Her heart missed a beat. The servant girl, Fati, fifteen
years old, but more resembling a streetwalker, lay at the far end of the greenhouse with Yadollah, the gardener, with a bald head and repulsive, red-rimmed eyes, panting, panting, panting.
Mahdokht, near collapse and reaching for a shelf to steady herself, could not take her eyes off the scene. The man was the first to notice her. He let out a squeal and tried to disentangle himself from the embrace of the girl by hitting her in the face with one hand and reaching with the other for Mahdokht, who rushed out of the greenhouse and wandered aimlessly in the courtyard, fraught with nausea. She hurried to the pool, dipped her hands in the water, washing them compulsively. She then sat on the edge of the bedstead.
“What shall I do?”
She thought of reporting the whole thing to Houshang Khan and his wife. After all, the girl was in their custody.
“The girl is barely fifteen years oldâwhat outrageous behavior . . .”
Houshang Khan would give her a sound beating before sending her back to her family. Most likely her brothers would kill her.
“What shall I do?”
Perhaps she should pack her bags and return to Tehran and leave behind the agonizing quandary.
“Then what?”
In a fit of indecision she walked back toward the greenhouse. She saw the girl, wearing her chador inside out, rushing toward her. Her face looked scratched and flushed.
“Dear madam,” she whimpered, as she dropped to the ground hugging Mahdokht's feet.
The girl yelps like a dog, she thought.
“Get away from me, you filth,” Mahdokht snapped.
“Oh no, please madam,” pleaded the girl, “I'll do anything for you.”
“Shut up. Let me pass.”
“I swear I'll be your slave for life. I'll be as good as dead if you tell my mother.”
“Who said I wanted to tell?”
“I swear to God he wants to marry me. He's going to see the master tomorrow to propose.”
Reluctantly, Mahdokht promised not to tell simply to get away from her. She felt repulsed by the touch of the girl's hands on her ankles. Fati rose to her feet and stumbled unsteadily toward the building. Mahdokht drew a deep breath, suppressing an urge to cry.
Since then three months had passed and the summer was at an end. Preparations were being made for the family's return to the city that day. Everyone was surprised by Yadollah the gardener's sudden and unannounced departure. “That's weird,” Houshang Khan had said. “He'd told me a hundred times he would never leave my service.” Now he had to hire another caretaker to protect the orchard from the ravages of winter.
“Anybody can set up a maximum of four benches on the riverbank and rent them to Friday visitors for thirty tomans,” Houshang Khan explained to an assembly of villagers, who listened respectfully and approvingly.
Mahdokht then heard the girl's hearty laughter. She had taken the children to the end of the orchard to keep them out of the way. “God knows what games she teaches them,” she wondered, as she paced the floor angrily in her room, occasionally punching a wall in frustration. She worried about the children.
“I wish she had gotten pregnant so they would have killed her.”
It would have been convenient if the girl had gotten pregnant. The brothers would have ganged up on her and beaten her to death. That would have been nice. Then she wouldn't mislead the children.
Suddenly and unaccountably a thought came to Mahdokht's mind: my virginity is like a tree.
She felt compelled to look at her face in the mirror.
“Perhaps that is why I am green.”
She had an olive complexion with a hint of sallowness. There were wrinkles under her eyes. A vein tracked visibly on her forehead.
“You are so frigid,” Mr. Ehteshami had once noted. “Like ice.”
“Not like ice,” she thought. “I am a tree.”
She could plant herself in the earth.
“Well, I am not an acorn, but a tree. I should plant myself.”
No way could she talk like that to Houshang Khan, telling him to sit down for a frank conversation, telling him that it was the factories that produced the sweaters. If she mentioned the sweaters, she would have to tell him about the thousand hands. He would never understand.
How could she tell him, for instance, that with the factories producing thousands of sweaters, there would be no need for her to be trained and oriented as a knitter?
Well, there was no choice. She contemplated staying behind and planting herself when the winter came. She should have asked the arborists as to the best time to plant saplings. She didn't really know. It didn't matter. She would stay for the planting. From a sapling she would grow into a tree. She wanted to be planted near the river and grow leaves darker than algae so she could seriously challenge the water of the pool. As a tree she would sprout offshoots that would spread to the entire orchard and cover it so thickly that they would have to cut down all the cherry trees to make room for the Mahdokht tree. Soon it would spread to the rest of the continent. Americans would buy shoots of it to plant in California and colder climates, although they would mispronounce it “Madokt.” Soon, as a result of widespread usage in other languages, the name would be corrupted to “Medok” or “Madok.” Four centuries from now etymologists would passionately argue that both terms share the same root, “Madik,” and it was originally from Africa. The botanists on the other hand would raise objections that a cold-climate tree could not grow in Africa.
Mahdokht beat her head against the wall repeatedly. She broke down and started crying. As she sobbed violently, she thought that she would take a tour of Africa. She wanted to be a tropical tree. This was what she wanted with all her heart. It is always the heart's desire that drives one insane.
Fa'iza
AFTER SEVERAL DAYS OF DOUBT and hesitation Fa'iza made up her mind at four in the afternoon on August 5, 1953. Silence was no longer feasible. If she waited any longer everything would collapse. She'd better stand up in her own defense. Even so, despite the fact that she felt empowered by the decision, it took her well over an hour to get dressed. Slowly and deliberately she put on her stockings, a blouse, and a lightweight cotton skirt. During the process she paused to think, what if Amir Khan is there. The thought sent a rush of heat through her body. With him around, she wouldn't be able to say what she wanted, or say anything at all. She would have to hold back and endlessly revise what she was going to say.
“I'm aging,” she told herself as she stood in front of the mirror powdering her nose. At twenty-eight years and two months she was not old; she just looked prematurely aged.
She put on her shoes and picked up a handbag before going downstairs. Nana Jan, her ancient grandmother, was sitting on a bench gazing at the reflecting pool in the middle of the courtyard. The clacking of Fa'iza's heels on the steps distracted her.
“Are you going out?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Not a good idea. Demonstrations everywhere.”
The neighbors had the radio on and the noise reached the courtyard. Fa'iza stopped momentarily. Nana Jan was right.
“At least wear a chador,” advised Nana Jan.
Wordlessly Fa'iza turned around and went upstairs. From under piles of clothing she brought out the black chador she wore at funerals and on religious occasions. She put it on. The heavy folds of the material made her look somewhat angular. Amir Khan would tease her, should he be there. She didn't mind being teased by him most of the time, for instance, for her inability to find a husband, but not for looking the way she did in a chador. That would likely make her cryânot a wise thing to do in front of Amir Khan. Any way, she had no choice, so she went downstairs wearing the chador. Nana Jan made no more comments; it had been a while since she'd stopped bossing people around.
Fa'iza stepped outside into the side street. The noise
of the demonstration in the distance was clearly audible. A taxicab arrived almost immediately.
“Sezavar Street,” she said as she got in.
The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror.
“Aren't you scared?” he asked. “It is chaotic out there.”
“I have no choice.”
“I have to take detours, you know,” the driver said. “Main streets are dangerous.”
“No problem,” Fa'iza answered.
Through a maze of back streets and alleys the driver negotiated his way until he had to stop at a minor traffic jam at an intersection. In the middle of the intersection a man appeared to be directing traffic. But all of a sudden he left the spot and ran down the sidewalk into an alley, chased by another man. The traffic began to move slowly. Suddenly a man hurled himself onto the back of Fa'iza's cab and started knocking on the rear window with a knife. Fa'iza turned her head and buried her face in her lap. The driver jammed on the brakes, making her lurch forward and hit her head against the front seat. He then accelerated, which threw Fa'iza violently against the back seat. The maneuver made the man slip off the trunk of the car.
“I told you it would be dangerous,” said the driver. “You're my last fare for sure.” Fa'iza made no response.
“Goddamn!” exclaimed the driver, “Serves me right for being nosy! My old lady told me ten times not to get on the road today.”
Fa'iza remained silent. She didn't like the way the driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. She was anxious to get out.
Finally they arrived at the destination. She put a two-toman bill in the driver's outstretched hand, shuddering at the touch of his skin. Not waiting for the change, she burst out of the cab.
The house overlooked the street, which was humming with the noise of the crowds at some distance. Fa'iza rang the doorbell. She had a bitter taste in her mouth for the two minutes before the door was opened. The maid, Alia, opened the door, looking groggy.
“You were still asleep?” said Fa'iza accusingly. “My God!”
Alia muttered something by way of greeting and stepped aside to let Fa'iza in.
“Is Madam Munis home?” Fa'iza asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the living room, I suppose.”
Fa'iza started in that direction. Would Amir Khan be there, she wondered. As she took the first step, she told herself “There,” and with the second step, “Not there.” She alternated the thoughts at each step until she reached the living room door, coinciding with “There.” Apprehensively she pushed open the door. Munis was by herself sitting in front of the radio listening intently. Amir Khan was not there. He might be asleep upstairs, she guessed.
“Hello!” Fa'iza exclaimed.
Munis turned, her face suddenly flushed with pleasure at the sight of Fa'iza. “What a surprise,” she squealed. “Long time no see! Where have you been hiding yourself,
young lady?” Slowly she rose to her feet, turning down the volume on the radio.
“Long-time-no-see to you, my dear,” returned Fa'iza. “No word, no message, for God's sake.” The women embraced and continued the stream of pleasantries as they settled on a couch next to the radio.
“Are you alone?” Fa'iza wanted to know.
“Yes, I am,” declared Munis. “Mother and the others have gone on a pilgrimage to Mashad.”
1
“Why didn't you let me know?” Fa'iza asked, complainingly.
“They've been gone two days.”
“I see. What is Amir Khan doing?”
“He's not home. He is at work.”
“What? At work? In the middle of all this commotion?”
“Every time he leaves the house he says he is going to the office. What do I know?”
“That's interesting.”
“Interesting is the way you are.”
“I take it as a compliment.”
“I'm not sure about that,” said Munis with a touch of playfulness. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be nice. If it's not too much trouble.”
As soon as Munis left to get the tea, Fa'iza turned off the radio. It could interfere with the conversation that she had delayed long enough. When she returned, Munis sat directly across from Fa'iza, not saying a word. Somewhere Fa'iza had read that people with round faces are mentally
defective. She had run to the mirror to make sure she did not belong to this retarded group, although she had been made aware many times before, mostly by Nana Jan's pejorative, hurtful comments, that she had horse-like features. Since she'd read this, Fa'iza had developed the habit of evaluating people based on the shape of their faces. Amir had decidedly an oblong face with a strong, square jaw. Munis, on the other hand, had a round face, like the full moon, or an egg. For the past ten years she had thought of Munis as an imbecile. Fa'iza had cultivated a friendship with her despite the fact that Munis was ten years her senior because she found in her a winsome sincerity and personal magnetism. A couple of years after their bonding as friends, Munis's brother, Amir, entered the picture. Now, every time she paid Munis a visit, it was mostly in hopes of catching a glimpse of Amir Khan. If Munis had had a longer face, Fa'iza had speculated often, she would have been smart enough to arrange Fa'iza's marriage to Amir Khan. Poor girl, Fa'iza thought to herself, why is her face so round?
Alia brought in the tea tray. As they sipped tea, Munis kept glancing at the radio. Although she was older and in her own house, she did not have the self-confidence to exert her will and turn the radio back on. “Is it bad out there?” she asked.
“It is utterly chaotic,” Fa'iza answered.