I can’t help it. A human being has a thousand kinds of moods. I didn’t want to spend my New Year’s Day in solitude and quiet. How often Hasti has quoted from Goethe that “solitude is the secret of knowledge.” One day I said to Hasti and Morad, “It’s all someone else’s words. What do you say yourselves? What are your words?”

God help me, I’m feeling agitated again. It’s fine. I’ll swear at bitchy Eshrat and arrogant Simin as much as I want.

A voice in her head was speaking loudly, as though it were just last night: “We travel uphill by ourselves. Or, with a slap on the back and a kick on the bottom, they make us travel up. Or we fall down not having reached the summit. But when we have arrived at the summit, we put the gears in neutral, and, without braking, we go downhill speedily.”

And a man’s voice: “My wife loves a bit of danger and driving. All she is thinking is brake, gear, bearing, distributor wire, and clutch . . .”

And a woman’s voice, laughing: “As a child, I loved horses.”

A man’s voice: “And in the end you married an ass.”

A woman’s voice: “No. In the end I found my own horse.”

With pride and haughtiness, she came and sat up straight in the armchair and crossed her legs. It was as though the queen were sitting there, smoking a cigarette and speaking philosophically. When she was talking about going downhill, she was referring to me. However much Hasti swore, “My dear, she doesn’t taunt. She speaks frankly and directly. You were busy entertaining. Didn’t you notice the subject of the conversation? Morad had asked, ‘Simin Khanom, what is life?’ You only heard the last words, and those words she quoted from another writer.” I yelled at my little child, “Don’t defend that woman so much.”

She had worked so hard entertaining. She had put on her glasses and cleaned the red currants three times. Cumin, chicken, sautéed onions, what a waste!

“I have colitis,” the husband said, and he ate bread, cheese, and walnuts. He didn’t even see the herbs that were arranged like a painting. “Wife,” he said, “why don’t you take my share?” The woman poured a serving spoonful of red currant rice on her plate, and Touran Khanom cut up the chicken fillet and put it on her plate. She ate it reluctantly, with only a fork, as though she were eating ashes. Of course, she praised Madam’s cooking, and then she ate salad and said that she didn’t want to become fat.

Again, Hasti was defensive. “Touran Jan,” she said, “I had not invited them for dinner. You urged them to stay.” And Touran Jan said, “How can one be too full to eat two bites?” But when they went for a return visit, how many tiny sweets she offered Touran Jan. “You must have some,” she said, “They’re Shirazi sweets.” It was as though Touran Khanom had come through a famine. Touran Jan had asked, “Did you make them yourself?” “No,” she said. “I know nothing about cooking.” Grown woman, why shouldn’t you have learned to cook?

Touran Khanom went to the dining room. On a side table in front of a mirror on the wall, she spread a white tablecloth and a rectangular piece of cardboard that she had bought the day before from Mohammad Aqa. On the cardboard six items symbolic of New Year’s had been pasted within clear plastic pockets: half an apple in the middle, garlic, vinegar, lotus fruit, ground sumac, and coins. At the top of the cardboard “O cupbearer! Congratulations on the coming of the New Year,” from a poem by Hafez, was written. She took the Quran out of the small rug in her prayer bundle, kissed it, and put it at the top of the cardboard. From in front of the kitchen window she took the wheat that she had sprouted herself and sprinkled it with a little water. For prosperity, she also placed a saucer of rice at the corner of the tablecloth.

If Hasti becomes Salim’s wife, she thought, Salim has a car, and next year, before or after the turning of the year, he’ll take everyone to Shah Abdol Azim Shrine, to the resting place of his father-in-law. He’ll bring his mother also. This won’t be a problem for Salim. Touran Jan goes with Hasti! He’ll take Touran Jan along with Hasti to their house. She’s a good companion for Salim’s mother. Touran Jan will rent her house, sell her belongings, and send Shahin to America without worry. She won’t be stressed any more over every penny that’s spent. With this hope, she was rid of her heart palpitation.

In the old days, before she had leg pains, she went every year to her son’s grave. She took rose water and halva. She gave money to the cemetery custodian. She washed the gravestone of her poor son with rose water. Hossein Nourian had been written on the stone, and the year of his birth and death had been etched in smaller print below his name. “Cousin,” Mehrmah had said, “hire Mr. Shoghal to compose a poem about the incident and have them carve it on his gravestone.”

She would reserve a little rose water and pour a few drops on each of the graves of her husband, her mother, and her father. They were all together. They were only missing Touran. Her grave had been prepared next to the grave of her son. She had lain in her own grave and “tried it on,” so to speak. It was tight. She gave instructions to have it widened. Her gravestone was also prepared, except that it didn’t have the date of death. Well, if she were to die, Salim or Morad or Hasti or Shahin would have them carve the date of death on the gravestone. For the expenses of her wrapping and burial, she had placed five thousand tomans in the fold of the winding sheet that she had purchased from Karbala. She had also written her will and put it on top of her winding sheet.

Again agitation. It felt as if someone was squeezing her heart in their fist. She couldn’t breathe. Her mouth was sour and dry. Her ears made a scratching sound, as though someone was pulling their fingernails down a blackboard. Her knees hurt so much that she couldn’t think of anything else. She wished she could die right then. Everything was ready.

At nightfall, or in the middle of the night, Salim and Hasti would come, and they would find her body. Salim would bring a Quran reciter, and he would put a lit candle at her head. She thought she should tie a kerchief under her chin right now so that her mouth wouldn’t be hanging crooked. When her eyes fell upon the Angel of Death, she would remember to close them firmly. If not, her protruding eyes would jump out and whoever unveiled her face in the grave would think that she still had her eyes on the material world. When they put the tombstone at Mehrmah’s head, her left eye was open. It was as though she were asking, “Why me?”

She could no longer stay in the padded wooden chair on the veranda in the sun. Her legs took her to the door of the building, and she opened it. No, the roll-up steel door of Teimur Khan’s motorcycle repair shop was down. A large lock fastened at the bottom showed that this door would not be opened anytime soon.

The shop was the garage of Touran Jan’s house, and Teimur Khan was her tenant. She had not taken key money, nor had she, like other property owners, raised the rent as much as a cent all these years. She had even chosen and gotten a wife for Teimur Khan—the most modest of her students, Maryam. She had gone herself to propose to the family and had held the engagement party. She had run Akhtar Iran and Mehrmah around in circles. She had held the wedding feast, too, in her own house. She had paved the way to bring the bride to the groom’s house. Mohammad Aqa had put the mirror in front of the bride. She had taken the bride and groom to Teimur Khan’s house, which was only a few steps away from the courtyard door of her own house. She herself had put their hands together and had placed a large antique gold coin in the palm of the bride, as a present on her unveiling. She had raised the lace veil. Of course, Teimur Khan had also given the bride a present on her unveiling. She had recited all the prayers for good fortune and, of course, burned incense of wild rue seed and circulated it over their heads.

She herself had named their first son Mohsen, but however much she worked with the child, he didn’t make much progress. He had learned the alphabet, but he wrote the lines of his assignments vertically, not horizontally. With all her efforts, he didn’t learn the multiplication tables beyond five times five is twenty-five, and besides that, instead of “times tables,” he said “fines tables.” As soon as he began to grow a mustache, he rode a bicycle. Sometimes he stood straight up on the bike and rode. Later he became bolder and rode a motorcycle. He motioned to his neighbor’s daughter, Farideh, who was usually hanging around on the veranda opposite the shop. He sat Farideh on the back of the motorcycle. He did minor adjustments to the exhaust pipe of the motorcycle until the putt-putt motor, as he called it, finally made so much noise and drove the neighbors crazy.

No, Mohsen could not be put on the right path until, on the advice of Touran Khanom, he joined the army. Touran Khanom persuaded him to sign up for the motor corps, learn to drive, and, while in the army, get a driver’s license; he didn’t get it then, but he did later. Touran Khanom didn’t forgive any rent for the shop, but she did distribute three months of rent over later months and persuaded Teimur Khan to buy a minivan for Mohsen on installments. Now Mohsen had gotten on the right path. Whether it was the blessing of the minivan or the army, neither Teimur Khan nor Touran Khanom knew.

Mohsen would get up at four in the morning, go to Amin al-Sultan Square with the minivan, and buy fresh fruits and vegetables. Mohammad Aqa’s shop was his first stop. Then Mohsen would set off, and he would drive and sell his produce in the alleys and byways from Darvazeh Dowlat to the area close to his father’s shop. He would stop next to Touran Khanom’s house and shout, “Herbs for rice, herbs for stew, herbs for salad,” and, depending on the season, “cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, eggplant, watermelon, cantaloupe, tangerines, sweet lemons, oranges. Housewives, run. Housewives, come and get it. Run, run.” Women with their baskets would gather around the minivan of “Mohsen Run,” or just “Run.” One would say, “Run, don’t forget fava beans.” Another would say, “Peas, fingerling potatoes, and green beans.” And a third would want herbs from Varamin for salad. Mohsen Run would sweat and make promises. When it came to large potatoes and onions, Mohsen would sweat more.

Touran Khanom would also buy from Run, or she would stand watching. She had taught him to be cheerful. Now if he sweats, so be it. Also, not to overcharge. She lined up the women so that Mohsen would not be distracted. She knew most of the women and asked about the health of their children one by one. She recommended brewed Shirazi oregano tea or diluted mint extract for diarrhea, and for constipation, plum juice, sap of the manna ash tree, or soaked figs. The women stood on one foot and then the other, but Touran Khanom asked after the health of all their relatives. When Run pulled currency from the back pocket of his trousers to add more to it, Touran would say, “Dear child, God bless your money.” Mohsen would say, “Madam, it’s a long time before the installments are finished.” Touran Khanom would go home and get a fist full of wild rue to circle around Mohsen’s head, and she would recite the incantation.

When Touran Khanom had given the house a cleaning, she would wash her hands and face and put her prayer chador on her head. She would put a pot of tea, a sugar bowl, and two glasses on a tray and go to see Teimur Khan in his shop, where she would sit on a stool. Teimur Khan’s shop was full of children’s tricycles, bicycles, and motorcycles, broken and new. On the opposite side of the shop, a picture of a girl motorcycle rider spanned the entire wall. The girl’s eyes were slanted, and her hair was windblown. She seemed so cheerful, as though she were driving on the royal road to good fortune.

Teimur Khan would oil or fasten a chain. He would change a horn and test it out. He would change the light bulbs or disassemble a motorcycle while listening to Madam. His hands were greasy and black, and he had a thick mustache that he called a mustachio. He never shaved his mustachio. At first his mustache was bristly until Madam had taught Maryam to pound a bit of the fat tail from a sheep, spread it on a gauze cloth, and bind it to her husband’s mustachio. The mustachio became very smooth, but Maryam couldn’t stand the smell of the tail fat. She told Madam so, but she didn’t complain. Finding a husband is not an easy task at any time.

When a motorcycle was fixed, it would be placed in a corner of the shop. Teimur Khan would wash his hands, drink a glass of tea, and feel refreshed. He would murmur, “O lovers, O lovers, Master Rumi has arrived,” or, “During the day, all I am thinking, and during the night all I am saying, is ‘Why am I neglectful of my own heart?’”

When he stood up to go get a bicycle or tricycle, he would put his hand on his back and say cheerfully, “Ya Ali, you are the problem solver.” When he finished work, he would take the kettle of boiling water off the kerosene burner, brew fresh tea with Touran Khanom’s teapot, and recite poetry that he knew Madam would like.

Well, the old woman, who didn’t go to the theater, the cinema, or concerts, wanted very much to see Amir Arsalan’s show at Sangalaj Theater. Morad had bought tickets for her, too, but it was a long way, especially with such leg pain and backache! Shahin had said, “When Entezami came from the center of the hall onto the stage holding Shams Vazir, who had turned into a dog, and said, ‘This poor animal . . . ,’ the hall began to shake from the roar of the audience’s laughter.” By the way, was it Shams Vazir or Qamar Vazir? It had been several years that Touran Khanom had feared enclosed halls. She couldn’t breathe, and her heart would beat rapidly. Her concert, cinema, and theater were the songs of Teimur Khan, and Teimur Khan sang just for her, and only for her, these verses based on Rumi’s poetry:

That person who came to know you, O Master Ali,

What should he do with his life? Ali, Ali

What should he do with his wife and children?

Ali, Ali, Ali

The one who is mad about you, what should he do with the two worlds?

O Master Ali.

And Madam would also murmur under her breath.

One day, the poem of Shahriar:

Go, O pauper, knock on the door of Imam Ali’s house,

By God, through Ali, I came to know God.

She wrote in good handwriting and took for Teimur Khan,

The Truth is Ali, Ali, Ali.

Say, “Ali, Ali, Ali.”

No, it was clear that today the concert hall of Teimur Khan was closed. Mohsen’s minivan wasn’t there, so he wasn’t there, either. She had bought a handheld loudspeaker for Mohsen as a New Year’s gift. If her legs weren’t hurting, she would have gone to see Mohammad Aqa’s New Year’s display again. His wife would be standing behind the till. Multicolored fish would be tossing and turning in large, red and blue plastic basins full of water. Several wide-mouth bowls full of water would be hosting two or three fish each. Mint, small radishes, and scallions would be spread on top of each other. There would be newly arrived New Year’s herbs that Run had brought for Mohammad Aqa just yesterday. Mohammad Aqa would sprinkle the herbs with water. On a large stool in the corner of the shop, there would be sprouted wheat and lentils in melamine plates, bunches of candles, cups of sprouted wheat porridge, and green and red candlesticks that looked like eight-petal lotus flowers.

She closed the door of the building, came in, and sat on the veranda in the padded wooden chair again. With a concave mirror in one hand, tweezers in the other, and glasses on her eyes, she tried to pull out the hairs from among the wrinkles under her eyebrows. She felt the kiss of the sun on her white hair. Too bad that no poet had compared old age to spring, since old age, if not accompanied by illness, is pleasant. She tried to make herself happy with this idea that in old age one has a lot of time to think, has intelligence and patience, and can transfer one’s experience to others. Furthermore, a brain like hers, that has been active all life long, does not grow old with the aging of the body. A human body is brittle and has not evolved much, but the brain (of course, not everyone’s brain) has the potential for much more growth than the body has. Didn’t Sakkaki learn syntax at seventy? And wasn’t he the greatest grammarian of his time?

She decided to free her mind so that she could defeat time with mental associations and imagery. She decided to revive herself with the trees, to travel with the clouds, if they came, and to fly with the birds. O human being, trees grow old later than you. All winter they sleep until they are rejuvenated in the spring. If only you too had this cycle and succession.

The sky frowned for no reason and dragged the sun behind a few pieces of cloud so that the clouds would gather together and pour tears. Their tears are in anticipation of the joy of spring, a gift to the celebration of earth and time. This morning one of them had envied Hasti. Hasti was at the peak of youth, but she didn’t know the value of love, spring, and youth. When Touran herself was young, she had a heart that beat with hope and desire. There was always joy in her heart. She always imagined that a happy occurrence was awaiting her. She always thought that the whole world had extended her a hand, saying, “Come. It all belongs to you.” But God save us from the young people of this era who waste their youth. They’re sloppy. They become full of themselves. Some of them are in a hurry to receive their share from life—as large a share as possible and as soon as possible. Some of them are wounded and even perish.

The clouds came in search of their friends, stuck to them, and pulled the sun into their own insecure hiding place. Touran’s heart beat and suddenly, like a wall clock, gave a single, loud chime. Clang. And for a moment, it stopped. Under her breath she said, “Fly with the birds. No, migrate.” She closed her eyes tightly and put her hands over her eyes. In the grave, when she uncovered Mehrmah’s face, her left eye had come out of the socket. Touran Jan had been shocked. She had closed Mehrmah’s eye.

Her heart had deceived her. It was tick ticking again. She had told Dr. Ovanesian, “Sometimes my heart stops.” The doctor had said in his Armenian accent, “It’s old age.” Touran Jan had said, “Then fear seizes me, and my heart beats fast.” The doctor said again, “It’s old age.” Touran Jan heard, “Aspirin.” She had asked, “Doctor, how much aspirin should I take?”

She gazed into the courtyard, and her eyes traveled from tree to tree. She had planted the cypresses and pines that remain green in winter so that her heart would be warmed by their greenness. When it snowed, they became bent and crooked. When she was middle-aged, she knocked the snow from them with a shovel, straightened them, and tied strings around them. Later on, that had become the task of the prince—that is, Shahin. Now they had bent down due to separation from the sun; their greenness had become dark brown. The sun had rescued itself from the claws of a piece of persistent cloud. Her heartbeat had become even. She sensed a murmur amid the light of the sun and among the trees. She listened. The murmur had a message: don’t cover your body against the spring breeze.

The clouds had become malicious; they covered the face of the sun and it rained. God save us! Too bad Mehrmah was not alive. She would persuade her to phone Simin and Eshrat and insult them as much as she could. Mehrmah would put a tissue in front of her mouth, and Touran would glue her ear to the telephone receiver. Her lips would move, but they would make no sound.

If Mehrmah were alive, she would bring her to live with her. Mehrmah would, of course, agree. She didn’t get along with her daughter-in-law. When her daughter-in-law had become settled in her husband’s parental home, they had turned Mehrmah’s room into the children’s room and had moved Mehrmah to a damp room close to the entrance. Old age is that same damp room close to the entrance, with its musty odor . . . Her daughter-in-law didn’t allow her to embrace her grandchildren. “You’re a transmitter of disease,” she said. “Microbes, viruses.” And Touran Jan thought that the virus of old age had afflicted her soul. Her cousin, Mehrmah, was five years younger than she was.

The telephone rang. “Whoever you are,” Touran Jan said, “for God’s sake, don’t hang up.” Standing up was not easy. Her right leg had gone to sleep. She put her hands on the arms of the chair, said, “Ya Ali,” and crawled on all fours from the veranda to the bedroom. When she picked up the receiver, she was panting.

A man’s voice asked, “Is this the Nourian house?”

“Yes, yes. Who’s calling?”

“Hello, Touran Jan. This is Morad.”

“Hello! God bless you, Morad Jan. Where are you?”

“I’m calling from Mashhad. Touran Jan, get a ticket and come with Hasti to Mashhad. Remember what a good time we had when we went together to Sare‘in and Tabriz? In my hotel . . .”

“Morad Jan, dear, who will take care of the house?”

“Lock the doors.”

“Morad Jan, Hasti has only five days off.”

“May I speak to Hasti? I miss her so much! Her existence is my all. You know that yourself.”

“Morad, my love. Hasti has gone to her ungrateful mother’s house for drudgework, and I’m all alone.”

Suddenly the line went dead. Touran Jan sat down right there on Hasti’s bed. Why had she said, “My love?” Because she was all alone?

She couldn’t get off the bed. The muscles of her legs had cramped. The telephone rang again, and Morad asked why the call had been cut off. He urged them to come to Mashhad by plane and reminded Touran Jan that she herself had said, “Money is for spending.” He added that not seeing Hasti until the eleventh of the month was more than he could bear. Suddenly, Touran had a brief, passing impulse to say, “Why don’t you marry Hasti so that always . . . ,” but she didn’t. If she had stirred up the conversation, she thought, the telephone call would last much longer.

Morad tempted Touran Jan by suggesting that she could make a pilgrimage and he and Hasti could see new people, hear new talk, and learn a world of new things. Touran Jan listed so many reasons that they couldn’t come, trying to convince Morad not to expect them. She decided to tell Hasti no more than that Morad would not be coming until the eleventh of the month, but she couldn’t.

Someone pounded on the courtyard door with the knocker, and Touran Jan shouted, “Whoever you are, for God’s sake, don’t leave.” She put her hands on her knees, stood up, came tottering to the veranda, and yelled, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She sat on a step and stood on the next one, sat and stood, sat and stood again, until her feet reached the courtyard pavement. She held on to the trees with her hands and arrived at the courtyard door. She couldn’t open the door’s wooden bolt. She took a stone from the ground and hit the end of the bolt. When the bolt was open, she couldn’t open the door. “Whoever you are,” she yelled, “are you still there?” She recognized the voice of Mohsen Run, who said, “Madam, it’s me.”

“My dear, push on the door so that it will open.”

Mohsen gave Madam a cut-glass bowl full of sprouted wheat porridge. Touran Jan asked him to hold her hand and take her to the veranda. “Let me go lock the door of my minivan,” Mohsen said. “I’ll be right back.”

Touran Jan went out the courtyard door, and her gaze traveled from Mohsen’s minivan to the street. She squinted to watch the coming and going on Sepahsalar Garden Street, but her eyes weren’t strong enough.

When Mohsen had bolted the door, he said, “Madam, the wooden bolt and the door itself have both swollen. One day soon I’ll bring a saw and a plane and fix them.”

“What time is it, dear?” Madam asked.

“It’s 9:30.”

“It’s only 9:30? You’re not mistaken?” And she thought, Until Doomsday—that is, at least until eight at night—I must endure. Out loud she said, “There was a clock as big as this house. I hanged myself on its large hand and stopped the movement of time.”

Alarmed, Mohsen asked, “You hanged yourself? Who rescued you?”

“No,” Touran said. “I was reading a book that had this sentence.”

Mohsen put Touran Jan on his back, took her into the building, and sat her down on Shahin’s bed. Then he left and returned, bringing the bowl of porridge. “My dear,” Touran said, “put the porridge on the New Year’s table, in the dining room. And come back after the turning of the year to get your gift. My gifts bring good luck.”

“Can’t I get my gift right now?”

“My dear, you’re no longer a child who wants lollipops. Come in the evening. Now leave through the side door. Remember to close the door firmly.”

She was in good spirits. Her legs were also better. Yes, a young man had carried her, had taken her through the courtyard and up the steps of the veranda, and had lain her down on Shahin’s bed. That young man gave off the scent of youth. The scent of a human being. That young man will come after the turning of the year and will be all smiles at the sight of the handheld loudspeaker. From now on, he will be able to announce his fresh produce with the loudspeaker and not strain his throat. Perhaps Teimur Khan and his wife will also come and afterward go to the home of Mohsen’s maternal grandparents. She had given Teimur Khan as a present her late husband’s watch on a silver chain. Teimur Khan had oiled the watch and fixed it himself. “What a good watch!” he had said. She had set aside for Maryam a thin, silk, prayer chador that she had bought in Baghdad from a specialty shop. That fellow’s shop had so many steps! She had not worn that prayer chador more than once.

She stood and, with the corner of her prayer chador, cleaned off the dust that had settled on the drawing of Mosaddeq. Truly, money is for spending! She decided that while Shahin was away she would persuade Hasti to take the picture to be framed. Hasti had quoted someone who had seen the picture and had said, “This drawing is the essence of all the Mosaddeqs that this country has seen during its long history.” Who was she quoting? She couldn’t remember. If you ask me what I ate yesterday, I won’t remember. But how many memories and poems have fixed themselves in my mind over the long run. I remember them all.

It’s afternoon. Touran persuades Mehrmah to phone Simin and swear at her. “Well, shall I teach her a good lesson?” Mehrmah asks.

“Say what I have taught you.” And she glues her own ear to the telephone receiver. The aggressive voice of a young man answers the phone. After an exchange, it becomes clear that it’s Haji Ma‘sumeh’s brother.

Then Haji Ma‘sumeh comes to the phone. “The lady is not in.”

“The lady has gone to . . . screw herself?” Mehrmah asks.

“If I could lay my hands on you,” Ma‘sumeh says, “I’d tear you apart. You jerk.”

Another time, and this time Simin herself answers the phone. “You shrew of a witch,” Mehrmah says, “why don’t you keep your hands off other people’s children?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the mother of a boy that you have led astray, you demon.”

“He’s my student? Where is he now?”

“He’s become a guerrilla fighter, and it’s all your fault, you devious bastard.”

“Leave my mother out of it,” Simin says.

“You’re the source of all evil,” Mehrmah says. “Why don’t you just die and leave us alone?”

“Look, dear woman, all I do is teach. Of course, my teaching is related to politics and society.”

“And you divert the children.”

“No. I never impose any opinions on students, neither my opinions nor those of others. These lost souls . . .”

Mehrmah starts crying. Touran Jan hits Mehrmah’s head with her hand.

“Are you crying?” Simin asks. “For a moment, I thought that you phoned me just to harass me. Has your son been arrested?”

“Not yet,” Mehrmah says, and her crying becomes stronger. With no preamble, she asks, “Are you putting a curse on me?”

“Why should I curse you?” Simin says. “I don’t believe in curses and the evil eye and such superstitions, anyway.”

Silence. Mehrmah sighs.

“If your son is really in danger,” Simin says, “you can bring him to my house tonight at 11:00 p.m. I’ll hide him. Don’t ring the doorbell. Just flick twice on the windowpane. Okay?”

Mehrmah’s tears have stopped. Touran Jan hit her on the head as a sign to continue. Touran Jan’s lips silently curse. “So that Haji Ma‘sumeh and her brother can report him and collect the reward?” Mehrmah says.

“I have prohibited Haji Ma‘sumeh’s brother from setting foot here.”

“Your prohibition is like your teaching. When I called an hour ago, Haji Ma‘sumeh’s brother answered the phone.”

“I’ll hide him,” Simin says, “in a place that, if Haji Ma‘sumeh’s brother does come, he won’t notice, and for this, I trust Haji Ma‘sumeh. Whatever tricks she plays, she doesn’t report anyone. Will you bring your son tonight?”

Touran puts her hand on Mehrmah’s shoulder and motions with her head to say yes. Mehrmah bites her lip. “Okay.”

Mehrmah hangs up and says, crying, “Cousin, I don’t like what you just did. Why? Why did you make me harass an old, lonely widow this way? Poor woman, she’s barren. She has enough trouble of her own. Now she will also be waiting.”

Hasti comes home from the college. She puts her hand around Mehrmah’s neck and kisses her. She shows Touran Jan and her cousin the drawing of a nude body that she has made that day. “Why are his eyes closed?” Mehrmah asks.

“However much I told him,” Hasti says, “‘Raise you head, man, so that I can see your eyes,’ he didn’t. I had no choice but to draw his eyes this way.”

“Drawing portraits is forbidden,” Touran says. “Drawing the naked body of an unrelated man is doubly forbidden. God will ask you on Judgment Day to make this portrait come alive, and since you cannot . . .”

Hasti laughs and says, “Then He will send me directly to hell.”

Mehrmah and Touran Jan go to the kitchen to cook a potato omelet. Akhtar Iran married and left Touran Jan’s house some time ago. Touran had cared for her since she was a little child, taught her to work. And she, in turn, had taken care of the children and Madam . . . until Teimur Khan cajoled Karim Aqa in the traditional body-building club and brought him to ask for the hand of Akhtar Iran . . . At that same first glance, Karim Aqa had made Akhtar Iran lose the little mind that she had. Akhtar Iran fell head over heels in love with Karim Aqa. Touran Jan put together a trousseau for her. She sent Akhtar Iran, with her flat nose and puffy face—just like a potato omelet—and her tiny eyes to her marital home. “But she’s cute and lovely,” Karim Aqa said. With Madam’s permission, Akhtar Iran named her son Amir Shahin. Now Karim Aqa calls the child Amir in memory of the first imam, whose title was Amir; Akhtar Iran calls him Shahin; and the child has become completely confused.

Mehrmah and Touran Jan agree to make the next day’s phone call. An upsetting call to Eshrat. Of course, when Hasti and Shahin are out. The cousins are one soul in two bodies. They are very dear to one another and quick to forgive each other.

Eshrat herself answers the phone. “Slutty bitch of a witch,” Mehrmah says, “listen. Hear what I have to say.”

“If you have nothing to do and are in the mood to swear,” Eshrat says, “go ahead, and I will surely follow suit.”

“You who left your children motherless,” Mehrmah says, “and went to marry that garage owner Grease Monkey less than a year after the death of your young, heroic husband. Now, why don’t you leave the children alone? You have made them pigeons with two homes.”

“Why are you huffing and puffing?” Eshrat says. “They have recorded my rights on paper and given you a copy. Now listen carefully. I didn’t have children to not see them.”

“But who raised your children?”

“I know it’s you or Mehrmah or Akhtar Iran. You have put a tissue over the mouthpiece of the phone and changed your voice so that I won’t recognize you. I know who encouraged you. That decrepit old crone. Grease Monkey is a name that old crone calls my husband. Tell her, ‘I did well to free myself from that dilapidated house and from you, old woman, who smell like a corpse.’”

“Wrong, you jerk!” Mehrmah says. “I am none of the people you mentioned. But if by ‘old crone’ you mean Touran Khanom Nourian, I swear on the spirit of my father who was a descendant of the Prophet . . .”

“May a descendant of the Prophet strike you down! Well, you were saying? I’m entertained by your words.”

“I swear by the spirit of my ancestors, Mrs. Nourian is not aware of my phone call. Mrs. Nourian is a literature teacher in high schools of the capital, and she doesn’t consider you important enough to even respond to your hello.”

“Don’t joke,” Eshrat says. “I know what she’s burned up about. Her son was neither a hero nor a martyr for Mosaddeq. Ask this literature teacher which imam it was who was eaten by a bear in Baghdad. It wasn’t an imam; it was the Prophet. It wasn’t Baghdad; it was Canaan. It wasn’t a bear; it was a wolf. And the wolf didn’t eat him, either. His brothers spread the word around that . . .”

“You shameless witch of a shrew!” Mehrmah says. “You’re even denying the martyrdom of your first husband?”

“What martyrdom? First of all, ‘witch of a shrew’ is you and seven generations of your ungodly ancestors. Second, Hossein and I were going to Lalezar to shop. After such a long time, he wanted to buy a summer dress for me and a prayer chador for his goddamned mother.”

“Why goddamned?” Mehrmah asks. “Touran Khanom hasn’t died yet, despite what you hope. She’ll live to be a hundred. Goddamn yourself, you whore.”

Eshrat laughs and says, “Whore suits me. What was I saying, Mehrmah Khanom, my dear?”

“You were saying you had gone to buy clothes.”

“Yes, I remember it well. We were crossing Ekbatan Street. We saw that a big crowd had formed. There were several soldiers with rifles too. A young man had fallen on the ground. Blood was flowing from him.”

“The same young man who had written on the wall with his own blood EITHER MOSADDEQ OR DEATH.”

Eshrat continues. “More soldiers with rifles were arriving. Several shots were fired. Hossein and I and two other people took cover and sat on the ground behind a car that was parked near the wall, beside that same poor young man. There was a lot of commotion, but there was no more gunfire. Hossein took a little peek from behind the car. He was shot right in the middle of the forehead. I tore my hair. He had died instantly . . .” Now Eshrat’s voice breaks. She hangs up.

Mehrmah no longer sees her cousin next to her. Touran sits on Hasti’s bed. She pounds her hands on her knees and cries.

Touran Jan wiped her eyes. She hit her head with her fist and yelled, “Leave me alone. Child-snatcher Simin. Bitch Eshrat. Godforsaken Mehrmah. Short-lived Hossein.”

When she had calmed down, she said to herself, Get up, old woman. Didn’t you say, “I struggle; therefore, I am?” Stand up and think about lunch for yourself. Get up and soak the rice for supper. If you continue chewing on your memories this way, you’ll be crazy by nightfall. Hasti and Salim will come, and you will prepare a nice supper for them. But what will you eat for lunch? Not lentil rice left over from last night.

She went to the bathroom and washed her face. She moistened her facecloth, wrung it out, and put it on her eyes. She brought a spoon. She sat at the New Year’s table and ate the sprouted wheat porridge to the bottom of the bowl.