Women Without Men (4 page)

“Are you all right?” Munis asked.

“I'm dead,” the man answered.

“Can I help you in any way?”

“The best thing for you to do is to leave. You might get into trouble.”

“Why?”

“Can't you hear the noise? It is payback time.”

“So what are you doing here?” Munis wanted to know.

“Dear lady,” said the man, with a touch of impatience, “I told you. I am dead.”

Undeterred, Munis continued, “Now, if I nurse you and take care of you it is possible that you might revive.”

“No,” said the man, “it won't work anymore. A Frenchman has written a film script titled ‘It Is Too Late.' I am at that stage. It is too late for me.”

A wave of sadness washed over Munis. “In any case, perhaps . . .” she said hopefully. But the man curtly interrupted her. “I told you to go away,” he said, visibly irritated. “This is ridiculous.”

So Munis left the scene, and for a month wandered in the city streets. At first the streets were crowded with mobs fighting and killing one another. But the chaos subsided gradually and people returned to their homes, perhaps to reflect on the events with pangs of regret. Some ended up in prison and others found reasons to celebrate and engage in binge drinking at parties. Munis, no longer young, had no taste for such parties but watched the celebrants through the windows and heard the sound of their laughter. Few people ventured out at night because of the curfew, and patrol units stopping passersby asking for passwords. By and by Munis reached the bookstores across from the university. Sheepishly she looked at the covers of the books in the window without permitting
herself to read their titles. But eventually she overcame her aversion and began to read them. She was intrigued by one book, which happened to be not in the store window but offered by a street vendor. Its title was
Sexual Fulfillment or How to Know Our Bodies.

For twelve days Munis kept passing by the book vendor's cart, each time furtively glancing at the book and its title. On the thirteenth day she finally gathered up enough courage to approach the vendor.

“How much is this?” she asked.

“Five tomans,” answered the man. She bought the book and found a deserted street where she sat in the shade of a tree and began reading. Without interruption she read the book cover to cover three times. Three days passed. At the end of the third day she looked up from the book. She saw the external world in a different light. She felt she had undergone a process of growth and maturation.

She discarded the book in the gutter and started walking, heading toward her house. She arrived home at sunset. Alia answered the doorbell. At the sight of Munis she gave a loud squeal and sank to her knees.

“Alia dear, what is the matter?” Munis asked as she helped the maid to her feet.

“Madam, you've given us quite a scare,” exclaimed the maid. “For a whole month your parents and your brother have scoured the town and country looking for you. They cry tears of blood nightly. Where have you been? What have you been doing?”

Munis said nothing. She only shook her head and smiled knowingly. “Alia dear,” she said after a long pause,
“I am not the old Munis anymore. I now know a lot more.” She then walked calmly and resolutely to the living room. She sat in a chair in a corner, deep in thought.

Fifteen minutes later Amir Khan arrived home, looking harassed and disheveled. He froze momentarily at the sight of Munis in the living room.

“You shameless woman,” he yelled, “where the hell have you been?”

Munis smiled benignly at her brother, unable to see a cause for outrage. She was not offended by the outburst. Nor was she surprised.

“You have ruined the family reputation,” Amir Khan hissed viciously. “Up and down the neighborhood everyone knows that you've gone missing.”

“I only went for a short walk,” replied Munis, somewhat sarcastically. “With your permission, of course.”

“You knew you were not supposed to go out during the riots, you slut,” said Amir Khan, as he removed the belt from his waist and started beating Munis with it. For her part, Munis was taken aback by the violent outburst and suffered the strokes wordlessly without putting up a defense.

“Why are you beating me?” she said finally. “Are you a sadist?”

The words exacerbated Amir Khan's fury. He reached for the knife on the dining table and plunged it forcefully in her chest.

With a faint sigh the spinster died for a second time.

 

ALIA, HEARING THE SOUND of loud voices, entered the room. At the sight of Munis's blood-spattered body and a bloody knife in Amir Khan's hand, she screamed and fell to the floor in a swoon. By now Amir Khan had regained his composure enough to feel apprehensive. He gazed at the knife as if surprised to find it in his hand. Hurriedly, he put it on the table. But he changed his mind and picked it up. With a handkerchief that he produced from his pocket he wiped off his fingerprints from its handle and put it back on the table.

The doorbell rang and Amir Khan rushed to open it. His parents entered the hall. “We've checked with three
police stations,” they blurted out without waiting for Amir Khan to say a word. “No sign of her yet.”

They proceeded to the living room, almost stumbling on Alia, still stretched on the floor, before noticing Munis's body. They looked at each other in total confusion. Almost in unison, they each gave a short, high-pitched scream and fainted, slumping to the floor.

Now here was Amir Khan with four motionless bodies at his feet. “Oh God, what am I to do?” he wondered aloud. He sat on the edge of a chair, staring at the scene before him. Gripped by despair, he began to sob. With the handkerchief in his hand he tried to dry his tears, only to notice that he had smeared his face with the blood on the handkerchief. With a shudder of disgust he threw it on the table and returned his gaze to the bodies on the floor that showed no sign of regaining consciousness. He was overcome with a sense of guilt.

The doorbell rang.

Because the family had contacted so many police stations on account of Munis's disappearance, it was not unusual for five or six agents and detectives to stop by on a daily basis for updates on the search. Amir Khan lunged toward the door and yanked it open intent on turning himself in.

It was Fa'iza. In the darkness of the hall she could not see Amir Khan's face clearly. “Hello,” she said.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed fearfully when Amir Khan stepped back into the light. She leaned against the wall.

“For God's sake,” implored Amir Khan, “don't
you
go and faint on me too.”

“I just came to see if there is any news on Munis,” Fa'iza said, her voice trembling. Amir Khan pointed his finger in the direction of the living room.

Fa'iza opened the door and looked inside. She turned quickly and faced Amir Khan, all color drained from her face.

“Did you kill all of them?” she asked.

“No,” answered Amir Khan, “only Munis.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I have no idea,” replied Amir Khan, as he slid down the wall and squatted on the floor. He broke down crying helplessly. The sight of the despondent man gave Fa'iza the notion that fate had finally put her on the highway of life. She took off her chador and tossed it in a corner and crouched directly in front of Amir Khan.

“Man, listen to me,” she addressed Amir Khan firmly. “This is an abomination. Why are you crying? You are a brother. You have honor, and a duty to protect it. You killed her? You did the right thing. Why not? She'd been gadding about for a whole month. No decent girl behaves like that. She was as good as dead. I'd do the same if I were you. Your mother has raised you nobly . . .” Fa'iza paused to produce a handkerchief from her bosom and give it to him to wipe off his tears.

Amir Khan, now calmer and more self-possessed, blew his nose in the handkerchief. Fa'iza's tirade was exactly the kind of consolation he needed and it had arrived as if through divine intervention. At the same time he thought
it was unbecoming of a woman to keep a handkerchief between her breasts and squat before a man in a way that exposed her crotch. For a fleeting moment he thought that if Fa'iza had been his sister, he would have killed her for such indiscretion. But of course she was not his sister and her conduct was not of his concern. Besides, she was the source of consolation and reassurance that he most needed under the circumstances.

“In your opinion, what do we do now?” Amir Khan asked, sighing deeply.

“Well, we will bury her in the backyard,” Fa'iza answered. “Nobody will be any the wiser. Lots of people get lost everyday and the coroner's office is too busy to come asking questions.”

This sounded sensible to Amir Khan. He nodded his agreement and the two of them went to the yard. With a pickaxe and a shovel they had soon dug a shallow grave about three feet deep.

They returned to the living room where Alia and Amir Khan's parents were still prostrate on the floor, unconscious. The man and the woman carried Munis's body to the yard, placed it in the grave, and covered it with dirt. They then went back to the living room to clean the blood stains and obliterate any evidence of the crime.

A little later, Alia and the parents showed signs of coming to. Slowly they regained consciousness. However, because of the shock of the preceding events, they had no recollection of what had happened, except for Alia, who had a vague memory of having seen a corpse on the floor. But because she was illiterate, and a housemaid,
she could not allow herself to express her thoughts. Furthermore, there was a rumor that Alia had a doppelganger who mischievously haunted the rooftops during the summer and peeped in tents where people slept. She made a decision not to raise any questions.

Amir Khan's mother was delighted to see Fa'iza. “My dear girl,” she said effusively. “How are you? How nice to see you after so long!”

“What do you mean
so long
? I am always here imposing on your hospitality,” answered Fa'iza.

“Nonesense! You're always welcome.”

“I just stopped by to see if there is any news of Munis.”

“Oh, my dear, she has not been found yet. My poor child! God willing, we'll find her.”

“Very well, then. I'll make myself scarce. For God's sake, let me know as soon as you hear anything,” Fai'za said as she prepared to leave.

“I am not going to let you leave. You have to stay for dinner,” said the old woman emphatically. “Alia, go to the kitchen,” she ordered.

“I really shouldn't bother you any longer,” Fa'iza demurred.

“No bother at all. You're not leaving.”

The issue was settled and Alia headed for the kitchen. As was her habit, she began singing softly, plaintively, a folk song from the western provinces while she cooked. The lyrics, in quatrains, described the poet's desire to be able to write and narrate the misery, the heartache, he felt in separation from his beloved.

After dinner, Amir Khan offered to drive Fa'iza home. In the car he was quiet and in a pensive mood. Fa'iza felt at ease enough to reach out and stroke his hand gripping the wheel. He showed no reaction.

“You know, after all this you should get married to put Munis's disappearance behind us,” Fa'iza felt confident enough to suggest. “Besides,” she went on, “you need a wife to be your companion and confidante, to take care of you and give you solace and comfort.”

“Exactly!” said Amir Khan, with the force of an epiphany. “You are absolutely right.”

A few days later Amir Khan spoke with his mother. “Mother,” he began, perched nervously on the edge of a chair, “it may not be proper to talk about this under the circumstances, but I have been thinking for a while, and I have come to believe that I need a wife to be my companion and confidante, to take care of me and give me solace and comfort. That is why I have decided to get married.”

“Oh, wonderful!” said the mother, genuinely delighted. “Of course, your poor sister is still missing. It would have been so much nicer if she could be a part of this auspicious occasion. But what can we do? God willing, when and where do you plan to have the wedding?”

“Well,” said Amir Khan timidly, “first we must go through the marriage proposal phase.”

“But aren't you going to marry Fa'iza?” she asked, somewhat confused.

“No, mother,” he replied, “I intend to marry the daughter of Haji Mohammed Sorkhchehreh. She is eighteen
years old and exceedingly pretty. She is bashful, caring, dutiful, chaste, and modest. She dresses and behaves properly in public. In the street she always walks with her head down. Please do me the favor of asking her hand in marriage on my behalf.”

“Amir dear,” the mother said, with some concern in her voice, “you are in fact two years older than your late sister and pushing forty. You did not get married so that you could take care of your sister. Now why do you want to marry an eighteen-year-old? You know the old saw, a young wife always attracts the neighbors. You may be asking for scandals.”

Amir was adamant. “But mother,” he said, “you've also heard the other saying: ‘A virgin past twenty, pity she needs aplenty.' I have no choice but to marry someone below twenty. Besides, she looks very chaste and devout and not likely to be unfaithful. So why don't you dress up and go for the proposal today?”

Early in the afternoon the mother put on her most elaborate outfit, wrapped herself in a chador and, accompanied by Amir, left for the residence of the future bride. The girl, dressed conservatively in head cover and thick stockings, brought in the tea tray and offered it demurely to the visitors.