“The subject of this augury,” she read from the page, “is a virgin of average height and weight, pleasant olive complexion, square face, small eyes, and ruby-red lips.” Fa’iza was amazed at the accurate description of herself.
“She bears a sorrow,” the psychic continued, “a sorrow of love. May God have mercy upon her.” Fa’iza shook her head in affirmation, feeling a strong bond with the old, heavily wrinkled woman.
“To remove this burden of love,” the old woman croaked, “the virgin must for seven nights take seven steps in the direction of Mecca and then retrace her steps and intone with each step, ‘Dear God, protect me from satanic temptations.’ She should then wash her feet before going to bed and leave her feet uncovered by the bedclothes.”
“But madam,” Fa’iza protested, “I am in love and I wish for union with my beloved. Give me a talisman or cast a spell to implant my love in the heart of this man.”
“My dear girl,” chuckled the old woman, “affairs of the heart cannot be forced. You must dispel this love. As ancient wisdom holds, ‘Blissful as shared love can be, unrequited love is naught but unremitting heartache.’”
Frustrated, Fa’iza left the room in a huff, contemptuously throwing down a small coin at the old woman’s feet. Madam Baji smiled knowingly, picked up the coin, and dropped it in an earthen piggy bank, perhaps thinking of it as a contribution toward her granddaughter’s dowry.
Fa’iza faithfully performed the suggested ritual for seven nights as she moaned, wept, and growled with frustration. She toyed with the idea of going to the police with the whole story. She even thought of killing Amir Khan in retaliation for the murder of his sister. None of these options felt satisfying. Finally she decided to go to Munis’s burial site on the night of the wedding and bury the love-destroying charm at the foot of the grave, hoping that the conflation of the victim’s blood and the powers of the charm would afflict Amir Khan in some way.
Counting on help from Alia, who already suspected foul play in the disappearance of Munis, Fa’iza went to the deserted house on the wedding night. Alia let her in and then left to join the wedding party. Fa’iza went directly to the gravesite and in the gathering darkness began to dig a hole to bury the talisman.
Her blood curdled when she heard a soft voice calling her name. She looked around for the source and found none. The voice was unmistakably like that of Munis except that it sounded muffled, as if coming from the bottom of a well. Fa’iza swallowed hard and pressed her hand over her heart as if to keep it from bursting out of her chest. In a few moments she regained some of her composure only to hear the voice again. “Fa’iza dear, I can’t breathe,” it said.
Fa’iza made no response.
“I’m very hungry. I’m dying of thirst,” she heard the voice say. “I haven’t had anything to eat for a long time.”
Reflexively and feverishly Fa’iza began to claw at the dirt, digging into the grave. She stopped when Munis’s round face was exposed. The eyes opened and the lips began to move. “Dear sister, give me a little water.”
Fa’iza rushed to the pool in the middle of the yard and in her cupped hands carried some water to the grave. She splashed it on the face and resumed digging with her fingers until Munis’s whole body was uncovered and she made an effort to rise. Fa’iza helped her up and began to shake the dirt off the clothing. Slowly and unsteadily Munis moved in the direction of the house. By now Fa’iza had overcome her initial shock, although she did not know what to make of the situation. She followed Munis closely. Munis went straight to the kitchen and brought out a pot of leftovers. With muddy fingers she began to stuff her mouth with food. She had eaten almost half of what was in the pot before she was on the move again, staggering back to the yard. She went to the pump and drew a bucketful of stagnant water from the underground reservoir and gulped it down breathlessly.
For a moment she remained motionless in the darkness. She began to take off her clothes, making grunting sounds. She then jumped in the pool and proceeded to scrub her body vigorously. Meanwhile Fa’iza ran back to Munis’s room, which the family had left untouched, and hunted for some towels and clothing, bringing them back to the side of the pool. Munis, panting with the exertion, dried herself, put on the clothes, and walked slowly but steadily to the living room slumping into her favorite chair next to the radio. Fa’iza, still dazed and in the grip of fear, sat in another chair facing Munis, who initiated a conversation. “So you partnered with my brother to kill me, you shameless ingrate!” she began.
Fa’iza tried hopelessly to explain and justify her involvement. Munis remained unmoved. “So you always thought I was an idiot because I have a round face,” she said.
“What? Who ever thought that?” Fa’iza responded vehemently.
“You! You bastard,” returned Munis.
“I swear on the grave of the Holy Prophet I never thought that.”
“Don’t even try to fool me,” Munis said with a steady stare. “I can read your mind now. Not only did you think I was stupid because of my round face, you also thought you could exploit my simplicity and work your way into marrying my brother. Isn’t that so?”
“I swear to the spirits . . .”
“Oh, shut up! Stop swearing false oaths,” Munis interrupted. Fa’iza went silent, eyes downcast.
“Now, look up at me,” Munis said. “You will notice that my face is no longer round, but long.”
Fa’iza looked up slowly. What she saw threw her into a fit of horror and mental disarray. In fact the woman’s face had elongated and resembled that of a horse. She felt as if she was delirious, feverish. She wished she were paralyzed, blind, and deaf.
“Not only is my face long,” Munis said petulantly, “so are the pupils of my eyes.”
Shuddering with fear, Fa’iza looked into her eyes. Sure enough, the pupils had turned lozenge-shaped.
“Not only are they long, they are also red,” said Munis.
As Munis spoke, Fa’iza saw a sinister red glow emanating from the woman’s pupils. Impulsively, she looked down at Munis’s feet, somehow expecting to see hooves.
“No, I don’t have hooves,” said Munis, laughing demonically.
Overcome with shock, Fa’iza was on the verge of passing out, but Munis was not about to let her. “Stop acting up!” she screamed.
“There is something unclean in your nature,” Munis continued, “but I have decided to live with you and leave this house. I want to set up an organization, make an example of my brother, to prevent other brothers from killing their sisters. In reality, I am not an evil person. But remember, I know whatever thoughts go through that tiny brain of yours. Understand?”
“Of course, of course,” Fa’iza breathed.
“My grandma, may God rest her soul,” Munis went on, “had a cat that accidentally got caught in a bedroll for twenty four hours. When it was rescued, it was as thin and long as a book. It gorged itself with so much food that it swelled up and died. When I came out of the grave I had the same feeling as that cat. I have a feeling its spirit has transmigrated into me.”
“Of course,” Fa’iza said in agreement, “you are probative in your observation. Your eyes have feline contours and your face does tend to display equine features.”
“What kind of weird, bookish talk is that?” Munis protested vehemently. “We were friends until a few weeks ago, although you did think I was stupid. But we were still friends. Talk normally.”
“Very well,” Fa’iza said obediently.
“Besides I have read the book on men and women,” Munis said, “and you can’t think you know more than I do. Get it?”
“Yes.”
“Furthermore, I want you to know that Parveen is a better cook than you are. This is my considered opinion. Understand?”
This brought a lump to Fa’iza’s throat, making her look flustered and broken-hearted. Munis, once of the round face, felt a tinge of pity.
“Of course your cooking is not bad,” she said consolingly, “bu
t hers is better.”
“What are we going to do now?” asked Fa’iza, to change the subject.
“We’ll just wait for the bride and groom to return,” Munis answered.
Several hours later the wedding party, including the parents and a large number of close friends and relatives, arrived in an exuberant, festive mood, yipping and yodeling loudly in celebration. Ceremoniously they ushered the bride, who pretended reluctance, into the bridal chamber. The groom, drunk to the point of incapacity, was next.
Suddenly Alia gave a piercing scream and slumped to the floor. She had caught sight of Munis, who was standing to the side of the hall watching the crowd. Haji Sorkhchehreh also noticed her.
“Who would this lady be?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Munis! Oh, my daughter,” the mother exclaimed, more in surprise than in answer to the question.
Munis did not say a word. She pushed her way through the crowd to the bridal chamber touching the door softly. Although locked from inside, the door opened slowly to let her in, and closed behind her. Amir, barely able to stand, was in the process of undressing in a corner of the room. Looking embarrassed and shy, the young bride was doing the same in another corner. At the sound of the slamming door, they both turned to see Munis standing in the middle of the room. The bride was utterly confused at the sight of the stranger, but Amir was nearly shocked to death. Munis’s face lengthened and her eyes narrowed to a slit.
“Stop playing,” she told her brother. “Step forward like a man.”
Amir advanced toward her involuntarily.
“You miserable wretch,” she addressed him, “Why are you so drunk?”
“What can I say? I am.”
“So you married an eighteen-year-old because she is pristine and chaste?”
“Yes.”
“And you,” Munis turned to the girl. “Didn’t you get knocked up last year by your cousin? And didn’t you have an abortion by Mrs. Fatemi?”
The young woman nearly lost her balance, but Munis caught her before she collapsed. “Enough of these theatrics,” Munis told her. “It was at the suggestion of this very Mrs. Fatemi that you got my stupid brother drunk tonight, wasn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Amir.
“And you, bastard,” she hissed, “You must live and make do with her. If you raise your hand to her, or hurt her in any way, I will return and swallow you whole. Do you understand?” Amir nodded in the affirmative.
“I am going to live with Fa’iza,” she told the couple standing in front of her motionless. “That poor woman, though a little full of herself, was at least a virgin, and this one isn’t. This is what happens to stupid men. But as I said before, if you hurt her, I’ll take it out on you in a way that you’ll never forget as long as you live.”
She then left the room and crossed the hall toward the living room. Alia, who had regained consciousness, followed her. So did her mother and the rest of the guests. Haji Sorkhchehreh wanted to know why the sister of the groom was not at the wedding. The mother was evasive, unable to talk to her daughter in front of the guests. Besides, she harbored a vague inner fear of her daughter.
“Sister,” Munis addressed Fa’iza, who had stayed behind in the living room, “ let’s go to Karadj.”
“Oh, please take me with you,” Alia pleaded.
“Later, later,” said Munis.
The crowd, dazed and quiet, parted as the two women made their way to the front door and disappeared in the dark of the night.
Mrs. Farrokhlaqa Sadroddin Golchehreh
FARROKHLAQA, FIFTY-ONE YEARS OLD, but as beautiful and impeccably groomed as ever, lounged in an American-style rocking chair on the balcony. It was mid-spring and the air was redolent with the scent of citrus blossoms. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the fragrance. She reminded herself that if her father had been alive, he would be crouching at the corner of the yard tending to his favorite geranium pots. He had died ten years earlier, but it was as if he had just died the day before. “My dear girl,” he said two days before his death, “I have my reservations about that man.” He said that, and died two days later.
For a moment the recollections of her father overwhelmed her focus on the fragrance, but she lifted her right hand to her face, as if to keep the memory from entering her mind. It was so melancholy to think of the dead.
Golchehreh was in the room. He was putting on his tie in front of a full-length mirror, which reflected part of the yard, and the balcony where his wife, deep in thought, was gently rocking in the chair. He was taking his time as he watched his wife’s reflection in the mirror. He did not cherish face-to-face encounters with his wife. On those occasions Golchehreh could only grin contemptuously and feel an intense dislike for her in his heart. But in her absence, or as he now watched her reflection in the mirror, he felt an overwhelming tenderness for her and loved her more than anything or anybody, a far cry from the deep set, thirty-year-old resentment he felt when they were in close proximity to each other.
Farrokhlaqa felt like stretching as she sat in the chair. She extended her arms and arched her back. This gave her a pleasurable release, but more than that it reminded her of Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind. That was how she had stretched in a bedroom scene. Thinking of Vivien Leigh reminded her of her encounter with Fakhroddin Azod at the banquet given by the Prince2 at his Shem-iran estate. He had just returned from America and had brought with him many interesting pictures and home movies he had shot in New York and showed them to guests at parties. Farrokhlaqa had visited New York three times but had never seen the city as depicted in Fakhroddin’s pictures. Secretly, she blamed her husband. He would descend to the hotel lobby at nine, have breakfast, hang around the common areas and bars, go back to the room, take naps, and wait for their host, Mr. Entezam, to pick them up at night and take them to a restaurant, movie theater, or nightclub.
By now the husband had finished knotting his tie and was looking for some other excuse to prolong his stay in front of the mirror. He thought of giving himself a shave. That would afford him another half hour to stay at his vantage point. He went to the bathroom and returned with his shaving paraphernalia and a towel. He began the ritual slowly and with much deliberation, while his wife waited patiently for him to finish and leave the house. Since his retirement Golchehreh had taken up the habit of going for a walk every afternoon. For two hours he walked around the neighborhood, stopping at a local café to read the newspaper. His wife looked forward to his absence so she could move around freely. With him in the house, she felt restricted and claustrophobic—a need to confine herself to a corner to avoid contact. In the thirty-two years of their marriage she had learned to be inactive when her husband was home. Instinctively she felt vitality and joy in his absence. In the old days, with Golchehreh at work for at least eight hours a day—although he came home for lunch and a nap—she was more active and energetic. She had even taken voice lessons. Since his retirement, she had lost that dynamism. The man was not only always at home, he was also in the way. He did not show any interest in gardening or fixing the plaster molding of the reception hall ceiling, which was in a sorry state of disrepair. He was always in his pajamas, languishing in an armchair. Often he would tease Farrokhlaqa with his off-color jokes.
“You could shave in the bathroom,” the wife suggested. “You’ll get the carpet wet.”
Golchehreh, as he dipped his brush in the water bowl, saw this as an opening for a snide remark. “Shut up, Your Ladyship!” he retorted.
Farrokhlaqa bit her lip, turning her head, unwilling to start a row, although the words burst into her head with an explosive force looking for an outlet, and it came when she thought of Fakhroddin Azod. She often took refuge in thinking of him in moments of distress.
That night, that meeting at a reception after his return from America, she was standing under a locust tree.
“Vivien Leigh!” he exclaimed, approaching her from behind.
She turned to look at
him. She still remembered those sensuous lips. Although she had kissed them many times later, the memory of that sight of those well-shaped lips, pressed together, as if to hide the glint of his perfect white teeth, was always fresh in her mind.
“Are you talking to me?” she said, trying to sound surprised.
“Yes, you,” he replied, “the delicate little sister of Vivien Leigh. The resemblance is astounding.”
She wanted to turn her head and look at him from the corner of her eye, a posture she had learned from her mother, but she couldn’t quite make it. Instead, she felt intimidated and nervous at the sight of Fakhroddin’s fleshy lips now parted in a charming smile.
“Farrokh,” he said, abbreviating her name as a gesture of familiarity, “Believe me, you are getting more beautiful day by day. It’s unbelievable!”
By now she had gained enough composure to turn her head on her left shoulder and glance at the man from the corner of her eye.
“But you haven’t seen me in ten years,” she remarked.
“What do you mean I haven’t?” he asked, his tone suggesting surprise. “How is it possible?”
“So where have you seen me?”
“Here,” said Fakhroddin, as he beat his fist over his heart several times. “Why did you get married?”
“I shouldn’t have?”
“Did you have to?”
Farrokhlaqa was perplexed. She had never promised him anything. She was only thirteen when he had left for America. She didn’t remember having any feelings for him at the time.
“That’s life,” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “People get married.”
“And you, too?” he said, with a grin. “A woman of exceptional beauty, you didn’t have the right to marry. You should have given all the men in the world the opportunity to feast their eye.”
Women Without Men Page 4
