A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea (13 page)

maastmali
—how smoothly she does it. She raises it to the level of craft—the way one might learn to hold a paintbrush or properly age a jar of garlic pickle.
A small crowd has gathered at the end of the road. Mustafa pushes through them and disappears. Saba spots a familiar woman, a thin, angular woman around her mother’s age with scholarly glasses and a regretful expression. She blends into the crowd and no one talks to her.
Who is she?
Saba is sure she has seen her before, maybe spoken to her.
Ponneh has to be carried home on Khanom Omidi’s ample arm. Her bruises are already purpling her arms and lower neck. Saba doesn’t want to imagine the state of her body under her clothes. A relentless stream of mucus and tears pours from Ponneh’s nose and eyes, and Saba feels obliged to wipe them, to share in the filth. Ponneh mumbles incoherent nothings, coughs, and once in a while chastises herself for having offered herself to Mustafa, a regret she will surely endure for a long time.
“That
kesafat . . .
that dirty piece of shit,” says Khanom Omidi, who always enjoys a good swear or two, but this time she doesn’t stop cursing the entire way home. She sings it like a dirge. “That son-of-adog, that
beesharaf
, that sloppy elephant’s cunt.” She shakes her head in exaggerated mourning then perks up. “
Shhh
, Ponneh jan. I’ll make you something to take away the pain. I just have to get my special spice jar. How’d you like that?” Saba wonders how Khanom Omidi can possibly risk opium at a time like this, but this is her way; life is about small pleasures. Besides, Ponneh will need the release when she realizes no justice is coming, that no one will fight for it.
A
ll this thanks to a broken high heel.
After taking Ponneh home, Khanom Omidi and Khanom Basir head to the Hafezi house to prepare dinner. Saba stays. In a tiny bedroom, she inspects Ponneh’s back. Her bruises are gruesome, ranging from a sickly yellow to deep purple. Ponneh is determined to hide them. Saba rubs an ointment on her back, helps her slip into a soft shirt under a thick, protective sweater. Ponneh crouches on the floor in the corner of her bed mat like a frightened cat, careful not to lean her mutilated back against the wall. Her face is all ash and bitter lines and sorrowful red patches. When Saba tries to comfort her, Ponneh pushes her hand away. “I can’t believe I gave the bastard the satisfaction.”
“He’ll never try again,” Saba says. “You did nothing wrong.”
Later Reza sneaks in through a small window in Ponneh’s room, the one that faces the forest instead of the road. His mother has told him everything. He sits on the mat and inches toward Ponneh; he holds her head to his chest, careful not to touch her bruises. He sings a children’s song and Ponneh smiles and looks up into his face. “Re member the extra part we made up?” he teases, and moves closer so their noses almost touch and Saba can see his hair falling on Ponneh’s face. “No more bazaar for a while. I’ll take care of your shopping.” Then he adds, “And don’t worry about Mustafa. I’ll handle him.”
Saba sits on Ponneh’s other side and tells her that she and Reza will take care of things. She watches them, tries not to be selfish or focus on her own pain at such a time. But she thinks that Khanom Basir might have been right all these years. Maybe Saba’s friends are in love. Look at the way he touches her hair. Look how he doesn’t weigh each word to see if it’s proper or pretend he can recite English lyrics. Look how a force pulls their faces in, and they have no control at all. He has probably never asked Ponneh if he can kiss her. He probably never had to. They belong to the same world, a rural place without fathers where sturdy-armed mothers rule. They understand each other. There are no big houses, or acres of Hafezi lands, or the possibility of America between them. But then Ponneh reaches for Saba’s hand. “Look, it’s the three of us together always,” she says, as if she needs them both, and Saba thinks she might be wrong.
They decide that it would be good for Ponneh to have dinner at the Hafezi home—to be among women who worship her face, who would never have her beaten for it. Reza leaves first, and Saba stays to help Ponneh get ready. “Do you remember when we were fourteen and you hurt your hand?” she says. “Reza sang you that French song.”
“
Donneh, Donneh, Do-Donneh
,” she sings. “Just like Ponneh.”
Saba nods. “Exactly! You remember?”
“You said it meant something else,” says Ponneh.
“I lied,” says Saba, as she braids Ponneh’s hair like she used to do when they were children. “It’s the name of a beautiful girl. Do you want me to teach it to you?”
Saba sits with Ponneh for another hour, singing “Le Mendiant de l’Amour,” telling her stories, and coaxing her to dream about a day when they will both be married. Or a day when they will own a store in Tehran. Or a day when Saba will win the ear of the president of America and they will use the dowry money she has secreted away to run off and live in Washington, in the president’s big white palace, where Mahtab can visit them.

Ponneh jan, don’t be sad. We all know you would never have gone with Mustafa. Everyone lies. Everyone has secrets. Do you remember the day I told Khanom Mansoori that I was too grown-up for Mahtab? I lied. Do you want to hear a story about her? I can tell you a good one, from a letter about Harvard and a day when she too breaks a high heel. Like you, she wants to fix it; and that leads her to a stupid boy, like Mustafa, and Reza, and every confused man who doesn’t know what to do with his desires. But unlike you and me, Mahtab is lucky and brave and American. So when her broken shoe takes her to this boy, she can maneuver things so that it is
he
who ends up firmly underfoot. Isn’t that wonderful, Ponneh jan? Just wait till you hear the rest. . . .

Ponneh, why are you crying now? Don’t cry. I thought it would help.
All right, no stories. Forget the story now. I will save it for another day, for other ears. . . . Let’s go to my house. I bet if no one is watching, Reza will do all his football tricks for us in the front yard. Or we can go to the pantry and smoke, just the three of us like always. We will convince him to bring his father’s old
setar
and sit in a circle with our bare feet touching his and watch him pretend he isn’t excited by it. Admit it, Ponneh jan, don’t you love the feel of his bare skin, though it is only a foot and nothing else? Afterward, when it’s just the two of us, we can spend all night talking about the blue veins running to his toes and wondering when we might see and touch them again, on the hands or feet of any man. We can get high from his plastic bag of herbs and he can strum the notes of his song—the one about home fading away—his fingers barely touching the strings so no one else can hear the small sparks of music between our huddled shoulders.

ahtab and Saba were very good at lying. They learned it as children, from the storytellers and the exaggerators and the
tarof
-givers around town. Just look at all this Mahtab-in-America pretend
bazi
nonsense. Saba knows she’s lying, but she claims she has this source or that source, just to vex me. But who can blame the girl? Lying is a necessary skill now. We must hide every good thing— music, drink, excess joy, and pretty clothes.

In houses all over Iran (especially in places like Hamadan, where the father of both my sons, Reza and Peyman, grew up, where the winters are bitter cold and all you have for warmth is your friends and your water pipe and your music), the place to tell lies is under the
korsi
blanket. That is where you go to hear stories—a very Persian pastime, because afterward, you can rub yogurt all over the lies,
pretend innocence
, or you can say a little rhyme about
maast
and
doogh
, and make it all white as milk again. And how can you resist? The Caspian air fuels the creative mind, the artist, and it doesn’t matter if you’re only some nameless village woman. It doesn’t matter if your own story has long become stale. There, under the blanket, you are goaded by the spirits of the night, all those curious eyes across the
korsi
, the hookah changing your thoughts, tempting you to weave a good tale.
Korsi
s are where great lies are born. I know. Telling good stories is my vocation.

When the girls were small, they liked to pretend, and often I was their victim. Mahtab especially believed she could kill me with her eyes. Once I made the mistake of saying that lately it was easier telling them apart because one of them had grown a belly. Yes, yes, I know. Don’t blame me. I didn’t see quickly enough that being different was frightening to them. Before I saw the mistake the damage was done. Oh, the curses brought down on my head, the hexes from every region muttered around child-sized bonfires. Oh, the venom poured into batches of precious smoky rice, cooked outside on a makeshift stove and overseasoned with salt and sand, presented to me as a neighborly gift. Surely they hoped that when I ate it, I would feel their anger and be sorry. Well, I am able to admit that it hurt my feelings, that sandy rice. The thought that they dreamed of me retching into a putrid hole in the ground, begging the gods for forgiveness. The gods refusing to forgive. Toilet jinns pouring out of the hole and ripping my head clean off. Yes, I heard all this backyard fantasizing. They didn’t think I heard, but I did. It’s hard not to believe it when a child calls you a monster. But I had my own boys who loved me.

The next day their mother gave them a lecture about stealing things and wasting things because the smoky rice was for a special occasion. Afterward Saba told me that she wished she had money of her own so she could just say to her mother, “Here, take this for the rice,” and casually toss bills on the table like men in movies. She said she wanted to have a big powerful job, like a foreign journalist. What a thing to say! That is why I predict a logical marriage for Saba, a husband who is either rich or distracted. She needs ease; her mother taught her to toil only for vague ideas. She doesn’t have the strength and will to marry for love, to fight all the cruelties that await lovers in these harsh times.

Soon after that, everything changed. It was 1979 and time for the revolution. Out went the Shah and in came the clerics. There were protests in Tehran about women and their hair, and a while later it was all decided and done. From then on, girls went to separate schools, they covered their bodies from head to toe, they learned to be afraid of streets. And Saba added three things to the list of things she hated: men with long beards, murals of bloody fists growing out of flower beds, and every kind of scarf.

“I have your answer!” Mullah Ali muses as he slurps his tea. The dinner is finished and a few remaining guests are lounging on cushions around a
sofreh
laden with pastries and several carafes of hot tea on warmers. There is
naan panjereh
, fried dough in the shape of stars dipped in powdered sugar;
baghlava
; halva; and cream puffs. The mullah is holding a chunky metal pipe, which he heats over the gas stove. “I have your answer, Khanom Alborz! Listen . . .” He puts up his hands, unleashes that Cheshire grin, and the other guests are engrossed. “The boy cannot be allowed to be alone with your daughter, which makes it difficult to employ him as her caregiver, correct?”

Ponneh’s mother nods. Old Khanom Omidi shifts in her house chador and nudges her friend Khanom Basir. At this point in the dinner, the two of them are cooking up dirty jokes by the tens and twenties, and Saba wonders how this can possibly be acceptable in front of a cleric. But Mullah Ali is a rare breed. If Saba made any of these jokes, she would be reprimanded by every authority figure within earshot, but somehow, being middle-aged, being married, being a dinner guest at the Hafezi home gives you license to push your headscarf back half an inch, to let your toes peek out from under your skirt despite chipped nail polish (Khanom Basir’s quirky indulgence, her own private fancy
bazi
), to lean back on the pillows and make testicle jokes, even to poke fun at the
new
Iran. It doesn’t matter that men and women are mixed like this. They are older. This is private. And there are no young
pasdar
s and junior clerics watching.

“Not a
caregiver
,” responds Agha Hafezi, the evening’s host, “he’s a doctor, willing to stay in Cheshmeh. A licensed specialist who has studied scoliosis and her other ailments. I say we forget the rules and just call it an exception.”

“No, no, Agha.” Mullah Ali taps his forehead. “The exercise enlarges the mind.”
Agha Hafezi shrugs at Saba, who raises both eye brows. Ponneh winces. How can Khanom Alborz tolerate this?
The mullah continues. “There are ways to make a man
mahram
, so that he is allowed to visit her room.” The guests stare at him, transfixed. When Mullah Ali has found a solution to a problem, however big or small, he is as warm and entertaining as a teahouse storyteller. He holds the people’s attention with wide eyes and puffed-out cheeks. He scans the room with a raised forefinger, daring everyone to guess.
“The man will never
marry
her,” says Khanom Basir. She eyes Khanom Alborz, the mother she has just insulted. “Sorry, but it’s true. It’s not that she isn’t beautiful like her sisters . . . she’s just . . . too sick.”
“I know! A brother is
mahram
!” Kasem pipes up excitedly, casting a furtive glance at Saba that makes her turn with revulsion. It is obvious to everyone that Kasem is the only person taking this discussion seriously.
Am I related to this fool?
Saba thinks. If he had paper, he would probably be taking notes. Mullah Ali chuckles and takes Kasem’s pudgy face in both hands. Agha Hafezi puts a protective arm around his nephew’s shoulder. Saba wants to scream at the unfairness of it. Instead, she strings together
c
-words from her list:
coward, cretin, creepy-crawly cactus creature
. She congratulates herself on her near fluency. Mahtab would be proud, maybe a little jealous because Saba has managed this feat not in an American school but on her own in Cheshmeh.
“That’s right, my boy. And how do we
make
him her brother?” Mullah Ali sips his tea. “They must be fed from the same breast. Then they will be brother and sister.”
Everyone obliges the mullah with at least some laughter. Khanom Alborz spills her tea on her mint-green tunic and reaches for a cloth. Khanom Omidi, always conscious of her lazy eye, pulls Saba into her line of vision and holds her against her enormous body. Her fleshy neck smells like jasmine, and Saba joins in the laughter when the cheery old woman says loudly, “See, child? I told you. Every candidate has to demonstrate a certain level of brain damage to be accepted to mullah school.”
The mullah says in a kind voice reserved for the elderly, “Ah, but dear mother, if we didn’t have creative minds, how would anyone get anything done around here?”
Khanom Omidi adjusts her back pillow. “Too much creativity.”
Khanom Basir, the storyteller, takes center stage now. She moves her pillow closer to the
sofreh
, sits with her back straight, her legs crossed under her haunches, her skirt pulled tight across her knees. She tells the old story of Leyli and Majnoon, and the doomed lovers come alive. They are present not just in her words but in her arms, which cross sadly over her heart; in her fingers that dance in a thousand varied gestures; in her eyebrows that arch and fall and pull together again; in the sad lyricism of her voice. Her eyes rest mostly on Reza, as if she is telling this story only for him, imagining some grand love story for him. And maybe she remembers a little of her own losses.
Soon Saba notices that Ponneh is growing agitated and impatient with the party. She must be thinking of Mustafa and her aching back. The bitter look never leaves her face, and halfway through the story, she hobbles to her feet and quietly slips out toward Saba’s bedroom. Khanom Basir watches her son’s eyes rove after her. She finishes her story and accepts the applause of her neighbors. She doesn’t rush through this gracious last part—when others might shrug off the attention—probably because this one skill, this ability to capture their emotions with her storytelling, is the reason that she, an uneducated, sometimes mean-spirited woman, is so beloved and sought after. It is the reason that her house is always full and that she is invited to every gathering. The reason that girls like Saba, girls without mothers, go to so much trouble to win her love and attention.
When the story is over, Khanom Basir takes the opportunity, for the umpteenth time, to question Khanom Alborz about the pair. “So, Khanom,” she teases, “when can we come for a
khastegari
? I’m telling you, those two belong together.”
Khanom Alborz tenses. “My friend, I’ve told you already. Until her older sisters get married, she can’t be married. It would be an insult to them.”
“The healthy ones, yes, but the sick one too? And in such troubled times?” She stops there. Khanom Alborz has been away all day and doesn’t know yet about Mustafa.
“No. I said no.” Khanom Alborz puts up her hands and shakes her head. This is the one issue on which her conviction overrides her fear of Khanom Basir. “Her sister can’t help being sick. Why should she suffer alone? We’ve all suffered since their father died. And this is the way he would want it. Everyone has to pay a price.”
Rarely does Saba see the proud Khanom Basir look genuine, pained, even humble. She whispers, “But Khanom, they love each other.”
Saba tries to ignore this. Why should she let the talk of two older women cause her pain? Still, it seems that the world wants Reza to choose Ponneh and leave her alone.
“They will all make good marriages eventually. They’re so young,” says Khanom Alborz. “But if you insist on matchmaking, you could find someone for Agha Abbas. He needs the help and doesn’t have much time.”
“Why should he need help?” Kasem asks, his tone resentful. “He’s rich.”
Abbas Hossein Abbas, at sixty-five, is one of the oldest bachelors in Cheshmeh. A widower with no living children or grandchildren, he has recently made it known that he is lonely and ready to marry again—though everyone believes he only wants one last chance to revive his bloodline. Saba knows him from afar, since Abbas hasn’t been to her father’s home in years. Khanom Omidi says that he avoids large social gatherings and stays in his house or in the town square, smoking and talking with other idle old men.
Reza starts to get up to follow Ponneh, but her mother’s fiery stare keeps him bound to the cushions. Finally, when Ponneh returns for a cup of tea, Reza slumps off through the kitchen. Saba gathers up a few dishes and begins to walk away too. But then Khanom Basir says, “What about Saba?” Saba feels Khanom Basir’s serpent tongue whip around her like a rope pulling her back into the room.
“That would be a very nice match,” says Mullah Ali in a wise tone. “He is a devout Muslim. He gives generously to our mosque. He deserves a young wife.”
Saba gives her father a pleading look. Agha Hafezi only nods, glances into his teacup, and says, “He has spoken to me.”
Saba stumbles, collects herself, and says, in a barely audible whisper, “Why?”
“He is considering it . . . coming for a
khastegari
. To ask for your hand.” When he finally catches her eye, he smiles faintly. “I haven’t said anything. Anyone can ask. It doesn’t matter till we decide.” Saba wonders why her father has chosen this moment to tell her this, in front of all these people. Maybe it’s easier for him. Her hands tremble and she drops a spoon from the top of her dish pile.
“Don’t worry,” her father reassures. “We will choose someone you like. Someone your own age.”
“We?” The mullah shakes his head. “You’re letting the child have a say in it?”
Agha Hafezi nods. “It doesn’t hurt to have another perspective.”
“Do you remember that time when Saba was seven?” Khanom Alborz laughs.
“Oh, please, don’t bring that up.” Khanom Basir shakes her head, but Saba can see the amused look on her face. On any other day she would be mortified by the story that she knows is forthcoming. But now maybe it will remind her father of her desires.
“She was seven years old and she went on a
khastegari
to ask for Reza’s hand. Do you remember? It was the funniest thing.”
“Please don’t remind me,” says Khanom Basir with a long sigh. “She was crying and making a big show. That’s what you get when you let a young girl run wild.” Then she leans over and whispers to Khanom Alborz, “That girl has a thousand jinns. . . .”
A thousand jinns. How unfair that Mahtab, who instigated that marriage proposal when they were seven, is now far away in another world, leaving Saba here all alone to deal with the accusations and marriage schemes.
She takes the dishes into the kitchen, puts them in the sink. She glances at herself in a window and pushes her canary-yellow scarf back until a shiny lock of hair bounces free and rests across her eyes. She goes outside, only half admitting to herself that she is looking for Reza. He is leaning against the trash cans, drinking from a paper bag. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. He asks, “Any chance of the pantry today?”
“Not yet. Ponneh’s already had a lot. The bruises aren’t so terrible, though.”
“She’ll be okay,” he says, giving the paper bag a quick shake. She hears the liquid sloshing back and forth in the bottle. Then he tilts his head toward the house and says sadly, “You know how many lashes we could get for this? The opium and the alcohol?”
Saba nods. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Even in Tehran, everyone does this. And in case you haven’t noticed, the mullah is an addict. He can’t afford to lose his ready
sofreh
.”
They stand there for a few minutes, leaning against the trash cans, side by side, not saying a word. Reza sighs and shakes his head. “Strange day,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I talked to Mullah Ali about Mustafa,” says Reza. “Something will happen to him. I’m sure.” But Reza doesn’t look so sure. “I wish I could kill him myself.”
Saba nods. “It was scary how much he hated her.” She thinks about something that her mother told her before she left Iran. How the mullahs took all the Western art from the Queen’s private collection and shut it up in a basement so no one could look at it. All those beautiful pieces. Warhol. Picasso. Rivera.
That’s what this regime does,
her mother said.
They shut up beautiful things in dark places, so no one can see.