19

Where had Touran Jan and Mother gone? Why didn’t they leave her a note? “Is anyone home?” Hasti shouted.

She went to the bedroom and turned on the light. Grandmother’s housedress was thrown on the bed. Her prayer rug was spread on the floor. Why hadn’t she put her prayer rug away? Wouldn’t Satan, as she always said, pray on it if it were left open? A blue plastic bucket was by the prayer rug. She sensed that someone, somewhere, was breathing. Whoever it was, the person was hiding in the wardrobe. The door of the wardrobe was locked. But they never locked any door. Water was dripping from below the wardrobe door onto the rug.

“Is someone in there?” Hasti shouted.

“Hasti, are you alone?” It was Morad’s voice.

“Morad, what are you doing in there?”

Morad began sobbing. He hit his head on the wardrobe door and said loudly, “They killed him. He spun around three times. That most precious one . . .”

“Who did they kill? Why did they lock you in the wardrobe?”

“When I heard doors opening, I threw the latch on the wardrobe door myself. I was helpless. I couldn’t close those eyes . . . Aagh!”

“Well, open the latch and come out.”

“I can’t. It’s stuck.”

Hasti put her back on the wardrobe door and pushed. “How about now?”

Morad was crying loudly and hitting his head on the wardrobe wall. “No, no.” It was clear that they had been exposed. Who was killed? Morteza? Now Morad was whimpering.

“Pull yourself together, man!”

“How was it possible? I was helpless! Why him? They will bury him and throw dust on those eyes. He was the most insightful . . .”

Hasti went to find Teimur Khan. She asked him to bring whatever tools he had to try to take the hinges off the wardrobe door. She and Morad hadn’t been able to open it, as much as they had tried. The latch was rusted inside the wardrobe. Morad had used all the curses he knew, shed all the tears he had, and let out all the screams he could. Hasti was fed up. She shouted at him to be quiet. Why does he get involved in something that he can’t bear?

She learned that Morteza had his coat on his shoulders and a bag full of books on his arm. A policeman had asked him to stop, but he had started running instead, weaving through the traffic. The policeman had blown his whistle. Morteza had turned around, pulled out his gun, and shot. Other policemen had come—what a big crowd had gathered. And the bitch who lived on the first floor of the team’s house was standing on Iranshahr Street with her hands on her hips, watching them . . . and the noble blood of Morteza . . . And that loser, the husband of the bitch, had tied Morteza’s hands with a rope. As if Morteza had killed his father! Morad was a bystander . . . Nothing, nothing he could do.

When Teimur Khan came, he asked for a nutcracker and hit the end of the hinge. The hinge didn’t move. He asked for machine oil, which they didn’t have. Okay, how about warmed vegetable oil? When Hasti brought the oil, Morad was crying as Teimur Khan was urging, “Patience, patience, patience.” Angered, she yelled at Morad, “Let us concentrate, man!”

After applying oil and using a file, a screwdriver, and a hammer, one hinge finally came off. When Morad’s restlessness reached its maximum, Hasti shouted, “Stop this madness, Morad!”

Crying, Morad said, “I’m going to throw up any minute now.”

Teimur Khan released the door of the wardrobe with one hinge, and Morad crawled out on his hands and knees. One hand over his mouth, he ran toward the toilet. Hasti peered at the bottom of the wardrobe where some water had accumulated.

Morad returned, muddy, soaked sleeves and trouser legs rolled up, dirty . . . with a big, bushy black beard. He was rolling on the floor, crying, speaking in broken fragments. “I was shouting, ‘Pool draining!’ The pool drainer hasn’t had lunch today . . . That turnip soup had turned cold . . . I had gone to buy cigarettes and a magazine after lunch . . .”

“Is the water hot for a bath?” Teimur Khan asked Hasti.

It was hot.

“Is there herbal tea and rock candy in the house?”

There was.

“Is there an electric razor in the bathroom?”

There was.

“Shahin Khan’s clothes?”

They were in the storage room.

And only then did Teimur Khan and Hasti think to ask, “Where have Grandmother and Mother gone?”

Morad said that they had gone to Salsabil Street, to Akhtar Iran’s house, to seek shelter for him. They had gone by telephone taxi and they would return by the same taxi. Teimur Khan picked up Morad in one scoop. He didn’t even say, “Ya Ali,” and he took him to the shower. Hasti was standing there confused. Should she first go to the storage room in the courtyard and find some clothing for Morad? Or should she go make some herbal tea? Or should she dry the water on the bottom of the wardrobe? How could she wash and purify the wardrobe that had become so dirty and polluted? The family photo albums, Father’s letters, and the issues of Education and Socialization that contained Hossein Nourian’s poems were under the suitcase on the bottom of the wardrobe. Grandmother’s treasures were all damp.

She remembered Salim’s words: “Our friends’ lives are in danger.” He had also said that if Morad’s location was unsafe, he could hide him in his house. She telephoned Salim, and the first problem was solved. She had known for a while that problems will not remain unsolved forever.

Salim answered the phone himself.

“Why are you calling? Didn’t we just talk in the park after lunch today?”

“Do you remember Baktash M.?”

“Of course!”

“He’s here. Can you come over?”

“Of course!”

Next, she had to clean the bottom of the wardrobe. A big sponge, the plastic bucket beside the prayer rug, and a pair of gloves were enough. But how could she dry Grandmother’s only keepsakes from her son? She would take them to the storage room at the end of the courtyard and put them on the windowsill.

Hasti guessed that after Morteza was killed, Morad had wandered around the streets with the plastic bucket, pretending to be a pool drainer, and got himself to their house by that means. He had been delayed at one house by actually draining the water of their pool . . . He had eaten turnip soup that had turned cold . . . But where did he get the plastic bucket? He couldn’t have bought it. The bucket was old.

She put the herbal tea and rock candy in Grandmother’s kettle, filled it with water, and placed it on the stove. She was about to go find clothes for Morad when she heard Salim’s car horn. She ran out. Salim was locking the door of his car when she reached him.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble, too,” she said. “Get back in the car, turn right, and then right again. I’ll open the courtyard gate for you.” She was still holding the keepsakes from Father.

She opened the gate and Salim drove in. When he heard the news, he was shocked. “That’s terrible,” he said. “It’s horrible!”

“You go to the kitchen. I’ll go to the storage room to find some clothes for Morad.”

“Has Morad been shot too?

“No, dear, thankfully not.”

A complete set of clothes was prepared . . . The keepsakes from Father were placed on the sill. But the herbal tea had boiled over and extinguished the flame, and Salim was cleaning the stove. Hasti took the clothes to the bathroom and knocked.

Morad had changed. His beard had been shaved. Shahin’s clothes were too big on him. But the look that he cast on Hasti with his lips pressed together was one that Hasti knew she would never forget for as long as she lived. That look was saying, “Why didn’t you wipe my tears?” All these years of love and friendship. Why didn’t you caress my head and say, “Calm down, my friend”? Why did you shout at me? Why did you snap at me? Oh, Hasti, you haven’t seen a friend’s death . . . It hits like a bolt of lightning, like the collapse of a roof, like an earthquake. One is totally overwhelmed by powerlessness in the face of such a disaster. Why don’t you understand?

Teimur Khan was putting the wardrobe door hinges back in place. Salim entered the bedroom carrying a tray holding four glasses of herbal tea from which the vapor of calmness was rising. Morad was sitting on his knees in front of Grandmother’s prayer rug and putting his head on the prayer stone. Hasti was sitting on the bed, in shock. She had just realized the depth of the disaster reflected in Morad’s traumatized look.

Salim put the tray on the bed next to Hasti’s overdress and pulled up Hasti’s scarf, which had slipped off the back of her head. He went to Morad and placed his hand on his shoulder. Morad rose. They embraced each other. Morad leaned his head on Salim’s heart, and Salim’s tears fell on Morad’s hair.

Was Hasti’s heart made of stone that her tears had lost their way? Once Salim had told her, “Sometimes I think that you are a merciless woman.” But was she really merciless? Why didn’t her tears come? Why was she jealous of their male friendship? Why was comprehending male friendship beyond her?

“Let’s go to the living room,” Salim said. “There’s too much noise in here.”

Hasti picked up the tray and followed them as they went, hand in hand, to the living room. Salim picked up one of the glasses and encouraged Morad to drink. “It is what it is, brother . . . ,” he said. “What can you do?”

“They will throw dust on those eyes . . . ,” Morad said, “those eyes that were the most insightful . . .”

Hasti put her head on the arm of the sofa and realized that she was about to cry, too. Salim raised Hasti’s head. With a glass in his hand, he said, “Drink, Khanom.”

Teimur Khan came to the living room and sat on the sofa. Morad said, “Thank you, brother.”

“You’re welcome. May Imam Ali be your protector.”

From Salim’s questions and Morad’s answers, Hasti was reminded that the team house was on the third floor, Mrs. Vikki Shokouhi lived on the second floor, and the bitch and her husband lived on the first floor. She learned that Farzaneh had gone to the university gate, as agreed. Morteza had gone to get books from the office.

Suddenly, from within the crowd, Morad sees Mrs. Shokouhi’s Peugeot on Shah Reza Avenue. Mrs. Shokouhi honks, and at her direction, Morad hops into the car and sits next to her. Vikki Shokouhi turns from Lalezar on to Manouchehri Street and stops at the gate of Jeanne d’Arc School. She gives Morad an old pullover of her husband’s; she thinks his long coat will get in the way. Having given Morad the blue plastic bucket, she asks him, “Where is the nearest house where you can take refuge?”

Pretending that he was a pool drainer was Mrs. Shokouhi’s idea . . . What a woman! She had promised that she would get Farzaneh out, too. She had witnessed the incident from beginning to end . . . She was hanging sheets to dry on the rooftop clothesline when she heard the voice of the first-floor woman, who yelled toward the police car, “There he is . . . That’s one of them!” However much she shook the sheets, Morteza didn’t notice it. How kind she was to them . . . She brought them cutlets, omelets, and soup. She gave them ice. She had promised that she would walk calmly to the university on the pretext of taking her husband’s coat to the dry cleaners. Her husband had gone to the States to see their children. And she herself was a high school principal . . . She is from Shiraz and a Zoroastrian. What a brave woman! She kept her cool.

Morad turned to Teimur Khan and said, “Brother, can you bring the phone here?” Morad dialed a number and listened, and when it was answered, a smile formed on that sad face. He hung up and said, “It was Mrs. Shokouhi’s voice. She has arrived home safely. Hasti, you call and say, ‘I have just come from the States. Your husband said that your daughter should have arrived by now. Has she?’”

Morad swallowed and said, “Mrs. Shokouhi liked Farzaneh. She used to say, ‘You remind me of my daughter. And Baktash reminds me of my son.’ Morteza would ask, ‘How about me?’ She would say, ‘You are not like anyone. You are one of a kind.’”

Morad put his hand on his forehead, and crying, said, “She knew who she was dealing with. That loftiest . . .” Still crying, he turned to Hasti and asked, “Are you going to call?”

Salim rose and said, “Absolutely not! I won’t allow Hasti Khanom to do any such thing. I’ll call myself. Phone number?”

Teimur Khan rose and said, “None of you. I will call.”

“This is a stupid thing for any of us to do,” Salim said. “Most likely the telephones in that building are being tapped. They might trace us.”

They heard the door open and close and then several footsteps. Grandmother and Mother entered the room. Khanomi was smiling. “How amusing all these things are,” she said. “You might think that you’re acting in a play.”

Yes, Akhtar Iran and her husband had agreed that Baktash could stay at their house for a few days. “He’s welcome here,” they said.

“Why did you call yourself Baktash?” Khanomi asked. “Of course, it’s a nice name. If my baby is a boy, I’ll call him Baktash.”

“Mrs. Ganjur,” Salim said, “you didn’t see anyone around the house, did you?”

“No.”

“I’ll take Morad to our house. Late at night.”

Khanomi turned to Teimur Khan and said, “Teimur Khan, go get your tambour and sing for us the song that Hasti likes.”

When Teimur Khan had left, Khanomi said, “Now we have to think of something for your dinner tonight. But Mr. Pakdel, you really looked ridiculous. Was your beard fake? Why did you pretend to be a pool drainer? I didn’t recognize you. When Sister Touran came and recognized you, I was surprised that she didn’t burst into laughter. After you threw yourself into Grandmother’s arms and both of you started crying, I understood that you had fled from your enemies. I have a revolver . . .”

Teimur Khan returned with his tambour.

“Before leaving,” Khanomi said, “I called Navidi and told him to bring Parviz for dinner. I’ll call him and ask him to get dinner for us on his way.”

“Someone must go to Akhtar Iran’s house,” Touran Jan said, “and tell her not to wait for Baktash tonight.”

“Don’t worry!” Khanomi said. “I’ll send Navidi. As soon as he brings Parviz, I’ll ask him to go to Salsabil Street. Those alleys and small lanes will be good for his big stomach!”

Morad dialed and waited for a long time with the receiver in his hand. There was no answer. He looked calm.

Was it Mother who had calmed the atmosphere? Did Morad sense that Mother hadn’t figured out much . . . and that it was better if she remained in the dark?

Teimur Khan caressed the tambour. He closed his eyes. He started playing softly and slowly . . .

“Excuse me, Teimur Khan,” Salim said, “are you studying with Dervish Maftoun?”

Teimur Khan stopped playing and said, “You know Dervish Maftoun?”

“Yes, I’ve visited all the Sufi centers.”

Teimur Khan twisted his mustache and said, “All Sufi centers won’t do. A man of God must be loyal to only one master. Young man, do what your heart tells you to do.”

Salim bit his lip and said nothing.

Teimur Khan resumed playing. Soon he began playing and singing Attar’s poem:

When the bewildered man reaches this status,

Confused, and his way lost,

Whatever God determines for his life,

Shall be lost to him, even loss itself.

If they ask you whether you are drunk,

You don’t exist to say whether you are or not;

Whether you are in the circle or outside the circle;

Whether you are at the side, or hidden, or visible;

Whether you are ephemeral, or eternal, or both;

Whether you are neither here nor there.

He will say, “I don’t know anything at all;

I don’t even know that I don’t know.

I am in love, but with whom? That I don’t know.

I am neither a Muslim nor a pagan, so what am I?”

As Teimur Khan got up to leave, Mother said, “I won’t let you go without having dinner. Tonight you played and sang in such a way that it made me feel anxious. What if Navidi has had an accident?”

After dinner, Parviz lay down on the sofa, put his head on Hasti’s lap, and asked her to tell him the story she had told him the other night . . . the story of the girl that came out of a grapefruit.

“Tonight,” Hasti said, “I will tell you the story of Babak Khorramdin.”

“Like always,” she began, “there was a time, once upon a time. I wasn’t there myself. I have heard it from my professors. No one must leave the room and no one must enter. Parviz, you might not understand everything, but don’t ask.

“Once upon a time, there was a man called Babak Khorramdin, and he had a horse called Qareqashqa. Babak was a head taller than other people of his time, and he had big dreams. He knew that people with power always exist and that most of them are cruel. Nevertheless, a person must start from somewhere and create courage out of fear, hope out of despair, bravery out of failure, freedom out of captivity. And if he scatters this seed . . .”

From Parviz’s orderly breathing, Hasti knew that he had fallen asleep. “The rest for another night,” she said. Scheherazade stopped talking.

“Oh, Scheherazade, the storyteller,” Salim said, “finish the story tonight.”

Morad said, “Hasti, continue.”

At Mother’s signal, Navidi came to pick up Parviz. “At the beginning of the story,” he complained, “Hasti Khanom said, ‘No one should leave . . . ’”

“Mind your own business,” Mother responded.

Hasti continued the story. “Babak wished that he could free his people who were captives of the oppressive caliph of Baghdad. The caliph’s heart was filled with hatred for Babak, and he said to himself, ‘I will do something so that no one in my territory will ever crave freedom.’ They brought Babak to the court of the caliphate. The caliph was enraged and commanded that they cut him up limb by limb. First, they cut off one of his hands. Babak held his other hand under the flowing blood and rubbed it on his face so that he would not look yellow and frightened in front of the enemy. Babak was killed. His murderer, Josaq, got on Qareqashqa in Samarra. The horse galloped and galloped and carried him to Sabalan Mountain. It dropped Josaq against Sabalan Mountain so hard that he broke into pieces. But listen to what happened to Qareqashqa. He cried so much in sorrow for Babak that Atgoli Lake was filled with tears, and Qareqashqa drowned himself in his own tears. The people of Tabriz still gather round that lake on Friday nights in hopes that the horse might be resurrected with Babak riding upon it.”

Morad sighed. “Morteza was Babak’s brother.”

Touran Jan recited:

My aged tree is a hundred thousand years old;

My heart does not fear heat and cold.

This separation hit my soul with an ax,

But the tree does not die as long as its roots last.

Teimur Khan caressed the tambour and said, “My dear Imam Ali, my dear.”