The Book of Fate (33 page)

Yet, my job had proven to me the value of higher education. Each time others bossed me around and felt that they could blame me for their mistakes simply because they were better educated than me, I felt sorry for myself and the desire to go to university rekindled in my heart. Also, for years to come I would have to single-handedly manage and support our lives, and I had been thinking about finding a means to earn a higher salary that would meet the future needs of my children. Clearly, having a university degree would make a big difference in my situation.

As I expected, everyone in my family believed that I should give up the idea of going back to university. But what I found surprising was that Hamid's family felt the same way.

‘You are under a lot of pressure,' Hamid's father said sympathetically. ‘Don't you think managing both a job and the university will be too much for you?'

With her usual anxiety, Hamid's mother interrupted him and said, ‘You are at work from morning until late afternoon, and I guess you will then want to go to the university. But what about these boys? Why don't you think about these innocent children who will be left all alone?'

Manijeh, who was in the last months of her pregnancy and who had for years failed the university entrance exams and had finally given up and got married, turned to her parents and said with her usual smugness, ‘Don't you understand? It's all about rivalry! After all, our Mansoureh went to university.'

I tried to control myself, but I had become less tolerant. I was no longer an awkward and clumsy girl from the provinces to put up with snide remarks and to have my needs and desires dismissed as unimportant. The anger that simmered inside me washed away my doubts and fears.

‘Now that I have to be both mother and father to my children and to financially support them,' I said, ‘I have to think about earning a higher salary. My current income is not enough to pay for their future needs and their expenses are increasing from one day to the next. And please don't worry; your grandchildren will not suffer from any lack of love and attention. I have thought of everything.'

In truth, I had thought of nothing. That night I sat with the boys and tried to explain everything to them. They listened carefully as I listed the pros and cons of my going back to university. When I said that the biggest problem was that I would have to come home later than I already did, Siamak pretended he was no longer listening to me and started playing with his toy car that made a hideous noise. I realised he was not willing to accept spending any more time alone than he already did. I stopped talking and looked at Massoud. With innocent eyes, he was observing the expression on my face. Then he got up, walked over to me, stroked my hair and said, ‘Mummy, do you really want to go to university?'

‘Look, my dear, if I go back, we will all benefit. It will be a little difficult, but it will end soon. And in return, I will be able to earn more money and we will have a better life.'

‘No… I mean do you really like going to university?'

‘Well, yes,' I said. ‘I worked hard to be able to go to university.'

‘Then go. If you like to, go. We will do our own chores and when it gets dark we will go downstairs and stay with Bibi so we don't get scared. Maybe Dad will come back by then and we won't be alone.'

Siamak threw his toy car across the room and said, ‘What a stupid child! It's not like Dad is some place where he can come back whenever he wants to. He can't!'

‘Look, my dear,' I said gently. ‘We have to be optimistic and hopeful. Just the fact that Daddy is alive is reason enough for us to be grateful. And he will eventually come back home.'

‘What are you saying?' Siamak snapped. ‘You want to fool a kid? Grandfather said Dad has to stay in prison for fifteen years.'

‘But a lot can happen in fifteen years. As a matter of fact, every year their sentence is reduced for good behaviour.'

‘Yes, then it will be ten years. What's the use? By then I will be twenty, what would I need a father for? I want my dad now, right now!'

Again, I wallowed in doubt. At the office my friends believed I should not lose the opportunity to finish studying for my degree. Mr Zargar encouraged me, saying he would arrange for me to take classes during the day on the condition that I finish my work after office hours.

Coincidentally, it was during those days that the authorities finally agreed to my repeated requests for us to be granted permission to visit Hamid. I was both happy and nervous. I called Hamid's father and he quickly came over to the house. ‘I won't tell his mother and you shouldn't tell the children,' he said. ‘We don't know what shape Hamid is in. If we see that he is presentable, we will take them next time.'

His words added to my anxiety. All night, I dreamed that Hamid was brought to me, broken and bloody, just so that he could spend the last moments of his life in my arms. Tired and nervous, we set out early the next morning. I don't know whether the visiting room and its windows were all dusty or I was seeing everything from behind a veil of tears. Finally, they brought Hamid. Contrary to our expectations, he was clean and neat, his hair was combed and his face was shaven. But he was unbelievably thin and gaunt. Even his voice sounded different. For a few minutes none of us could speak. His father regained his composure before we did and asked him about the conditions in prison. Hamid gave him a sharp look that suggested he had asked an inappropriate question and said, ‘Well, it's prison. I have got through the tough times. Tell me about yourselves. How are the children? How is Mother?'

Evidently, he had not received most of my letters. I told him that the boys were well and growing up fast, that they were both among the top students in their class, that Siamak had started year five and Massoud was in year one. He asked about my job. I told him that because of him everyone was good to me and watched over me. Suddenly, there was a gleam in his eyes and I realised that I shouldn't talk about such things. Finally, he asked me about university and I told him about my doubts. He laughed and said, ‘Do you remember how you dreamed about getting your school diploma? Even a university degree isn't enough for you. You are talented and hard working. You have to advance. You will even go for a doctorate degree.'

There was no time for me to explain what a heavy burden continuing my education would put on my shoulders and how much of my time it would devour. All I said was, ‘It will be difficult to study and work, and take care of the children, too.'

‘You will manage it all,' he said. ‘You are no longer the clumsy girl you were ten or eleven years ago. You are a capable woman who can make the impossible possible. I am so proud of you.'

‘Do you really mean it?' I said with tears in my eyes. ‘You are no longer ashamed of having a wife like me?'

‘When was I ever ashamed? You have been a dear wife and you have grown and become more complete with every day that has passed. Now, you are every man's dream. I'm just sad that I and my children have tied you down.'

‘Don't say that! You and my children are the dearest things in my life.'

I so desperately wanted to hold him in my arms, put my head on his shoulder and cry. Now I felt filled with energy. I felt I could do anything.

 

I registered for a few courses that were being held at times that were convenient for me. I talked to Mrs Parvin and Faati, and they agreed to help with the boys. Mrs Parvin's husband was ill, but she said she could spend one or two afternoons with the boys, and Faati and Sadegh Khan agreed to take care of them three nights a week. Faati was in the last months of her pregnancy and it was difficult for her to come and go. So I gave our car to Sadegh Khan so that he could bring Faati to our home or take the boys to their house, and occasionally take everyone to the cinema or on outings. Meanwhile, I took advantage of every opportunity to study; during my free time at the office, early in the morning, and at night before I went to bed. I often fell asleep at my books. The chronic headaches I had suffered since my youth were getting worse and more frequent, but I didn't care. I took painkillers and went on with my work.

My responsibilities now included those of a mother, a housekeeper, an office worker, a university student and the wife of a prisoner. And I tended to the last with the greatest care. The food and other necessities that I wanted to take to prison for Hamid were prepared by every member of the family with great ceremony, almost in a religious ritual.

Over time, I learned how to manage my workload and grew accustomed to it. It was then that I realised we are capable of far more than we believe. After a while, we adapt to life and our rhythm adjusts to the volume of our tasks. I was like a runner on the track of life and Hamid's voice saying ‘I am proud of you' echoed in my ears like the applause of spectators in a huge stadium, intensifying my strength and agility.

 

One day I was sifting through the previous day's newspapers when my gaze fell on the funeral notices. I rarely paid any attention to these, but that day my eyes suddenly froze on a name. The notice was for the funeral of Mr Ebrahim Ahmadi, Parvaneh's father. My heart ached. I remembered his decency and kind face. Tears welled in my eyes and memories of Parvaneh filled my mind. Time and distance could not erase my love for her and my desire to see her again. After the telephone conversation I had had with her mother several years earlier, I had never heard from them, and I was so overwhelmed with life that I didn't try to contact her mother again.

I had to go to the funeral. It was perhaps the only opportunity I had to find Parvaneh. No matter where she was, she would certainly go to her father's funeral.

Walking into the mosque, I was nervous and my palms were sweaty. I searched for Parvaneh in the row where the bereaved were sitting, but I didn't see her. Could it be that she hadn't come? Just then a rather fat lady whose blonde hair had escaped her black lace headscarf looked up and our eyes met. It was Parvaneh. How could she have changed so much in twelve or thirteen years? She threw herself in my arms and we spent almost the entire ceremony crying without speaking a word. She was mourning her father's passing and I was pouring out all that I had suffered over the years. After the ceremony, she insisted that I go to their house. Once most of the visitors had left, we sat facing each other. We didn't know where to start. Now that I looked at her, I saw that she was still the same Parvaneh, except that she had gained weight and dyed her hair lighter. The circles under her eyes and the puffiness of her face were because of all the crying she had done in recent days.

‘Massoum,' she finally said, ‘are you happy?'

I was stunned, I didn't know what to say. I was always confused when asked this question. As my silence grew longer, she shook her head and said, ‘Oh dear! It seems there is no end to your troubles.'

‘I am not ungrateful,' I said. ‘I just don't know what happiness means! But I have many blessings in life. I have my children; two healthy boys. And my husband is a good man, even though he is not with us. I work, I study… remember my undying dream?'

‘You are still not going to give up,' she said, laughing. ‘This diploma isn't all that valuable. What do you think I have done with mine?'

‘I received my diploma a long time ago. I am now studying Persian literature at Tehran University.'

‘Are you serious? That is excellent! You really do have perseverance. Of course, you were always a smart student, but I didn't think you would still be studying with a husband and children. It's good that your husband doesn't object.'

‘No, he has always encouraged me.'

‘That's wonderful! Then he must be a wise man. I should meet him.'

‘Yes, God willing, in ten or fifteen years!'

‘What do you mean? Why? Where is he?'

‘He is in prison.'

‘May God take my life! What did he do?'

‘He is a political prisoner.'

‘Are you serious? In Germany I often hear Iranians, the guys who are members of the Confederation and others who oppose the government, talk about the political prisoners. So your husband is one of them! People say they torture them in prison. Is it true?'

‘He hasn't said anything to me, but I have often washed blood off his clothes. Recently our permission to visit him was again revoked, so I don't know what condition he is in now.'

‘Then who supports you financially?'

‘I told you, I work.'

‘You mean you have to single-handedly manage your lives?'

‘Managing life isn't that difficult, it's the loneliness that is tough. Oh, Parvaneh, you can't imagine how lonely I am. Even though I am constantly busy and don't have a moment to rest, I always feel lonely. I am so happy I have finally found you. I really needed you… But now you tell me. Are you happy? How many children do you have?'

‘Life is all right,' she said. ‘I have two daughters. Lili is eight and Laleh is four. My husband isn't bad. He's a man like all other men. And I have got used to life over there. But with Father gone, I can't leave my mother alone any more; especially now that my sister Farzaneh has two young children and is busy with her own life. And you can't count on the sons. I think we will have to come back and live here. Besides, my husband, Khosrow, had already been thinking about us moving back.'

Parvaneh and I had more to share than we could manage in one day. We needed many long days and nights. We planned for me and the boys to go to their house on Friday and spend the day with her. It was a wonderful day. I talked more than I had ever talked in my life. Fortunately time and distance had not severed our friendship. We could still talk to each other more freely and comfortably than with anyone else. Opening up to others had always been difficult for me and the need to keep Hamid's life a secret had made me even less at ease with people. But now I could reveal the most secret corners of my heart to Parvaneh. I had again found my friend and I would never lose her again.