6

It wasn’t easy for Hasti to get to work right away. When she got out of the taxi, she saw a truck blocking her path. The cab of the truck had gone through the gateway of the large garden, but the body could not. There wasn’t even a narrow space on either side of the truck that Hasti could use to get to the building. Hasti wasn’t a large cushion with a crimson, carpeted, design-laden cover that one of the workers could pick up and toss from atop the truck to a worker standing below in the garden. Three workers were in the garden catching the cushions, putting them on their heads, and carrying them to the building. Two others stood on cushions to pass them along.

Hasti placed the flowerpot of tulips, her purse, and her bag by the wall. At first, she stood watching the movements, and sometimes the pauses, of the workers. Then she crouched down with her back to the wall. A white Peugeot stopped a bit beyond the truck. A man jumped out of the car, and a woman who was sitting next to him called, “Hasti Khanom, come help.” Hasti stood. The woman was Keshvar, the dealer, and she had a large bundle on her lap.

The man suddenly ran, embraced Hasti, and twirled her around in the air. Hasti struggled to escape. The man put her down and said, “My, how you’ve grown! You’ve become a real woman!”

“Bijan? Is it you?” Hasti asked.

“Johnny Dollar, your private eye!” Bijan replied.

“But you look like Anthony Perkins.”

“The image of my father as a youth.”

Bijan said that he had entered the country five days ago. He had wanted to tour Europe for two or three months, but Papa Ganjur had telephoned and said that he needed him. So he came.

Bijan and Hasti took the bundle from Keshvar’s lap. Keshvar got out of the car and sat on the edge of the channel of clear water that was flowing between the street and the garden wall—flowing quickly enough to disturb her reflected image.

Bijan and Hasti were chatting. Bijan was saying that when he went to America, Hasti was a little girl of ten or eleven. He said that he had earned two master’s degrees, one in journalism and one in industrial administration. Hasti asked what connection these two fields could possibly have with one another, and Bijan said, “That’s me! I wanted to stretch it out. Fourteen years.”

Then Bijan asked about Hasti’s life, and then they started to talk about memories they had of each other.

“Do you remember the year that my father bought me a bicycle as a New Year’s gift?” Bijan said, “And I rode it around the pool? I fell in the pool, and the bicycle fell on top of me. My father jumped in the pool with his clothes on and rescued me. Blood came out of my nose. My head had hit the spout of the pool. You still had a pacifier in your mouth. For a long time, you couldn’t stand being without a pacifier. You came and put your pacifier in my mouth.”

Hasti did not remember.

Bijan asked whether she remembered their house in the Monirieh district of Tehran. Hasti answered that she had vague memories of that house. “I had failed my sixth-grade elementary school exam,” Bijan said, “and out of embarrassment, I had lain down in the closet with my father’s cloak over me. You came and brought me two little muffins. Then you left and returned with your doll, gave it to me, and told me the story of the bitter orange and bergamot girl. At noon my father came home. He had bought me a wristwatch. He called out, ‘Bijan, apple of my eye, where are you? What grade did you get, son?’ You came out of the closet and said, ‘Shush. Bijan got an ouchy. He’s sleeping.’ My father didn’t scold me. He fastened the watch on my wrist. Your mother came, too. She kissed me and said, ‘One year in the seventy or eighty years of a person’s lifespan is nothing.’ And she took me to the basement sink and made me wash my face.”

The truck backed up as far as the metal grate over the channel. Two workers came, grasped two sides of a carton, and brought it out from the seat next to the driver. Two more came and did the same with the second, third, and fourth cartons. Paper and pen in hand, the driver came to Bijan and said, “Sign for this.”

Bijan read aloud, “Kashan-woven crimson cushions, sixty. Cartons containing Japanese flower-bird china table settings and sundries, four. Altogether, 274 pieces. Wages of cleaning workers . . . Wages of delivery . . .”

Bijan placed the paper on the hood of the truck and was about to sign it when Hasti said in English, “You’re signing without receiving the delivery?”

Bijan said in English, “Since the day I arrived, I have taken on the nonindustrial administration of this strange party. Don’t worry.” Hasti thought, He has barely arrived, and they have assigned him this drudgery.

Bijan selected two workers and told them to stay. One of them asked, “Until when?”

“Until whenever your work is done,” Bijan said. “Your wages are hourly . . .”

The group set off with the bundle on the head of one of the workers, a canvas bag in the hand of the other worker, the flowerpot of tulips in Bijan’s hands, and Hasti with her bag and purse. As for Keshvar, her own weight was enough. “Bijan, lock the car,” Hasti said. “In fact, why don’t you bring the car in?”

“I may have a need for it later.”

But still, he gave the flowerpot to Keshvar and returned.

Diamond-clear water was pouring into the pool, and it was moving quickly. In fact, the pool was about to overflow. Along the edges of the little garden plots, the violets had set their eyes on the clear, blue, pool water and requested with their gaze that it reach them, too. The water said that their gaiety was flawless. All of the greenhouse’s ornamental flowers had been put out to watch. Freedom, Hasti thought, for even one moment is a windfall. Tomorrow they will be imprisoned in their glass house again.

Hasti entered the family room wearing jeans, a wool sweater, and slippers. The chores had been assigned. The director was obviously Bijan. Hasti’s position: artistic advisor. Pasita, Naneh Agha, and Taghi Khan had also joined the group. Lady had mixed herself in as well and was rubbing herself on Pasita’s legs. Pasita was scratching the cat under her chin, and Lady’s eyes were closed. One of the workers wanted to hold the cat. Lady scratched him. As for Keshvar, she had gone to the sitting room to put the contents of the bundle in their proper places.

The main living room had been completely emptied of chairs, tables, and decorations. Only the carpet and the television grimaced at one another. The ceiling chandeliers shone, even though the lights were not on. In the next room, which was the dining room, everything was yawning in its own place. In the room on the other side, a platform had been set up in the center and a rug thrown over it. These two side rooms were separated from the main living room by two arches facing each other.

Bijan put his hand on Pasita’s back and told her in English to go get the picture from Keshvar. When Pasita brought the picture, Hasti said, “Bijan, the television doesn’t belong here with the New Year’s tablecloth spread on the floor and the cushions along the walls. Let’s move the television to the dining room and in its place put a picture of Zoroaster.”

Bijan scratched his chin and said, “But the turning of the year will be announced on television.”

“Yes,” Hasti said, “but the announcement can be heard from the dining room. Besides, no one wants to listen to the speeches of the shah, the queen, the crown prince, and the prime minister.”

It was not an impossible task. Two workers were nearby, and they had a bag full of tools.

Under Bijan’s direction, the workers spread the cushions around the living room; only the space under the arches was exempt. Thirty pairs exactly—cushions for sitting and cushions for leaning against. Bijan and Hasti sat comfortably cross-legged next to one another on one cushion. “But,” Bijan said, “these Americans are not able to sit cross-legged, unless they do yoga.”

Bijan took Hasti to his bedroom. Pasita was taking the Japanese flower-bird dishes out of a carton, Taghi Khan was dusting them, and Naneh Agha was filling the flower-bird bowls with sprouted wheat porridge. Then the wooden spoons with embossed handles. Then the rose water sprinklers. Hasti took one of the small, flower-bird bowls and examined it inside and out. “It’s an imitation of Chinese flower-bird dishes,” she said, “but it’s machine-made.” No one’s ear was tuned into an art history lesson, not even Bijan’s.

“Everything’s ready,” Bijan said. “You tell me, which ones shall we send out first?”

Hasti spoke and Bijan wrote. “First, the printed tablecloth. Then the side plates, knives, and forks. Then the sprouted lentils and wheat. Then the potted hyacinths. Then the crystal bowls containing fish. Then the bowls of sprouted wheat porridge with small bowls . . .”

Hasti taught Pasita to cut the fresh garlic with a knife into the shape of tuberose flowers and to split the pomegranates and place them on the fruit bowl ready to eat. She told Naneh Agha to pour rose water into the sprinklers and asked where the red ribbon and candles were.

“How many candles shall I buy?” Bijan asked.

“Seven.”

Bijan took the workers in his car, and when he returned with the red ribbon and candles, the large, symmetrically printed tablecloth had each of the symbols of spring and New Year’s in its proper spot. Hasti put the candles in the middle of each plate of sprouted lentils and wheat and tied a ribbon around each one. It was as though, at the sight of the red ribbon, the pieces of split pomegranate on top of the baskets of fruit recognized their own kind and boasted to them.

“Wow!” Bijan said. “All these colors and such abundance! How good it is for the eyes, the nerves, and the taste buds.”

“If the eyes see only dark and neutral colors,” Hasti said, “their owner becomes emotionally depressed. When the senses confront ugliness and harshness, it makes a person crazy.”

“Girl,” Bijan said, “you know a lot.”

“What you two said?” Pasita asked.

Bijan explained to her in English, and Pasita nodded her head. Her slanted eyes shone, and she said in her broken Persian, “My eyes so happy.”

Pasita went to get the place cards. “Did you know that Pasita means ‘morsel’?” Bijan asked. Hasti didn’t know.

“This unfortunate morsel,” Bijan said, “has a BA in midwifery, and all the males of this household, thinking she is a luscious morsel, want to taste her. The male guests, too. My father pinches her cheek. I even saw the Afghan cook touch her breasts. But Pasita spends Sundays with her boyfriend from her own country. Through my father, she changes her salary into dollars and sends it to her family in the Philippines.”

“Most foreign families,” Hasti said, “and some well-to-do Iranian families have one of these ‘Pasitas.’” She wanted to add, “And you touch her back.” But she didn’t.

Pasita brought the cards. “Read them,” Bijan said, “and I’ll tell you where to put them.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ganjur.”

“Put it on the center cushion.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Hitti.”

“Put it on the cushion to the right of my father.”

“La‘l Beigom and Sir Edward.”

“To the left.”

Pasita read and read until she arrived at Hasti Khanom and Salim Farrokhi.

“No, no,” Hasti said in Persian. “Don’t seat me next to Salim Farrokhi. He won’t sit next to an unrelated woman.”

Bijan laughed. “Then he is a sheikh, and you have placed the Quran and a picture of Imam Ali at the head of the tablecloth for his sake. From now on I’m going to call him Sheikh.”

Hasti frowned. “You’ll do no such thing!”

“Then it’s a serious matter. I apologize.”

“Look,” Hasti said, “Islam accepts both our New Year’s and the Zoroastrian religion. I have placed the Quran and the portrait of Imam Ali next to the image of the Prophet Zoroaster.”

They also put together a small New Year’s display table in the dining room for the children. They completed the display with sweets, fruit, nuts, and sprouted wheat porridge. In the end, the pot of tulips Hasti had brought was of use. It took its place in the middle of the dining room table, even though one of its flowers had broken off. Hasti put the flower in a clay pot on the outer surface of which, with so much skill and patience, wheat had been grown. Hasti asked Naneh Agha how she had done it, and Naneh Agha explained that first she had covered the body of the pot with one of the lady’s nylon stockings. Then she had planted all the young sprouts, one by one, on the stocking and had filled the pot with water. Every other day she had changed the water in the pot and sprinkled the sprouts with a splash of water.

Hasti sat on the family room sofa and started to paint three white eggs to put on top of a dish full of colored eggs. Bijan helped, acting as a “gofer,” and he watched as Hasti drew a miniature, coquettish lady on the first egg. “That looks like Mother Eshi,” Bijan said, “but thinner.”

“Mother Eshi requested it herself,” Hasti said. “It’s for Peggy . . .”

“No, my dear sister. It’s for Murray, Peggy’s husband.”

Hasti laughed and said, “His name is Mardan Khan. Peggy and all his other friends call him Murray. I’m the only one who says Mr. Tavassoli.”

Bijan recited a well-known verse by Iraj Mirza: “His name was Ali Mardan Khan. The lady of the house had no peace from him.” “And neither did the Pasita of the house,” he added.

“Have you met him?” Hasti asked.

“No, but I’ve heard about him. My father says that since he returned from America, he has hit like a wolf upon the flock of women, whether married or unmarried. A harem . . .”

Changing the subject, he said, “I didn’t know that you did miniature drawings, too. I was told that the method of teaching here is just like that in America, with the unit system, and that the schools of art that are taught are Western ones.”

“That’s correct,” Hasti said. “Mr. Hitti is an educational expert, and your father . . .”

She wanted to say, “is everyone’s fixer.” But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “And your father works under the supervision of Tavassoli, who is Hitti’s assistant.”

She thought and added, “An easy means of neocolonialism.”

“I’ve heard,” Bijan said, “that most of the college professors have been educated in foreign countries.”

Hasti smiled bitterly and said, “Another easy means of cutting people off from their national identity and character.”

“You’re repeating Jalal Al-e Ahmad’s words,” Bijan said.

“You mean you’ve read Al-e Ahmad’s books?” Hasti asked.

“My father sent me all kinds of books,” Bijan said, “and Mother Eshi, all kinds of dried herbs, ground saffron, cumin seeds, red currants . . .”

And he left the family room.

Hasti remained, debating what to draw on the egg dedicated to Mrs. Hitti that would reflect her hate and grudge and that, at the same time, the most important guest at the New Year’s ceremony, Mr. Ganjur’s boss, would not recognize it. Grudge and hatred for whom? she thought. More than anything, for Mr. Hitti and then for, in Grandmother’s terms, the garage owner Grease Monkey. Ahmad Ganjur was indeed a garage owner originally. Now he had expanded the garage and entrusted it to Ja‘far Aqa. Ja‘far Aqa discovers with one look the secret of any problem in large trucks, and with a few commands the problem is fixed. And if not, he takes off his coat and lies under the truck himself. It’s a done deal.

Most of what Hasti knew about Ahmad Ganjur was what Mother Eshi had said or was from the taunts that Grandmother had leveled at her son’s replacement. Mother Eshi would say, “He joined the Iran-America Society and studied English, and he became close to Americans. He even went to New York for two or three months and spent several months in London on his way home. He also went to California one time with Bijan to find a place and furnishings for him and to set up a savings account so that Bijan could live from the bank interest. I don’t know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars he took; he wouldn’t say.”

Grandmother would smile bitterly and say, “I know what he’s up to. He fooled the Americans and went to Khorramshahr and Bushehr and learned English from the porters in those two cities. And when he returned, he lied, saying that he had been to America and that he had been to England.”

Mother Eshi would say, “He became a manager in the Point Four Program.”

Grandmother would say, “He became a dealer for the Point Four Program.”

Mother Eshi would say, “He was a translator in the Advising Office of the Royal Armed Forces.”

Grandmother would say, “He waxed the boots of the American sergeants.”

Mother Eshi would say, “He went to the Franklin Publishing Organization and translated American literature. Or he edited the manuscripts of other translators.”

Grandmother would say, “He picked up the scent of dollars there and went into the paper business. Then he sponged off them in the transport and delivery of paper for the printing presses.”

Hasti herself was a witness to this type of parasitism. Ahmad Ganjur would say, “The establishment of the middle school cycle in Iran was among my initiatives.” He would say, “The least benefit of the American system in place of the French system, which I have set in motion, is the changing of our students’ grades to the equivalent grades in American colleges.” But Hasti, who had stuck her head into every nook and cranny of the Ministry of Education in her efforts to become a teacher and had finally written a letter to Mr. Hitti, understood that the work of her mother’s husband was as a dealer and errand boy, but of a very remunerative type. She knew that Ahmad Ganjur rents houses for Americans who come to Iran. He gets them maids. He goes to the airport. He takes a sign on which the name of the American traveler has been written. He waits in the airport lounge and circulates with the sign until he finds the American traveler, with or without a family, and takes them to their prearranged and all-prepared home and life.

Hasti suddenly noticed that the Atlantic Ocean was depicted on the egg that was to be Mrs. Hitti’s gift, along with the Statue of Liberty, with her back toward the sea and her torch out. The scene was illuminated by light from the lamps along the ocean and beside the Statue of Liberty, her back turned to the rest of the world. When Bijan saw the drawing, he said, “I know why you did this, but for my sake, not for the sake of my father, turn the statue toward the ocean and light her torch.”

Hasti put the egg aside to give as a gift to Morad. She had also knit him a blue-green sweater. She was sure that Morad would put on the sweater in front of Hasti and Grandmother and that he would kiss both of Hasti’s hands.

Hasti chose an egg that had been dyed blue and drew a skyscraper on it with the lights of most of its windows lit. On the blue background, a boat was loose without a rudder and without passengers. For La‘l Beigom she drew a Qajar woman who seemed to be dancing. She had seen the picture in Professor Mani’s house, and, with her mediation, Sir Edward had bought it for his wife, who was from Karachi. Finding a similar one would not be difficult for Professor Mani, and with money from the sale of this picture he could change the worn-out pipes of his building.

Sir Edward had served long enough in the colonies, the semicolonies, and the regions under the influence of the British government that it was hard to tell that one day, long ago, he had been English. His wife and two sons were still living in London, but the only communication that he had with his wife was a check that he sent every month. Every place that Sir Edward had served he had taken a local wife. Most recently, during the time of Ayub Khan, when he was the governor of Karachi, he took La‘l Beigom. La‘l Beigom had told Hasti all of this, and she had added that now, here, he is an expert in the Government Employees Office. Hasti knew that his present occupation was no less important than being the governor of Karachi.

At two in the afternoon, according Bijan’s schedule, the residents were to take their places on the veranda in front of the family room. Hasti, in her dark red jacket and skirt, came to the veranda before everyone else. She gazed at the ornamental flowers, trees, and plants and the pool filled to the brim with water. The sun after the rain had animated them such that they suggested to Hasti, come, make all this permanent, but not on eggs. No one wants to look at a drawing with a microscope.

Mother Eshi came to the veranda next, and Hasti was surprised. Her mother was usually the last person to join a group. Of course, it takes time to do her makeup. Mother Eshi wore a long white dress with silver and gold threads embedded in the fabric. The two sides of the skirt were slit to the knees. If not, walking and sitting in such a tight skirt would have been impossible. The green of her emerald necklace winked at the greenness of all the green there was in this world. Farhad, the matchless beautician, had given her long blonde hair as many curls and ringlets as he could.

The sun was shining generously on that golden hair and dress when Mr. Ganjur also arrived. He wore white trousers and a wide white tunic that extended to his ankles, and he had wound a cord three times around his waist. On his head he had a white skullcap with decorated edges, and on his feet, cotton peasant shoes that were even whiter. When Mother Eshi saw him, she said, “Oh, Ahmad Jan, what kind of a getup is this?”

“Pretty woman,” Ahmad Ganjur said, “don’t you get it? This is the dress of a Zoroastrian priest.” He put his hand on his belt and said, “The name of this three-tasseled cord is kosti.” He kissed his wife’s hair and said, “My beautiful peach!” He coughed and added, “Now, come on, tell me. How much of a tip did you give to Farhad?”

Mother Eshi pouted. “Only a thousand tomans.”

“And that’s little?” Ahmad Ganjur said.

“Are you serious?” Mother Eshi said. “Firuzeh bought him a Porsche sports car for New Year’s and parked it in front of his beauty shop. She put its key on its gold chain in his hand. Farhad kissed her hand. He kissed her face as well.”

Next Bijan and Parviz arrived. Parviz’s dress was an exact copy of his father’s, but brand new. Before Mother Eshi could open her mouth, Ganjur said, “This is the priest’s child.” Hasti pressed her eyes together and bit her lip.

Parviz had taken Mother Eshi’s hand, but he was fixated on what he was wearing. His golden hair stuck out from under his skullcap. Hasti’s eyes turned to Bijan. A red carnation in the buttonhole of his gray jacket collar was a miniature of spring. In answer to Hasti’s look, Bijan shrugged his shoulders.

And now Pasita arrived at the veranda—with rouge, eye shadow, and lipstick. Ganjur smiled when he saw her. Pasita was wearing a loose dress trimmed with silver and gold braid. The red, green, and yellow hues on the body of the dress and on the sleeves admired each other’s colorful beauty. She wore a triangular gold shawl on her head. On top of the shawl, a long, wide scarf was arranged in such a way that the front had folds and pleats, and one of its corners fell down her back to the shin.

“Bijan Jan, have you started a costume ball?” Mother Eshi asked.

Bijan answered, “This is the dress of an aristocratic Zoroastrian woman.” But his eyes fled Hasti’s look.

“Then shouldn’t you have prepared one for me?” Mother Eshi scolded. “I’m the wife of the priest, after all.”

Bijan changed the subject. For the nth time he reminded them that the language of the party would be English. “Except among ourselves and in exceptional circumstances.”

First, a Hillman car entered through the garden gate and stopped in front of the veranda. La‘l Beigom and Sir Edward came to the veranda. The driver came after them with a gift box in his hand and then set off after Parviz. La‘l Beigom was wearing white satin slacks and a purple shirt that fell to her knees. She had on her head a violet brocade scarf that had been tied around her neck and hung from the left shoulder. Ahmad Ganjur introduced only Bijan, saying, “A youth freshly arrived from America.” This phrase left a good taste in his mouth. He said the same thing to Peggy and Murray, who had come next.

Peggy’s son and daughter went looking for Parviz and asked in English, “Where do we put the gifts?”

“Have you put your name on them?” Parviz asked. They had. Parviz told them: “On the hall table.”

Parviz was in the same class as Murray’s son. Mr. Ganjur was so well-connected that, along with the grandson of the private doctor to one of the princes, Parviz had been accepted into Tehran American School—a school for American children only, with 100 percent American teachers.

Murray put his hand on Bijan’s back and said in Persian, “So, you have just come back from America? Have you lost your mind that you have returned to this godforsaken place? But on the other hand, here money grows on trees. You just need to reach up and collect it.” Then he went looking for Mother Eshi, rubbed his hand on his narrow mustache, and said, “May I die for you. You have become like a tree in full bloom.”

Moher Eshi replied, “It is spring, honey!”

When Mr. Hitti’s Cadillac stopped in front of the veranda, Ahmad Ganjur, in his Zoroastrian priest’s dress, jumped down from the steps of the veranda and opened the car door. Helen, Mr. Hitti’s daughter, got out first. She was wearing a long dress of Isfahani block-print cotton, and two camel bells were hanging from her belt—one small bell and the other larger. She had fastened anklets with charms on her ankles. When she came up the stairs the bells and charms jingled. The fringe of her long shawl seemed to be real gold braid.

Mother Eshi embraced Mrs. Hitti, and they exchanged kisses—first the left cheek and then the right like Americans do. Mr. Hitti was shorter than Mother Eshi, so Mother Eshi could plant her lips on the bald spot in the middle of Mr. Hitti’s head. Hasti could see the place that her mother’s lipstick had left its mark on that head.

Now Mr. Hitti introduced to Ganjur a tall man whose back was a little stooped and whose blond hair was a little receding. “The archaeologist Mr. Crossley.” Mr. Crossley asked forgiveness for coming without an invitation. Mr. Hitti interrupted saying it would be a shame if he were not to see Iranians’ New Year’s celebration. Ganjur used the same phrase to introduce Bijan that he had already repeated many times—a youth fresh from America—and called Hasti his daughter. Mr. Hitti wanted to kiss Hasti, but Hasti excused herself, saying she was Muslim. And after that more guests arrived, none of whom Hasti had seen or recognized, except for Dr. Bahari and his wife.

When the guests saw the New Year’s display, the adjective marvelous broke the record in their descriptions of it, and then other exclamations followed: Oh, my God! Extraordinary! How colorful! Every color under the sun! Unbelievable! It’s a fairytale! It’s dreamlike! I must be dreaming! Beyond beautiful!

Only the Italian wife of Dr. Bahari said, “A work of art completely Eastern.” She said that in Italian, and Dr. Bahari translated it. Murray said in Persian, “Well done, Mother Eshi. Bravo!” Mother Eshi moved her head, and a section of her hair flowed onto her right shoulder like a golden waterfall.

Murray sat cross-legged on the cushion comfortably, and, facing the guests, he challenged them, “Can anyone sit like me?” Peggy stretched out next to him and said, “Murray, sit like us.” Mr. Crossley sat next to Hasti.

Naneh Agha brought the shiny, golden, boiling samovar and placed it on a corner of the tablecloth, and Pasita sat next to the samovar. Naneh Agha left and returned bringing a flaming brazier. She took a handful of wild rue from a crystal bowl, circled her full fist around the tablecloth, made some motions in the air, and poured the rue on the brazier.

Ahmad Ganjur, standing behind Pasita, began to explain the benefits of wild rue incense and the meaning of Naneh Agha’s movements. Then he took three pomegranate boughs that were at the corner of the tablecloth and said, “Well done.” He asked all the guests to join him in saying, “Well done,” which they did. He had started to speak about the holy branch when the telephone that was in the family room rang. Ganjur interrupted himself to say, “Hasti, my daughter, get up and answer the phone.”

Hasti recognized Mrs. Farrokhi’s voice, and Mrs. Farrokhi recognized hers. Mrs. Farrokhi explained that in the morning Salim was well. He took a shower. He intended to come, but he caught a cold, and now his back hurts so much that he can barely move. “Don’t be waiting for him, dear,” she said. Hasti breathed a sigh of relief, though she expressed sorrow, and she wished Mrs. Farrokhi a Happy New Year in advance.

“Dr. Bahari is here,” she added. “Would you like him to come to the phone?”

“The doctor came, dear,” Mrs. Farrokhi said. “He examined him and gave him an injection.”

When Hasti returned to the living room, Ganjur was talking about the holy fire, and there was the scent of myrrh and frankincense in the air. Ganjur said that the scent is a reminder that we are expecting the arrival of the spirits.

With the holy branch in his hand and the ritual cord at his waist, Ahmad Ganjur took a few steps and began his main speech. “At New Year’s, the universe is renewed. The celebration of New Year’s is the celebration of the birth of the earth and the sky. The spirits, or farvahar, from which the month of Farvardin got its name, come to the earth and become guests of the living. These spirits are humans’ guardian angels in the sky. They are also spirits of the departed. Now we are awaiting the spirits of our departed.”

La‘l Beigom clasped her hands together and said, “My God! Then the sky of Iran is full of angels.”

Ahmad Ganjur continued. “The spirits are forces that come from Ahura, and after a person’s death they return to Ahura. These spirits are parts of our God or Ahura. They mix with our soul and guide our soul. These spirits are our spiritual twins. Before us they were in the sky, and with us they came to earth.”

“That’s very interesting,” Mr. Crossley said. “It’s similar to Plato’s ideas.”

Ahmad Ganjur chewed on the corner of his salt-and-pepper mustache and said, “Plato got it from us.” He glanced at his watch and said, “Hasti, my daughter, light the candles.” Hasti did so. Ganjur took a few more steps and said, “The world of light is the realm of Ahura Mazda. At the moment of the turning of the year, the spirits of the departed come to earth, become guests of the living, and participate in the joy of the family. So the house must be clean, the clothes new, the tablecloth fully laden and well arranged, and the family’s oven lit. The spirits become happy with greenness and freshness, and they give their blessing. But if they see the living wretched and on bad terms with one another, they become offended by the disaffection of the family. They curse and they leave.”

He raised the pomegranate boughs in his hand above his head, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and said, “O spirits of our departed, come, come. We are ready. You are most welcome!” Murray put his hand over his mouth and laughed. Ganjur gave him a beseeching look and continued. “The pomegranate is a symbol of the breasts of women when they give birth, so it is an indication of fertility.”

Murray roared with laughter and said in Persian, “May I die for the pomegranate, this sexy tree.”

Ganjur said with a serious voice, “Meanwhile, the pomegranate tree is holy because its blossoms resemble flames. The display that you see on the tablecloth is a sign of joy and abundance of riches and a symbol of Ahura Mazda, who presides over the six Amesha Spenta.”

This time Murray counted on his fingers and said, “With Ahura Mazda, it’s seven.”

“That’s right,” Ganjur said. “Seven items whose names begin with the letter S.”

He was silent for a moment. It was as though he had forgotten the rest of his speech. Bijan helped him out. “Papa, what are the Amesha Spenta?”

Ganjur smiled. “Amesha Spenta are attributes of Ahura or manifestations of him. Ahura Mazda directs the world with their help, and the number seven is holy.”

“You all know,” La‘l Beigom said, “that I am a Muslim. I want to say that in Islam too we have seven favored angels: Gabriel, Michael . . .”

Ganjur did not allow La‘l Beigom to finish her words. “Zoroastrians,” he said, “put the Avesta at the head of the New Year’s tablecloth, and we Muslims put the Quran there.” With the branches, he pointed to the holy Quran.

“Now what if an Iranian were a Jew?” Mr. Hitti asked.

Bijan interrupted. “Well, in that case, he would place the Torah there.”

Ahmad Ganjur, with the branches pointed toward the sprouted wheat and lentils, continued. “Greens are a symbol of abundance of riches and fertility. This porridge is made of germinated wheat, and you know that wheat is the holiest of plants. It’s the first meal that Adam ate.”

Murray laughed and said, “Eve tricked Adam, and Satan had tricked Eve. And God kicked all three out of heaven.”

Peggy hit Murray’s shoulder and said, “Don’t joke around so much. Let him finish his talk. I didn’t know Ahmad was so knowledgeable.”

And Ahmad presented his knowledge with even more self-confidence. “Eating porridge brings fertility.”

Murray exploded into laughter and said, “We will all test it tonight.”

“Murray,” Peggy said, “won’t you just shut up?”

Ganjur shook the holy branches in the air and warned, “Tsk, tsk! I said at the moment of the turning of the year you must be happy. If not . . .”

Murray did not let up. He finished Ganjur’s sentence: “And if not, the spirits will be upset and leave us.”

Ahmad Ganjur said to Murray in Persian, “Mardan, for your children’s sake, just this one night, don’t be a spoilsport.”

He pointed at the service-berry and continued. “The service-berry blossom is the love potion that leads to fertility. It’s a symbol of cosmological fertility. If you stand under the service tree in spring, you will smell semen.”

Murray put his hand over his mouth. Nevertheless, he could not restrain himself. “And you will become horny,” he said.

Ganjur pointed at the garlic and said, “Garlic is a medicinal plant. However devilish its smell, because of its medical benefits, it’s exceptional.” And facing Hasti he said, “My daughter, get up and remove the green cloth from the nougats.”

Hasti removed the cloth and was surprised that so many gold one-Pahlavi coins had been poured over the nougats. Who had poured the coins on the nougats? And when? And why had they not trusted her?

“My daughter,” Ganjur said, “turn on the television, but mute the sound.” She went to the dining room and saw Parviz seated at the table in his child priest’s clothes. He and the children of the guests had eaten up all the food. Hasti didn’t know which button to push. She tried several until finally the first button from the top turned the television on, and the voice of a man who was praising New Year’s filled the room. “Hasti Jan,” Mother Eshi said, “turn the fifth button to the left.” But Hasti didn’t know if that was the fifth button from the top or from the bottom. Finally, Parviz came to her aid.

When she returned to the living room, Ganjur was saying, “The coin is a sign of good luck, and sumac . . .”

“And sumac,” Murray said, “makes a person’s mouth water.” He added in Persian, “May I die for . . .”

Then Ahmad Ganjur talked about the hyacinth—that it was a rare flower, and he said the apple is a symbol of fertility and birth. And he told the story of the dervish who had given the barren king and queen a magic apple and explained that before having sex, the king should eat one half of the apple and the queen the other, and their barrenness was cured.

Murray pointed at the apples in the fruit basket and asked, “Ahmad, are these apples also magical?” And everyone laughed.

Bijan looked at his watch, went to the television, and turned up the sound. “May God change our lives for the best!” Hasti thought, Just change our lives. And clang . . . New Year’s had officially come to the feast of the earth.

All of the guests except Mrs. Hitti stood up—some with difficulty and La‘l Beigom easily. Mrs. Hitti said that her leg had gone to sleep. They all clapped and showered each other with kisses. Hasti got goose bumps from Mr. Crossley’s kisses. Then Ganjur put his hand in the pocket of his tunic and took out a box with a white velvet cover. Three golden bangles that were connected with each other at one spot and three golden chains that continued this connection. At the end of each chain, there was a bunch of emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, in order. He put the bangles on Mother Eshi’s wrist and showered her hand, neck, and lips with kisses. Mother Eshi showed the bangles to everyone, and Ganjur said that green, white, and red are the colors of the Iranian flag . . . “I love my country. Every bit of my existence is bound to this land of Ahura.”

“Pretty woman,” he said to Mother Eshi, “pass around the nougats and gold coins,” and he warned that the gift for each one is a single gold coin. “It’s a good omen. Until the end of the year your pocket will be full and you will be successful in your work. But the number one is a sign that God is one and has no equal.”

Dr. Bahari exploded in laughter and said, “Ahmad is cheating here. His Excellency Zoroaster did not write any such thing.”

Mother Eshi passed around the nougats and coins, and everyone, even the children and even Hasti, Pasita, Bijan, and Parviz, took one coin and a handful of nougats. Hasti had put paper tissues here and there on the tablecloth.

Keshvar the dealer, Navidi the driver, Taghi Khan, the Afghan cook, Naneh Agha, and Lady all came into the adjacent hall. Lady went toward Parviz and placed herself in his arms. The master of the house took the bowl of nougats and coins from his wife. As he gave each one of them a coin and a handful of nougats with his own hand, everyone kissed it. Hasti delivered the paper tissues on time.

Hasti took the empty Japanese flower-bird bowl to Bijan’s room, put it on his bed, and closed the door. When she returned, everyone was sitting in his or her place, and Keshvar and the servants were sitting on the platform in the side room—Keshvar and Naneh Agha cross-legged and the men on two knees. Ahmad Ganjur had eaten the first egg that had been put on the mirror. Facing Hasti, he said, “My daughter, the saltshaker.”

Hasti went to the dining table and brought the saltshaker. Ganjur said to Hasti, “I ate the first egg for the health of my eldest child, and I am eating the second one for your health, my dear, and the third for the health of Parviz.”

Dr. Bahari tittered and said, “It’s good that you don’t have eight children. If you ate eight eggs, you’d have a stomachache!”

“Then you would treat me!” Ganjur said.

Mother Eshi gave the gift eggs to Mrs. Hitti, La‘l Banu, and Peggy and said, “They’re real paintings. Hasti drew them.” Then Pasita passed around the bowl containing the colored eggs.

Ahmad Ganjur’s speech would not end. Without anyone asking, he went toward the egg, the simplest sign of fertility and birth, and he asked himself, “Now, why is it placed on a mirror . . . ? When the cosmological bull tosses the earth from one horn to the other at the moment of the turning of the year, the egg on the mirror will shake. But the mirror is also sacred. You see life in the mirror.”

“What is the meaning of the fish in the water?” Mr. Crossley asked.

“Water is the sign of Anahita, the angel of water . . . but fish? I don’t know about that. Perhaps Bijan knows.”

“Fish are also a symbol of Anahita,” Bijan said, “because without water, they can’t live.”

“And now,” Mother Eshi said, “the spirits are present at the New Year’s tablecloth, tasting from among the seven S items.”

The eating then began, and Hasti was among the main people serving. She felt she was playing a part in a silent film run at a fast speed. All the servants were acting with her in this fast-forwarded film. Naneh Agha poured tea, and Pasita passed it around. Hasti, in her stocking feet, was in the middle of the tablecloth pouring porridge into the small flower-bird bowls, and Bijan was placing them in front of the guests. He too had removed his shoes.

Parviz had released Lady, and the children were giving him their empty plates. He was striding down the middle of the tablecloth in his new peasant shoes, filling the plates with food. Lady also came to the tablecloth and sniffed at the fresh chicken and fish on the flower-bird platter. Bijan picked her up and put her in Naneh Agha’s lap. Naneh Agha put a piece of cheese in the cat’s mouth. At the suggestion of Mother Eshi, they went to get Mrs. Hakimi’s homemade sweets. Baklava, coconut Turkish delight, almond Turkish delight, mulberry-shaped marzipan, honey candies, crispy treats, rosettes, and . . . La‘l Beigom said the sweets were peerless and asked where she could get them. Mother Eshi gave her the address of Par Confectionary. Then fruit and nuts. They ate little fruit, but lots of pistachios.

Guided by Taghi Khan, Haji Firuz came into the side room, with his tambourine, red clothes, and trumpet hat, singing, “I say hello to my master, my master, the dear one.” Hasti didn’t know why, but he mistook Mr. Crossley for Ahmad Ganjur. Perhaps because he was closer at hand. Haji Firuz approached him from the side room, hit his tambourine, then put his hand under Mr. Crossley’s chin, and sang, “My master, raise your head . . . My master, why don’t you smile?” Mr. Crossley gave Haji Firuz a shove. He fell into Hasti’s lap and let go of his tambourine, which Hasti snatched from the air. The tambourine gave an alarming, loud sound.

“Go to hell,” Mr. Crossley yelled, “you n****r! Get away from me. You stink!”

Bijan took Haji Firuz’s arm and helped him up, and Hasti put the tambourine in his hand. Bijan led Haji Firuz to the side room next to the platform and whispered something in his ear. But Haji Firuz was silent. He struggled to free himself. Meanwhile, Hasti told Mr. Crossley that Haji Firuz was not Black, that he had blackened his face with soot. “And even if he were . . .” Hasti felt her voice shaking.

Bijan had calmed down Haji Firuz, and he resumed playing and singing, though devoid of gaiety and full of offense. When he sang, “Snap, snap the fingers, snap,” and, at the direction of Ganjur, they all tried to snap their fingers, it was as though Haji Firuz were singing a funeral dirge. Hasti turned and looked at him. Two white furrows of tears were running down his black face. Hasti got up and seated Haji Firuz on the platform. She returned to the living room where she emptied a silver tray of dirty glasses and put nuts, fruit, and sweets in flower-bird bowls. Nothing remained of the porridge. She took the tray to the side hall and placed it on the platform in front of Haji Firuz. “It’s New Year’s, after all,” she said. “Please eat something. That guy was way out of line.”

Taghi Khan brought several crystal carafes on a silver tray and placed it next to Pasita. Each carafe was filled to the brim with red wine. Then he collected glasses and looked for the tray that they had been on, but couldn’t find it. Navidi brought the crystal cups that had also been spread on a silver tray. The Afghan cook brought plates containing caviar sandwiches. Taghi Khan had left and returned with the largest steel tray in the house. With Pasita’s help, he collected the empty or half-finished dishes and cleared half of the tablecloth. Now there was space for the chicken and pickle sandwiches. Those containing the “pearl of the Caspian Sea,” in Ahmad Ganjur’s terms, had been gobbled up as soon as they had been served. “I kiss the tiniest bits of this land of Ahura, especially its caviar.”

Hasti went to the family room and saw that the table in the center of the room was full of balls, tanks, airplanes, ships, astronauts, and crumpled gift wrap. She knew that Ganjur had told the guests to bring gifts only for Parviz, so as not to burden them with expense. But when had Parviz gone after the toys? Probably when he had become bored with his father’s speech.

Hasti decided to leave quietly. She went to the bedroom to get her purse from her mother’s dressing table, and her eyes fell upon a color photo of Salim. Why was Salim’s photo there? Well, probably Mrs. Farrokhi had given the photo to Mother Eshi so that she would show it to Hasti. If she liked the picture, they would set a date for a meeting. But why was the photo of Salim on the table now? She picked up the photo. It had been taken in London. Those same eyes, that same gaze. The same looks except for the mustache and beard. In the corner of the photo, “To my dear mother” and “February.” What year? It was not legible, or Hasti’s eyes were not seeing well enough to read it. Salim was wearing a dark blue suit with shiny gold buttons, and he also wore a tie. He was sitting on a chair with a blue velvet cover. The arms and back of the chair had been engraved, and they looked golden. Salim had leaned so calmly that it was as though he were a statue of Buddha in a state of meditation. But with his eyes open. That night in Grandmother’s house his eyes had been closed. He had said to Hasti, “In your view, I was spacing out.” She put the photo in her purse.

She took Parviz’s gift out of her bag. She also took out the box of Sauvage cologne. She wanted to write on the box, Mr. Ganjur, I have not been, am not, and will not be your daughter. As long as I remember, Mother Eshi even begged that Shahin and I call you “Papa Ahmad.” Never! But the gift wrap completely covered the box of cologne and was full of flowers, drawings, and pictures. She signed the corner of the box, returned to the family room, and put the gifts for father and son on top of one another on the table. She heard the sound of cheers and of Bijan’s voice saying in Persian, “Father, I’ll take Haji Firuz and pick up the performing minstrels.” When he came to the family room, Hasti said, “Bijan Jan, take me home, too, on your way.”

“I understand,” Bijan said.

They went together to the veranda. Cars had filled every empty spot in the garden, and several drivers were sitting on a rug on the veranda around a tablecloth that had been spread before them. Navidi was in charge of the group. They were all eating and drinking. When they saw Bijan and Hasti, several rose. Bijan put his hand on the shoulder of one and said, “Relax.” Navidi wanted to get up, but he couldn’t. Once again, his stomach had caused the button of his new jacket to pop off.

Haji Firuz came to the veranda too. He had a closed handkerchief in his hand. Whose handkerchief was it? And who had given it to him? Bijan took his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers and crammed several bills, without counting them, into Haji Firuz’s closed handkerchief.

A minivan honked and stuck its nose into the garden. The driver realized that no more cars could come in. Five men got out of the car, and Bijan said, “Hasti, wait a moment until I pass them on to Qoli, the Afghan, and return.”

Hasti told Haji Firuz, “That American man didn’t even have an invitation. He thought that you were a Black man. Most Americans don’t like Blacks.”

“I know,” Haji Firuz said. “That young man told me.”

“Where are you going next?”

“College intersection. There’s a party with foreigners there, too.”

“There are two white grooves on your cheeks.”

“That young man gave me some black shoe polish.”

A man with a large pot on his head was coming forward. Another man had a smaller pot on his head. A third had put on his head a tray on which there were several large and small pots. A fourth had on his head a tray on which a white cloth had been spread, and the tray on the head of the fifth man was just the same as that on the head of the fourth man, but the fifth man had a bunch of skewers in his hand as well. Hasti laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. Several of the drivers looked at her. Were they among the gluttons? She was reminded of Obeyd Zakani’s tale Mouse and Cat. The mice, who had heard of the repentance of the cat and his asceticism and piety, put on large trays whatever food they had in their nests and made it a gift. They were also five and came one after another, and in the end, the cat got the five chosen mice . . . Then Hasti remembered that Vali, in directing Sa‘edi’s play, Stick-wielding People of Varzil, had used this very scene, and how appropriate.

Bijan had been gone a long time. The five chosen mice had put their loads on the ground next to the veranda, and Navidi had given each one of them a bottle of Pepsi. Hasti had thought that her mother had been talking about a costume ball. Hasti herself thought of puppet shows and bald heroes, but Ganjur had luxuriant salt-and-pepper hair. If Salim had been there—which, thank God, he wasn’t—he would have said, “Inferiority complex and Weststruckness and satisfying them by means of East-struckness.” He would have said, “It’s showing off history and tradition to a people enamored with history but with only a short history of their own.”

If it were Morad, he would have made a big fuss. He would have yelled, “Consumption, consumption! Weapons, weapons! Oil, copper, uranium, the Middle East, the Third World, the Gulf!” He would have looked at Parviz’s toys and would have said, “The real ones, except for the astronauts, are all stored in His Majesty’s arsenal.” Maybe he would also have talked about the hungry people of India and Biafra.

Haji Firuz sat next to Bijan in the white Peugeot. Bijan showed him where the mirror was, and he polished his face with the black shoe polish. Hasti sat in the back. Silence. When Haji Firuz got out, Hasti sat in his place next to Bijan and said, “You wrote your father’s speech about New Year’s and the seven display items very well.”

Bijan added, “Especially considering the audience members who are mad about sex.”

“Where did you get all this material in the space of just five days?” Hasti asked.

“In fact,” Bijan said, “I’m an absolute expert on the New Year’s ceremony. Every year at USC we put on a New Year’s festival. My father would send me sprouted wheat, service-berries, wild rue, and whatever books of Pourdavoud, articles of Dr. Farahvashi, and whatever else had been written about New Year’s. A speech about New Year’s was always my responsibility.”

Hasti was too tired to ask, where or what is USC?

Bijan pushed in the car’s lighter. He lit a cigarette and said, “Three whole nights this old man paced the floor, memorizing my writing. He repeated it back to me, and I corrected his pronunciation. And, indeed, he did a fine job.”

He stopped at a red light at the Darvazeh Dowlat intersection. The street was empty. Most of the shops were closed. There wasn’t even a policeman at the intersection. The light was still red when Bijan moved the car forward. He put out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray, which was full of half-smoked or not even half-smoked cigarettes, and said, “This man has done so much for me.”

Hasti didn’t say anything.

“Are you disappointed?”

Bijan asked. “Bijan,” Hasti said, “you are like my brother. When they cut your umbilical cord from your mother, you were still emotionally attached, but little by little you became free. Listen to me: Also cut your emotional cord with your father. Let go of this strong attachment. If not, he will pull you along with himself to the bottom of the pit.”

“And you,” Bijan said, “should do the same with Mother Eshi, however much I love her like my own mother. This woman has never spoken to me disrespectfully.” He thought for a moment and continued. “But I can’t do this, and neither can you. Me, because I am indebted to my father and I don’t want to be ungrateful and break his heart. You, because with the help of your mother, you find access to a world that prepares you for reality. Your mother is looking for suitors for you . . .”

Hasti smiled bitterly and finished Bijan’s words: “And she is finding rich, sheikhly suitors.”

“I never said such a thing,” Bijan said, “and I never will.”

When they arrived at Valiabad Street, Hasti saw Grandmother sitting on a stool in front of the house door with the door lamp lit. She told Bijan, “Let me out right here.”