The comment made her laugh. She was briefly concerned that he might be offended by her laughter. But he wasn’t.
“Always wear blue,” he said as he sidled up to her. “It becomes you so well.”
Suddenly out of nowhere Golchehreh interjected himself between them. He did not even reach Fakhroddin’s shoulder. He had his usual annoying grin and suspicious look, the source of constant distress for her in the four years of their marriage.
“I was telling your lady about the movie Gone with the Wind,” said Fakhroddin. “It had just opened when I saw it before I left. You don’t know the trouble I had to get a ticket. I had to get in line at five in the morning. I was telling her how very much she looks like Vivien Leigh, the star of the movie.”
All Golchehreh could come up with was a hollow, “Oh, really,” accompanied by his customary spiteful grin. He had sense enough to know that he compared unfavorably to Fakhroddin.
“Make sure you see it when it’s playing here,” advised Fakhroddin. “It is a great masterpiece of the movie industry, and the costliest so far.”
They returned home that night in her uncle’s car. Intimidated by the uncle’s gravitas, Golchehreh remained silent during the trip. At the end of the alley, they got out and politely said goodbye to the old man and walked side-by-side toward the house. Farrokhlaqa thought that her husband would go to bed directly, leaving her alone to revel in the events of the evening. But that was not to be. From the moment they were dropped off, he kept up a litany of sarcastic comments about “that bloke,” his lousy taste in movies, his stupid photographs, and that ridiculous American-Indian feathered warbonnet he had brought with him from America that all the guests, including Farrokhlaqa, wanted to have their picture taken in. She was only able to say, “Oh, shut up,” in a voice muffled by a lump in her throat.
The only effect of this utterance was for Golchehreh to shift the focus of his acrimony to her, beginning with the blue dress that according to him looked so ugly and tasteless that it made everybody sick. At two in the morning, he brought a watermelon from the cellar and started eating it, insisting that she should have some as well. She put up with the nuisance, hoping to have a little time before sleep to savor the encounter with Fakhroddin.
Then, after the watermelon, Golchehreh turned on the radio, tuning in broadcasts in Persian from Berlin, London, or Moscow so he could catch up with the affairs of the world. Finally, around three in the morning he climbed into bed demanding that she fulfill what he referred to as her marital obligations. She submitted mechanically to his unwanted attention. By now it was four in the morning. He declared his intention to take a shower in preparation for performing the morning prayers, something he did only occasionally.
From that night on, Farrokhlaqa felt a deep-seated, permanent loathing for her husband.
HAVING NOW FINISHED SHAVING, Golchehreh began to slowly gather his things to take them to the bathroom. He did not know why he was so sluggish that day, as if he was trying to delay something untoward from happening, but he wasn’t sure what.
The doorbell rang. Mosayeb the manservant rushed to answer it. Impatiently, Farrokhlaqa waited to see who was calling. Her husband had moved onto the balcony and stood a short distance behind her chair. They exchanged glances reflecting their mutual distaste for each other.
“You’ll be fifty-one next month,” said Golchehreh casually, as if expressing a random thought. “You’ll be menopausal, Fakhur Dear.”
She stared at him for a long moment, knowing that he was intent on tormenting her.
“Listen to me, Sadri,” she said venomously, “if you think you can joke around with me, think again.”
“I’m not joking,” he protested mockingly, “menopause is no joke.”
Mosayeb returned from the door with the newspaper and put it on the floor at her feet. Before he left he said something about going to the butcher shop in Karadj to get meat for Friday night’s party.
“I wish we had an orchard in Karadj,” she said as she picked up the newspaper and glanced at the front page.
“Do you think you will have the energy in menopause to mess around with an orchard?” her husband asked with a chuckle.
“Do you think you want to have a baby at your age?” she retorted contemptuously. “Isn’t that why you bring up the issue of menopause?”
“Perhaps I do want to have a baby at my age,” he replied. “Not that it is possible with Your Ladyship anymore.”
“Very well, then,” she fumed, “you can get yourself a servant girl. You’ve always had that lowly disposition.”
She then returned to the paper, ignoring him. Golchehreh reached out and grabbed the paper, which she relinquished without resistance, returning her gaze to the garden below. Mosayeb, now ready to go for his shopping chores, shouted from garden, “Do you want anything else?”
“If you find fresh almonds, get some,” she answered. Mosayeb left without a word.
Golchehreh, perched on the narrow ledge of a window, was looking through the paper. Why doesn’t he go for his walk, Farrokhlaqa wondered. She desperately wanted to resume her reminiscing. She remembered the day they had gone to pay a courtesy visit to Fakhroddin’s American wife, who had just joined her husband six months after his return, with their two sons, Teddy and Jimmy. How strange those names sounded to her at the time. She remembered how nervous she had been all day. She had curled her hair and carefully selected a white dress with blue flowers. Her husband, with his habitual derisive grin, watched her as she put on her makeup and fixed her hair. She even spent time making sure that the seams of her nylons were perfectly straight. She was satisfied with what she saw when she gave herself a last look in the hall mirror.
She had never seen an American woman, but she had made a point of going to see Gone with the Wind. Compared to Vivien Leigh, she did not find herself lacking, although she didn’t think she resembled her. But there must be some likeness, she had decided, if Fakhroddin says so.
The Azods were staying with relatives while their residence, on the northern side of the family estate, was being made ready for them. The American woman was standing at the wide entrance to the reception hall shaking hands with arriving guests. She did not know Persian and did not speak but acknowledged each visitor with a smile. She was tall and had blond hair. Her hands were marked with veins and freckles. Her eyes were light blue, so light they were almost colorless with only the slightest hint of blue. Well, Fakhroddin was partial to blue. Farrokhlaqa shook hands with the woman and passed along the wall where there was a mirror. She stared at her own dark eyes and the blue floral pattern of her dress in the mirror. She then caught a fleeting glimpse of Fakhroddin’s reflection as he passed behind her.
Why did you get married? She mentally addressed the question to his reflection, in the same spirit that she herself had been asked the question not long ago. In her imagination Farrokhlaqa saw him as pale, and mouthing the words “Always wear white with blue flowers. It becomes you so well.” He hastened to join his wife at the reception line. But they kept running into each other, as if a force brought them together throughout the course of the evening.
Years later, on the terrace of the Prince’s villa, Farrokhlaqa had told Adeleh Raf’at about the affair. Adeleh was a good woman. She had made an effort to understand the situation and had sympathized with Farrokhlaqa for giving in to love, criticizing Golchehreh for his odious conduct. There was a rumor going around among their acquaintances about a liaison between Adeleh and the Prince. Farrokhlaqa had structured her own narrative in such a way as to make it easier for Adeleh to open up and talk about her affair with the Prince. Her strategy worked. Adeleh tearfully confided in her and the bond between them grew strong.
“It went on for eight years,” Farrokhlaqa told her about her own affair, “eight strange years.”
“So you were a lover throughout the war years,” Adeleh observed. “Good for you, girl.”
Now, on the balcony, Farrokhlaqa clasped her hands beh
ind her head and stretched as she yawned. “Eight years of war,” she said loudly.
Golchehreh felt increasingly irritable without knowing why. He suddenly asked, “In menopause, do women undergo an emotional shift as well?”
“I don’t know.”
“It must be so,” he speculated. “That is why polygamy is allowed for a man so he won’t have to put up with a menopausal woman in his bed for the rest of his life.”
“Perhaps,” said Farrokhlaqa.
Golchehreh was reminded of that Polish émigré woman he had met in a tavern during the war. The woman knew little Persian and Golchehreh had taken to calling her Farrokhlaqa. She had a hard time pronouncing it and thought it sounded funny.
“Faroklaka return Europa,” she had mumbled, laughing heartily, on the day that the news of the end of the war had reached Tehran. She was gone the following week.
“Will you be very upset if I marry another woman?” Golchehreh asked musingly. There was no reaction from Farrokhlaqa, who was gazing at the garden, deep in thought. She was thinking of the last time she had looked into Fakhroddin’s face.
They were in his house, the door locked and curtains drawn. In the darkness of the room his eyes gleamed strangely.
“I need to go,” he had said. “I need to go and take care of my children.”
Farrokhlaqa was weeping soundlessly. “But I will return,” he said resolutely. “I promise I will.”
When the war ended, the American wife returned with Teddy and Jimmy. She acted erratically and seemed emotionally perturbed. At a party one night she had stood up and yelled, “You are all crazy.” It could have been the alcohol, or that the stress had been too much for her. Ten days later she took her children and left for America.
For some reason, Farrokhlaqa knew deep down in her heart that Fakhroddin would never come back to her. Five months later came the news that he had died in a car crash. She felt she was now alone in the world with only Golchehreh for company. Of course there were the children, but they had their own lives. They had grown so fast it was as if they had never been born.
Golchehreh had finished with the paper. He folded it and held it ready in anticipation of his wife wanting it back. This would open a line of conversation for him to talk about menopause, further annoying his wife. He had seen the word and learned about it in a reference book only three days earlier. He could foresee that a discussion of it would irritate her.
Farrokhlaqa persisted in her awkward silence. Her husband grew impatient and asked, “Don’t you want the paper?” She reached out wordlessly and took it out of his hand. She then lit a cigarette.
“You mustn’t smoke,” her husband warned. “At your age and with menopause coming you’ll seriously hurt yourself.”
“Why don’t you go for a walk?” she said, more as a suggestion than a question. “You go every day.”
“Perhaps I don’t feel like it today,” he answered sharply.
She regretted asking the question. She was certain he would never leave the house if he suspected that his absence was a relief to her in any way.
“That’s fine,” she said, sounding nonchalant. “It is better if you stay home today.”
“On second thought,” he said, rising to his feet, “I think I’ll go for stroll after all.”
He felt hesitant to leave, as if something was likely to happen in his absence. He stood in front of her, thinking for a moment that it was no longer necessary to wear that sarcastic grin when looking at her. He realized that the grin was his defensive barrier against her overwhelming desirability. Suddenly he did not feel the need for this barrier. He had an urge to look at her the way he looked at the Polish woman in the bar, the one he gave the name Farrokhlaqa. It was true his wife was now on the verge of menopause. She did not dream anymore, and went to bed early. She even snored sometimes. Perhaps he could now look at her in a natural, spontaneous way.
He followed her as she left the room, intercepting her at the landing. He interposed himself between her and the staircase with his back to the stairs.
“Farrokhlaqa darling,” he said.
There was a tremor of surprise in the woman. He had never addressed her in those terms. He always called her by a nickname. And that loathsome grin was not there. Instead there was in the tone of his voice a trace of what sounded like genuine affection. She shuddered with fear. She was certain there was an evil intention behind all this. “What if he wants to kill me?” she thought to herself. Instinctively, she sank her fist in his midriff as hard as she could. Under the blow his belly felt soft and resistless. It threw him off-balance. He tried uselessly to keep his foothold on the stairs but he could not. He took a headlong fall down the staircase. Farroklaqa steadied herself by leaning on a chair nearby. She averted her eyes from the bottom of the staircase where the man was sprawled on the floor, motionless.
Three months later, shriveled and dressed in black, Farrokhlaqa was sitting on a chair. Mosayeb was delivering a message from Mr. Ostovary, the real-estate agent. In case the lady thought of selling the house, she should let him know. At one point she had casually told Mosayeb that she might want to sell the house if Ostovary could find her a suitable garden villa in Karadj. Ostovary had found one near the river.
Mrs. Farrokhlaqa Sadroddin Golchehreh bought the villa, sold the house, and moved to Karadj.
Zarrinkolah
ZARRINKOLAH WAS TWENTY-SIX and a prostitute. She lived at Golden Akram’s brothel in the city’s notorious red-light district. Akram, the madam, had seven gold teeth. That was why some people called her “Akram the Seven.”
Zarrinkolah had lived there since puberty. In the early years she had three or four customers a day, but now at twenty-six, she serviced twenty, twenty-five, even thirty customers a day. Several times she had complained to Akram about the pressure of work, but all she got was a tongue lashing, and once even a beating. She had learned her lesson.
Zarrinkolah was a jolly person by nature. She had always been cheerful—from the time when she received three or four guests a day until now when she handled twenty or thirty. She even expressed her complaints as jokes. The women liked her tremendously. During lunch breaks she would crack jokes or carry out comedy routines, and the women responded with peals of laughter.
On some occasions she toyed with the idea of leaving the house, but the women had pleaded with her to stay. Without her, they said, the house would be cheerless. It was possible that some of them had egged Akram on to beat her. In reality, she was never serious about leaving; she had no place else to go but to another establishment like this one. At nineteen she had had a real chance of leaving when she had a suitor. He was an ambitious bricklayer who dreamed of becoming a contractor. Unfortunately, before he could carry through with his proposal, he had his skull split by a shovel in a fight. By now Zarrinkolah was resigned to her fate, although she complained from time to time.
But for the past six months Zarrinkolah had been experiencing a serious problem with the way her mind worked. It all started one Saturday morning. She got up, drank a glass of water, and was getting ready for breakfast. “Zarry,” she heard Akram shout from downstairs. “You have a customer and he is in a hurry.”
Usually, there were no customers in the morning, except those who had stayed overnight and fancied extra treatment before they left. So what? Zarrinkolah had thought to herself that morning, to hell with customers so early in the morning.
Before she could give voice to her thoughts, she heard Akram’s voice again, louder and sharper this time, “I’m talking to you, Zarry. The customer is on his way.”
Zarrinkolah gave up on breakfast. Angrily she went back to her room, threw herself on the bed and parted her thighs.
The customer came into the room. It was a man with no head. She was so frightened she couldn’t scream. She submitted to him frozen with fear. He finished his business and left. That day all her customers were headless. She kept it to herself afraid that she might be accused of being possessed by ev
il spirits. She had heard of another woman afflicted with evil possession who would let out blood-curdling screams around eight o’clock at night scaring away customers at the peak of business hours. The woman had been turned out of the house and had disappeared without a trace. Zarrinkolah had assumed that the time the spirits visited was eight at night. She thought of singing at that hour to ward them off. For the past six months she had been breaking into song at eight o’clock. Unfortunately she had a poor voice and could not carry a tune. “You slut,” a traveling musician, frustrated by her singing off key, had barked at her. “You have no voice and you’ve given me a headache.” After that Zarrinkolah had taken to going down to the basement washroom to practice out of earshot. Akram the Seven was watching her bizarre routine, but didn’t mind it as long as she served her daily quota of customers and did so cheerfully.
After a while, a fifteen-year-old girl was recruited to join the house. She was painfully shy. One day Zarrinkolah beckoned her upstairs to her room.
“Listen to me, kid,” she addressed her, “I have to tell you something. I have to tell someone, or I’ll go mad. It is a secret that’s eating me up.”
“Of course one has to confide in someone,” said the girl, sounding precocious. “My grandma told me that when His Holiness Ali3 couldn’t find anyone to trust with his thoughts, he would go into the desert, lean into an abandoned well, and tell his secrets.”
“That’s right,” said Zarrinkolah, “now I’m telling you that I see all people without heads, I mean men, not women.
“Do you really?” said the girl sympathetically, without any trace of skepticism.
“Yes!”
“Perhaps they really don’t have any heads.”
“But other women would notice something like that, too.”
“That is true,” the girl said contemplatively. “It is possible they also see the men headless but like you are afraid to talk about it.”
Women Without Men Page 5
