Translated from the Persian by Assurbanipal Babilla
Mrs. F Is a Fortunate Woman
MRS. F IS a fortunate woman. Everyone says so. Every Saturday morning Mrs. F’s mother burns incense for her daughter as she incants May the eye of the envious pop. Mrs. F’s mother believes that it is more auspicious to burn incense on Saturday mornings.
Mrs. F has been married to Mr. F for twenty-five years. Mr. F is a good man. Everybody says so. He is an employee of the Ministry of Education. He is not a teacher. He is in charge of the district employees’ monthly salaries. He knows exactly who receives how much. He knows who has been promoted and who has not.
After having prepared and submitted the list of salaries, he takes his own salary, goes straight home, and gives it to Mrs. F. Mrs. F offers him a cup of freshly brewed tea. Every evening of the first day of the month when Mr. F comes back from work, the tea is always fresh. Mrs. F always smiles and says that she hopes he is not too tired. She then starts to count the money. She knows exactly how much he makes, down to the last penny. Still, she counts the money to the very last penny, as if she enjoys the activity. “You very well know how much it is,” Mr. F says. “So why do you count it?” But he himself enjoys watching the money stack up in different piles. He looks at the money and smiles, drinks his tea, and talks about the goings-on in the office, such as who was promoted and who wasn’t.
Mrs. F listens with great curiosity. And if a day or two later she sees the wife of the one who had been promoted wearing a new scarf, she is not surprised, and since she is not a jealous woman she finds something nice to say about the scarf; and if she bumps into the wife of the teacher who was not promoted, she is surprised to see the wife wearing new shoes, but since she is not a jealous woman she says nothing complimentary about the shoes.
After having counted the money, Mrs. F gets up from her seat and hides the money in a safe, secret place, a place that she thinks no one knows about but that in fact the entire household is privy to. She then starts preparing the evening’s meal.
After dinner, after having washed the dishes, after everyone else is sound asleep, Mrs. F pours herself a cup of tea, sits at the small kitchen table, pulls out a piece of paper, and begins thinking about how she is going to spend the money during the following month. Meat, fruit, rice, stockings for Yasaman, the installment for the TV, underwear for Mr. F, money for repairing the refrigerator, yarn for a scarf for Bardia. Then she goes over last month’s expenses. If last month they broke even, Mrs. F is saddened. Joylessly she takes a sip of her tea. For a while, with her slightly swollen fingers, she beats a chaotic rhythm on the table and stares at the flowers on the plastic-covered table. She then gets up, turns off the kitchen light, and goes to bed. If at times, and this rarely happens, she finds that in the past month they spent more money than what Mr. F had earned, she pushes away the cup of tea as if it were a thing she no longer deserves and holds her head between her hands. For several days she is in a sad mood. In the days that follow, she listens intently to the food programs on the radio. She reads women’s magazines that she has borrowed from her friends and neighbors, containing cooking instructions (she herself never spends money on books and magazines). She wants to learn more about how to cook economically. What a joy it is when she, without help from the radio or magazines, simply by her own inventiveness, adds water, fried onions, a few pieces of leftover meat from the stew she had made two days ago, to yesterday’s lentil rice meal and serves it for dinner. She is delighted when she hears her family say: “What a delicious stew!” To this, she smiles and says to herself: “Cheap food!”
It happens, though very rarely, that some months they have spent less than Mr. F’s monthly salary. On such occasions Mrs. F smiles. She drinks her tea as if she has been granted a well-deserved award. She then places a hand under her chin and stares out the kitchen window. It is dark by this time and she cannot see a thing, but that hardly matters. She is not interested in seeing anything. Mrs. F is simply happy.
The day following such evenings is always glorious. Who cares if it is snowing or if it is sweltering hot? What matters is that Mrs. F is going to the bank. She divides what she has saved into two equal parts and deposits the money into the savings account she has opened for her two children. On her way to the bank she daydreams. The snow entering through a hole in the sole of her shoe does not bother her. And the only thing that warm weather can do is curl the slightly odorous hair under her armpits. But Mrs. F is never bothered by either the water in her shoes or the odor of her sweat. Mrs. F is busy thinking, counting, planning. “It is conceivable that in a few years it is possible to send Bardia abroad to continue his studies. And when Yasaman wants to marry, we can provide her with a decent dowry.” Soon enough, her mind, expertly ignoring the laws of time, travels from her daydreams of the future to the memories from her past.
The day Bardia was born was a hot summer day. What a pretty infant! He weighed four kilograms and looked like a champion. The gifts she had received at her baby shower were perfect. Twelve under-shirts, twelve tiny pants, twelve bibs with hand-sewn pictures of rabbits, mice, pigeons, and some other animals along a tiny band of blue ribbons. Mrs. F’s mother had really outdone herself because next to the twenty-four cloth diapers of rose-embroidered soft muslin there were a few disposable diapers. They had just come into fashion and though very expensive, they were worth the astonished looks they brought to the faces of Mr. F’s relatives and neighbors. Mrs. F, who never learned the proper name for such diapers, never used them, is still keeping them in a big brown trunk that contains her most precious belongings: her wedding dress, Yasaman’s first pair of shoes, Bardia’s and Yasaman’s first-grade notebooks, and lots of other things. Their house is small and there isn’t much room, but each time Yasaman and Bardia nag, “Why don’t you throw away this ugly humongous trunk,” Mrs. F resists complying. By thinking and planning, she makes room for Bardia’s books and Yasaman’s things so that the ugly, humongous trunk stays where it belongs in that small house.
In snow and in sunshine, the memories of years gone by and dreams of the future swirling in her head, she walks to the bank. She clutches her black bag tightly under one arm. She no longer trusts the strap of her bag, and in any case the city is teeming with thieves and bag snatchers.
When she arrives at the bank, it is as if she has arrived at an old friend’s house. She has known the head of the bank, Mrs. Taghizadegan, for a long time, that is, from the first day she opened a savings account for Bardia. In those days Mrs. Taghizadegan was just a teller. She was then a slim girl with a pleasant attitude. Her attitude is still pleasant but her body looks different. Mrs. F always enjoys Mrs. Taghizadegan’s expertise and her relationship with the people who work under her. Mrs. Taghizadegan has a son and a daughter who are slightly younger than her own Yasaman and Bardia. This top official of the bank receives Mrs. F as an intimate friend. She orders tea for Mrs. F and inquires after her children and asks what they are doing at the present time. She also talks about her own children, and during this conversation about motherly issues, she manages to answer a few telephone calls, sign papers, and issue orders to the employees as to what to do and what not to do.
On her way home, Mrs. F wonders how Mrs. Taghizadegan takes care of her husband and children while carrying such a heavy load of responsibility at work. “Maybe it isn’t that difficult,” she thinks to herself. “If I had kept my old teaching job, I would have most probably become the supervisor of a whole educational district by now.” But she knows deep in her heart that she never enjoyed her job in the Ministry of Education, and that when Mr. F proposed to marry her and insisted that she should not work, Mrs. F had immediately realized that her prayers had been answered. But knowing this does not prevent a feeling akin to jealousy or envy creeping into her mind. As she turns the key to unlock the garden gate, she tells herself: “A woman who works outside her home cannot be truly attentive to her husband and children.” Having justified herself as such, she opens the gate and abandons herself to the tranquillity of the garden and her ever-spotless home.
Sometimes, only sometimes, returning from the bank, she still clings to a little bit of money she has saved from last month. After a few days of hesitation and thoughtful anxiety, as she weighs the pros and cons of the matter, she finally decides to buy something for herself. A pair of nylon stockings or perhaps a headscarf. As she wrestles with her conscience, piling reason upon reason why it is OK to be such a spender sometimes, and even after having offered these justifications to her husband, her mother, and even her children, upon buying anything for herself she is gripped by such emotions she does not wish anyone to witness. On the days she does the sweeping, when her back begins to ache, she brings to mind the thing she has bought and with that thought, like a toy that has been wound tightly, she continues sweeping with a greater speed. When she is in the line for buying meat or bread and her legs begin to hurt, she recalls her purchased treats and she forgets the pain. After she has finished sweeping, bought the bread and the meat, she washes her hands and face, combs her hair, and slowly approaches the chest of drawers. She is all ears listening intently, in case anyone suddenly showed up. These infrequent moments are the only private moments in her life. She feels guilty about the secrecy of these moments, that not even her husband, or mother, or even her children share them with her. Still, from time to time, she gives in to the temptation. To lighten the weight of her tormenting conscience, she allows herself such private moments only after she has performed her chores completely and in full. The house cleaner than ever, lunch and dinner ready, the laundry washed and ironed. On such days she spends more time on her daily visits to her mother. She listens more attentively to her complaints, her intolerable aching legs, her moans about last night’s watermelon giving her too much gas, and about the neighbor across the street who distributed the stew she had made for blessing and had not given her any. She listens to her mother attentively and in order to prevent herself from feeling guilty, she refrains from saying that her mother’s aches and pains at her age are only to be expected, and that no sane person would eat half a watermelon at night, and if the neighbor has not shared her blessing stew with her, it is because last year, during the holy month of Moharam,* she had not given the neighbor the saffron rice pudding prepared especially for that occasion.
From the drawer she takes the headscarf or the nylon stockings still wrapped in gift paper. She always insists that whatever she buys must be gift wrapped. She tells the vendor that she is buying gifts. She blushes when she tells the lie, but she always repeats the lie. The colorful paper and the act of unwrapping it add to her sense of pleasure. She carefully removes the Scotch tape and flattens the paper. She puts the small thing she has just unwrapped in front of her and looks at it.
“When we go to visit my husband’s new boss, I’ll put on the scarf.”
“The stockings—maybe I should give them to Yasaman.”
Then she puts one hand under her chin and stares at the wrapping paper and thinks what a fortunate woman she is. She has a husband who unlike other men does not squander his money, and he never complains when she spends money. She has two healthy kids. Everybody says that her daughter is beautiful and well mannered and that her cooking is out of this world. And Bardia is taller than all the kids his age, and he is good at school and wants to become a civil engineer. Although their house is small, it is comfortable and has saved them from nagging landlords. What else should a woman expect of life? Mrs. F tells herself: “I am a fortunate woman.” And Mrs. F is happy, and her mother burns incense every Saturday morning for her daughter.
The Desirable Life of Mr. F
The day Mr. F retired, Mrs. F made sweet rice for lunch. She filled a big vase with white and yellow chrysanthemums and placed it on the table. Then with her daughters, Fataneh and Farzaneh, she waited for his arrival.
Slightly before noon, Mr. F, after the goodbye party that they had arranged in his honor at the office, returned home. Fataneh and Farzaneh rushed up to hug and kiss him.
Fataneh said: “From now on, you don’t have to wake up early.”
Farzaneh said: “Starting tomorrow, you can sleep as long as you want.”
Mrs. F looked at Mr. F. “How gray his hair has become!” she thought. Then she said to herself: “Maybe it’s the light shining through the window straight on his head.”
Fataneh and Farzaneh had purchased gifts for their father. Fataneh’s gift was a wristwatch. Farzaneh’s gift was a clock with hands that glowed in the dark. Mr. F loved timepieces. Mrs. F’s sweet rice was the best ever.
During lunch Mr. F told them about the party and they admired the small commemorative inscription in its large ornate frame that was given to him in gratitude for his years of service as a parting gift that was placed lovingly on the shelf.
The following morning he woke up slightly later than previous days. He remembered that there was no need to get up early. He moved under the sheets and with his feet he sought cooler spots on the mattress.
From the kitchen that was downstairs he could hear running water and the clattering of dishes being washed. He said to himself: “From today on, I’ll do things that I like.” He started thinking about the things he liked to do. “I’ll fix the flower bed.”
The thought of the flower bed drew him out of bed. He pulled back the heavy drapes and opened the window. The flower bed was not too big. It was just a square patch of grass with a berry tree on the right side. He thought: “I’ll plant flowers all around: pansies and plants that release their fragrance at night. I’ll buy roses and Japanese quince.” He imagined the whole flower bed covered with pansies, roses, and Japanese quince. He thought it would look beautiful. He thought about his wife: “She would really enjoy the sight when she looks out of the kitchen window.”
He looked at the bedside clock. It was nine thirty. He thought: “Now the boys at the office are having their tea.” He remembered his small room at the office. If he closed his eyes, he could see the smallest details of that room. A few official notes thumbtacked to the wall and next to them a poster depicting a landscape in garish colors. The trees were very green, the sky very blue. Even the whiteness of the clouds was too white. The floor showed gray indentations. There was a calendar on a corner table next to a pencil holder, paper clips, and safety pins. There was a chair at the table and facing the chair was a shelf for files. Next to the shelf was a metallic coat stand with several spokes and if you were to put your winter coat on it or remove it hastily, the whole thing would lose its balance and go crashing to the floor. There was a window behind the desk. From the window you could only see the building number two belonging to their office with its gray stone façade and many uniform windows.
Mr. F put on his slippers, opened the door, and went down the stairs.
The garden looked lovely. Mr. and Mrs. F with Fataneh and Farzaneh were sitting in the garden and were having tea. On a short and round table there was a vase with a few branches of roses and a branch of Japanese quince.
Fataneh said: “Until a few months ago the flower bed looked so ugly.”
Farzaneh said: “Until a few months ago the flower bed didn’t look so lovely at all.”
Mrs. F said: “I wish we could paint the house.”
Mr. F smiled. He remembered the walls of the corridors at work that were always dirty. Long, gray corridors where the employees passed through clutching files under their arms, inquiring about each other’s health and making jokes.
Mr. F bought brushes and ladder and the house looked brighter than before.
While having breakfast, Fataneh said: “The house is so much cleaner than before.” Then she looked at her watch. “O my God, I’m late!” and jumped out of her seat.
Mr. F looked at his left wrist. He had left his watch in the bedroom.
Farzaneh finished drinking her tea. “I shouldn’t be late on the first day of work.”
The faucet in the kitchen was dripping. Mrs. F was calculating the day’s expenses out loud. She was happy that painting the house had not cost them too much money. The sound of the dripping faucet was getting on Mr. F’s nerves.
A few days later, Mr. F fixed the faucet. He looked around with satisfaction. He remembered that there was no one at home. Mrs. F had gone to her knitting class. Fataneh and Farzaneh had their lunch at their office. Mr. F felt hungry. There were a few cutlets left over from last night. He was craving sweet rice.
Mrs. F knitted colorful things and sold them. Fataneh and Farzaneh had received a raise at work. Mr. F was waiting for spring, for the garden to come to life. During daytime the house was quiet except for the ticking of the clocks. Mr. F would roam about the house: oiling the hinges and tightening the faucets. No one in the house worried about the sleeping garden.
Mr. F put on his suit. His trousers felt looser than before. He tightened the belt two notches. His shoes were hurting his feet and his necktie was slipping between his fingers. As he left the house, he thought: “The boys at the office would be glad to see me.”
Walking through the corridors of his old office, he smiled at everyone. The employees were coming and going with files under their arms, joking with one another. The walls were still gray. When he arrived at the office that used to belong to him, he reached to open the door. Then he remembered he was supposed to knock first. He knocked. A voice said: “Come in.” Mr. F entered.
At the metallic desk where the pencil container, the calendar, and the box full of paperclips stood, Mr. F was bent over a file and was writing something.
Mr. F sat on the chair in front of the desk.
Mr. F raised his head, stared at Mr. F, and smiled. “I’ve so much work to do. Tomorrow I’m supposed to submit this file.”
Mr. F shifted around in his chair and smiled.
Mr. F closed the file, put the pencil in the pencil container, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his knuckles. He then locked his hands behind his head and said: “Lucky you. Now you can rest.”
Mr. F looked at the very green, and the very blue of the poster on the wall. The clouds were intensely white. He got up from his chair. “With your kind permission I’ll take your leave,” he said. “I’m distracting you from your work.”
Mr. F nodded. He took the pencil out of the pencil container and bent over the file.
Mr. F removed his winter coat from the clothes rack. The rack shook a couple of times. Mr. F steadied it. He left the room. He walked through the gray corridors and out of the building.
The street was crowded. He stopped a few times to recall which way he was supposed to go.
The house was silent. Fataneh and Farzaneh had not returned from work. Mrs. F was busy knitting. The faucet in the kitchen was dripping again.