After few seconds, I separate myself from my aunt and step back. Milaad, standing among his in-laws at our father’s grave, is raising his thick eyebrows at me and pointing with his head to Maman, a signal to leave Raazi’s side. His sunken cheeks, covered by light stubble, show how much he is suffering inside, struggling to ensure that this event goes as smoothly as possible.
“I should go and serve the guests halva and dates,” I tell Raazi.
“Go, dear. I should also go to your mother and Milaad to offer my condolences.”
As Raazi moves toward the grave, I walk in the opposite direction, pick up a dish of dates, and start serving our distant relatives, who have made a cluster on the left. I am alert, imagining that something dramatic might happen between Maman and Raazi, but as I hear no commotion, I decide to turn and assess the situation. Raazi and her husband are now standing with Papa’s other relatives, and Maman, back on her feet, is surrounded by her siblings and her mother, our grandma Aziz, who sits calmly in her wheelchair. I greet my grandmother and my aunt and uncles. I offer them dates. They each take one and send their blessings to Papa’s soul.
Meanwhile, the Koran reader Milaad has hired arrives. He is a thin-bearded man with thick-framed glasses. We make room for him to stand beside Maman over the grave. She picks up her Koran, which is lying beside the flowers, and hands it to the man so he can recite a few verses and bring the third-day memorial to a happy end. I look over at my brother, who is among his in-laws and is holding his wife around the shoulders. We exchange a secret smile of victory. Now everyone can go back to his or her home in peace to get some rest before leaving for the afternoon gathering at the mosque. As Maman made a point of explaining to me in the car, assuming I’d forgotten our rituals and needed a refresher, this afternoon’s memorial service will be open to the public. The following memorial, on the seventh day, will be a more intimate gathering where only family will be present at a dinner. If my mother were to cause a scene, I didn’t know whether it would be worse for a large or a small audience to witness it.
* * *
We arrive at the Jahmeh Vanak Mosque for the afternoon memorial service an hour before it starts. To greet those who arrive, I stand with my mother at the women’s entrance, and Milaad stands with my uncle from Papa’s side at the men’s. When the mullah comes and bows his turbaned head to us, we move inside. The women-only hall is large, and the walls are decorated by black banners with inscriptions from the Koran and religious texts in white and green. There is a table in front with a few bouquets of white flowers Milaad has ordered. A photo of my father taken by me at Deep Cove, enlarged and in black and white, sits beside them.
Women from my father’s family sit together on the right side of the room, and women from my mother’s family on the left. I sit beside Maman during the mullah’s speech to the men, which is broadcast over the four loudspeakers at the corners of the room. As the man goes on about what a nice, kind, and generous husband and father Papa was to Maman and us, women weep under their chadors or scarves, pulled forward to cover their brows and eyes.
Once the mullah finishes his sermon about my father, Agha-ye Aadel Ashrafi, he starts reading the names of those my father has left behind. He says that my mother, Malak Khanoom, was a faithful wife who remained at her husband’s side until his last breath. I fear somebody will say that this is a lie, but nobody does.
As he speaks about how much Maman and Papa cared about each other, my thoughts wander and I remember a story my father told me in Paris. I steal a glance at Aunt Raazi from the corner of my eye. The only part of her that is visible is her hands, which she constantly rubs together. Is that because, like me, she is recalling the same terrible story? Beside Milaad and me, Raazi is the only one who knows about what happened on the night, only eight months ago, when my mother and father came back from their pilgrimage to Papa’s birthplace in the holy city of Mashhad. And she only knows because my father told her in an effort to convince her to search for a new wife for him.
As the story goes, following their return trip from Mashhad, Maman and Papa took a taxi from the bus terminal. My mother insisted that the cabbie should first drop my father at his place, while Papa wanted him to drive Maman home first. He was so eager to know where she lived that he was willing to pay the taxi fare. But Maman wouldn’t give her address to the driver. This is when my father got more aggressive, telling the driver that Maman had a lover and was guilty of adultery. My mother demanded that the driver pull over in the middle of the trip, which he did, and as she got out of the taxi, my father called her a whore in front of a crowd of pedestrians. I’ve heard this story from both of my parents. Neither of them answered my question about why the hell they still traveled together, even though they were separated. As usual, it seemed they could live neither together nor apart.
The mullah says my name: Maana Khanoom. He has finished his speech about Maman and is moving on to talk about me. He says that I am an architect living in Canada but, as a good daughter, have put my job and life on hold and come back to be present here today. I lower my head, but I can still feel everybody’s eyes on me. I am grateful that my father told everyone I am an architect, not a real estate agent, but I also feel a bit like a hypocrite for endorsing his lie. Next, the mullah talks about Milaad. He starts by addressing the stereotype that daughters are usually the ones who take care of their parents even after they marry, whereas sons belong to their wives’ families. In this respect, Milaad is an exceptional son. He works at Iran Railways, where our mother used to work, is Maman’s helper, and has a loving wife.
After the mullah finishes and everybody hails to the Prophet Mohammad and his household, I stand up to go around the room and greet our relatives and friends. Everybody tells me how proud Papa was of my success as an architect overseas and how much he enjoyed his two visits to Vancouver.
On the last day of his second trip in 2004, just before I drove him to the airport to return home, I invited Papa to come back to Canada. I said that the next time he came it could be for good, and he could live with me. This invitation is something I will never reveal to my mother, who would be devastated. Of course, before I made the proposal, I had asked myself whether I could live with my father, given my great annoyance at cleaning up the bathroom after him during that visit. But then I thought it was all right; I should take care of my father. At least it would put a stop to him dropping in at Aunt Raazi’s every other day, asking her to find him another wife.
Of course, I was appalled by his behavior, calling my mother a whore. Maman had a right not to give her address to him. But at the same time, I pitied my father. I pitied him because he was an old man — twenty years older than Maman — and I feared he would starve himself to death without her. I pitied him in spite of my concerns for women’s rights and in spite of all the bad things he had done to Maman. I pitied him simply because I loved him.
In response to my offer, Papa said he first needed to finish a few law cases he still had on his hands and to complete his purchase of the Atisaz II condo and rent it out. As a token of his appreciation, he was planning to put the condo in my name. I thanked him, but was not happy about what he wanted from me in return: to become his real estate agent in Vancouver.
* * *
On the drive back, Milaad reminds us that the next gathering will be the seventh-day memorial dinner at the Railways Restaurant. I am happy that I’ll see Raazi there. There was no time at the mosque to sit with her and catch up with the news about her and my cousins in Paris.
Milaad drops our mother and me at Papa’s place and leaves to go home with Shabnam. We each carry one of the baskets of flowers. A security guard beside the front desk steps forward to help as we enter the building. “I can take it for you upstairs, ma’am,” he tells my mother.
I enter the apartment before the man, put my basket down, and hurry to collect the land titles, which are still lying on the coffee table. I scramble down the hallway to
my room. It’s not that I think the man is going to steal them, but that I see this as a good opportunity to review them in private. I want to see if Papa has put the Atisaz II condo in my name. This is something that could ruin my new relationship with my mother. She’ll surely grill me about what I offered Papa to get the condo in exchange. If I tell her the truth, she won’t believe that I didn’t want anything in return when I told him he was welcome to come live with me. I simply thought that if they lived very far from one another, each on one side of the globe, it might help my mother to ask for divorce and start a new life for herself, for real.
“Where are you?” I hear Maman calling me.
“In my room. Coming.”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I continue shuffling the documents in my hands until I finally find the one related to Atisaz II. My name is nowhere in the presale agreement. Strangely, I first feel upset, thinking that my father has been disloyal to me, but then deep relief replaces disappointment. Things would be much more difficult for me now if my parents had divorced. If I decided to stay in Iran, I’d have no other choice than to drop Papa’s entire family. In the order of family loyalty, Maman is first, before an aunt.
“Maana.” My mother’s voice is closer to my room now. “Have you seen the land titles that were on the coffee table?”
Before she opens the door, I quickly glance at the date the document was signed — just after Papa returned from France. Now I know why he changed his mind: because of the fight we had after visiting the old woman he introduced as his client. Fine, I think. I wouldn’t approve of his behavior and plans with regard to that woman for any reward, even ten properties in my name.
I insert the document among the others, stand up, and walk to Maman, who has just opened the door. “I brought these in here to keep them out of the concierge’s reach.”
“Oh!” Maman exhales. “You’ve been smart since childhood, much more forward-thinking than your brother. Like me, he is very emotional. He —”
My mother’s words are interrupted by the door buzzer sounding in the living room.
When I answer, Milaad’s voice comes through the intercom. “You forgot the bag of groceries. Come downstairs and get them.”
In the lobby, Milaad passes me the bag. “I probably won’t be able to visit for a few days. Take care of our mother.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “We are getting along very well.”
Milaad beams, and I cannot resist hugging him. I hold him for a good long time in spite of the presence of the security guard. The man looks away, the corners of his lips pulled down in a grimace.
The grin is still lingering on my lips when I reach our floor and come face to face with Maman, who is waiting for me in the hallway by the elevators.
“I missed you.” She suddenly grabs me and pulls me into her embrace. Her breath blowing in my face is foul. I want to pull back but she keeps me in place. Her dry lips rub against my face while she speaks in a voice that sounds like barbed wire. “You’re finally mine. Entirely mine.”
My heart drops and my stomach starts to churn, yet I cannot muster a force from within me to move away from her. I am about to break into tears when she herself lets me go. “Give this to me.” She takes the plastic bag from my hand. “It’s good Milaad brought this back! Otherwise I couldn’t make you your favorite food tomorrow. I should give him credit for being smart like you.”
Immediately after we step inside the apartment, I tell my mother I am tired and want to go back to bed. Afraid that she’ll ask me to sleep in her room for tonight, I disappear into the guest room before she can say anything. Like the previous night, I roll over and over in distress, but I am extremely hot this time instead of cold, as if I’ve somehow been thrown into hell.
You’re finally mine. Entirely mine.
My mother’s words swirl in my head. I push the blanket off and get up to open the window. A rush of cold air cools the hot tears streaming down my face. I stick my head out the window; I don’t want my crying to bring Maman to the room so she can claim me again, as if I were one of my father’s properties.
When my face is again dry, I go back to bed where I continue to toss, resisting the orders from a voice in my head that tells me I should pack right away and leave for Canada.
* * *
Covered in sweat, I wake up thinking I am back in Burnaby. The guest room is dead silent, just like my bachelor suite in the new OMA 2 building on Dawson Street. The room is cold and my red velvet blanket lies on the floor. I shiver, wondering if Maman has gone to her own apartment, leaving me here all by myself. I spring to my feet and dash to the living room to find out.
I am relieved when I find Maman in the kitchen, cooking. Her back is toward me. I stand at the threshold, watching her for a while, and I feel like a fool for thinking of leaving. “Good morning.” I walk to her and hug her as she turns around.
“Good morning.” Her voice indicates surprise at my sudden show of affection.
“What time is it?”
“It is almost noon. I made tea earlier, but since you didn’t wake up, I turned off the samovar.”
“Sorry.”
“It is all right, dear. Go sit at the table and I’ll bring the breakfast. I went out this morning and bought you fresh bread.”
I am on my way to the dining table when the phone rings. I tell Maman that I will get it.
There is a pause before a woman’s voice comes through the receiver. “Hello?” It sounds familiar.
“Hello. Who is calling?”
“Is this you, Ms. Maana?”
“Yes.”
“Good to hear your voice. Your father didn’t say anything about you visiting him.”
I struggle to attach the voice to a familiar face.
“Hello?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who this is.” I don’t know why, but something about this woman’s voice is frightening me.
“Of course you do! You came with your father for lunch to my place in Paris.”
I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the heart. This is the last person I want to hear from. I look around to check if Maman is listening. When I don’t see her, I cup my hand around the receiver and whisper into it. “My father passed a few days ago. I am here for his memorial.” I am careful not to say “ma’am,” for it would reveal the gender of the caller.
The woman gives a yelp like a wounded dog. “Oh, my! How is it possible? He was in perfect health.”
“He died in a car accident.”
“That’s horrible! I can’t believe it.”
I don’t let the woman continue. “I am sorry, but my mother and I were just about to go out. I have to go. Can I call you from Canada after I return? I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes, but . . . ”
I cut the woman short, this time with a firmer voice. “Please don’t call again. We are already devastated by my father’s death.” I hang up before she can say another word. Just then, Maman enters the room. She is holding a tray. “Who was it?”
“A realtor. He had a deal for Papa. I told him to leave us alone.” I am surprised by myself, coming up with such a perfect lie.
“Ah, one of those! They won’t leave us in peace as long as we stay here. They’re going to call every day to talk Ashrafi into new deals, thinking he is still alive.”
“You’re right! Why don’t you go back to your place?” When she doesn’t answer, I add, “I don’t mean to suggest that this is not your home.”
Maman looks at me with no sign of hurt in her eyes. “I’ll take you there after the seventh-day memorial is over,” she says decisively. “Even though I am here, our relatives have started to talk behind my back. Imagine what they would say if I left!”
“Nobody can say anything bad about you, Maman.”
“You forget how people are in this country — always af
ter sabotaging your life and splitting you from your loved ones. But they cannot harm us as long as we stick together.”
I decide that I’ll never let Maman know about the woman and Papa. It would tear her apart. I walk to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “We stand together, Maman.”
“I believe you,” she says happily. “Now, let’s go eat.”
* * *
After breakfast, Maman says she has a task for me. “I’m going to give you the files for your father’s law cases. You can go through them and separate those that are still active. We need to call his clients to let them know he died. You’ll be good at this.”
While Maman goes to collect the files, I clean the table. When she returns, she lays the documents on the other side of the table. “I’ll be in the bedroom, going through Ashrafi’s clothes and personal stuff to separate what I want to give away to charity. Call me if you need me,” she says before leaving the room.
I have ten large folders in front of me. Happy that my mother has given this task to me, I am determined to first find the files related to the woman in Paris. She was his client, but was she only his client? I recall her flirting with Papa. My mother, like most women of her generation, always used Papa’s last name to address him. But on the day I visited the woman in Paris, she called my father by his first name, Aadel, and with such affection that one might have thought she was already his wife. She made me so nervous with her ostentatious hospitality that, the moment we stepped out of her place, I scolded Papa for promising to go with her and her daughter to visit the Palace of Versailles the next day. He said her daughter was rich and had bought the small apartment where the old widow had entertained us. She also paid him to represent her mother, who wished to take back her family house that had been confiscated by the Mostazafan Foundation of the Oppressed and Disabled at the beginning of the revolution.
Divided Loyalties Page 18
