18

Eshrat Ganjur couldn’t sleep on her back. It was harmful for the innocent baby. The clock belonging to the upstairs neighbor was ticking loudly. If she turned off the light on the bedside table, she would be scared, and that dreaded thought would come again. It had come also when she was in the Farrokhi house. Somewhere, they were unloading bricks. Then they were tossing iron bars, one after the other. How could she sleep with those strange dreams! She could go to the kitchen, turn on all five gas burners, and not strike a match. But first she would have to close up all the kitchen’s cracks and openings with blankets, sheets, and anything she could find. She could go to the roof and throw herself onto the street below. The first day that she had come to this house, she had gone to the edge of the roof. The herb seller opposite the building had shouted, “Sister, be careful! You might fall!”

How lonely she was. She was wasting away, and there was no one in the apartment. Even the nights that the rooms were full, she had the same sensation. She felt like having some cold watermelon juice. She got up and opened the window. Tehran was ugly at night as well as in daylight. The streetlights, like fruit on top of cement monsters, were lit, but no one was shouting, “Lights of cement fruit, lit lights, come buy them!” The opposite buildings were caves that demons had built, and the darkened windows were their mushy fruit. No one buys mushy fruit. Nor did anyone shout, “Hey, we have darkened fruit!” The shutters of all the stores had been pulled down and their doors locked. One could shout, “Hey, we sell locks!” A policeman came and checked the locks . . .

She wished she had asked Hitti how to operate the revolver. She wished that she had studied English well enough to read the instructions for the revolver, insert the bullets, put the revolver to her temple, and bang! But what if her hand trembled? What if she injured herself and no one came looking for her? And this Hasti, why did she abandon her mother? How long had it been? If she didn’t kill herself, it was because of her children. Hasti, Shahin, Parviz, and this innocent baby. She was waiting for this one to be born. She would bring him and give him to Pasita and then . . . But she wished that this one, like the other three, would suckle at her breast and make her heart pound. She wished that the baby would make a fist of his little hands and pedal his legs and she would watch him. She wished it would be morning. She wished she could sleep on her back. She looked at her clock. Only one hour had passed. But the clock upstairs continued ticking.

She had gone to see Dr. Sa‘edi. She had heard good things about him from Hasti. How far away his office was! Dr. Sa‘edi had said, “I can’t give you sleeping pills. It’s harmful for the baby.” The doctor was Turkish-speaking. He had said, “‘Biology is destiny’ for you women. Freud said that.” Eshrat didn’t know anyone by the name of Freud. Dr. Sa‘edi had said, “Based on this, occupation: homemaker, wife, mother, hostess.” And he had said, “Most bourgeois women get depressed doing this kind of work. Busy yourself with activity outside the house.”

She heard gunshots. Bang. Bang. Bang. She heard the footsteps of the neighbor upstairs. Perhaps he too had heard the gunshots.

She had gone to Farhad with Afsar al-Moluk. While he was cutting her hair, Farhad asked, “Do you want to dye it?” No, she didn’t. Farhad said, “You’ve changed. You’re wearing a prayer chador. Don’t you want to look beautiful like you always have?” She didn’t. Eshrat said, “Farhad Jan, don’t you need a manicurist and pedicurist?” Farhad asked, “Who would that be?” She had said, “Me.” Farhad had said, “I don’t like the idea. With this belly that is growing every day, you can’t put women’s feet on your lap.”

Occupation: homemaker, wife, mother, partygoer, and always beautiful. Bijan hadn’t held back and had bluntly said, “You don’t have any talents. You don’t have any skills. You can’t get a divorce.” No! She wouldn’t go to Ganjur’s house! If Hasti would rent her a room or if the old woman would let her in. The old woman had called her Khanomi and had always spoken to her respectfully. But as soon as she got married, the hurtful words began . . . That day on the phone, how many sarcastic remarks Mehrmah had made! Hasti had told her, “Mother, stay where you are.”

The upstairs neighbor’s bed started to creak. She wished that the sound of gunshots hadn’t awakened him. How can one sleep with the creaking of the bed and the ticking of the clock?

You can call Salim a loyal child. After dinner, Farrokhi would get up and go out, and Afsar would cry. Salim would put his arms around his mother’s neck and kiss her. He would kiss her hand and wipe her eyes with a Silk-brand facial tissue. One night after dinner, Eshrat had said to Salim, “Salim Khan, why don’t you give Sister Dear and me lessons these few hours that you are with us after dinner?” She called Afsar “Sister Dear.” In the mornings, he would walk with her in the garden. When Afsar felt like eating kebab, he would take her to Tajrish, and they would eat kebab. He would take Afsar to Farhad’s hair salon, even though his own heart ached. Occupation: good-tempered and kind, but unhappy. Afsar had taken him to see a cleric. Salim brought a bunch of books—English and Persian—and put them on the table. Eshrat didn’t understand a word in any of them and returned the books.

You can call Salim a loyal child, but not Hasti. As for Shahin, he had gone to the military to march in place. And Parviz loved his Papa Ganjur more. May his Papa Ganjur go to hell!

On Mother’s Day, other children would write the best compositions for their mothers and read them in front of the class. But Hasti would never bring a single flower for her mother or even call her and wish her Happy Mother’s Day, if only in dry and empty words. On Mother’s Day, she would disappear, just like these days that she has disappeared. Hasti could have called Salim and asked him. Salim didn’t know how to lie. Then she could have come to see her mother, and together they could have trapped Salim into marrying Hasti. No, not at all. There was no news from Hasti. Eshrat had to say that Hasti had gone on a trip. Occupation: homemaker, wife, mother, hostess, partygoer, always beautiful, liar.

One night, she had asked Salim, “What kind of a girl do you think Hasti is?” Salim had said, “She is beautiful, dignified, knowledgeable, and artistic.” Eshrat had said in her heart, Then why don’t you marry her and solve all our problems? But it became clear that, in Salim’s opinion, Hasti herself had a problem. Eshrat asked, “What kind of problem?” Salim said, “Hasti Khanom must be honest with herself. For now, she is vacillating between art and politics, love and office work, disbelief and faith.” That night, Salim had given them lessons and had answered Eshrat’s questions. He said, “Hasti Khanom doesn’t know what she wants. If I were her, I would choose femininity and art. Love and art are inseparable. For a female artist, the problem of being a woman is not relevant. Both men and women respect her; therefore, she is equal to men and takes up her feminine role with pride.” Eshrat asked, “You mean she should quit her job?” Salim said, “Yes.” Eshrat said, “Then she will be depressed.” Salim said, “Hasti Khanom is already depressed.” Eshrat grimaced. “I wish to be just like Hasti.” Salim said, “Hasti Khanom can paint and put on exhibitions. She can read books. She can travel. With intellectuals, like Professor Mani . . .” Eshrat wanted to say, “Painting has its own place, but love . . . She would keep having babies and, like her mother, become a captive of her children.” But she didn’t say it.

She had gone to see the cleric. She had said, “Sir, I think of suicide.” The cleric said, “That’s a great sin.” Eshrat said, “I have already sinned.” The cleric said, “The path to repentance is open.” Eshrat said, “I don’t know whether to return to the house of a husband who has betrayed me or not.” The cleric ordered her to perform ablutions every day, say two rounds of prayers, and after the end of the prayers ask God to put whatever path is beneficial to her in front of her. The cleric said, “God is most merciful.” Why doesn’t this most merciful God come to her aid?

Salim had said, “Well-to-do Iranian women don’t have to do much. There is no need for a wife’s income, and the maid and servants do the tiring work.” Eshrat said, “Who knows whether Hasti will marry a well-to-do man.” In her mind, this was a kind of marriage proposal to Salim. Salim said good night and left. Eshrat said in her heart, You go be a mama’s boy. You won’t marry Hasti. You’ll marry Niku who is a sheep. Like a sheep, she just puts her head down and grazes.

What a loud noise! It sounded like they were pounding shingles onto the roof. If only she could fall asleep.

Several times she had gone in a prayer chador to Parviz’s school. She would sit in the store opposite the school and wait for Parviz to get off the school bus. Her heart would fly to him, and she would want to find a way through the cars and embrace him. Once, she decided to kidnap Parviz. Poor Afsar al-Moluk didn’t object. One day at 3:00 p.m., she waited in front of the school for a long time. A policeman came up to her and asked, “Sister, what are you doing here? I see that you have been standing here for a long time.” He wanted to take her to the police station. Eshrat begged, “Don’t ruin my reputation at work.” She put a twenty toman bill in the policeman’s hand and said that she had come to see her son. When Parviz came out of the school, she said, “There, he’s my son,” and she cried and cried. The policeman asked, “Would you like me to bring him so that you can see him?” She said, “No, he’s afraid of policemen. Whenever he didn’t eat, I would tell him I would call the policeman.” The policeman said, “It’s a dog’s life, being a mother!” Then he called a taxi for her.

That night, Afsar al-Moluk cried as much as she could. Salim’s affectionate words and kisses couldn’t calm her. Eshrat put Afsar’s head on her chest. They cried together, and Eshrat said, “We women are doomed by our children and our husbands. That’s just the way it is.” Salim put his hands on his mysterious eyes and said, “All the oppressed people in the world must become equal to the oppressors.” He lectured a lot. His mother said, “I don’t understand, dear.” Eshrat didn’t understand, either.

The baby kicked in her belly. If he stayed alive and she could see the pedaling of his legs, it would be so good. If Hasti would come. If Bijan would come. If only one of them would come . . . Couldn’t Hasti get a separate room for her mother? If the old woman let her in, she was ready to live in the storage room next to the toilet. Then she would go study. She was in the eighth grade when she got married. She would have to take many exams. She had heard that of the thousands who take the university entrance examination, only a small percentage are accepted. Well, she would take the examination over and over until she got accepted . . . Salim had said, “We all wear masks. And you women wear several masks, one on top of the other. You appear to be happy, but your heart is full of pain . . . Our world is a masked ball . . .” Eshrat had thought, And you want a masked wife too . . . Occupation: seemingly happy but with heartache.

If she read the instructions of the revolver carefully, maybe she could figure out how to load it, and then bang! She would be released. But would she really be released? The cleric had said, “Pray to God that He protect you from satanic temptations.” He had said, “Since Adam and Eve chopped up the baby Satan and ate it, a wild animal has settled inside all humans, and Satan had wanted exactly that—that a piece of his damned body be inside humans, and a human not be all godly, but rather be satanic, too . . .”

When it was morning and Hasti came, she put her arms around her mother’s neck. Eshrat wanted to drive her away, push her even, but she couldn’t. She wanted to cry, but tears wouldn’t come. Hasti gestured to her, and she put on her prayer chador. Dr. Bahari brought the suitcases, and they all got in the car. On the way to Touran Jan’s house, they made her aware of which secrets they had revealed to Grandmother and which secrets they had not.

Hasti inserted the key and opened the door. Touran Jan put her arms around her former daughter-in-law’s neck. She kissed her and said, “Welcome, Khanomi. Oh, fate! All this time . . .”

Eshrat kissed Touran Jan’s hand and said, “Sister, I’ve taken refuge with you so that you can make me a good person, like you have done with Hasti.” Hasti brought tea, and only then did she notice her mother’s short, salt-and-pepper hair. She was startled too by her mother’s yellow, freckled face and puffy eyes.

Dr. Bahari took Hasti to her office. Hasti still had Salim’s gift, the fiberboard, and she knew that she was going to draw a picture of the doctor on one of the pieces. This plan was not pie in the sky. It was real. She smiled at this thought.

“I’m happy that you’re happy.”

Hasti was full of energy. When she was happy, she would spin like a top. She would move rapidly in facing problems too, and life—this mixture of happiness and sadness—whirled her around. Would it whirl her until it threw her down and eternal peace and silence arrived? No, it was too soon. The only thing she wished for was peace and quiet in whatever situation she faced. She also wanted courage—the courage to be straightforward, not to lie, and not to have a mask on her face. About her mother’s actions, she had told so many lies that even she herself had forgotten the truth. Will the day ever come that lies are uprooted from the earth and all words, thoughts, and deeds are good, as Zoroastrians believe?

Fakhri put a folder in front of Hasti. “Miss Nourian, you’re feeling well today, aren’t you?”

Hasti called Ahmad Ganjur’s house, and in response to her mother’s husband, who asked, “My daughter, good news or bad news?” she replied, “Very good news!”

“She’s alive! Is she well? Where has she been? Where is she now?”

“She was at the Farrokhi house. Now she is at ours.”

“Thank God! I have a reward . . .”

Then she called Salim. “Hello. How are you?”

“Hello. How are you yourself?”

“Great! ‘Because I have you, I have everything!’”

“You are saying what my heart says.”

“What are you doing? Are you lying down or sitting?”

“I’m sitting. I’m reading Hujwiri’s book on mysticism. Why do you ask?”

“I want to imagine you in my mind.”

“Why don’t you come over?”

“We haven’t told Mrs. Farrokhi yet. When we do, we will be together every day.”

“This pleasure of being together . . .”

Hasti wrote a letter to the minister asking for the two months off that she was due, and she gave it to Fakhri to type. She wanted to ignore Fakhri’s inquiring look, but Fakhri insisted. She explained that she would give her vote on the council to Professor Mani and that Fakhri must get ready to take her place.

“Me?”

Bijan entered Hasti’s office without knocking. He put a box with a green velvet lid on the table and collapsed into the armchair. He closed his eyes and said, “The matter of Erect Hill is over.”

“I don’t want to hear anything about Erect Hill.”

Bijan sighed. “Erect Hill does exist. It overlooks a land full of pebbles and thorn bushes and tissues that are stuck in the thorns. In the morning, shepherds bring sheep to graze there, and they gorge on the thorns and tissues.”

Hasti rang the bell and when the servant came, she ordered that he bring a glass of tea for Mr. Bijan Ganjur, deputy director of the Office of Book Evaluation. Bijan opened his eyes and said, “I’m no longer deputy director of the Office of Book Evaluation. Father summoned me from the garage. He said I should leave whatever I was doing and come bring your reward. Why don’t you open the box?”

Once he had his tea, his exhaustion passed. “Father is snapping his fingers and dancing around like a child,” Bijan said. “He keeps saying, ‘My darling is alive. My beauty is alive.’ Everyone in the house is celebrating.”

Hasti opened the box. A square emerald in the middle, surrounded by diamonds, set in gold plate. According to Bijan’s explanation, that he had understood from his father’s explanation, the emerald had no impurity. It had been the jewel on a woman’s face veil; they had used it to attach together the two sides of the face veil. It would be located at the back of the head. For Hasti, it wasn’t important whether the emerald was pure or impure. And it didn’t matter which woman had used it as a jewel on her face veil. She was thinking, How can the pure jewel of humanity be attained? The jewel of human worth and honor? She worried that probably Keshvar, the dealer, had put it in trust with Ahmad Ganjur, that its owner must be dead, and that the heirs might not know where the jewel of their deceased mother or grandmother was . . . or they might not even know that such a jewel existed at all. Those worries made Hasti close the box and say, “I’ve found my own mother. Mr. Ganjur doesn’t owe me anything.”

While putting the box in his pocket, Bijan said, “Tuesday morning, Keshvar will bring Parviz to see your mother.”

Was her mother no longer anyone’s Eshrat or Mother Eshi? Khanomi, Sister Dear, Mother . . . a time when even names descended from the heavens have been changed by consensus . . .

As soon as Bijan left, Hasti started cleaning. She opened the drawers of the cabinets and took out her personal belongings.

When Hasti arrived home in the evening, she found the realm peaceful. Khanomi and Touran Jan were cleaning herbs in the kitchen.

“She says prayers, too,” Khanomi said. “Loudly. After prayers, she holds up her hands toward the ceiling and says, ‘O God, bless the day!’” Touran Jan laughed.

The holes in the telephone receiver connected Hasti and Salim, and setting the next day’s time increased their happiness. “Tomorrow at 10:00 . . .” Every day, half an hour before that time, Hasti would become restless and wouldn’t go far from the phone until it rang and her heart stood still. And when the letter that granted her leave was delivered to the house, she brought the telephone to her bedroom, closed the door, and waited for Salim to call her from his shop.

On Tuesday morning when Keshvar brought Parviz, Hasti hadn’t yet received her leave letter . . . When she came home from the office that evening, she noticed that her mother’s eyes and the tip of her nose were red. And Grandmother herself, as she told it, had burst into tears. Mother and young son had kissed each other repeatedly. Parviz wouldn’t let go of his mother’s skirt. He had put his head on the bump of his mother’s belly and had said, “I want a little sister. I won’t let Lady scratch her.” Navidi had come to take him, but he had thrashed and kicked and wouldn’t leave. Khanomi had said, “Let him stay today until evening.” Keshvar, the dealer, had said, “Master cannot live one minute without Parviz Khan.” Keshvar had put several bundles of large bills on the table on behalf of the master. Khanomi had held Parviz’s hand, and Parviz had gone with her, but he had run back toward Grandmother, taken refuge there, and said, “Sister Touran, isn’t this your house? Let me stay here. Isn’t it true that I am the jewel of my mother’s life? If I leave, I will break, turn into smoke, and go up in thin air. Then you’ll be sad.” Touran Jan had cried and said, “Oh, my child . . .” Then she had said, “Tell your brother or Mr. Navidi to bring you here after school every day. Okay?” Navidi had promised Parviz to take him to the zoo that afternoon. Parviz had asked, “Will you buy me hazelnut ice cream, too?”

Mother took Hasti to the eye doctor and from there to the optometrist. She drove both Hasti and the optometrist crazy searching for a pair of frames that she liked. Finally, light purple frames with dark purple temple pieces satisfied her. Then she instructed Hasti to look carefully in the mirror, and she added that with those frames, she looks nothing like a spinster with glasses; she looks even prettier than she did before.

It would take a while for the glasses to be ready. But it took no time for the people of the neighborhood to count Khanomi’s presence on Valiabad Street a blessing. The “concert hall” of Teimur Khan’s motorcycle and bicycle repair shop was the first place to welcome Khanomi. And Mohsen Run seemed to have fallen in love with her. Any seasonal fruit that Khanomi ordered, he would find from somewhere and bring it to the house the next day. Well, fresh almonds hadn’t come out yet, but good-looking cucumbers, bell peppers . . . Khanomi paid cash for the remaining installments on Mohsen Run’s minivan, and Mohsen Run, free from installments, shouted louder in his handheld loudspeaker announcing his wares to the housewives. He even brought better herbs and vegetables. Farideh hung out on the balcony of her house, and only when Khanomi indicated to Mohsen Run, “The girl is waiting for you, poor thing . . .” did he remember that Farideh was not afraid of cheese anymore. He sat her next to him in his minivan, and they went for a ride together.

Brigadier General had his orderly bring a small carpet to the front of the house so that Khanomi and Sister Touran could sit on it. He himself didn’t put his legs on the pillow anymore, but from time to time he caressed his claw-footed canes. He even asked his orderly to make lemonade for them, but the orderly didn’t listen. Brigadier General swore on the life of his close cousin, the lieutenant general, that whenever he goes to visit him, he puts in a good word for Shahin. Shahin’s letters indicated that he had indeed put in a good word for him, though the letters were in the form of circulars, full of the joking of the honorable colonel with the lieutenant. He was comfortable in the garrison until Hasti wrote to him that their mother was living with them. Shahin called at midnight, waking everyone and telling Hasti that he was shocked . . . Hasti told him about the fight between their mother and Ahmad Ganjur and Shahin was not shocked anymore; he started to laugh out loud.

Khanomi would throw a plastic tablecloth on the bed and ask Sister to lie on it. She would massage her knees and her back with castor oil that she had warmed. It was Dr. Bahari’s recommendation, and it could not be ignored. Which Grandmother was it who had requested that he examine her?

Sister Touran memorized poetry and recited it for Khanomi. “Practice for the memory,” she said. But she didn’t think of poor Mehrmah these days. At the request of Khanomi, she wrote the poem that Hasti liked in nice calligraphy and took it to Teimur Khan. Khanomi bought a tambour for Teimur Khan, and Teimur Khan very quickly learned how to play the tambour from one of dervishes of the Safi Alishah Sufi Center. When Teimur Khan sang a piece of the poem, without playing the tambour, Khanomi pulled Hasti to the concert hall too, quoting Attar’s poem, “When the bewildered man reaches this status . . .”

Once again, bewilderment of a nonmystical kind was forced upon Hasti’s mind.

Why didn’t Salim propose to her family? Didn’t he say that others have the right to share in their happiness?

Until one day Mrs. Farrokhi called and set a date to come visit Sister Dear. Hasti reluctantly revealed that she thought they were coming to ask for her hand in marriage, and Khanomi started to plan. She ordered fruit from Mohsen Run. He shouldn’t forget the grapefruit. She took Hasti to the Russian bear, Marusa, and from her boutique she bought Hasti a red and white polka-dot dress, a dark blue overdress, and a white silk headscarf. The scarf was hemmed all around with gold thread.

They went to see Farhad. Farhad gave them a Western magazine of hairstyle models, and Mother started to flip through it. The hair salon looked like a laboratory, and when Hasti ascended the hairdresser’s chair, she felt that the salon was like an operating room. Farhad was wearing a purple velvet suit; he had tied a purple ribbon on his forehead; and his hair came to his shoulders. Was he a Native American? Was he a Gypsy? The female assistant held up the white lab coat, and Farhad put it on. Now he looked like a doctor. He examined Hasti’s hair and said, “It’s wild; it doesn’t have any shine.”

Mother suggested nigella-seed juice and chamomile tea.

“I don’t agree. That’s an old wives’ tale.”

On a revolving table, all kinds of scissors, combs, tweezers, electric razors, and many solutions and tools that Hasti didn’t recognize—even though she was wearing her glasses—were all set out in an orderly manner. Farhad said, “Comb!” and the “nurse” put it in his hand. “Lotion, scissors, razor, hairbrush . . .” And the woman didn’t make a single mistake! When the “brushing” was over, Hasti took a breath in relief, although she didn’t recognize herself in the mirror.

Mrs. Farrokhi came. Alone. And the representatives of three generations—Grandmother, Mother, and Hasti—pursed their lips. Hasti removed her scarf.

“You’re wearing glasses, dear?” Mrs. Farrokhi commented.

Hasti helped Mrs. Farrokhi take off her overcoat. As Mrs. Farrokhi was shaking Grandmother’s hand, she said, “Farrokhi!” She kissed Eshrat. When she noticed the table in the middle of the living room, she asked, “Sister Dear, have you married the prime minster?” And Hasti thought of the chocolate cake that was waiting in the refrigerator.

After having tea with a simple, citrus-flavored cake, Mrs. Farrokhi started the discussion. “Sister Dear, why don’t you go back to your own home and your own life?”

“This is my home, too. I have taken refuge with Sister Touran so that she can make me a good person like she did Hasti.”

Mrs. Farrokhi looked Hasti up and down. “You look prettier with glasses, dear.”

Then she turned to Khanomi and said, “Ahmad Ganjur has called many times.” He had asked her to mediate and reconcile them. He was willing to sacrifice a sheep in front of his wife’s feet as soon as she returns home . . . to fire that maid with slanted eyes. “Get up, Sister Dear,” she ordered, “and call Bijan or Navidi to come pick you up.” Ahmad had begged her.

Khanomi thought and said, “You know, Sister Dear, Sister Touran has been a teacher for years. I’ve come here so that she can guide me. After the baby is born, I’ll go study. Sister Touran has done the same.”

“How can someone love her husband for twenty years and all of a sudden ruin it all? What are you planning to do? Ahmad is willing to register the house and everything in your name.”

“We have arrived in this world naked, and we will leave it naked. We’ll take with us only a nine-meter-long white shroud, which also decays.”

“What can I say? How can one leave all that luxury and those maids and servants and come . . . ? That slant-eyed maid will take everything for herself.”

Khanomi said that she didn’t want to hear anything more about Pasita and Ahmad.

Mrs. Farrokhi picked up a good-looking, fresh cucumber and started to peel it. The knife was dull. Touran Jan asked her how Salim was. Hasti knew better. She knew that he had finished Hujwiri’s book and was now reading Attar’s Memorial of the Saints for a second time and taking notes. Mrs. Farrokhi would only see Salim at dinnertime. When Mr. Farrokhi dressed up and left the house, Salim would calm her. Nevertheless, Afsar al-Moluk believed that having a bad husband is better than having no husband.

“Why didn’t Salim come?” Touran Jan asked. “I’ve made jam for him with the bergamot that he gave us.”

Afsar al-Moluk’s eyes sparkled, and she said that she had heard so much about Mrs. Nourian’s jams from Salim. “When I left home, Salim hadn’t come back from the shop yet, and he is still waiting for Qodsi to come from Isfahan.”

Khanomi gave a bitter smile, saying, “And perhaps Qodsi is waiting for Niku to come together.”

“Perhaps.”

Hasti thought that they were all wasting their time. She was Salim’s wife. Though when the marriage vow could be done by the couple, the divorce vow could be, too.

When Mrs. Farrokhi left, Touran Jan said, “Khanomi, invite Dr. Bahari and his wife and children for tomorrow, late afternoon. Parviz will be here, too.”

They were bringing Parviz late afternoons as Touran Jan had suggested. After he finished his dinner, Sister Touran would tell him a story. And one night, Hasti told him the story of the bitter orange and bergamot girl. Khanomi would put him to sleep. Navidi would carry him, place him on the back seat of the car, and cover him with a blanket. Khanomi would ask Navidi to drive slowly, lest her child fall from the back seat, and Navidi would reply that no such incident had ever happened.

Hasti asked, “Can’t you invite them for the day after tomorrow?”

“Why the day after tomorrow?” Mother asked. “The chocolate cake will go bad.”

“I’d like to draw a picture of Dr. Bahari. But that’s okay. I’ll draw it tomorrow.”

Khanomi laughed and said, “Dr. Bahari is going to come and see how much better Sister Touran is feeling.” She put her arms around Sister and kissed her.

At Hasti’s request, Touran Jan woke her up very early in the morning. From the bed, Hasti watched Grandmother say only one short, morning prayer. She got up, sat, and saw that there was no sign of the picture album and the letters from her martyred son on Grandmother’s prayer rug. She remembered that in recent days, Grandmother hadn’t mentioned anything about Hasti’s father.

Hasti drew several pictures. Profile, front view, three-quarter view. Mother and Grandmother liked the drawing that showed the doctor in a lab coat, with a stethoscope around his neck, and behind him, a sign on the wall: “Paying for the visit is optional.” But the picture didn’t look much like Dr. Bahari. Grandmother instructed her to draw his eyes smaller. Mother suggested that she make him smile. Hasti was altering the drawing when the telephone rang. She had forgotten about Salim’s call, yet she flew toward the messenger of the beloved.

“Hello!”

“I’ve heard you look prettier with glasses. I’d like to see you with glasses. Would you like to have dinner together tonight?”

“We have guests in the afternoon. Dr. Bahari with his clan, Teimur Khan and his clan. You come, too; then we can leave together.”

“Together we can go to the end of the world.”

“So, you’re coming?”

“Certainly. I want to have some of the bergamot orange jam, too.”

“You mean my heart that you have taken away and haven’t given back?”