The Book of Fate (41 page)

Firouzeh was five years old and as beautiful and adorable as a flower, but Faati was four months' pregnant with her second child.

‘No, my dear,' I said. ‘In your condition, you can't take care of a baby and I am more comfortable having the kids with me. If only Mrs Parvin could…'

Mrs Parvin, who had lovingly taken care of Shirin those two days and now was ruefully listening to me talk about taking her back home, jumped up and said, ‘Of course I will come with you!'

‘Don't you have any work you need to do?' I asked. ‘I don't want to impose.'

‘What work? Thank God, I have no husband and no tag-alongs, and these days no one wants custom-made dresses. I'll come and stay with you for a week, until things get more organised.'

‘Mrs Parvin, I love you! What would I do without you? And how can I ever make up for all your kindness?'

We spent all day Friday tidying up the house.

‘The first time they ransacked the house, Father, God rest his soul, sent a few people to help me out,' I said to Mrs Parvin. ‘Now look how alone and abandoned I am. I miss Father so much and need him so desperately.'

My voice broke and Massoud, who I didn't know was watching us, ran to me, took my hand and said, ‘But you have us! We will help you. For the love of God, don't be sad!'

I ruffled his beautiful hair, looked into his kind eyes and said, ‘I know, my dear. As long as I have you, I have no sorrow.'

This time, the raiders had left untouched Bibi's rooms and the cellar, which was almost empty. Therefore, our work was limited to the upstairs rooms, which by late afternoon were almost organised and the house at least appeared tidy. I sent the boys to take a bath, forced them to do the homework they had fallen behind with, and asked them to get ready to go to school the next day. But Siamak was restless. He didn't want to do his homework and kept agitating me. I knew he had every right to feel unsettled, but I could tolerate only so much.

Finally, I sat the boys down and sternly said, ‘You can see how much I have to do and deal with, you know how many headaches and worries I have, and you know how many things I have to manage at the same time. Now, how much energy do you think I have? If you don't help me and only add to my problems, I will collapse. And the best way you can help is to do your homework so that I will have one less thing to worry about. Will you help me or not?'

Massoud wholeheartedly promised and Siamak hesitantly promised…

On Saturday, I again went to several government committees. Hamid's father looked as if he had aged several years and was visibly breaking under the weight of his anguish. I felt sorry for him and didn't want him to accompany me everywhere.

All my running around that day was to no avail. No one would give me a straight answer. I realised I had no choice but to turn to Mahmoud for help. I would have been more comfortable talking to him on the telephone, but I knew every member of his family had been told that if I ever called they should tell me he was not home. Reluctantly, I went to his street and waited at the corner until I saw him come home and go inside. I rang the doorbell and walked in. Ehteram-Sadat greeted me coldly. Gholam-Ali saw me in the yard and cheerfully said, ‘Hello, Aunt!' But suddenly remembering that he was not to exchange pleasantries with me, he frowned and walked away.

‘Well, I'm sure you are not here to inquire about my health,' Ehteram-Sadat said. ‘If you came to see Mahmoud, he isn't home and I'm not sure if he will be back tonight.'

‘Go and tell him to come here,' I said. ‘I know he is home and I want to talk to him. I saw him come in.'

‘What?' she said, feigning surprise. ‘When did he come in? I didn't see him.'

‘Clearly, you never see what goes on in your house,' I said. ‘Tell him I just need two minutes of his time.'

Ehteram-Sadat sulked, wrapped her chador around her round figure and walked away grumbling. I wasn't angry with her; I knew she was just obeying Mahmoud's orders. A few minutes later, she came back and said, ‘He is saying his prayers and you know how long his prayers take.'

‘That's all right,' I said. ‘I will wait. I will wait until tomorrow morning if I have to.'

After some time, Mahmoud finally came and with a foul-tempered look mumbled a hello. Every cell in my body detested being in that house. In a choked voice I said, ‘Mahmoud, you are my older brother. I have no one but you. Father left me in your care. For the love of your children, don't let my children become orphans. Help me.'

‘It's none of my business,' he grumbled. ‘It's not as if it's up to me.'

‘Ehteram-Sadat's uncle has a lot of influence in the Revolutionary Court and the government committees. Just arrange for a meeting. All I want is to find out where Hamid is and what condition he is in. Just take me to Ehteram's uncle.'

‘Really! You want me to go and say this godless atheist is my relative? Please exonerate him? No, my dear, I didn't find my honour and respect on the side of the road to give it up like this.'

‘You don't need to say anything,' I implored. ‘I will talk to him myself. I'm not even going to ask them to release him or to pardon him. They can even sentence him to life in prison. I just don't want torture… execution…' And I burst into tears.

With a triumphant look in his eyes and a smirk on his lips, Mahmoud shook his head and said, ‘It's great the way you remember us when you are in trouble. Until now mullahs were bad, conservatives were bad, there was no God, there was no Prophet. Right?'

‘Stop it, brother. When did I ever say there is no God and no Prophet? To this day, I have never missed a single prayer. And most of the mullahs are far more open-minded and enlightened than the likes of you. Wasn't it you who boasted everywhere you went that your brother-in-law was a revolutionary, a political prisoner and had been tortured in prison? No matter what, he is the father of my children; don't I have the right to know where he is and in what condition? For the love of your children, help me.'

‘Get up, sister. Get up and get a hold of yourself,' he said. ‘Do you think it's that simple? Your husband has led a revolt against God and Islam, he is an atheist, and Your Highness wants everyone to leave him alone so that he can wreak any havoc he wants and destroy the country and our faith?

‘Let's be fair, if he were in power, would he have left a single one of us alive? If you love your children, you will tell the truth… huh? Why are you suddenly quiet? No, my dear, you have read this all wrong. God sanctions the spilling of that man's blood. I have spent all my life devoted to Islam, and now you expect me to go to Haji Agha and force him to commit a sin for the sake of a faithless man who has turned his back on God? No, I will never do such a thing, nor would Haji Agha agree to let the enemy of God and Islam go without punishment. Even if the whole world begged him, he would still do what is right.

‘Did you think it is still the Shah's era and you can save that man by pulling a few strings? No, my dear, now it is all about truth and righteousness, it is about faith and who has the power to forgive.'

I felt as if I was being beaten over the head with a sledgehammer; my eyes burned and I was seething with rage. I cursed myself for having gone to see Mahmoud. Why did I ask that hypocrite who knew nothing about God for help? Clenching my jaw, I wrapped my chador around me, stood facing him and I screamed, ‘Say it! Say, “I used him as much as I needed to and now I have no use for him any more, I don't need a partner any more, I want to stuff my stomach alone.” You imbecile! It torments God to see servants like you.'

And I ran cursing out of that house. Every fibre in my body was trembling.

It took us two weeks to find out Hamid was in Evin Prison. Every day, I put on my chador and, with his parents or alone, I went there trying to find prison officials or others who could provide reliable information. Hamid's crime was indisputable. They had so many photographs and speeches and articles he had written that there was no way to deny anything. I don't know if he was ever put on trial and, if so, when.

Barely a month and a half after his arrest, during one of our visits to the prison, Hamid's father and I were ushered into a room.

‘I think they have finally granted us a visit,' I whispered to him. Excited, we both stood there and waited. A few minutes later, a prison guard walked in holding a package. He put it on the table and said, ‘These are his personal effects.'

I stared at him. I couldn't understand what he meant. Then he snapped, ‘Aren't you Hamid Soltani's family? He was executed the day before yesterday and these are his things.'

I felt as if a live wire had been attached to me. My entire body was shaking. I looked at Hamid's father. With his face as white as chalk and his hands squeezing his chest, he crumpled and fell into a chair. I wanted to go to him, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. I felt dizzy and then I felt nothing at all.

The blare of the ambulance siren made me come to. I opened my eyes.

They took Hamid's father to the intensive care unit and I was taken to the emergency room. I had to let my family know. I could remember Faati's and Mansoureh's telephone numbers and I gave them to the nurse.

Hamid's father remained hospitalised, but I was released and went home that night. I couldn't look my children in the eye. I didn't know how much they knew and I didn't know what to tell them. I had no energy to talk or even to cry. I had been injected with so many sedatives that soon I fell into a dark and bitter sleep.

It took three days for me to come out of that state of shock and delirium, and it took three days for Hamid's father to finally lose his battle against death and to reach eternal peace and freedom. The only thing I managed to say was, ‘How fortunate he is. Now, he is at peace.'

I envied him more than anyone in the world.

 

The funeral services for the father and son were held together and we could mourn Hamid without fear and foreboding. Seeing my sons' sad faces, puffy eyes and slight figures dressed in black broke my heart. I spent much of the ceremony reliving the memories of my life with Hamid, which was now condensed into the one month we had spent on the Caspian coast. From my own family, only Mother and Faati attended the funeral.

We stayed at my mother-in-law's house until the seventh-day ceremony. I couldn't even remember where Shirin was. Every so often, I would ask Faati, but I wouldn't hear her answer and an hour later I would ask her again.

Hamid's mother was in a grave condition. Faati said she would not survive the heartbreak. She talked constantly and every single word she uttered reduced everyone to tears. I was surprised she could talk so much. When faced with a tragedy, I always grew quiet and drowned in dark thoughts as I sat and stared at some point. Sometimes, she held my sons and said they smelled like their father. Other times, she pushed them away and screamed, ‘Without Hamid, what do I want them for?' Every now and then, she cried for her husband and moaned, ‘If Agha Morteza was here, I could bear it,' and later she thanked God that he was dead and not there to witness that tragedy.

I knew the boys were suffering and that environment would soon break them. I asked Faati's husband, Sadegh Agha, to take them away. Siamak was ready to escape that house, but Massoud clung to me and said, ‘I'm afraid if we leave you will cry a lot and something bad will happen to you.' I promised him I would take care of myself and make sure nothing happened to me. With the children gone, I felt the lid was lifted off my heart. My tears, which were not allowed to flow in their presence, poured out and my breath burst out of my chest with my sobs.

 

When I returned home, I knew I could not mourn any more and I could not waste any more time. My problems were too great to allow me a prolonged bereavement. My life was a mess; the children were behind in school and their final exams were drawing close; and, most important of all, I had no work and no source of income. We had lived through the past few months with the help of Hamid's father and now he was gone. I had to think of something. I had to find a job.

My mind was in a muddle over other problems as well. One day at my mother-in-law's house, I had overheard Hamid's aunt and his uncle's wife quietly talking in the room where I was resting. It was then that I learned Hamid's grandfather had bequeathed the house we were living in to all his children. Out of respect for their mother and for Hamid's father, who paid her expenses and took care of her, Hamid's uncles and aunts had never brought up the subject of their share. But with Bibi and their brother gone, they no longer had any reason not to claim their inheritance. And a few days later, I was there when Hamid's brothers-in-law were talking with each other. Monir's husband said, ‘According to the law, because the son died before the father, his family is not entitled to any inheritance. You can ask anyone…' It was strange how in all that commotion I heard conversations that had to do with my life.

Regardless, the danger I sensed made me come out of mourning sooner than expected and it muted my grief over Hamid's loss. My dark and lonely nights were filled with excruciating anxiety. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't sit still. I paced around the house thinking and sometimes I spoke to myself like a madwoman. All the doors had closed on me. Without a job, without Hamid, without his father, without a home, without any inheritance, and with the stamp on my forehead identifying me as the widow of an executed communist, how was I going to save my children from that stormy sea and deliver them to safety?

‘Father, where are you? Can you see that your prediction came true? Your daughter is alone and abandoned in the world. Oh, how desperately I need you!'

Late one night when I was again drifting around the house like a sleepwalker, the sound of the telephone ringing made me jump. Surprised by a call at that hour, I answered the telephone. A voice coming from far away said, ‘Massoum, is that you? Oh, my dear. Is it true that Hamid… that Hamid has passed away?'