The next morning Maman found Zain sitting by the front door, his finger in his mouth, his pajama shirt damp from tears, pouting and staring straight ahead.
“What’s wrong, azizam?” Maman asked.
“I’m never leaving this house to go to school alone unless you come with me.” He put his head on her shoulder.
This campaign worked for a while as Maman sat at a little wooden table in the back of the classroom, Zain glancing over his shoulder every few minutes to make sure she was there. She was.
Zain clung to Maman’s chador as they walked home from school, and he ate all the fruit in the bowl and all the bread on the sofreh most mornings. Iman kept sucking on candy forced down by his pacifier, and Hadi left our toy cars and planes untouched, but snapped my paintbrushes in half and ripped the wires out of Zain’s radio.
We were all questioning whether Abdollah was really “studying abroad.” But what had happened to him? Was he in prison for life? Or was he...? No one could finish a thought so dangerous. We had all tiptoed around the secret; it felt shameful to even speak of it...
That is until Hadi demanded to know the truth.
Coming up the walk, Mr. Gaffari who was visiting, walked with Baba. Hadi had been waiting for this moment for a long time. He was about to turn fifteen, the age of Abdollah when he had seen him last. He needed to know, now, the truth about Abdollah. It had been a long time now that he hadn’t believed the thin story Baba told – Hadi didn’t think Abdollah was studying in Europe, or in America. He didn’t believe any of the stories he had heard. Instead, as the eldest son, he felt that he had a right to know. Baba did not want to discuss this, but Hadi knew one person who might tell him the truth.
Tugging on his pajama top to unwrinkle it, Hadi hurried out the front door, ripping a leaf as he passed a plant. Squeezing between the men as they walked toward the greenhouse in the middle of the yard, Hadi said hello and didn’t waste another minute.
“I have wanted to ask you a question for a long time, and it’s time. I need to know before you leave to go back to Mashhad! I trust you, Mr. Gaffari. You’re an honest man and I know you’ll tell me the truth.”
Baba’s eyes examined Hadi.
Hadi took in a gulp of air, “Mr. Gaffari, Baba told me a few years ago that Abdollah was studying abroad. Now he says he’s in America. But Dadashi doesn’t call; he doesn’t write; he doesn’t visit. Every time I ask anyone, they give me a different story.”
The two men stopped walking. Hadi took in another breath and continued. “My aunt tells me that he’s never coming back to us. I don’t ask Maman. Baba avoids the answer every time. I need the truth, please. Where is my brother? What happened to Dadashi? Please. I need to know. I’m going crazy. I need an answer and this might be the only time I can ask you.” Hadi looked at Baba now without apology or approval. “I’m sorry, Baba, but I have to know.”
Baba was still, staring at the willow tree, lost in memory.
Hadi wasn’t finished. “You see, I’m now the oldest one here, and I told Zain and Rahimeh that he was studying in America. They know something is wrong, but like me, they don’t know anything for sure. No one tells us. I’ve lied to them, too. I’ve turned into a liar. You see? A big liar, and it’s breaking up our family.”
Mr. Gaffari put his hand on Hadi’s shoulder and began to walk with him. “You know you’re like my son, Hadi Jaan. So was Abdollah.” He rubbed Hadi’s back. “I’m glad you’re telling me this, Hadi Jaan. And I’m sure if you give me some time to talk to your father, I can help you figure this out. Can you do that, son? Can you give me some time to talk with your dad and make sure he talks this over with you?”
Baba’s head was still facing the ground.
Hadi stopped walking. “Can’t you tell me, please?”
“I’ll talk to your father, pesaram. I will. I promise you I’ll do that right now.” Mr. Gaffari put his hand gently on the back of Hadi’s shaved head and let his fingers stroke his neck.
Mr. Gaffari’s hand curled around Baba’s shoulder as they walked away talking, their backs to Hadi as he stood silently. His look was as pleading as his words.
For days Hadi waited, but the conversation never took place. He assumed Baba forgot. However, he was not about to let his troubles be forgotten.
It was just before 8:00 p.m. the next Friday night, and Hadi knew that the anti-aircraft warning shots, which had been lighting up the skies since the Iran-Iraq war had escalated, were about to go off. Hadi had his own plan – and it involved personal “war games.”
The real war, the Iran-Iraq War had begun when Saddam Hussein launched an air and land invasion into Iranian territory over border disputes and fears of a Shi’a insurgency. Saddam Hussein worried that Iraq’s long-suppressed Shi’a majority would be influenced by the Iranian Islamic Revolution. The war had already resulted in close to a million deaths.
While Zain and my cousin, ten-year-old Mahnaz, were searching for Hadi on the roof, where we often went to play “spy” over the embassy walls, the warning crack of a gunshot shattered the air. Hadi, hiding behind an air-conditioning unit, disguised his voice and yelled, “Hands up. Empty your pockets and give me everything you’ve got!”
Cousin Mahnaz screamed, “Zain run!” But Zain froze, staring into space.
“I said, give me everything you got!” Hadi yelled again in his thick fake voice.
“Zain, move!” Mahnaz grabbed Zain’s hand and began to run. Pulling him behind her, they ran toward the ladder, but in panic, they leaped from the roof and fell to the lower story. Zain bruised his body that was now peppered with scratches as he landed halfway on my cousin, who while landing, broke both her legs in multiple places.
Hadi ran out after them, shocked to see the blood. Screams filled the air as he ran for help. After my cousin was taken to the hospital and Zain was bandaged, Baba walked around the yard and the house; he was looking for Hadi who was now missing. “Has he lost his mind? You don’t play pranks like that on the roof. He could have killed them.”
Five hours later, I found Hadi curled in a ball, hiding inside a kitchen cabinet. I kept guard, until it was safe for him to come out. My parents talked to him, but he didn’t need the lecture. He knew how badly things had turned out. He had caused our cousin Mahnaz to suffer severely – two multiple-fractured legs. If she had struck her neck or spine… She could have been killed in the fall.
That night, I found Hadi lying in the hallway, his head on the floor, listening under the door to the room where my cousin was staying during her recovery.
“What’re you doing?” I whispered.
Hadi nodded toward the door. “When she wakes up crying, I run and get Maman and Khaleh to bring pills.” I dropped next to him and we lay face to face, our cheeks against the floor, our noses touching, keeping guard.
Even though I was only eight, I understood that Hadi was truly sorry and wished that he had never played pretend gunman, wished that he, not Mahnaz, was the one who fell from the roof.
For the next several months, Hadi was on his best behavior: he woke up earlier than usual for school, he asked Baba to buzz his hair as soon as it grew, and he didn’t kick his soccer ball in the house anymore.
This good behavior lasted for a while…
The clattering of the teapot’s lid on the samovar allowed the steam to escape and fill the room, suffusing it with the sweet smell of jasmine and cardamom as my grandmother prepared four cups, two for my parents, one for herself, and the fourth cup, out of habit, for my grandfather. They were sitting cross-legged around the sofreh, talking softly, the samovar between them, when an orange Ping-Pong ball smashed above their heads into a window and Hadi dashed in the room after it.
As Maman cried, “Hadi, stop that right now,” and tried to grab him, Hadi snatched the now rolling ball from the rug, and used his racquet to smack it hard against the wall in the very spot where our grandfather would have been sitting if he were alive.
The small ball ricocheted into my
grandmother’s chest and she reactively hit the samovar with the back of her hand, flipping the teapot from the top, pouring steaming hot tea onto her leg. Her screams sent Hadi running out of the room. When he looked back, Maman was busy trying to take off her mother’s scalding black stockings and blowing on her legs to bring some relief.
When Maman found Hadi leaning against the wall in our room, she lowered herself beside him. “I know you’re a sweet and smart boy. I also think that you know the rules about balls and Ping-Pong in the house. So, that leads me to believe that you’ve either forgotten completely or you got so excited about having an orange Ping-Pong ball that you just couldn’t wait to show it to us. Am I right?”
“I didn’t mean it, Maman.” Hadi’s eyes focused on the ground. “Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine, azizam. Please, never again. I have your word?” Maman kissed his cheek.
“I’m sorry, Mamani.”
Maman rose and held her hand out for Hadi. “Let’s take Grandma some fruit.”
Hadi was forgiven, again. Although he was getting expelled from school, had wrecked the family car, terrified his cousin into breaking her legs, refused to eat dinner because it was Abdollah’s favorite, and most recently, burned his grandmother by his reckless behavior, he was forgiven.
Baba was waiting for Maman in the kitchen. “Don’t even explain away his behavior as rambunctious. Don’t you see? We’re losing control of our son. First, his cousin’s broken legs? Now burning your mother? And don’t tell me that time will mature him. He’s fifteen. Time to be responsible. At this age….”
Maman met Baba’s gaze. “At this age Abdollah was married and running a business? We both know what comes from your control, your way. Hadi needs time.” Maman took a step toward the door. “You’ve ruined my life, but you’re not ruining his,” she said quietly as she exited the room.
Standing out of sight, listening, I felt the goose bumps. Why did Maman think Baba ruined her life? Right then I prayed for the fighting to stop, forever.
And then, one day, it did.
Maman stayed at her prayer rug for over two hours, reciting her prayers – double her normal speed. The sunlight was gone, the house was getting colder, and, as we gathered in our communal bedroom, Baba turned on the radiator. He appeared distracted as he kept folding and refolding our bedsheets and making sure the pillows were fluffed. This had always been Maman’s job.
Later as I lay in bed, I heard the murmur of their voices, low and urgent, just outside our room. Maman whispering and waiting for Baba to reply. There were no raised voices, no interrupting. The next day, Maman began to let Baba put sugar in her tea like he used to and Baba didn’t yell at Hadi no matter what he did.
Zain, Hadi, and I exchanged looks: What had happened?
Our hands were sweaty in a tight grip as Iman and I followed Maman and Baba across the busy Tehran airport outer yard. The smell of fuel oil floated all around the large crowds of travelers, and the hot summer sun beamed down on my head, making my chador feel heavier.
I lifted Iman’s chin and kissed the fat under it over and over. After two hours of embraces and goodbyes, not wanting to let go of each other’s hand, and Zain clinging to Maman’s chador by burying his head in the cloth, we had to say goodbye.
Although it was hard to let Iman go, we were excited about going to Khaleh’s after the airport. We would play with our cousins, swim in the streams, and I would eat Kit Kats every day. The reason for the twelve-day trip they told us was that Maman needed to see a “special doctor,” and Iman had to go because he was too young to be without his parents. The reality, however, was that Baba could only get a visa for Iman, who was six, to go with them to England. Because of the Iran-Iraq war, getting visas for a whole family or for adolescent boys that could serve in the war was impossible.
I looked for Hadi among the throng of people. He was by himself, leaning on the empty cart that had held my parents’ luggage. With his shoulders upright, he was looking around, his gaze shifting.
As my parents and Iman disappeared into the crowd of passengers waiting to depart, Hadi dashed into the restricted area, rolling the cart past the guards, and crashing through the crowd. “Maman, wait!”
As the soldiers grabbed him, Hadi shouted, “Pedarsag, leave me alone, you bastards.”
“What did you say?” a guard growled and ran after Hadi, grabbed him, lifted him off the ground, and took him to the other side of the barrier.
“Someone take this kid before I beat him!” a second guard shouted.
As Maman screamed, “Please don’t hurt him!” Baba dropped his bag and began to run toward Hadi, but an airport official blocked him. Baba pushed against the guard’s chest.
“He’s my son. Let me go talk to him.”
“Turn around and go back or don’t fly out today.” The guard placed a hand on his gun.
Our aunt, our Khaleh, pulled Hadi away from the guards and wrapped her arms around him, holding him back. “He’s okay. I’ve got him.” She called to my parents, “Go ahead. He’s going to be all right. Don’t worry.”
As Baba grabbed Iman’s hand and guided Maman away from us, Baba called over his shoulder. “We will be back in twelve days. I promise.” Elbowing us, the crowd kicked up dust that blew into my eyes. When I opened them, my parents and brother were gone. When I couldn’t see Iman’s short body anymore, I felt my stomach clench. How would I survive without my best friend?
LITTLE RED SUITCASE
That night, Khaleh emptied the pot of celery stew onto a decorative bowl next to the jasmine rice and saffron-colored crispy burnt bottom of it: the glistening tahdeeg. “Abdollah loved celery stew. God rest his soul.” She coughed to hide her trembling voice.
Zain, who had been busy eating platefuls of rice, froze, grains falling from the corner of his mouth as he stared at her, his spoon held halfway to his mouth. God rest his soul.
Hadi stared at my aunt and squinted his eyebrows as if he was communicating a secret message with her. Then he ducked his head and continued to eat without looking up.
Khaleh stared at Hadi, dropping the pot on the counter. “You’re joking? Are you saying they don’t know?”
I felt my belly twist. Khaleh looked straight at me. “Rahimeh!” She took a breath. “You know he’s dead, right?”
Now I was floating, suspended in the corner of the room, the only thing at the table was my shell, my body. Zain took another bite of rice.
“I don’t know what you are saying Khaleh,” I said, locking my eyes onto my plate. “He’s not dead.” Even while I said this, I didn’t know if it was a question or a statement, or if I was present at the table or still floating in air.
Hadi stabbed the lamb with his fork. “No, he’s not. He is studying in America like I told them.” He shoved his plate and fled, slamming the front door so hard it shook the windows.
I felt bile rise and fill my mouth. I pushed back the chair and ran to the bathroom. I would never speak to Khaleh again.
When Hadi returned to the house, he found me in my cousin’s room, brushing her doll’s hair. “Do you wish you could have a doll, too?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “I’ll get you one someday soon,” he said. He brought his hand from behind his back. “For now, you can have these.”
“Kit Kats. So many Kit Kats!” I screamed in joy. I had never been allowed to have more than one per week. I opened one of the candy bars and offered Hadi two sticks.
“No, no. It’s all yours, little sis.”
I ate the first stick slowly, licking my fingers.
“Don’t worry about what Khaleh said. She’s wrong.” He gave me a quick wink and as the door closed behind him, I tugged at the brush. Khaleh doesn’t lie, does she? I gave another sharp pull. Melted chocolate was tangled in the doll’s hair.
That night Zain came to sleep next to me in my room with my cousin. Even though I felt safer, my body spoke for me around midnight, and I began to wet the bed again.
As the twelv
e days stretched into three months, and despite the fact that our parents still had not returned, we were with our favorite aunt Khaleh, who had Maman’s soft voice and kind ways. We continued to live in our parallel universes with days filled with cousins, sunshine, fresh fruit, and Kit Kats.
But soon, summer waned and the nights grew cool; fall was coming, and it was time for school again. We had to leave Khaleh’s home and attend school in Tehran, and because our schools were an hour apart, this meant splitting us up. Khaleh broke the news as her voice cracked a few times. “It will be a little longer before your parents are back. Rahimeh, you’ll be close to Butterfly Street, and the boys will be together an hour south. But we will come and visit you every Friday and take you to your house where we will all stay together for a day. Soon, your Maman will be home to make you breakfast again and Baba will take you to school.”
Khaleh sounded confident. And she would never lie to us, right? Khaleh seemed to be all we had to tie us to Maman and Baba. She was Maman’s older sister; she resembled Maman but was overall shorter and rounder. Her eyes were full, less slanted. Khaleh’s coloring was lighter, almost pale white, while Maman’s skin was a bit more olive, smooth and golden. Even with these differences, at night, when she whispered to us, she sounded enough like Maman to reassure us. And she was right about Baba coming back.
Every few weeks, Baba would fly home and visit for a few days. Khaleh and our cousins would join us at the estate on Parvaneh Street on our days off – Fridays. Saturday through Thursday, the school week meant separation from my brothers.
At the family friend’s house where I had to stay during the week, I slept on a hand-stuffed foldable mattress on the floor, my belongings in a plastic bag under the beds upon which the two teenage girls, Mansoureh, sixteen, and Monir, fourteen, slept.
The Rose Hotel Page 11
