14

Fakhri told Hasti that Bijan Ganjur had called twice and that he had even come in person one day. He had something important to discuss with her. As Hasti’s hand went toward the telephone, someone knocked on the door. At Hasti’s “come in,” Bijan entered. He sat in the armchair and instructed Fakhri not to let anyone disturb them.

He lit a cigarette and told Hasti, who had sat on a chair next to him, that her mother was pregnant. Hasti asked why sharing this news was so important, and Bijan said that he and Hasti together could resolve the issue. Hasti responded that it wasn’t such a difficult problem—that in due time her mother would give birth.

“Listen to me,” Bijan said, “and don’t interrupt. Your mother is thinking of getting a divorce from my father.” He added that this would hurt him and Hasti, and if they counted Parviz, then three people would be hurt. And if they counted all the people around, then . . .

Hasti finished Bijan’s sentence: “ . . . the number would be huge.” She added, “But now that she has become pregnant in her forties, why does she want to get a divorce?”

“She has told me,” Bijan replied, “that she is in love with Mardan Tavassoli and that the child is his. But she hasn’t told Father that yet. She plans to put her hand on the Quran and beg him to divorce her so that she can go her own way. She’ll tell him that if he doesn’t divorce her, she’ll write a letter to the attorney general and say that he was the cause of her suicide. She’ll cut her veins in the bathtub, or eat enough opium, or put her hand on a bare electric wire.”

Bijan suggested that they go together to see Mardan and convince him to dissuade Mother Eshi from placing her hopes on him. Then the two of them would go and talk with Mother Eshi. What ties are knotted together in people’s lives and how hard it is to undo those knots! The emotional baggage . . .

Together they went upstairs to Mardan Tavassoli’s office. The stairs were sparkling, and Bijan was comforting Hasti, saying that there are only a few problems in this world that have no solution, and that if there is no solution, one must just forget about those problems.

Murray had two secretaries, each of whom was the epitome of a certain type of beauty. The dark-skinned beauty with protruding cheekbones and dark eyes had a Latin-script typewriter and a red telephone on the desk in front of her. The blonde beauty with long straight hair, an intercom machine and a Persian-script typewriter in front of her, asked Bijan if they had an appointment.

“Tell him our names; he’ll see us.”

“Please have a seat. He’s in a meeting now.”

At last, the office door of Mr. Hitti’s replacement opened, and Mardan came out, along with Mr. Crossley and Sir Edward. All three greeted Bijan and Hasti, and Crossley wouldn’t let go of Hasti’s hand. Hasti asked Sir Edward how La‘l Banu was doing. Sir Edward replied, “Come visit her one day soon. She’s very lonely. I’ve bought her a talking parrot.”

“I’ll give you my German Shepherd,” Crossley said.

Sir Edward complained that La‘l is scared of dogs and considers them impure.

Mardan laughed loudly and said, “Edward is foreign and impure, too. He’s converted to Islam, but he hasn’t been circumcised. They should place him in a vat with a hole and call a penis-trimming doctor who specializes in bloodless circumcision to do it, poor him . . .”

Except for Edward, everyone laughed, even Hasti and Bijan. Hasti remembered Touran Jan’s words: “If only there were a joyous circumcision party! There’s nothing but funerals . . .” Hasti shifted from one foot to the other restlessly. Edward’s face had turned beet red. He raised his right index finger in the air and threatened, “I won’t approve your budget.”

Then Crossley and Edward spoke in the same difficult language they had spoken at Hitti’s farewell party. Crossley raised his voice, and Edward raised his higher, until Mardan gave up and apologized. “And if you don’t approve my budget,” he said, “I’ll take it as a conflict of interest between British and American cousins in Iran.”

A man in jeans and short sleeves came into the secretaries’ room with a folder in his hand. He said hello and followed Hasti, Bijan, and Mardan into the office of the country’s top educational expert. Mardan sat at his desk and asked Bijan why Ahmad hadn’t come to the office for the past several days and why he had given some time off to his secretary, Hitti’s former secretary, who knows all the ins and outs of their work.

The man stood by the desk. He took a passport and several plane tickets out of the folder, laid them in front of Mardan, and said that he had gotten PanAm tickets. Boeing 707, flight 143. He asked if he should telegraph Mardan’s mother-in-law, and Mardan replied, “Next weekend.”

“Then may I be excused, sir?” the man asked.

And Mardan replied, “Go, my man.”

“So how is it,” Mardan asked, “that you have come to visit humble me? Perhaps you want me to be a witness to your marriage.” He added that he had considered Bijan for Hasti . . . and that, that boy—Morad Pakdel—is no good for her. He seemed like an ill-fated person to him . . . “And despite all Eshi’s compliments, Salim Farrokhi acts as if everyone owes him—such a gentleman . . . He has frightening eyes.” Mardan rang, and the servant appeared instantly.

“Turkish coffee? Tea? Nescafé?” Mardan asked.

“Nescafé.”

Hasti was staring at the tickets on the desk and thinking. Perhaps he wants to be rid of Peggy and the children. For one moment she thought, Maybe it is serious and he wants to marry Mother Eshi, and in that case, there would be no need for their interference. But at the bottom of her heart, she knew that there would be no marriage and that becoming the country’s top expert in educational affairs was the result of having an American wife. As Hasti was picking up the cup of Nescafé, she asked Mardan to order that no one disturb them. Pressing a button on a machine that looked like the machine in front of the blonde girl and hearing a pleasant voice that said, “Yes, sir?” he issued the order.

“Sir,” Hasti said, “please leave my mother alone. You’ll just have one fewer in your harem.”

Mardan laughed. “Let her enjoy her life for a little while.”

“Are you prepared to marry my mother?”

“What are you talking about? If I like a woman, I don’t need to marry her. I like many women, so as you said, should I assemble a harem?”

“Eshrat Khanom,” Bijan said, “has interpreted your liking her as love. She’s waiting for you to propose to her.”

“You’re kidding. There were never any words of that sort between us.”

Mardan opened the inlaid box on his desk, and the box started playing a happy tune. He put a cigarette between his lips and fiddled with the lighter until it gave off a flame. He took a puff. He took several puffs. He put the cigarette in the crystal ashtray so that it would smoke away, and he caressed his thin mustache.

Those unfortunate ones cut themselves off from any kind of joy, even from love. They consider a romantic relationship forbidden, even though they are only trial members . . . I shouldn’t be jealous of Farzaneh . . . Sit for five hours cleaning guns. Exchange books and guns. Exercise. Climb mountains. Go to Palestine or the outskirts of Nishapur . . .

Mardan’s voice brought her back. “What are you thinking about?”

“So that they can do something for these people.”

“Hasti,” Bijan asked, “what are you talking about?”

Hasti was startled. That’s how one comes to hallucinate, becomes stricken by nightmares . . .

Bijan asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

Hasti turned to Mardan and said, “My mother is pregnant and she says the child is yours.”

“She knows well that it’s not.”

“So, you admit that you have had an affair with her?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“Where did you see each other?” Bijan asked.

Mardan laughed loudly. “I’ll give you the address. You can go there to have sex. A four-bedroom apartment on Vila Street. The apartment is free in the morning. Although Dr. . . .”

“Dr. Bahari?” Hasti asked.

“Hasti and I are like brother and sister,” Bijan said, “and we are not into this kind of indecency.”

“You mean we are into indecency, and you are better than us? No, my dear, you too take Pasita to Erect Hill. I saw you myself.”

“Stop it!” Hasti shouted. “Stop reciting your conquests. Tell my mother. Make her understand that you don’t intend to marry her. Tell her that it’s not your baby. Do something!”

“Something decisive,” Bijan added. “Call her now, right here in front of us.”

“Who do you think you are? How dare you boss me around?”

“‘A newly arrived youth from the States.’”

Hasti felt like she was about to throw up . . . Get ahold of yourself, girl.

Mardan pressed the button on the intercom, and the pleasant voice said, “Yes, sir?” Mardan ordered her to dial Ahmad Ganjur’s number and ask for Mrs. Ganjur.

Why wasn’t the phone ringing? Why was Mardan rearranging the stuff on his desk?”

The phone rang. “Eshi dear, hello! Did I wake you from a sweet afternoon nap?” He continued giving compliments and calling her darling . . .

Hasti couldn’t hear what her mother was saying to know the reason for these compliments, and she waited until Mardan said, “I’ve heard that you’re pregnant.”

. . .

“Well, I have a sixth sense!”

. . .

“Stop this nonsense, Eshrat dear. You know yourself that’s not true. Stay and live your life with Ahmad and give birth to his child.”

. . .

Mardan was listening and sucking on his upper lip. “I never made such a promise to you. Get this thought completely out of your mind. It’s impossible! I have three children from Peggy. I have no intention of ruining my life. Do you understand?”

. . .

“Seduction is two-sided: the seducer and the seduced.”

. . .

“Write a letter to whomever you want, woman. To the American ambassador, even to the American president.”

. . .

“Stop talking about suicide. I have taught you to enjoy your life. So enjoy it!”

. . .

“Are you crazy? I never promised anything to you. From the very beginning, I defined the extent of our relationship. When the bird is free and the arrow at hand, who wouldn’t take a shot?”

. . .

“Stop crying. If you want to tell Peggy, go ahead. I have defined the extent of my relationship with her, too. Peggy will leave for America with the kids. You want to destroy two families, but you will get nowhere. Mark my words.”

. . .

“Forget about me, woman. You told me from the beginning that you would not intrude on my life.”

He hung up without saying good-bye. He took a cigarette from the inlaid box on the desk and fiddled with his lighter. The lighter wouldn’t spark. Bijan stood up and struck a match for him.

“You two go and talk some sense into her.”

Hasti stood up, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and said, “You are not innocent, either. But why with my mother? You have two beautiful young secretaries.”

Mardan didn’t answer their good-bye, and he didn’t move from where he was sitting. Hasti and Bijan hurried down the stairs. Hasti’s legs were shaking.

Together they went to Bijan’s office. A man with salt-and-pepper hair was sitting in one of the armchairs in the middle of the room. Hasti and Bijan sat on either side of him.

“Did you read the book?” the man asked.

“I don’t have time to read books. Our reviewers have reported that the book is about the Mosaddeq era and the royal court—that it has nothing to do with the Sufi sect of Hurufism and the Safavid era.”

“Mr. Ganjur, the author is dead.”

“But there are many living readers.”

“You’ve gone too far. Using even ordinary words is forbidden. In your opinion, night means ‘repression.’ Morning means ‘the dawn of the revolution.’ Forest means ‘the center of opposition.’ You don’t give publication permission to books that raise awareness, but you do for any nonsensical book laid in front of you . . . The Nobles, Twist, Make Me Hot. With this approach, this nation will never, ever attain social and political awareness.”

“Actually, I agree with you. But the things that you have just said can get you imprisoned. Don’t talk this way any place else.”

“If you are such a democrat, why are you sitting at this desk?”

When the man had left, Hasti said, “Bijan, leave this job.”

“This job is my father’s wish. He says, ‘If you don’t do it, someone else will.’”

“But wasn’t it you who said, ‘Don’t sell yourself to any school of thought’? Now you are defending a flawed ideology. And I wanted to get publication permission for Sa‘edi’s Place of Murder!”

“You work in the same ministry, don’t you?”

Hasti had no answer to that.

“For now,” Bijan continued, “let’s solve the situation with your mother. Perhaps this way I can say that I have paid my dues to my father . . . Then I will think about doing something about my own life.”

Hasti sat at Bijan’s desk and called her home. Why wasn’t Touran Jan answering? Was her leg aching? Had she gone to see Brigadier General or Teimur Khan?

Finally, Grandmother answered, and Hasti told her that she was going to her mother’s house and that her mother was very ill.

Touran Jan asked, “What’s wrong with her?” but it sounded like “What the hell is wrong with her?”

“I wish I knew.”

Hasti was thinking that she needed to do something about her life, too.

Bijan knocked on the gate of his father’s house. Again. Several times. It seemed like there was no one home. Where had all those people gone? Parviz comes home from Tehran American School at 3:00 p.m., and they never leave him alone in the house. It was not Sunday, when Pasita spends her time off with boys from her country. What had happened? Bijan fixed his feet on the metal gate’s protruding decorations and pulled himself up to the top. Hasti heard his feet as he landed after jumping down. The gate opened and Bijan brought the car in. Hasti walked in. The pool, empty; the cement wall, cracked, chipped, swollen; trees whose leaves had been burnt in many places. She was saddened by the flowerless garden.

The battlefield: Mother Eshi was sitting on the floor in a corner of the family room. Her collar was torn, there was a Quran in front of her, and she was screaming nonstop. Pasita was rubbing the back of her neck and her shoulders: “Now, now. Relax.” Ahmad Ganjur was holding his head in his hands and howling. He was yelling. He was braying. He was raising his head and shouting, “All bluster and bluff!”

Parviz was sitting on the family room sofa crying. Naneh Agha was holding a glass and imploring Parviz to take a sip for sake of his brother. “It’s willow extract water and rock candy.” The Afghan cook and Taqi Khan were standing side by side. Both astonished. Lady was there too, holding up her tail.

Mother Eshi’s eyes were on fire. Her face and bare upper chest were red. Her dress was red, too. “I said,” she shouted, “‘Divorce me!’ If not, I’ll write a letter to the minister saying that you are responsible for my suicide.”

Pasita was saying, “Now take it easy. Relax.”

Mother Eshi pushed Pasita away and resumed yelling. “Leave me alone!”

Hasti went toward Parviz. She hugged him and kissed his tears. “Get up and go to the garden and play with Lady.”

“All of you,” Bijan commanded, “except mother and father, leave and go about your work.” He told Pasita, “And you, take Parviz to the garden.”

Naneh Agha took the willow extract water to Ahmad Ganjur and told him to take a sip for Bijan Aqa’s sake. She complained about Bijan, that he had left the master in this state and gone.

Ahmad Ganjur took the glass from Naneh Agha and drank it to the bottom.

“Shamelessness to this degree? Woman, what did you lack in life that you brought this disaster on yourself and on me?”

Mother Eshi stopped yelling. “I just felt like it.”

Pasita was telling Parviz in English, “Get up, my dear.”

Parviz wasn’t moving. “I want to stay with Papa Ganjur.”

And because Pasita was trying to pick him up, he started thrashing and kicking.

“Get up, my dear boy,” Ahmad Ganjur said. “Get up and go with Pasita. I’ll buy you a prettier fish than that one.”

Parviz took Lady in his arms, pouted, and said, “Bad kitty. Did you eat the pretty fish? I’m not speaking with you.”

When the leavers had left, Ahmad Ganjur rose, pulled up his pajama bottoms, and sat on the divan. He bent his head down and started crying. Hasti noticed that Bijan had tears in his eyes, too. Bijan sat next to his father, held his hand, and said, “Father, Mother Eshi is lying. It’s not Mardan’s baby.”

Ahmad Ganjur raised his head. “How do you know?”

“I know. Let the four of us sit together and solve this problem without yelling and shouting and crying.”

He took Mother Eshi’s hand and pulled so that she would rise from the floor. Mother Eshi didn’t yield. “Can’t one solve problems sitting on the floor?”

Bijan began. “Hasti and I went to Mardan’s office this afternoon.”

“That was way out of line!” Mother Eshi shouted. The veins in her neck bulged.

Bijan seemed calm. “I’m not frightened by your shouting. On the phone, Mardan told you . . .”

Ahmad Ganjur moaned. “I caused myself to be cuckolded. O woman, I gave you free rein, and you spit in my face.”

He stood up, went toward his wife, and spat at her. Eshrat wiped the spittle off her face. “The hell with you,” she said.

Suddenly both had become old, angry, full of hatred, and sworn enemies of one another.

“I’ll fix that Mardan,” Mother Eshi said. “I’ll go to Peggy and tell her that they have rented a four-bedroom apartment and . . .”

As if he hadn’t made all that fuss, hadn’t yelled and howled, and at the end, even spat, Ahmad Ganjur said, “Do you mean the apartment on Vila Street? I rented it for them. Their houses were far away. It’s for resting . . .”

“Yeah, right . . . I bet if Peggy goes to America, she will never come back.”

“Mother, why do you want to ruin the lives of two families? Settle down and live your own life.”

Bijan emphasized that it should be a life without such indecency and asked why one should expose oneself to contempt.

Mother Eshi became enraged again. “You shut up! Do you think I don’t know that you take Pasita to Erect Hill?”

Bijan turned red. “For now, we are not discussing the matter of my life. I believe you two can live together peacefully, as in the past.” Then he turned to his father and continued, “And you, Father, forget what has happened.”

Eshrat hit the ceiling. “There’s no way I’m going to live with Ahmad! I’ll give up my marriage portion for a divorce and free my soul.”

“Mother, where will you go?”

“To the Hilton Hotel.”

“With what money?”

“It serves Ahmad right to have to pay for it. Isn’t he saying that he loves me?”

“I’m not paying a cent.”

“Then I’ll go to the holy shrine of Shah Abdol Azim and take refuge there. And I won’t eat anything until I die. I’ll go become a servant at Imam Reza Shrine. I’m not staying in this baboon’s house. He’s a piece of shit. Look at his ugly face.”

Ahmad Ganjur jumped up without pulling up his pajama bottoms, set upon Mother Eshi, and started hitting her. Hasti made herself a shield in front of her mother, and Bijan grabbed his father’s hands.

Hasti insisted on taking her mother to the bathroom. As Mother Eshi splashed water on her face she asked, “If I come to your house, will the old woman let me in?” Hasti bit her lip. Mother Eshi continued, saying that she was willing to swear that the old woman’s son was a hero and that he had been killed in the path of Mosaddeq. She was willing to say anything the old woman wanted about her son . . .

“Mother, stay right here.”

What sin had the old woman committed to have to live under one roof with a woman whom she had hated for a lifetime? Although Shahin’s room was empty . . .

Mother Eshi pounded on her chest and said, “I’ll get my revenge on Mardan, on Ahmad, on all these ogling, greedy men.”

“What revenge? It was your own choice.”

“He whispered in my ear so much that love is a glorious thing, that women must break the gender barrier to become fully human. He talked so much about gender equality . . . I’m going to take a shower.”

Hasti went to the bedroom. Scene of combat. Moving rapidly, she started to clean up all that had been thrown. Her mind was working as fast as her hands and feet. She gathered all the cassettes and put them in the cassette case . . . Breaking the gender barrier, not for someone who is married and committed. This wantonness does not befit us . . . In the breaking of the barrier, one must be careful not to destroy a home . . . a nest . . . She picked up the pillows from the floor and put them in their places . . . She has told me many times, “You are so out of date. You haven’t been able to trap a weakling like Morad. You haven’t been able to tame Salim.” She threw the blue velvet blanket on the bed and spread the coverlet over it. She climbed on the dressing table and tried to put the curtain back on its rod. With all those bobbles and tassels, the curtain was heavy. She changed her mind, folded the curtains, and put them in the corner of the room. Then she went toward the tape recorder . . . I prefer dignity. Without “needs.” I’ll compose my poetry. I’ll paint. This is a kind of transcendence. She doesn’t understand. She says the human body is not without needs. What shall I do? . . . She picked the tape recorder up off the floor. It was broken. It couldn’t be fixed. She put it on the curtains. She picked up the radio. That was destroyed, too.

At the bottom of my heart, I don’t want to be confined by a husband. At the right time, I’ll break it off. I myself don’t understand what I am doing. Perhaps I’m lying to myself, too. Must everyone get married? Suppressed complexes? Why suppressed? Harnessed. Transcended is right. I just like the word transcendence . . . She straightened her back. She felt very, very happy.

She went to the kitchen and brought a cloth to clean the dressing table. Her mother entered wearing a terrycloth bathrobe and threw the red nightgown on the bed. She sat at the dressing table and put cream on her face. She took out a double-chin straightener from the drawer and rolled it under her chin. Hasti found the sewing kit and started mending the torn collar.

So what if I feel lost? Who is not? The earth is lost. I am one of the inhabitants of earth, too. A poem . . .

Mother Eshi’s voice didn’t let her think about her poem. “I myself saw Ahmad in Pasita’s room. I heard their laughter. Both naked. They didn’t even realize that I had opened the door.”

Gender equality . . . Because Ahmad was with Pasita . . . Mother followed suit . . .

“Are you listening?”

Hasti looked at her mother, who was powdering her face. Then lipstick. She pressed her lips together. She evened out the lipstick with her finger . . . How hard should one work to break the gender barrier?

Mother took a thin, blue cotton dress out of the closet. “I talked to Pasita. I told her that I would ask Dr. Bahari to find a midwifery job for her in the hospital.”

Hasti had finished with the sewing, but the poem in her mind had remained unfinished. She searched for it and found it . . . A poem about the earth being lost. My first poem was by three people . . . My second poem by two or three people . . . I didn’t ever compose the poem about the seminar of the fish. I fell into the abyss of Morad’s illness . . . I’ll compose this one by myself. Helen Hitti is gone, and La‘l Banu has a talking parrot. Can’t I trust myself?

Mother was brushing her hair. The hair that Farhad, Tehran’s most sought-after hairdresser, had given waves and curls. A lady had even bought a sports car for Farhad; she had given Farhad the gold-chained key to the car as a New Year’s gift . . .

Mother gathered her hair behind her head and bound it with a large, golden clip. She shuffled through the drawers in search of nail polish. “That bitch Pasita looked me in the eye and said, ‘I won’t leave this house unless the master fires me. If I do midwifery at the hospital, I’ll have to pay all my salary to rent a room and for food and clothes . . . ’”

Mother Eshi was painting the nails of her right hand, and Hasti was watching her . . . She was so disgusted by her that it felt like she wasn’t the one who gave birth to her, but rather a stranger. Such emotional detachment. Morteza had talked about emotional detachment. The same night that he had stayed for dinner and made the cutlets himself. What tasty cutlets! For the hundredth time, Touran Jan had recited her story and talked about her son’s martyrdom.

“That day in front of the Parliament building,” Morteza had said, “I believe two people were shot and both accidentally . . . Mosaddeq’s supporters had taken Mosaddeq to an antique store near Shahabad Avenue. Someone by the name of Reza peeked out from the antique store and was shot. And there was someone by the name of Khajeh Nuri who had gone onto a rooftop to watch, and he was shot . . . It must have been another day. It was on Ekbatan Street . . .”

Mother Eshi held her hands in front of her eyes and said, “The only nail polish that goes with a blue dress is pearl white. Isn’t that so, Hasti?

“Yes,” slipped off Hasti’s tongue.

“Mardan loves pearl white nail polish.”

Morteza had said, “Mosaddeq took advantage of the conflict of interest in Iran between America and Britain; unfortunately, he failed. Now we must take advantage of the same conflict.”

Hasti smiled to herself. Mardan had also talked about a quarrel between the cousins over the conflict of their interests . . .

“Thank God you smiled. You know that I will deal with both Mardan and Ahmad . . .”

“If only we could be captured and taken to a different land.” Who had said this? A land without forbidden words. A land where the wantonness of mother, mother’s husband, Pasita, and Mardan are not dumped on a person. A land that has no Erect Hill. If Peggy were to tell Mardan, “You jerk, I’m pregnant by another man,” what would Mardan do? A land free from this and that conflict of interests . . .

Mother stood in front of her. “Do I look good?”

On their way to the family room, Mother Eshi said, “Pasita is right. Her salary is a hundred dollars a month, which Ahmad Ganjur transfers to her family in the Philippines. But her income with tips and other things comes to two hundred dollars.”

In the family room, Parviz was sitting on his father’s knees and had Lady on his own knees. Father and son were staring at the television, which was broadcasting commercials. A woman was dancing with a tissue in her hand and singing, “Look ladies! Look gents! My tissue is Silk tissue! . . .” Then a commercial for Snow laundry powder . . . And now a show. A man intoned in a sad voice, “Days of our Lives.” Hasti’s mind was heavy with life’s load, and Ahmad Ganjur said, “Days of our Lies . . .”

Hasti asked Parviz, “Which of your fish did Lady eat?”

“The black-and-red striped one.”

“But the fish are in the aquarium.”

Parviz was about to cry. “It wasn’t feeling well. The fish doctor put it in a bowl of water. Lady caught it, took it away, and ate it.”

Mother Eshi sat by the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Mehri Khanom. Is Peggy home?”

Mother Eshi asked for a time with Peggy and agreed to be there at 10:00 a.m. the next day, by telephone taxi.

. . .

“Ahmad’s driver can go to hell!”

“Khanom Jan,” Bijan said, “even if you do something so that Peggy doesn’t return from America, Mardan said explicitly that he won’t marry you. For now, the only solution for your life and my father’s, in my opinion, is that you live apart for a while and try to forget the past. My father is willing to make this sacrifice. Together, you can have an honorable life . . .”

“Now you’re talking out of place again. I know what’s bothering you. You’re scared that the disgrace of your father’s life will catch up with you . . . You’re afraid that they will not allow Hayedeh to marry you.”

And Hasti was thinking, No matter which part you fix, another part is broken.