In the Walled Gardens (21 page)

Father had suddenly turned clairvoyant. I promised to call Reza.

I
STAYED UP
past midnight, the bedroom a bunker where I’d retreated to wait. Houshang came late, all flushed, his jacket slung over one
shoulder. He loosened the knot of his already loosened tie with guile, as if to brag he was exhausted, overworked, meriting
peace and quiet. He looked well. I watched out of the corners of my eyes, pretending to read the book Father had given me.
I was unable to muster up a single emotion in Houshang’s favor. He poured out a glass of water from the carafe on the table
and drank, big avaricious gulps. Especially his last “Ahhh!” as he wiped his mouth, cocky and unrepentant.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“Father’s given me this book,” I snapped.

“He’s a bookworm all right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He went into the bathroom, slamming the door. When he came out I was sitting up in bed, stiff as a board.

“Your meetings go past midnight?”

“I’m in no mood to fight!”

“Answer me,” I said, teeth clenched.

“I want to sleep,” he said, yawning, as if he were the only one deserving rest. The only one who wanted.

“I want an answer,” I said louder.

He held my ugly stare with bloodshot eyes, then turned off the light on his side. I wanted to pounce across the bed and smash
the lamp over his head and shoulders. A raving shrew with a liar and cheat for a husband.

“You were at Iraj and Pouran’s last night! Where were you tonight?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“No, this is married life!”

He laughed with that slow hyena-like sound he emits — the one he’s perfected for gilded drawing rooms and gambling partners
and titillating call girls and boardrooms where the stakes are piled high in his favor. The laugh that says, Look at me and
how far I’ve come. Nothing can stop me now!

“What is it?” he demanded. “Is it that time of month?”

“You prefer Iraj and Pouran. Right? Right?”

“Cut it out,” he said.

“You prefer their house, their booze, their jokes, their friends, their entire nauseating lifestyle.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Of them? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“You’re
such
a snob. You and your whole family!”

He lay down and pulled up the sheet. I slammed my book shut on the bedside table and turned off the light, still sitting upright
in the dark.

“Move in with them if they’re so great!” I said.

“I might, if this goes on every night.”

“Go ahead! Don’t think I don’t know what goes on behind my back.”

He got out of bed, stood facing me in the dark. “Tell me, like what?”

“Like how you whore around with Iraj and have Pouran pimp for you and how we don’t have much of a marriage!”

“So we don’t have much of a marriage! Since when?”

“Since forever.” The words jumped out of my mouth.

“Since forever, huh?” he snapped back. “Whose fault is that?”

“Seems you already know.”

“You,” he said, pointing, “you’re the one who violated our trust.”

“What trust?”

“Aha!” he said, now incensed. He switched on the light. “You think I like some French charlatan telling me my wife — my wife!
— has gone pleading to him about some fucking bastard she wants out of prison?”

He stared, face flushed.

“You never told me you saw Thierry for some rotten rebel who should be shot. You’d rather confide in a foreigner than in your
own husband! And you talk about trust? I’m a contractor for the navy! Don’t you get it?”

“Not everything’s about your business,” I said.

He paused, incredulous, fire in his eyes. “What? I hope they shoot this guy, whoever he is! Right through the heart.”

I got out of bed, grabbed my dressing gown from the armchair, shot my arms through the sleeves, wrapping it around me with
newfound fury and drive.

“That boy deserves justice before the law, you hear? Since when do you listen to Thierry so much?”

“He’s a good friend.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever!” Houshang said with cunning eyes.

“You’re a fine, shining example to lecture me about trust!”

“You” — Houshang was apoplectic — “are hiding things from me. You go to the houses of other men. You went to his alone. Didn’t
you? Didn’t you?”

“You need a report on everything I do?”

“He told me! You must like him a lot. Just the two of you alone together, huh? All cozy to discuss SAVAK! Our marriage is
sacred!”

He swung out an arm, smashing his fist into the wall.

“What do I care about some bastard in prison?” he shouted. “You’re crazy running around town with this. I’ve got millions
at stake. You want to jeopardize my business? Our whole way of life? You’re doing it on purpose! Tell me, what else is going
on?”

“You care?” I said, incensed. “You’ve got no eyes or heart or conscience left anymore.”

“Don’t lecture me! I’ve given you the best life!”

“Given! Given?”

“I’ve given you whatever you want.”

“You only know what you want.”

“You want what? Rights for some ingrate lowclass leftist with an inferiority complex! Some bullshit freedom for a traitor
in the shithouse with SAVAK? What’s it to us, huh? Why tell Thierry, huh? Why hide it from me?”

“Traitor to what? Your money, your morals, your country? You decide?”

“Damn right I decide! And I don’t want my wife —”

“I’m beginning not to give a damn what you want,” I said, walking out.

I
SLEPT
in the guest room. Early in the morning I heard Houshang slam doors and bark orders and bawl out everyone before leaving
the house.

At ten-thirty Mr. Bashirian walked into my office. I hadn’t seen him for days. The secretary said he was very upset with me
for taking Mr. Makhmalchi into my confidence and having him in my office all the time. He felt I’d taken sides. That was how
much confidence he had in me and my judgment and himself. We stared at each other with the wary restraint of old friends who
have had a breach of trust.

“You look unwell,” he said.

I rearranged folders on my desk, waiting for him to say what he’d come for. To finally have it out about his rivalry with
Makhmalchi.

“Mr. Bashirian —” I began testily.

“I — I thought I’d come tell you. But if you’re too busy —”

“Oh, please!” I said, exasperated.

“They called,” he murmured.

“What did they say?”

“They said I could see Peyman. This week,” he said, voice quavering.

“Thank God,” I said, overcome.

“Yes, thank God,” Mr. Bashirian said sternly.

“When do you go?”

“Thursday. I owe this to you.”

He knew I had appealed to yet another person the week before who had only been vague and pessimistic. Maybe something had
come of it after all.

Mr. Bashirian hemmed and hawed as if there were nothing left to say, which made what he said even more shocking. “Will you
come?”

“Where?” I asked.

“With me.”

“To see him?”

He shook his head. I was relieved I’d misunderstood.

Then he said, “I know it’s asking too much. But if you’d just come to Komiteh with me. I’ve waited for this moment for weeks.
Frankly I — now I’m afraid, I’m terrified. I want to be strong. To hold up beautifully for Peyman. I’m afraid I’ll break down.
I’ve said you’re his aunt. That is — I’ve already asked if I could bring my sister, since the boy’s mother is dead.”

“Your sister’s in town?”

He shook his head.

“What did they say?”

“They just repeated the time and place.” He sat waiting.

I was dumbfounded. But how could I refuse? By saying no immediately.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

He left, sensing he’d sabotage his case by lingering.

I called that afternoon. He picked up on the third ring.

“Mr. Bashirian?” I said.

“Yes?” he said, with painstaking indifference.

“About Thursday. I’ll go with you.”

“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “I’m forever in your debt.”

I
HADN’T BEEN HOME
five minutes when Goli came upstairs to announce a foreign gentleman was waiting downstairs.

“A
Moosio
—” She giggled, covering her mouth. “A
Moosio Tolonbeh!
”

Tolonbeh!
A Mr. Pump? No wonder Goli couldn’t stop giggling. “Dalembert?” I suggested.

The boys were with Reza in the dining room, the door shut. I found Thierry in the downstairs study, urbane but crestfallen.

Immediately he said, “I’ve come to make amends.”

“You should’ve called before coming.”

“You wouldn’t have seen me then. All for an unfortunate mistake.”

“Everything you do is deliberate.”

“You flatter me,” he said, downcast to appear virtuous. “But Houshang already knew.”

“You told him. Knowing full well I hadn’t.”

“Pouran told him.”

“Pouran? How did she —” I stared incredulously. “You told her?”

He stared back, not chastened, just aware his standing had shifted irredeemably.

“Why — why would you do that?” I said.

“To defend you!” He shrugged artfully. “I was enumerating your virtues in my bedroom. She’s there occasionally these days.
I don’t know exactly what was irritating me most at that moment — her presence, I suppose — but we got into an argument about
you. I said you had a backbone. She laughed at you! So I told her why, to teach her a lesson. She’s such a bitch. She told
your husband about the boy. All this cloak-and-dagger’s so disagreeable. Of course I tried to make light of it, but Houshang
took it badly.”

“I know he did.”

“I thought I’d appeal to him man-to-man. But he didn’t see it that way. He’s so touchy!”

“He’s my husband,” I said defensively. “What did you expect?”

He smiled, spreading his arms. “Will you forgive me,
ma chère?
”

He repulsed me at that instant. His gallantry was frivolous and willful, like his endearments, well timed but chilling.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s embrace and make up, and how about —”

“Did you also tell Houshang about your affair with Pouran?”

“No! And I wouldn’t.”

“How honorable.”

He shrugged sheepishly. I asked when he’d seen my husband.

“We talked on the phone yesterday.”

“You discussed Peyman Bashirian on the phone?”

“Actually, he dropped in to discuss some business matter. Yes, last night.” Thierry smiled. “I see you still haven’t forgiven
me.”

I looked at my watch. “He’ll be home any minute and we’ve got a dinner —”

“The Spanish embassy? Their ambassador’s a poet, you know.”

I accompanied him to the door, anxious to be rid of him, my utmost civility and inscrutability the rudest affront.

Just then the dining room doors flew open and my sons rushed out, Reza behind them. The boys circled, charging with plastic
rulers and shouting all the way up the stairs. I noticed Reza staring at this foreigner at home with me. A frank scrutiny.
Thierry, reproducing niceties to me on his way out, didn’t even acknowledge his presence or greet him, ignoring him completely.

I shut the door and turned to Reza. “He’s a banker friend of ours.”

He nodded politely. But I sensed disapproval.

“You disapprove of foreigners?” I said casually.

“Considering our history, they hold a dismal record of involvement.”

“We were the ones giving away concessions and monopolies.”

“We?” he said. “No, not the people.” He smiled. “Discussing foreigners is a treacherous business.”

“You know, the last time I saw your father — when we were sixteen and you came back for a visit? What was in that large sealed
envelope my father gave him that night?”

“After all these years!” Reza said, surprised. “They were old letters a servant had found in a trunk in your grandmother’s
house. Copies of the letters she’d written my grandfather over the years, and he’d written her from Tabriz. They corresponded
after she took Father away and he was growing up in her household. And long after.”

“You read the letters?”

“Yes. Much later. Father left them to me when he died.”

“Had my father read them?”

“No. That night he was returning them to their rightful owner, he said.”

I wanted to read them but felt it was better to ask for them some other time.

“They’re not just about a boy far from home,” said Reza. “But the personal correspondence of an outspoken woman and a learned
cleric — who shared not only an affection for the same boy but an insightful and deep concern for their country. Father was
overcome when he read them. He was old and ill by then. He said they were the most unusual and affecting documents he’d ever
read.”

“Did something happen that made your father leave us suddenly?”

“No. He just retired.”

He would never tell me. “And after that?”

“He went back to being a farmer. He was a landowner in Nirvan. He had villages and fields. But then he fell into debt. With
land reform he lost everything. In the end he was ...defeated. He died a disillusioned man.”

I was shocked at Hajj-Ali’s defeat, at hearing about it so many years later. For the man I remembered, defeat would have seemed
as far away as the ends of the earth. He had had that kind of vitality.

“He could make you see things about yourself better than anyone else,” I said. “I remember the way he admonished my brothers,
which often left them dumbfounded. I remember the stories he told me. Once, he told me about the Constitutional Revolution
on the porch in Morshedabad. His voice still trembled over what had happened so many years before — and what hadn’t since
then. I think he carried such emotion — such a tremendous burden with him. That’s what I loved about him most.”

Reza stood rooted to the spot. A hush fell into the hallway like the inside of a well, except for the ticking of the antique
clock on the console. Overcome by the memory of Hajj-Alimardan, I felt immense distress at his passing. More than when he
had died that winter and I had attended the services with Mother. The past was rising, resurgent, bringing back that deepest
rhythm and relinquished instinct, and emotion for Reza. He looked stricken.