The Book of Fate (32 page)

I enjoyed my work, but I was facing a problem that I had not thought of before. I could no longer go to the prison every week and it had been three weeks since I had had any news of Hamid. I was worried. I told myself, No matter how, I must go there this week.

The day before, I prepared everything. I cooked a few dishes and packed some fruit, pastries and cigarettes. Early the next morning, I went to the prison. The guard at the front gate rudely and sarcastically asked, ‘What's the matter? You couldn't sleep last night so you showed up at the crack of dawn? I'm not going to accept any deliveries this early.'

‘Please,' I said. ‘I have to be at work by eight o'clock.'

He started mocking and insulting me.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,' I said. ‘What kind of language is this?'

It was as if he was waiting for me to object so that he would have an excuse to make every vulgar comment about me and my husband. Even though over time I had faced every insult and disrespect, until then no one had cursed us in that manner and shouted obscenities at me. I was shaking with rage. I wanted to tear him to pieces, but I didn't dare utter a single word. I was afraid Hamid would no longer receive my letters and at least a small portion of the food I brought.

With trembling lips and swallowing my tears, insulted and broken, I went to work, still carrying the bag. With his sharp eyes, Mr Zargar noticed how distraught I was and called me to his office. While handing me a letter to type, he asked, ‘What is the matter, Mrs Sadeghi? You don't seem well today.' I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand and I explained what had happened. He shook his head angrily and after a brief silence he said, ‘You should have told me sooner. Don't you know what emotional state your husband will be in if he doesn't hear from you this week either? Go quickly and don't come back until you have delivered everything to him. And from now on, you will come to work on Mondays after you have dropped off his things at the prison. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, but sometimes I have to wait until noon. What can I do about my absenteeism? I can't lose this job.'

‘Don't worry about your job,' he said. ‘I will write it down as you being away on office business. This is the least I can do for these selfless men and women.'

How kind and understanding he was. I saw similarities between him and Massoud and I thought my son would grow up to be like him.

 

Over time, the children and I adapted to the new routine of life. The boys consciously did their best to not create any new problems for me. We ate breakfast together every morning and got ready for the day. Even though their school wasn't too far away, I drove them there in the same Citroën 2CV that had been a true saviour during this time. At lunchtime they walked home, bought bread on the way, warmed up the food I had prepared ahead, ate and took some downstairs for Bibi, too. The poor woman had been ailing terribly ever since her hospital stay, but she didn't want to live anywhere other than in her own home, which meant we had to take care of her as well. Every day after work, I would do our shopping and then stop by to see her. I would clear away her dishes, tidy her room and chat with her for a while before going upstairs. And then the housework would start. Washing, cleaning, cooking for the next day, giving the boys their dinner, helping them with their homework and a thousand other chores that would take until eleven or twelve o'clock to finish. Finally, I would collapse like a corpse and sleep. Given all that, I no longer thought I could continue my education. I had already lost one year and it seemed I would have to lose many more.

 

That year, another event distracted us for a while. After many family fights and arguments, Faati got married. Mahmoud, who felt he had learned a lesson from my marriage, was determined to have Faati marry a devout bazaar merchant like himself. Faati, who unlike me was meek and easily bullied, did not dare object to the suitor Mahmoud recommended, even though she despised the man. Apparently, the punishments I had suffered had left such an impression on her that she seemed to have forever lost her self-confidence and the ability to voice her opinion. As a result, the responsibility of defending her rights fell on my shoulders, which once and for all confirmed my title as the family's fighting cock.

This time, however, I acted with greater wisdom. Without engaging in any discussions with Mahmoud or Mother, I privately talked to Father. I shared with him Faati's point of view and asked him to not bring about the misery of yet another daughter by consenting to a forced marriage. Although my footprints were later detected in Father's decision and made Mahmoud loathe me more than ever before, still, the marriage did not take place. Instead, Faati married another suitor whom Uncle Abbas had introduced and whom Faati had taken a liking to.

Sadegh Khan, Faati's husband, was a kind, handsome and educated young man who came from a cultured middle-class family and worked as an accountant in a government agency. Although he was not wealthy and Mahmoud contemptuously described him as a wage-earner, Faati was happy, and the boys and I liked him. Understanding my sons' need for a father, Sadegh Khan developed a friendly relationship with them, often arranging entertainments for them and taking them on outings.

 

Our life had almost settled into a regular routine. I liked my job and I had found good friends who filled the lunch hours and idle times with jokes, laughter and gossip. Often our discussions were about Mr Shirzadi, one of the departmental directors, who disliked me and always found fault with everything I did. Everyone said he was a sensitive man and an excellent poet, but I saw nothing in him other than hostility and a foul temper, so I was careful not to cross paths with him or give him any excuse to criticise me. Yet he constantly made wisecracks and snide remarks, insinuating that I had been hired through internal connections and that I was not qualified for my job. My friends told me not to worry, that it was just his disposition, but I felt he was more ill-tempered with me than with anyone else. I knew that behind my back he called me Mr Zargar's belle. Over time, I too developed a strong dislike of him.

‘The only thing he doesn't look like is a poet,' I would tell my friends. ‘He looks more like a Mafioso. Poetry requires a delicate soul, not all this arrogance, aggression and spite. The poems are probably not even his. Perhaps he threw a miserable poet in prison and now holds a knife to the guy's throat to write poetry under his name.' And everyone would laugh.

I think all this talk finally reached his ears. One day he used the excuse of a few small typographical errors to tear up a ten-page report that I had worked hard to prepare and he tossed the pieces on my desk. I lost my temper and I screamed, ‘Do you even know what is bothering you? You are constantly looking for excuses to criticise my work. What wrong have I ever done to you?'

‘Huh! Madam, you can't do any wrong to me,' he growled. ‘I have read your hand. Do you think I am like Zargar and Motamedi and you can wrap me around your little finger? I know the likes of you very well.'

I was shaking with anger and was about to answer him when Mr Zargar walked in and asked, ‘What is going on? Mr Shirzadi, what is the matter?'

‘What is the matter?' he snarled. ‘She doesn't know how to do her job. She is two days late and she hands me a report full of mistakes. This is what happens when you hire an illiterate woman just because she is pretty and has the right connections. Now you have to live with the consequences.'

‘Watch what you are saying,' Mr Zargar snapped. ‘Control yourself. Please come into my office, I would like to have a word with you.' And he put his hand on Mr Shirzadi's back and practically pushed him into his office.

I was holding my head between my hands and trying hard not to cry. My friends gathered around me and tried to comfort me. Abbas-Ali, the janitor on our floor who always looked out for me, brought me a glass of hot water and candied sugar and I busied myself with work.

An hour later, Mr Shirzadi walked into my office, stood in front of my desk and while trying to avoid looking into my eyes, he begrudgingly said, ‘I am sorry. Please forgive me.' And he quickly walked out.

Stunned, I looked at Mr Zargar who was standing in the doorway and I asked, ‘What happened?'

‘Nothing. Forget what happened. This is how he is. He is a good man with a kind heart, but he is also tense and sensitive about certain things.'

‘About me, for instance?'

‘Not you exactly, but anyone who he thinks has usurped someone else's rights.'

‘Whose rights have I usurped?'

‘Don't take it seriously,' Mr Zargar said. ‘Before we hired you, he recommended we promote one of his assistants who had just earned his university degree. We had almost finished the process when you were referred to me for the position. Before I interviewed you, I promised Shirzadi that I would not be influenced by Motamedi's request, but I hired you and he considers this unfair and prejudicial. Naturally, being as sensitive as he is, he can't tolerate what he calls an “injustice”. Ever since then, he has become my adversary and yours. He already disliked Motamedi because he has an inherent animosity towards executives and superiors.'

‘It seems he is right,' I said. ‘I really have taken someone else's rights. But knowing all this, why did you hire me?'

‘Come on! Have I now ended up owing you something? I thought with his qualifications, the other candidate could find another job. As a matter of fact, he was hired a week later. But given your circumstances, you would have had a difficult time finding work. In any case, with my profound apologies, I had to tell Shirzadi about your husband. But don't worry, he is a trustworthy man. Between you and me, he has been tangled up in politics all his life.'

The next day, Mr Shirzadi came to my office. He looked pale and sad and his eyes were red and swollen. For a while he stood there looking uncomfortable, but finally he said, ‘You know, I can't help it. My anger runs too deep.' And he went on to recite one of his poems about how rage has taken root in his soul and turned him into a rabid wolf. ‘I have mistreated you,' he said. ‘To be honest, your work is actually quite good. I had a tough time finding errors in it, when the two-sentence letters these bosses and executives write are filled with a thousand mistakes.'

Mr Shirzadi became one of my best supporters and friends. Unlike Mr Zargar, he was very curious about Hamid's political activities, the group he belonged to and the circumstances under which he was arrested. His passion and excitement to hear what I had to say made me open up when in fact I had no interest in talking about any of this. At the same time, his compassion was laced with such anger and hatred towards the regime that it frightened me. Once as I was talking, I noticed that his face had turned almost blue.

‘Are you well?' I asked, concerned.

‘No, I am not,' he said. ‘But don't worry, I often feel this way. You have no idea what goes on inside me.'

‘What?' I asked. ‘Perhaps I feel the same way but I just can't verbalise it.'

As usual, he started to recite a poem. This one was about a city mourning the massacre of the masses while he remained as thirsty for revenge as a fasting man thirsts for water on a scorching-hot noon.

No! I who had suffered the greatest blows had never experienced anger and sorrow this profound. One day he asked me about the night our home was raided. I told him a little about what had happened. Suddenly he lost control and fearlessly shouted in verse that the tribe of aggressors had turned the city into a city of wild dogs and the lions were nowhere to be found but in the pastures.

Terrified, I leaped up and closed the door. ‘For the love of God, people will hear you,' I pleaded. ‘That SAVAK agent is on this floor.' In those days, we believed that half our colleagues were SAVAK agents and we treated them with dread and caution.

From then on, Mr Shirzadi started reading his poems to me, just one of which would have been enough to result in the execution of whoever composed it or recited it. I understood and grasped their meaning with my flesh and blood and committed them to memory. Shirzadi was one of the survivors of the political defeats of the 1950s, which had left his young and sensitive spirit crushed and had led him into a life of bitterness. I observed him and wondered whether the harsh experiences of childhood and youth were always this everlasting. And I found my answer in one of his poems about the failed 1953
coup d'état
, in which he wrote that, from that moment on, his eyes always perceived the sky as floating in a sea of blood and saw the sun and the moon only through the glint of a dagger.

The more I got to know Mr Shirzadi, the more I worried about Siamak. I often recalled the rage and hatred I had seen in his eyes on the night our house was raided and I asked myself, Will he become like Shirzadi? Will he, too, surrender to loathing and loneliness instead of embracing hope, joy and the beauties of life? Do social and political issues leave such permanent scars on susceptible souls? My son! I had to find a solution.

 

Summer had come to an end. It was almost a year since Hamid's arrest. Given the court's sentence, we had to live another fourteen years without him. We had no choice but to get used to our circumstances. Waiting had become the main objective of our lives.

The time for registering for classes at the university was getting close. I had to decide to either give up for ever on continuing my education and take that old wish to my grave, or sign up for classes and accept the hardship it would place on myself and on my children. I knew the courses would become more difficult each term. I also knew that with the limited time I had, I would not be able to coordinate my classes so that they would not interfere with my work. Even if my superiors didn't complain, I felt I didn't have the right to take advantage of their kindness and consideration.