by Dina Nayeri
Last night, as he had drifted into a rare islet of unconsciousness, Bahman dreamed of the trip to see his children in 1993. Everything he had done had shamed his daughter, and her face was forever turned away. She seemed to have forgotten all their schemes, the two of them sneaking ice cream with spatulas aloft, her baby chicken, the way she shrieked and laughed her way through childhood.
He often wondered if Niloo had loved Nader like a father. What tragedy the life of that man; how early a story, a good story, can end. In all these years, Bahman hadn’t found courage to ask if Pari had loved her companion in exile, if his death had shaken her heart from its proper place. He did ask Nader once what he felt for Pari, but Nader was a practical sort, not prone to fits of romance as the Hamidis were.
The courtroom was emptier than yesterday. His lawyer had secured an early time for him, before the throng. The judge said, “The accusation is very serious.”
The lawyer pleaded with the judge to make things clear, as Bahman was needed in the community. “We must illuminate the doctor’s fate.”
Bahman had assumed that once the judge received his gift and his apology, all would be forgiven. He was about to opine on this, when a sharp sting in his forearm told him that his lawyer wanted him to choke on it, as they say. How did the boy acquire a chogan stick and balls in one night? Regardless, good for him. For the first time, Bahman thought to call him by his name, instead of “the boy.” He whispered, “Yes, yes, I know, Agha Kamali. No need to get physical.”
“This Green Movement business is outside the purview of this court,” the judge was blathering on, “and I’ll tell you, I thought it was only misguided young people indulging in nonsense. But you’re fifty-five, my friend. And who knows, maybe a grandfather, from how much you know of your own adult children.”
Even couched in politeness, it was an obvious tactic. The judge was goading him, making the apology sting. Well, Bahman was too old and tired to care about the bile that spewed from an old mullah’s mouth. He would swallow his tongue and go home to a hot meal and a bath and a long smoke from his manghal.
“What we will do,” said the cleric, touching the edge of his turban, “is pray and reflect on this. First the divorce and then the Green nonsense.” The door of the judge’s office was closed now, but the window let in a cool morning breeze. Someone tapped gently on the door. At first no one answered it, because the judge was speaking. “I do believe that this woman, your wife, has financial motives, as do all women, but this one seems exceptionally cunning. I feel sorry for you. But at the same time, we must be reasonable and unbiased.” The door clicked open, a tentative hand on the other side unable to decide. The person listened, Bahman could sense a shifting weight behind the door, and after a moment he recognized the scent—fried onions and cleaning vinegar and crushed hyacinth.
“Please quickly. In, in,” said the judge to the creeping door. Fatimeh, his second wife, popped her head in, smiling, eyes downcast, as she greeted them. She was wrapped in a dark headscarf, its polyester gloss obscuring the dull wheat-stalk print stamped all over the fabric. After she had announced herself, Shirin bounded in, grabbing Bahman by the waist so that there was no question about the identity of these two. “Aaah,” said the judge. “The second Khanom Hamidi?”
She said, “Yes sir,” like an obedient kitchen maid. She always spoke this way, deferential, though she saw everything, a dozen narratives and motivations and possibilities at once plain to her.
Bahman squeezed Shirin’s chin. She had grown since he last saw her.
“Agha Kamali asked us here,” said Fatimeh, nodding to Bahman’s lawyer, her voice almost a whisper, though she was wise enough to include Shirin in her introduction. Bahman had forgotten how tiny Fatimeh was. Smaller than Sanaz, who was waif-thin and soft from avoiding food and sports, both of which might smudge her garish lipstick. Sanaz was from a flashy middle-class family, the kind who displayed their every drop of gold. His first wife, Pari, had been athletic and shapely, a university girl who could swing a tennis racket. But Fatimeh was a poor village woman, overfed but undernourished. Her teeth needed much work, but she had never let him repair them, her fear of physical pain eclipsing her reverence for truer sufferings, the ones in the heart and mind. This cost her much of Bahman’s respect.
Bahman held Shirin’s cold, wet hand. The child was plump, and her girlish, imploring behavior seemed much younger than her eight years. How he had missed chubby, delicious Shirin, though she shared none of his blood. It had been a year since he’d seen her, but Shirin was indeed Bahman’s own daughter, sweet as her name, a child who loved music and dancing and food. They were each other’s second choice, a beggar’s version of Niloo and the toothy wandering poet, but they were a team, bonded by their heartbreak, their lack of physical graces, and their desperation for sugar. Also their need for an instant cure for every ache and desire.
Shirin drank up life the way Niloo had stopped doing.
“As I was saying,” said the judge, smiling at Shirin, then clearing his throat hard. “For however long it takes to sort through the matter, the divorce and then this . . . accusation, Agha Bahman, you will remain in your home.” Bahman blinked twice at Agha Bahman, forcing his body to keep the protests in; only yesterday, he had been Dr. Hamidi, his proper, hard-earned name. It was a lucky thing Sanaz wasn’t here to enjoy this, as she was at home protecting her territory and feigning distress. Her brother-in-law and her lawyer, a squirrelly man barely taller than Fatimeh, would carry the verdict to her. The judge continued on, “We will place you under house arrest for a time. Your wife will remain in residence there also, for your comfort, to manage life as usual. No visitors except close family, since your friendships are much in question now. I’m thinking of your protection, because if the wrong sort are seen there . . .”
Bahman turned to Kamali, his lawyer, who was nodding, as if to say, Yes, you don’t have to point out the absurdity. Bahman spoke anyway. “Your Honor,” he said, “that woman’s entire goal is to drive me to suicide. Surely there’s an alternative—”
“Agha, I don’t see one. Do you see one?” said the cleric.
Though Bahman saw several, it was obvious that the only acceptable answer was no. He said instead, “House arrest is such an expensive proposition.”
“Yes, thank you for thinking of it,” said the cleric. “We will have two cars in front, one in back,” said the judge, “and we will settle the salary of the men with you later on.” Then he dismissed everyone from his office, gathered his robes around his thighs, and headed to the samovar and the cream puffs.
But before he had taken two steps from his desk, Fatimeh’s tiny voice pinged like a coin falling to the floor. “Your Honor, what about Bahman’s illness?”
Was she crazy? A hammer in Bahman’s chest pounded its way upward. Kamali too seemed unsure, though he shot a glance at the cream puffs as if to say, We’ve paid the man. It makes sense to mention it . . . you’re not the only addict in Iran.
“Agha,” Fatimeh went on, “Allah knows if there’s anyone to take care of him in that house. I’ve studied nursing. His daughter near him would be a cure in itself.”
In that moment, chubby Shirin took a loud breath and said, in her honey-glazed voice, “Are we going to live with Babajoon again?” The judge’s cheek muscles seemed to collapse; Bahman imagined that this man too had a child-shaped wound.
And yet, the entire business was a mess—what a notion. He glared at his lawyer. Why had he invited her? Did Fatimeh need a place to stay? Had she used her entire marriage gift? She was a hard worker. Why hadn’t she come to him in private?
“This illness,” said the judge, standing between his desk and the tea table. “This is the sort of illness that becomes worse . . . with time . . . in the house?”
No one spoke. Everyone in this room knows, he thought, and yet no one can say the words. If they did, the game would end, and the outcome wou
ld have to be different. One must always protect the lie.
“Yes,” said Bahman, “that sort of disease.” He chafed to remind the judge of the basket of cash he now enjoyed, or better yet, the cream puffs. What kind of person takes a man’s pastries and then makes him display all his dirty business?
“Agha Bahman,” said the judge, shaking his head, again robbing him of his title, “would you like your former wife to be your caretaker during this time?”
Bahman didn’t know how or why, but his lips uttered, “Yes,” before he had completed a thought. Without Fatimeh, he realized, he wouldn’t survive the withdrawal—or Sanaz’s rule. Maybe she could even fill his manghal once in a while.
“Then we will need to grant a temporary marriage so she can live with you in the house,” said the judge. “Is that a solution you would both accept?”
What diseased minds, these clerics, thought Bahman. This one clearly wanted to keep him bent over the ottoman for a few more minutes. He had come to court to escape one marriage and now he was shackled by both arms. Two wives; who could fathom such a nightmare?
“I’ll draw up the agreements,” said Kamali, rushing to accept. Sensible, because who knew if the judge would get a sudden itch and throw on a few more punishments? “The marriage can be set to dissolve in three months. We can renew if Your Honor needs more time to decide the two questions at hand, though we trust your speedy wisdom.” He turned to Bahman. “No divorces or big payments at the end of it. Temporary marriage is very easy, Doctor, don’t worry.”
“Well, that’s settled,” said the judge, ambling to the tea table and stuffing the first pastry into his mouth. “Bring me whatever you draw up this afternoon.” Then he waved to Shirin. “Goodbye, little khanom. Try not to end up in this place again.”
That night Bahman slept at home, in a child’s bedroom, the only room that didn’t lock from the inside. Shirin had once lived in the room and it still smelled like her. Strangely, he didn’t like this. Why should that be? he wondered. What callous instinct to love only the smell of your own natural child. He tried to sleep, but Sanaz had been ranting all night long, pitching the household on her head, as they say. Since finding out about Fatimeh’s temporary marriage, she hadn’t stopped crashing around the house like a shot mule. And she was brazen enough to call up all kinds of half-stewed ideas about feminism and marital justice (important topics he would’ve welcomed if her interest were genuine) that had seeped into her brain with zero critical filters or adjustments, via the satellite dish Bahman had bought for her. He tried to be kind. Her generation, born after 1979, had a jumbled, trivial access to the West, just enough to make themselves ridiculous. She didn’t have what Niloo had.
The next morning, he kept himself shut up for as long as his body would allow, and when it became clear that no one would spare him the humiliation of appearing at a meal with his bizarre new family, he decided to go downstairs. With stiff muscles he pulled himself out of bed and tried to swallow, but his throat was sore. Everything seemed to be watering—his nose, his eyes. The dark days were coming. He had lived through them twice before. Right then Bahman promised that he would not fail this time. Maybe this was an opportunity, a chance to try to detox without making these poor women suffer the ravings of an ailing addict, as he had done in his youth. Silently he apologized to Pari, wherever she might be.
His mobile had been taken away, but the authorities had not bothered with the spotty Internet and television that he had installed in the house. Seeing this, Fatimeh had brought an old computer to his room and even set it up for him. God bless that woman, she was as dependable as his father’s guard dog. Before going downstairs, he called his mother in Ardestoon from his computer, assuring her of his safety and asking for her to prepare a package for Niloo. Maybe spices. Yes, she had a delicious hand, didn’t she? She would prefer spices to fabric or ghilims or tea.
In the sitting room, a deathly silence had filled the space between Fatimeh and Sanaz, who sat at opposite corners of the sofreh, each atop pillows they had brought to his house as young brides. Shirin sat on a cushion beside her mother, who kept her gaze down and made morsels of white cheese and lavash bread for the girl, allowing her to place the slices of cucumber. Fatimeh sweetened Shirin’s tea just enough to satisfy her, one spoon only, despite her objections. Now and then Sanaz cleared her throat or muttered things like “troublesome people” while fixing her eyes on the pair. Bahman wished she could be more welcoming; Fatimeh and Shirin had been his family once. In his pajamas, he felt exposed. Then, as if to make it worse, one of the pasdars stepped in. Sanaz jumped up, holding a cup she had just finished pouring. Apparently, she had decided to befriend the guards. “Here’s one for you, agha,” she said. The man removed his shoes and tossed them on the pile in the foyer. He thanked her and took a sip. Sanaz poured two more glasses. “I can take them out. Don’t trouble yourself. Sit. Sit.” The man sat. Now Bahman’s sacred space, his dinner sofreh, was occupied by two unwanted wives, a child he hadn’t fathered, and a man whom he was paying to keep him captive. “Excellent,” he bellowed as he plopped himself in his usual spot by the wall facing the front door. “A full sofreh.”
The guard shifted on his haunches. “How are you feeling, Agha Doctor?” It seemed everyone knew now of Bahman’s condition. Funny that they should judge, when so many of the men and women in this country were in the same position.
Bahman glared at him. “Have some cheese, son,” he said. “Young people need protein and calcium.” He had meant to be menacing, but as soon as he opened his mouth his body released a long yawn. Then another. It was starting; he knew these symptoms well, wasn’t afraid of them, but now he had lost all authority in the room.
They sat for a while, the women pulling their hijabs tighter. Shirin questioned the young guard, delighting Bahman. She asked him where he had grown up, how he decided to be a guard of people’s houses, if he played soccer, and if he wanted to play with her outside. The boy fidgeted and gulped his tea. At eight, Shirin already wore the gray school scarf. He couldn’t play games with her in public as one would play with a child. “No,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “Thank you.”
“She’s a child,” said Bahman, not bothering to hide his disgust. “You have my permission if you want to play soccer. Shirin, take that scarf off now. We’re inside the house, and you’re six, for Allah’s sake.” The Allah he threw in for effect.
Shirin was about to object and demand credit for all her eight years, but Fatimeh, seeing that this lie would spare her child all kinds of discomforts around the house, put an arm around her daughter’s body and tickled her until she cried and forgot about it. The guard looked distressed by this spectacle. He got up, refilled his cup from the samovar, and disappeared outside. Sanaz, who had been watching aghast, said, “What is wrong with you people? This is serious business.”
“Oh, now you want to be serious,” said Fatimeh, the bird-soft voice that had often sounded shrill in their days together now singsong and droll. “What are these silly games? Making crazy charges against your husband and putting us all in danger? This isn’t a game, Sanaz khanom. There are bad things happening in this country. Who taught you to treat your family this way?”
“With respect,” said Sanaz, her arm cradling her stomach, “you’re not my family.” Sanaz had this strange habit; her arm was always wrapped around her stomach, as if she thought her organs would spill out.
Two bites into breakfast and already the nausea was setting in; usually that came later for him. Bahman shot his wife a glance. She looked past him, busying herself with an obscene blonde strand. “I’m going back to bed,” he said. He hadn’t smoked for over fifty hours.
“I’ll start dinner,” said Fatimeh, watching intently as he pulled himself off his haunches and started toward the stairs. “Something nourishing to ease the transition.” Ease the transition? Did she mean that she would lace it? Oh please, cruel gods, he prayed, let th
e woman have a spice jar like the Ardestooni grandmothers.
“I’m cooking dinner. This is my house,” said Sanaz. In three years together, the woman had never made so much as a yogurt for Bahman. They had standing orders at Hotel Koorosh and at Shole and the local kabobi. Or they ate frozen dishes that his mother and other Ardestooni women provided on weekend trips.
“Sanaz!” he snapped. But before he could chastise her further, the three bites of bread and the tea came rushing up his body. He doubled over and vomited on the stairs, slipping and catching himself on the railing, then collapsing to his knees.
The two women rushed to him, neither bothering to speak. Fatimeh, who despite her smallness was much stronger, put his arm around her neck and helped him upstairs, crooning, “It’s fine. It will be easy; very easy.” For three years he had taken great care to seem strong in front of Sanaz, and now she was stunned into silence. She cleaned up the mess ineptly but quietly. From the top of the staircase, he smelled the jasmine cleansing oil that she was flinging liberally all over the floor.
All afternoon he listened to the BBC and watched foreign news stations on the bedroom television. Fatimeh adjusted the box to face him when he lay on his side, the only position that didn’t invite more nausea. He was grateful now for Sanaz’s satellite dish, since the Green Movement news was so different on Iranian television than everywhere else. Every few hours, he heard Sanaz take the guards their meal, a chore that seemed to please her, though it was the family’s obligation.
Given all his recent troubles, Bahman had fallen behind on the election unrest. There had been protests; he knew this already—friends and family were calling from everywhere to see if he was safe. Every night people gathered on roofs and chanted Allah-o-akbar. Every day they flooded the streets, setting bonfires and overturning vehicles, bins, any standing thing, screaming, “Where is my vote?” In universities and other bustling places, green wristbands adorned every young, Westernized wrist—those educated, secular young people who wanted freedom from Islamic rule. Every news source was watching. Al Jazeera called it “the biggest unrest since the 1979 revolution.”
