10

They needed to go visit the Foreign Artists’ House and take note of any inadequacies. This house had been renovated and decorated under the supervision of Hasti and Morad. Hasti knew that the house was being prepared as a residence for foreign artists who travel to Iran, but she had not told Morad. Now it didn’t matter anymore, since Morad had resigned from membership in the council some time ago. He had also set off on the right path, so he wouldn’t stir up a storm like he did the day they were choosing carpet designs. He wouldn’t cut off ties with Hasti, either, like he did that same day. A few days after that, he had been the first to make up, saying, “I can’t stand being away from you.”

When they arrived at the Foreign Artists’ House, they sat in the living room on two kilim-covered sofas placed opposite one another so that Professor Mani could catch his breath. The cushions on the sofas were the true children of the kilims. They had inherited the same colors and the same geometric shapes, their colors as red as that of their mother. Professor Mani took a handkerchief from his pocket and dried the sweat from his forehead. Hasti reproached herself for not bringing the professor by taxi. Turning to Hasti, Professor Mani said, “It looks like you and Pakdel were on the same page from the outset. The design on the embroidered curtains looks great, and Pakdel has renovated the mirrorwork and the ceiling plaster quite well.”

“In this house,” Professor Isa said, “the foreign artists will live in the context of Persian artworks.”

“So what?” Sohrab asked.

Zandi cleaned his glasses and said, “Sohrab, could you please stop acting like Pakdel . . . So that they will know Persian art and introduce it to the world.”

“Well,” Sohrab said, “these international freeloaders, with beard or without, male or female, but surely beautiful, could stay at hotels and visit museums.”

“This place will one day be a museum, too,” Professor Mani said, “and one of its virtues is that it displays some recent innovations in Iran’s handicrafts. Look at the terra cotta designs. Kufi calligraphy in yellow on a blue background, free from miniatures needlessly filling the background. Of course, we didn’t touch the marble bath attached to the house, nor the traditional gym, nor the fountain room. It’s probably Pakdel who has fixed the fountain and turned it on. We have also added several bathrooms, Western toilets, two modern kitchens, and a central heating system.”

“Why two kitchens?” Sohrab asked.

“You weren’t there when we were getting approval for the Foreign Artists’ House,” Zandi replied. “This house has twenty-two rooms.”

Some sounds came from the kitchen next to the living room. Someone opened the refrigerator and closed it. Some other sounds, and then the sizzling of something frying. Hasti was surprised. After all, she was holding the house key. There must be other keys, too.

A chubby woman in a red silk bathrobe came into the living room carrying a tray. When she saw all those people, she was startled. She didn’t say hello. She put the tray on the engraved table in the center of the room and sat down. She wasn’t short on appetite, either.

“Dr. Isa,” Sohrab said, “it’s a good thing that we understand the meaning of Foreign Artists’ House. If only Pakdel were here.”

Zandi took off his glasses and started to clean them. The woman swallowed her bite and took a big gulp of liquid from the ceramic cup to help the bite go down. “First of all,” she said, “I’m an artist, too. You’ll see my show on TV in a couple nights. Second, the boss told me to come here and rest for a few days.”

“Domestic artists also have the right to stay,” Professor Isa said.

Hasti heard Professor Mani asking for water, and she ran to the kitchen. The sink was full of dark blue ceramic plates and cups of the same kind. She knew that each plate and each cup had been decorated with blue twin paisleys. They had ordered them from Hamedan. She washed one of the cups, filled it with water, and returned to the living room. There was a dark blue pill in Professor Mani’s hand.

When her eyes fell on Morad at her office, she cheered up. They went together to the Plan Organization cafeteria. It wasn’t busy. They sat at a table. A woman with long, straight black hair was sitting opposite Hasti. Hasti had seen the woman several times in the corridors of the ministry, behind the door of this or that room, walking or standing or sitting on the staff chair. But she didn’t recognize the man across from the woman. When the man turned and, with his right hand, wrote something on the palm of his left hand, she recognized him. He was the chief of staff of the ministry. And when the waiter came toward him, she knew that he had asked for the bill.

After they had ordered, Hasti said, “So?”

“So what, my dear lady?”

“Did you think about it? The answer to my question? I proposed to you.”

“Look, Hasti, I don’t want to bring you misfortune.”

“Look, Morad,” Hasti said, “the only good fortune is love. Why are you withholding it?”

“My heart is brimming with love for you . . . ,” Morad replied, “but alas . . . Let’s not ruin it with marriage.”

“Don’t give me such nonsense,” Hasti said. “I’ve turned twenty-seven years old. Like all women, I too need a warm home with a few children whose father ought to be you!”

“I’m sorry,” Morad said, “but I don’t have the means.”

Hasti was angry. “If you don’t want to be the father of my children, then I must give in to marrying a suitor who . . .”

Morad interrupted her. “Then you will have broken my heart.” He sighed and continued, “And no craftsman can be found in this world who can mend a broken heart.”

Hasti raised her head and saw Mardan Khan standing at their table. After greetings, she asked, “Do you eat lunch here, too?”

“Almost every day, except Wednesdays.”

Without anyone inviting him, he sat beside them. “What would you like to eat?” Morad asked.

“I’ve had my lunch, thank you.”

“How about coffee?”

“I’ll smoke a cigarette and take my leave.”

Then he turned to Hasti. “Why didn’t you come to our garden on Sizdah Bedar? If you had come and had tied blades of grass, as the Persian custom goes, you would have found yourself a husband.” He winked at Morad, who was eyeing him.

Hasti was laughing in her heart. She saw that Morad’s eyes were filled with surprise. She thought, He must be thinking that my suitor is this very guy who just winked at him. Of course, Mardan dyed his hair and mustache. Because of his mustache, everyone who knew him called him “Douglas Mustache,” but Hasti didn’t know to which Douglas this nickname referred. The woman with the long, straight hair and behind her, the chief of staff of the ministry, passed by their table. Mardan Khan looked the woman up and down and said softly, “She’s not a bad piece.”

“We played twenty-one with Mother Eshi,” he continued. “She lost four hundred tomans. Her soft white hands with the diamond ring and red nail polish are perfect for holding cards, and for shuffling and dealing cards. May I die for . . .”

The waiter put their food in front of Hasti and Morad.

Murray motioned to Morad and asked, “Is this young man your colleague?”

“No.”

“Don’t be fooled by him. If he wants to marry you, I must first examine every part of him.” He laughed loudly.

Hasti moaned in her heart, Morad, why don’t you slap him? Apparently Morad had preferred eating to listening.

Murray extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and said, “I was about to call you and invite you for next Saturday night. It’s a farewell party for Hitti.”

“Mr. Hitti is leaving?”

“Of course.”

“So Mr. Ganjur will lose his job . . .”

“You underestimate me. I will take on Hitti’s position, and Ahmad will work with me.” He stood up, looked at his watch, and said, “You will come for sure, won’t you? It’s a pajama party.”

“You mean I should come in my nightgown?” Hasti asked. “Never . . .”

“I’m not sure, you pretty girl, when you will get free from the evil of medieval ideas! Girl, how many times will you live?”

“I’m not pretty, and I’m not coming in my nightgown, either!”

“Wear whatever you want. Bijan will pick you up.”

He thought for a second and said, “And now Bijan is your colleague, deputy director of the Office of Book Evaluation.”

Then he left.

Morad had shaken Mardan Khan’s hand firmly, and he had also eaten half of his food. But Hasti’s food had become cold, and she was thinking. I knew it. I knew it. Bijan, deputy director of the censorship office . . . Most likely Sir Edward made it happen for him. But then, I work in the same ministry. My hands are dirty, too. Professor Mani says, “Persian artwork, which I am in charge of collecting, will end up in museums one day.” Perhaps Bijan can also help good books survive. But Jalal always said, “In any organization, if you don’t turn with the wheels of that organization, you will be crushed.”

Grandmother said that Salim Farrokhi had called several times. Once he had spoken to Grandmother, and twice he had talked to Shahin. He had asked Touran Khanom where he could buy fiberboard and ivory, which she didn’t know. But he hadn’t asked that Hasti call him. His back didn’t hurt anymore. One reason was that the weather was getting warmer, and another was that he had gotten a cortisone shot. He had chatted with Shahin a lot, asking about his trip, but he hadn’t even sent his regards to Hasti. He hadn’t even asked if she were home.

In their last encounter, Hasti had become disgusted with Salim. She knew the reason well, and she was running away from this knowledge. Salim hadn’t said a word that Hasti could disagree with when she was eavesdropping in the bathroom. And if he had given shelter to Farhad Dorafshan, whose hands were tainted with blood and who had planted a bomb in Hitti’s car, he had no choice, because that big oaf had been his friend for many years.

Hasti asked Grandmother and Shahin not to answer the phone anymore so that she could pick it up herself. She decided to tell Salim, What do you want from me? I who have a thousand and one religious and social flaws, I who am not pretty, I who am old. If you think you can shape me like wax in your hand, you are mistaken. My Morad has come. I proposed to him myself. He has not agreed, but seeing him is the biggest gift that “Fortunato” has bestowed on me . . . You keep using foreign words, Aqa Salim!

But Salim’s voice on the phone was the best news, and it made Hasti forget all her hard feelings. She apologized that she had neither really wished him the best for the New Year, nor had she bid him a decent good-bye. And for taking leave from him in tears, and for not having accepted the gold coin Mrs. Farrokhi had offered her as a gift. Salim told her that he had, in fact, been offended by the latter. Hasti promised to explain the next time they met. Salim told her that with every passing day, he had missed Hasti Khanom more than before. How badly Adam and Eve needed each other!

They talked for a long time. Salim said that he had bought her a piece of ivory and several pieces of fiberboard. He had gotten the address from Professor Mani. And that Hasti must paint for her “brother” the same painting on ivory. He urged her to tell him what she had drawn. He made Hasti promise that she was going to give him his present. But for now, he was inviting her to go see an illustrated, religious narration. At any rate, making the tableaus for religious narrations was a sort of painting.

Hasti gladly accepted the invitation and asked if she could bring La‘l Banu and Grandmother, which of course she could. But who is La‘l Banu? La‘l Banu is a Shi‘a Muslim Pakistani woman who loves this sort of thing, and yes, she knows Persian, too. She attends Shi‘a recitation rituals without her husband’s knowledge.

Before hanging up, Hasti asked, “After the religious narration, would you like a guest?”

Salim replied, “A dear guest like you is always welcome!”

“Okay. I’ll come to your place and tell you why I didn’t accept the New Year’s gift from your mother. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll go to Mrs. Farrokhi and receive my gift.”

“I’m afraid we can’t meet in my house,” Salim said. “We have some guests that I prefer would not meet you.”

Hasti almost slammed down the receiver. Yes, of course, she thought. Niku Khanom who secretly stares at you and peels tangerines for you is there. There is also Mr. Farhad Dorafshan, who has a crush on me. What kind of a disorderly household is this that you can’t find a single quiet place?

“Hello, hello? Hasti Khanom?”

“I was thinking,” Hasti said, “that you could come to our humble abode . . .”

“No. With your grandmother’s permission, we’ll go to a restaurant and have dinner together.”

Salim had brought two black chadors and a reed mat. La‘l Banu and Hasti put on the chadors and followed Salim along with Touran Jan. A tableau depicting the martyrdom of Imam Hossein, the third Shi‘a imam, had been hung on the wall in front of a large empty lot, and they had covered it with a curtain. A man in cleric’s clothing was arranging the children, seating the taller ones behind the shorter ones. The men sat themselves behind the children, and the women, in prayer chadors, sat behind the men.

Some of the women had wrapped the chador over their chests and tied it behind their necks. Most of them had babies—sleeping, awake, or crying—in their laps. Salim spread the reed mat on the ground beside the women. The women became upset. One of them said, “The upper crust!”

The cleric came to Salim’s aid, and they shook hands. Then he recited to the women a phrase from the Quran, “Whoever comes to you, welcome them.” The women heard it, but they still turned their backs on the reed mat and the upper crust sitting on it.

The narrator was a dark-skinned man who had a turban-like head covering with one end of the turban hanging down from his shoulder. He was wearing a robe but not an overcloak. He asked the crowd to say “Peace be upon the Prophet” loudly, and they did so three times. He drew the corner of the curtain aside and pointed with a long stick to the image on the right side of the tableau. “Look closely. See this young man from whose grave fire is soaring? His mother has cursed him. She has raised her breast to the sky and has cursed the milk that she gave him. May you never be cursed by your parents. Say, ‘Amen.’

“Look at the young butcher, who had cheated on his sale . . .”

The cleric standing beside the crowd said in Arabic, “Wayl un-lil mutaffifin (woe to the stingy) . . . Woe to those who cheat in sales!”

Hasti looked at the young butcher’s severed hand, which had fallen in a corner like a bird. The butcher’s wrist was bleeding.

The narrator pointed to a black square building on top of which was a black flag and beside it, the outline of two bare feet, and he said those were the imam’s footprints. He hit his forehead and said, “Whatever wish you have, ask it from Our Holy Master, Abolfazl.” Then he started reciting, “O Abbas, Ali Abbas, we have turned to you. For God’s sake, O Abbas, lift this sorrow from our hearts.”

The men pounded on their chests and the women wept.

The narrator drew the curtain aside again. “Look at the bridge in the other world—thinner than a hair and sharper than a sword. You will be given your record of deeds, and your sins will be weighed on a scale.”

Hasti raised her head, but she didn’t see Salim, and again dislike for Salim returned. “I will soften her like wax in my hand.” Again she remembered, “She has a thousand and one religious and social flaws.” Being an orphan and poor, she thought, haven’t been my fault, after all . . . The fact that an old woman, who is now pounding on her knees and moaning in sorrow, has raised me is not my fault. The fact that Grandmother has poured her venom into my soul drop by drop hasn’t been my fault, either.

Hasti didn’t consider herself a sinner. She had done her best. She had tried to get rid of her complexes. Like a creeping vine, she had clung to Khalil Maleki, Jalal, Simin, and Professor Mani, without, in Sohravardi’s words, drying them out. If she had flaws, it was not their fault. She thought how strange she seemed to the people who were sitting beside her and had turned their backs on her. Was Hasti a misfit? Was she not from this world? Was she mixed among these people by accident?

A woman without a prayer chador arrived, her head wrapped in a black scarf. Hasti recognized the woman from Simin’s amber necklace, which was hanging from her neck. The necklace that Jalal had brought for Simin from Russia. So, it was not an outside thief. Impulsively, Hasti shouted, “Haji Ma‘sumeh, come sit here next to me.”

“Why should I sit next to you?” Haji Ma‘sumeh asked. But when she recognized Hasti, she said, “Oh, my darling Hasti Khanom! What are you doing here?”

The cleric said in a commanding tone, “Ladies, be quiet.” Haji Ma‘sumeh put her hand on her necklace and sat down on the reed mat. Hasti thought, What a small world!

The narrator was talking about hell. The fires of hell . . . The eyes, the heads, and . . . The day of fifty thousand years, the angels of torture, the boiling cauldron, the snakes of hell . . . Then he talked about heaven. Virgin male and female angels, the fountain of heaven . . .

Haji Ma‘sumeh whispered in Hasti’s ear, “You’re not going to tell the lady, are you?”

“No.”

The narrator shouted, “Silence, sister! Woman, quiet that child.”

The narrator referred to Imam Ali distributing water from the fountain of heaven among the faithful . . . Imam Reza sitting on the step, giving refuge to the deer. The hunter, with his bow and arrow, standing in front of the imam, as if aiming at Imam Reza. Both men and women shouted, “O protector of the deer!” Touran Jan also asked for help from the protector of the deer. La‘l Banu’s shoulders were trembling under her chador, tears had made their way down into Hasti’s throat, and Haji Ma‘sumeh was crying, “Accept your sinful servant so that I can come to kiss your feet in respect.”

The narrator drew the curtain aside more than before, and the crowd released a huge sigh. Hasti thought that it might be the center of the scene. Imam Ali on his horse, the largest figure in the image . . . and the voice of the narrator: “My Master, Imam Ali, killing the pagan Marrat Qeis. Marrat Qeis and his horse have been split in two by Imam Ali’s two-edged sword. Blood has spurted out. A halo of light around Imam Ali’s head . . .”

The narrator had reached the desert of Karbala. The curtain on the image had been completely pulled aside. Several tents . . . His Holiness Zayn al-Abedin had put his head on a pillow, sleeping under the tent. His Holiness Ali Akbar had lain his head on His Holiness Imam Hossein’s knee. Around this imam’s head, there is a halo brighter than any other halo in the image. Her Holiness Zeinab with a white face veil. Other women in the image also all wearing face veils, with a similar cloth extending down over their chests. A woman is holding a baby, and from the description by the narrator, Hasti learns that the baby is His Holiness Ali Asghar. And now the actual Karbala scene, as described by the cleric: “It is the night of Ashura. Our Master, Imam Hossein, is standing on top of the hill. Addressing his followers, he declares, ‘You leave. My family and I will stay. I will turn out the lanterns so that you won’t be embarrassed to leave.’”

The cleric hits his forehead and says, “But you were right, O Imam.”

Hasti thought of Sa‘edi’s play Place of Murder. The day he was reading it to Simin, Hasti was there, too. There was also a film script that started with this very scene. Imam Hossein turned out the lanterns. Many ran away, and they set out running in history. “Gholam,” Simin had said, “you have borrowed from The Time Tunnel television series.”

The runaways were still running in history until they reached the era of Azod al-Dowleh Daylami in the tenth century. It was the day of Ashura, and the people were all in black. On the wall, above the votive water stand, was written “O Aba Abdollah al-Hossein, help us.” People drank water from the stand and said, “To the memory of your thirsty lips, O Hossein.” Men were pounding their chests, hitting their backs with chains, and reciting “O Hossein,” and women were weeping. Hasti did not remember it all, but she did remember that the runners in history reached the Safavid era in the sixteenth century. And the poet Mohtasham Kashani was reciting an elegy for Imam Hossein in court and then . . .

Then they reached the present era. They were performing a religious street play for the night of Ashura. When they reached this very scene and Imam Hossein was about to turn out the lanterns, the runners in history did not let him. The lanterns remained on. “But you have wives and children,” Imam Hossein said. One of the runners turned to the crowd and said, “Don’t go. Don’t go. He’s right. But we will all die sometime. Why not on the path of truth?” And he turned to Imam Hossein and said, “O Imam, but you knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell us? Why?”

“Anyone who stands by his true words,” Simin said, “will win out in history.”

Now Hasti was thinking of asking Simin to get Sa‘edi’s play Place of Murder from him, and Hasti would have it published by talking to Bijan, who was the deputy director at the Office of Book Evaluation. And if Bijan doesn’t do it, she will know that he is turning with the wheels of that organization.

The last scene: bodiless heads, headless bodies, split horses, split camels, Imam Hossein’s head on a spear.

Wailing has filled the air. Even the children are crying. Hasti cries, too. The narrator and Aqa Sheikh Sa‘id cry, too. This wailing, Hasti thinks, is for the thousands of years of our history. And has any runner reached the destination?

Aqa Sheikh Sa‘id sat in front, and La‘l Banu, Hasti, and Touran Jan sat in back. Salim started the car. Touran Jan was still crying. In response to La‘l Banu, Hasti explained that it must belong to the Qajar era. “I counted. He had drawn a hundred faces. Well, of course, they are two dimensional and very basic, but with respect to colorfulness and power of influence, it is unique.”

In English, La‘l Banu expressed her interest in buying such a religious tableau, and Hasti said that she would take her to Professor Mani. “He has three excellent religious tableaus—two by Qollar Aqasi and one by Modabber.”

“You are not only a good artist,” La‘l Banu said, “you will also be a good poet. I edited, the best I could, the poem that you composed in English, and I read it to Helen Hitti. She started crying. She asked permission to add a bit to it, too, to use American folklore so that Americans will like it, and to have it published under the names of all three of us.”

Hasti wanted to say, “What a concoction it will be if three people cook the soup.” But she said nothing. She was staring at Salim’s ear that was obviously listening. Very few people, she thought, have considered the beauty of the ear. One can see pictures of ears only in biology textbooks. The ear with all those lines, angles, turns and folds, with ups and downs. In fact, having angles and protrusions is one of the mysteries of beauty . . . A cheek under which a bone protrudes . . .

I will compose a poem for the ear, but not for Salim’s ear.

At the door of the house, when Touran Jan was getting out, Hasti wanted to get out, too. “But Hasti Khanom,” Salim said, “didn’t we agree to have dinner together at a restaurant?”

“Yes, you invited me, but to be honest, now I have neither an appetite nor a good mood. I would like to go home and cry and think.”

“But I have made a reservation.”

“You can take Niku Khanom.”

“Come sit in the front,” Salim said. “I must talk to you.”

Hasti sat next to Salim, and Salim turned off the car. “Are you jealous of Niku?” he asked.

“I was looking at your ear. I wanted to kiss your ear.”

“So you are jealous of Niku.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“My dear,” Salim said, “you are too old to act like the fabled Christian girl—in Attar’s The Conference of the Birds—who convinced her Muslim suitor to carry out many demeaning tasks. Nor am I Sheikh Sanan, whom you can make become a swineherd.”

“You’re ruining it. You started it well, but you’re ruining it.”

Mohsen Run came out of Teimur Khan’s shop carrying his loudspeaker, Grandmother’s New Year’s gift. He held the loudspeaker in front of his mouth and said, “Hasti Khanom, Farideh ate cheese today and said that she wasn’t afraid of cheese anymore.”

Hasti rolled down the car window and said, “Tell her, ‘Good going, girl.’” She explained to Salim that Farideh had been afraid of cheese since she was little.

“Sometimes,” Salim said, “I think you’re psychologically imbalanced. Sometimes I think you’re a merciless woman.”

“How come? You have only seen me a few times!”

“Because you are toying with me,” Salim said. “You are pulling me this way and that. I invite you. You don’t come. Just say ‘no’ so that I know where I stand.”

“Women are not allowed to be sad?” Hasti asked. “Women are not allowed to have doubts? Women are not allowed to think?”

She told herself, He wants to break up, and he’s looking for an excuse. I could set him free by giving him a last chance. “My friend came back,” she said. “He won’t get married.”

Salim honked the horn several times, as if he were taking a bride.

Teimur Khan came out of his shop. When he saw those two, he was surprised, and he frowned.

“Why didn’t you say this earlier? Let’s go to the notary and get married right now. Then I’ll take you home to introduce you. ‘Father, Mother, Sister, Niku, Nanny, Taji, Hadi, Abd al-Reza, I introduce Mrs. Hasti Farrokhi, my wife.’ Then you will share your sorrows with me.”

“I wish I could,” Hasti said. “I wish sorrows could be shared.”

“What shall I do? Shall we go to the notary?”

“No.”

“Shall we go to the restaurant?”

“No.”

“Shall we go to my house?”

“No.”

“Shall I come to your house?”

“No.”

Salim opened the glove compartment and gave Hasti a package that Hasti knew contained fiberboard and ivory. “So allow me to leave,” he said. “You may get out.”

“I am neither mentally ill nor merciless,” Hasti said. “I just don’t know what I want and what I don’t want.”

And she got out.

Hasti drew the first sketch on the fiberboard without any previous thought. She set her subconscious, her instinct, and her soul free, and the three of them collaborated and guided her hand such that when the work was finished, Hasti was surprised. No, surprised was not the right word. She was shocked!

In the center, a tree that had lowered its head due to its load of bitter oranges. Bare trees or trees with few leaves surrounded the bitter orange tree. On top of each tree, a baby monster sitting and staring at the bitter orange tree. A monster sleeping under the bitter orange tree, another monster sitting above his head. A younger monster holding onto the leg of the sleeping monster.

This was not a gift that she could give to anyone. Nor was it appropriate for New Year’s!