A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea (32 page)

That’s the trouble with being old. No mother to make a fuss for you when you are sick or dying, or just drowning in an imaginary sea.
I feel so old
. Five days after her last period, again she leans over the porcelain hole in the ground, her feet firmly planted on the ridged footrests on each side, and packs herself with cotton. Her bleeding is erratic and she wonders just how damaged she is inside, in the places she cannot see.

On her first night alone she has nightmares—about her mother, Abbas, Mahtab. She turns on the lights and reads books to protect herself from what she has done—letting Abbas die, letting Mahtab get on a plane or drop to the bottom of the sea. Either way, Saba was there. Could she have prevented the loss of Mahtab one way or another? And is it possible to love someone who spent so many months torturing her own husband?

Sometimes she shocks herself by missing him and realizes that her guilt doesn’t come from letting him die but for having made his last year a sort of purgatory. Was that her right as a wife? Or as the victim of the Dallak Day? She attends Abbas’s funeral in black and faces the men who eye her, some suspicious, some sympathetic. There is something rejuvenating in the process. A slow clarity comes with hours of watching people pass by and pay their respects—the knowledge that none of them can take away what is hers. No one can stand in the way of a life that is now in her name, fully and independently.

At the burial, she sees Reza. Though she does not speak to him— it is forbidden for a mourning widow—twice he holds her gaze with the tenderness of their years of friendship. He nods sadly and goes to pay respects to her father. Ponneh stays constantly by Saba’s side. In four months her mourning period will be over and she will be allowed to marry again, though she has no such inclinations now. She will go to America.

But first there is this: four months in crow’s clothing. Saba counts the friends of Abbas and her father as they say their prayers, and she takes stock of the people around her—those in her husband’s debt, in her father’s debt. Agha Hafezi takes her hand to reassure her, and Saba realizes that these bowed heads are now also in her debt. So much that belonged to Abbas and her father now belongs to her. Not only fortunes. But a name, a reputation, a power to change things.
Maybe now she will be like Mahtab, the journalist. Maybe Saba can do even more than that. She remembers her mother’s words at the airport, about not crying, about being a giant in the face of trouble. What was it that her mother used to say?
I’m no Match Girl,
she thinks, and says aloud so that Ponneh can hear. Not because of her father’s unbreakable contract, but because of her own plans and suffering and patience. These truths become clear to Saba, so she accepts the mourners’ words of comfort, one by one, and she is transformed.

hree months later Saba sits with her father in a mullah’s office in Rasht. The mullah speaks to Agha Hafez while Saba examines the soft lines of his face. He has kind eyes, though he doesn’t look at her, but nods in her direction every now and then as he explains that marriage contracts are still subject to Shari’a law. “I see that all funeral expenses and debts have been paid off,” he says, looking at a thin pile on his desk, “and other than this very
informal
marriage agreement, Agha Abbas left no will.”
Saba holds her breath. This is absurd. The contract was as tight as could possibly be made and, in fact, much of the property and money was put under Saba’s own name.
What if it was all for nothing? No,
she thinks. Mullah Ali, who is an expert in Shari’a law, assured her father that there were no impediments to her inheritance.

“If no entitled descendants exist—and I believe Agha Abbas had no children by any previous wives—then the wife is entitled to onefourth of his estate automatically. That is God’s law. We do not dispute that your daughter deserves that much.”

Saba breathes out, somewhat relieved. She can feel her father beside her thrumming with anger, struggling to control himself. She fidgets in an itchy black chador.

“Yes, but the contract we negotiated was very solid,” her father says. “It was in keeping with Islamic law and agreed upon by Abbas and myself. There were witnesses. Come now, Hajj Agha, do you see any other claimants here with us?”

The mullah puts his hand up, feigning impatience, though he obviously respects her father’s education and standing. He continues. “The issue isn’t your knowledge of the law. It is whether any heirs escaped your notice. There are no other
primary
heirs in this case, since the man had no other living wives, no children, and so on. But we felt it necessary to do our duty toward Allah and the deceased to find any
secondary
beneficiaries. These would be residuaries who would be entitled to the rest of the estate.”

“The
rest
?” Saba blurts out. Her father grabs her arm and tells her to hush. This seems to satisfy the mullah, who smiles patiently, ready to continue his speech. But Agha Hafezi, still holding Saba’s arm, jumps in.

“
Looking
for secondary beneficiaries seems excessive. Agha, our family has looked already. Not to mention that secondary heirs will always appear if you advertise for them! Show me a dead man with money and I’ll show you forty Arab cousins crawling out of nowhere. Who are you looking for exactly?”

The mullah sighs and adjusts his glasses as he reads from his notes. “Brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces. Clearly there is no possibility of living uncles or grandparents.”

“Why?” Saba whispers, shocked that such a small, underfunded office with plastic chairs and a draft seeping in through the floor cracks would go to so much trouble to search all of Iran for the longlost relatives of a dead recluse.

The mullah raises both eyebrows. “Would you not have us do the right thing?”
“Did you find any?” Her father sighs. When he becomes impatient, his voice takes on a condescending quality that he is now trying to control. He forces a smile and says, “It seems that if no one has come forward, this is a very simple case.”
“Yes, I do see your concern,” says the mullah. “But we have found a brother.”
Her father shakes his head, disbelieving. Saba hasn’t studied Shari’a law, but she does know one thing: a brother’s share is much bigger than a wife’s—never mind the fact that she was bruised and mutilated for Abbas’s sake, and that this man probably didn’t even know of Abbas’s existence until a few days ago. A cynical part of her congratulates the men of the world for a first-rate win.
“Don’t worry, Agha Hafezi,” says the mullah. “He is only a
uterine
brother. He only shared a mother with Agha Abbas, and since that poor woman died recently, he is all that’s left. The man lives in the South and is near death himself, but alive enough to inherit. We have already contacted him. The law dictates that he receive one-sixth.”
“And the rest?” asks her father.
“In the absence of any other claimants, we divide the residue
proportionally
between you and the half brother.” He looks at Saba and slowly explains the logic, skipping over the parts with math for her benefit. “That means you will get the most, my child.”
Sixty percent,
Saba calculates in her head, just before her father says it aloud for the record. The mullah waits a moment. When Saba shows no gratitude, he says, “I discussed this with my colleagues. They wished to continue searching for male heirs. They were concerned . . . it’s so much money for a young woman, and this isn’t Tehran. I myself travel to Tehran often, and I know that many good Muslim widows manage their own money without scandal. But others aren’t so modern-thinking. You are very lucky, indeed. Women are not meant to shoulder such heavy responsibilities.”
Agha Hafezi nods politely for the mullah. He pinches Saba’s arm as he used to do when she was small and they had an inside joke between them. “I will watch over her,” he assures the cleric. “I’ll make sure she buys a book and pencils once in a while, and not just fabrics and kitchen supplies.”
Saba bites the inside of her cheeks. Her father used to joke that if she was let loose in a foreign bookstore without supervision, she would blow the entire family fortune. And she knows her father well enough to realize that the part about the kitchen supplies is his subtle message to her—that he has watched over her from their separate houses, that he hasn’t stopped at knowing her hobbies, but has cataloged all the daily things she considers worthless and mundane, a list very similar to her mother’s.
“Good,” says the mullah. “Before we turn over the deeds, bank accounts, and other papers, I have to go over a few fine points, technicalities. You see, there are only two rules of eligibility to inherit. And since we know that your daughter didn’t
kill
her husband,” he chuckles, “we just need to have her testament that she is a true Muslim.”
She considers all that she has lost, the high price she has already paid. The bleeding. “Yes,” she breathes, without looking at the mullah. “Yes, of course I am a Muslim.”
This is just one more thing. One more lie to add to it all
. This is simply the inevitable whitening that comes with secret stashes of undeserved money.
Her father stares at the floor. There is sadness in his eyes and for an instant Agha Hafezi, savvy businessman, student of religion and wit, looks like a simple Gilaki farmer.
When all the papers are signed, father and daughter get up to leave. “There is just one more thing I should tell you,” says the mullah, tentatively. He purses his lips and flares his nostrils in a way that Saba has noticed is his habit when he is trying to find the right words. “You see, Abbas’s relations had no idea about the money. Abbas lived in a village, after all. How much could he have? It’s very much a windfall to them.” Agha Hafezi doesn’t comment, since he too is rich and living in a village. “The head and tail of it is that the family is
trying
to prove that the man is a full brother. You should be aware of the possibility that they might succeed, in which case they will inherit the majority.” He shakes his head. “It’s a shame. . . . Man is a greedy beast.”
Moments later they cross the busy streets of Rasht, Agha Hafezi grasping the crook of Saba’s arm through her chador. Usually Saba finds the sharp sounds and pungent smells of the big city wonderfully overwhelming—the gasoline and car exhaust, fresh market fish and grilled kebab, perfume and body odor. Usually she relishes the sounds of the street vendors and traffic; the flashes of color displayed by brazen passersby, a scarf here, a bright collar there. But not today. Today it is all a dim yellow and dusty-blue haze, the color of faded fabric and low-budget movies. Saba can see that her father is angry. She can see that he feels cheated for her. Yes, she has more money now than any other woman she knows—enough to live on for the rest of her life— but the look on her father’s face makes Saba want to enumerate all the precious things she lost in that one transaction. Over and over she tries to forgive herself for the lie she uttered in the mullah’s office and begs God not to allow Abbas’s relations to create a legal frenzy and ransack all that she has earned. There are so many secrets that could lead to the loss of her fortune: the unconsummated marriage, the circumstances of Abbas’s death, her Christianity, and this man who claims to be Abbas’s full brother. . . .
What if he really is?
“We can still celebrate,” her father offers before they reach the bus stop. “How about lunch at one of these kebab places? I know a good one not far from here.”
Saba smiles—because her father is choosing not to dwell on the battles to come. She tries to push away the awful realization that her sacrifices, the scars she has suffered, guarantee her nothing. Like her father, she tries to ignore the sins of today. She reasons that all possessions are fleeting in the new Iran—all of life is a trick—and that she should enjoy her fickle reward while she still has it. A free pass for the girl with the thousand jinns, before she finds her way out of here.
“Good idea,” she says. “I’m so hungry.”
“You look thin,” her father jokes. He always teases her when he wants to make her happy, in those rare moments when he is himself and not consumed with work or the hookah or his lost wife and daughter. Maybe this is a new start for Saba and Agha Hafezi, not just an awkward father and child, but a pair of equals—in their hopes, in their wealth, in their grief for all that they have lost. “Time to start making you a fat, happy widow.”

Heiress—a person ( f ) who lawfully receives the property of one deceased.
Hermit—a person who chooses to live alone, apart from others.
Hermes—Greek messenger of the gods. Also a store with orange boxes.

Later in the evening she makes a new list of English words and considers her two options: staying with her father or looking for a ticket to America. She could do it now. She could finally try to get on that plane she missed when she was eleven. The resources are available and, after much research, she knows exactly what needs to be done. But somehow each time she begins counting the steps, she loses track of her thoughts and finds herself sinking into the warmth of village life. Maybe things will be better now.

She wonders what Mahtab would do. She would probably choose America. If her mother were here, Saba would show her the piles of word lists she has amassed and ask if her English is good enough to make a respectable life there.

She sorts through sheets of visa and passport instructions, her mother’s travel guides, and her bank statements, wondering how long it will all take. One day soon she will have to tell her father about her plans—but not yet. She cooks herself a lamb-and-eggplant stew for dinner. Overcome with gloom and desperate for distraction, she spends an hour skinning, stabbing, salting, and draining the eggplants. She fries them in olive oil and lays them on top of the meat—so tender after two hours that you can eat it with a spoon. When she is done, she realizes that she has made too much eggplant for the stew and so she roasts some tomatoes, adds them to the leftovers, and cooks the mixture with eggs, turmeric, and garlic. This dish,
mirza ghasemi
, is one of her favorite foods, yet she makes it now only as a way to rid herself of unwanted extra ingredients. When it is ready, she eats it standing up, not as an appetizer but as a part of cleaning up, with old bread, because that too should not be wasted.