Refuge--A Novel

by Dina Nayeri

  Once in a while, we heard snippets of the conversation between Baba and Gui. “We must visit Rumi’s grave,” Baba suggested again.

  “I think that’s a few hours away,” said Gui.

  “Then next time,” Baba murmured. Then he pulled a book of poetry, a volume of Hafez, out of his suitcase and told Gui about an old Iranian drinking game. “Look here, my son, you take the Hafez in hand . . . you take shot. You ask a question about future. You open book to any page. Your answer is on that page. You see?”

  Baba insisted that Kian join the game. But Kian only pretended to drink, tossing his shots into a plant while Gui and Baba got drunk together, threw their arms around each other, and predicted the future. It must have been easy for them given the one vital trait they shared: neither had ever had a Jesus House night. They had held on to the untroubled ways of the native child, beloved by many, feet planted. Not the life Kian and I had lived. The game didn’t last too late since it required Baba to translate from old Farsi to modern Farsi, then convey the meaning in English—not easy past a certain point of drunkenness. He would balance the book in one hand, tap a passage, and say, “Is about death . . . no worry. Is mean change.” Then, in the next round, he would gather his fingers into a bud and touch his lips as if drawing out a thought. “Is about new love. . . . Is also mean change.”

  Once when Baba was engrossed in a passage, stroking his mustache, trying to focus, Gui turned to me with a shy grin. He shuffled on long legs and bent to look over Baba’s shoulder, and I felt grateful for this man who loved my broken family.

  I decided that I had been foolish to be ashamed of Baba, to let my need for security conquer every other instinct. I had spent years nursing the wrong fears. Baba’s Iranianness, his village ways, weren’t the problem. Just the opposite: if Baba were to uproot, every special thing about him—the Ardestoon he carried in his easy gait and his yellow fingers and his lion cane—all of that would be lost. Home would be lost. Living in America or Europe would end him, his lofty, infectious personality, his wonderful sense of himself. Deep down, Baba must have known this.

  After a few more drinks, eyes heavy, Baba leaned across Gui and took my hand. “How old are you now, azizam?” I told him that I was twenty-nine. He said, his tone nostalgic, “I was around thirty when you left.” Thirty-three, I corrected him. He said to Gui, “Is not easy, to build village.” I have no idea what he meant. Maybe he was lamenting our scattered family. Or he might have meant that Gui and I should be careful as we make our plans together. More likely, he was thinking of his own troubles. I had heard rumors that his third marriage was difficult. Far from bringing him the health and youth and vitality that he’d hoped for, it had wrung him out so that he looked sixty-five, his body bent and stooped like a timid question mark.

  Over and over I wondered: Is he still an addict? I never gathered the courage to ask. We caught up on my work, and before long, we stumbled onto a familiar discussion of the primitive and the refined. From the time I was fourteen, I knew that Baba and I shared a passion for this topic. He spoke of the village air. “It is healing to the soul, which above all craves nature and simplicity.” I talked about literature and scholarship. Before long, the conversation included only the two of us and we spoke in easy Farsi, Baba asking me about my papers and offering opinions on Gui. He said, “You know, Niloo joon, I think a better way to observe the world isn’t by how far from our natural state we’ve traveled. I think it’s by whether we can go back and forth. That is a better evolution.”

  “That may be true,” I said. “It’s good to be adaptable.”

  “Though,” he said, and he paused briefly and he changed to English. Almost to himself, he muttered, “The road, it travels too.” I asked him what he meant. He looked groggily at me and said, “I think you should find Iranian friends. Peek at your roots sometimes. Practice traveling back and forth. I sense an anxiety—are you happy? Are you enjoying this fine life you’ve built?” The comment stung, but he seemed far past the point of noticing my reactions. Out of nowhere he said, “We have an election coming. It will be a spectacle, I think.”

  For days I considered Baba’s assessment of me—was I happy? I had my work. I had a full life in Amsterdam. No, I didn’t have any friends, and, no, I knew no other Iranians. But if I was afraid of anything, it was the possibility of stagnating. I didn’t want to wither as Baba had withered.

  I saw then how much these trips had drained me. Did they bring me any closer to Baba? Did they restore my roots or the childhood I had missed? All they did was tarnish my memories. The Baba I had known was trapped in the past, forever thirty-three, as I would be forever eight years old to him. Having never grown together, all we could do was rehash, returning to old ground, changing each other back to a faded snapshot after every goodbye. We couldn’t fathom each other as we were now. Our visits, far from renewing us, were hastening our decay.

  And surely Baba too was disappointed in my unwillingness to succumb to life’s small pleasures, my inability to sink into every momentary bliss as he did. Maybe that’s why he was an addict and I was not.

  There was too much we couldn’t repair. It was enough.

  We left on a quiet Tuesday, when no other guests were coming or going. The hotel staff idled by, watching us linger over our breakfast, tucking our suitcases out of sight as we ate, dragging out our goodbye. We checked out together, and everyone tarofed about who would pay—Baba offered to pay for all the rooms, but Gui and Kian refused. In another lifetime, Baba would have won this battle with ferocity and pomp. But each man paid for his own room and they shook hands and promised another visit. Here I had another suspicion I was too afraid to confirm: Was Baba having money trouble? I hated that he had relinquished this small honor, ashamed that I had fantasized about impressing him with my new life. I smiled uncomfortably as the trio returned from the desk. Baba cast me a quick, patient look, one that was silmultanously humbled and angry, like he didn’t want to be watched or pitied anymore by his own foreign child who had no access to the details of his life.

  We called three taxis, each an hour apart, to correspond with our flights. Kian left first. Baba hugged him for a long minute and when he let go, Baba’s eyes were cloudy and his chin trembled. He nodded a lot, trying to keep his emotions from spilling over. He patted Kian’s shoulder and said, “Next time you will cook for us. I’ll eat whatever you cook.” Kian looked at his feet and shifted his bags of spices.

  Then his son was gone and Baba’s head hung a bit lower. His childish smile vanished. A waiter arrived with three Turkish coffees that he served to us right on the street, on a tray, “from the manager,” he said. He stood straight-backed, watching us take small sips. I glanced at the lobby door. A maid averted her gaze. It seemed our story had spread; the staff wanted to witness us as we dwindled. They wanted to see our bizarre gathering come to its natural end.

  We sat in the café in silence. Now and then, Baba and Gui made gestures at goodbye. Gui asked logistical questions about Baba’s flight, his transportation in Tehran and Isfahan, the weight of his suitcases, and customs procedures in Iran. When our car came, most of the life had gone out of Baba’s gait, and he stood leaning on the lion head of his cane. He didn’t make a move toward us. I hugged him goodbye and let him rub my back, then pulled away. He said, “Niloo joon,” but his voice broke. He swallowed and continued in Farsi, “Remember the family wedding curse?” I nodded. He said, looking beyond me, “I sense some bad luck with this no-wedding business. Please make your life fuller. Maybe have some babies.”

  I laughed and made promises. He turned to Gui. “Agha Gilom,” he said, his cheer returning. “I want to say you something . . . Niloo translate?” Then he said in Farsi, pausing for me every few words. “All good things end, and I no longer believe that reduces their worth. I’m glad to have spent these happy days with you.”

  In the car, I let Gui stroke my hair. I felt scooped out, numb. When we
reached the end of the street, I turned to look at my father, expecting to see him standing alone in the road. I understood that this would be my last image of him. I prepared to store it with that other image I keep: Baba at his office window, waving goodbye.

  But Baba had turned toward the hotel, leaning both hands on his cane. He looked small, mystified, older than I’ve ever seen him. He tucked his cane under his arm and wiped his face with both palms. Two waiters rushed to him, one carrying a drink that must have been prepared as soon as our car arrived. The peacock manager had appeared and was leading Baba to his favorite spot on the balcony, one hand on Baba’s cane and another on his back. Our car turned the corner then, but I imagined that for the rest of the afternoon, Baba sat at his table on the balcony and regaled the hotel staff with stories of Isfahan and of its villages, the fruit stalls and the lively women, and the lamb shank that comes apart in your spoon. It was a more fitting final snapshot than the one I had hoped for.

  JUST LIKE YOUR BABA

  OCTOBER 2009

  Amsterdam, Netherlands

  That week she moves into the half-built apartment, declining Gui’s offers to help. She suggests that they don’t speak for a while, afraid that hearing his voice would pain her, that it would make her think of all the firsts and lasts they’ve shared. She asks the construction workers to suspend work for a few days so she can settle into a corner; then they can begin again together. The man on the phone releases an exhausted breath, probably thinking of all the extra work she’ll create.

  She buys a hot plate and coffeemaker like Mam’mad’s, a small comfort, though she expected it to feel more like that black interlude night at Jesus House. It doesn’t. Pulling sheets onto a temporary bed, a shallow mattress in a corner of the floor, she thinks of her father and how he must be living. He claims to be under house arrest, though, given his fondness for tall tales, she hesitates to believe him. She can’t deny that something has to be done, but now she’s afraid she’s waited too long. Who can she call? Baba’s email address has gone completely silent.

  After dropping off her suitcases, she pedals to the squat for dinner. Someone has made lamb stew with fenugreek and coriander, her favorite Persian dish. She donates five euros at the door and takes a plastic bowl from a pile, a floral yellow one. She recalls the fancy restaurants she’s sampled with Gui, how none of them can match the taste of a meal at her grandmother’s table, the herbs picked from her garden, the lamb butchered outside her door, the spices ground by her friends.

  The squat is busy and the sink soon fills up with unwashed dishes. Here everyone pitches in, so she gathers a stack of bowls and heads to the kitchen. Mala and Siavash are there, talking to Maman Georgiana, the squat cook, a Dutch woman with stark white hair, a tall, bovine body covered in loose cotton dresses, and a web of tiny lines around her eyes. Siavash mutters something sympathetic, a “we’re here if you need anything,” which he spits out like an unexpected olive pit. Niloo leaves the bowls on a tray by the door and steals back into the living room. She stays only for a short while. It feels dishonest to indulge in an evening out when her marriage is so recently over. She feels in the wrong place, like the time in kindergarten when she watched silently as two boys searched all the jackets for coins.

  In the dark of her half-built apartment, she whispers to herself in Farsi, the emptiness of the room echoing her hushed words. It seems the correct language for her refuge. She sings herself children’s songs, the one about peaches, the one about a rabbit, the filthy village one about big-breasted mothers. The childhood tune she recalls best is Kian’s revolution song. A caged bird is heartsick of walls—her memory of it includes all his lisps. Siavash and Karim have brought her oil lamps, flashlights, jugs of water, an extra stove, and a few pots and pans. She lights three lamps and places them around the bedroom, casting long shadows across the room. Since the kitchen isn’t usable and the living area is toxic with dust and debris, she decides to occupy mostly the bedroom. Her peculiar new home feels like a return to her village roots, like being back in the caverns of her grandmother’s dusty brick house, where for a long time there was no electricity and after that, it might go out in the middle of dinner or when they turned on a rickety television set.

  She sits for a while, and when the floor grows icy against her haunches, she gets into bed in her clothes. Lying in this wreck, something important feels finished. It is as if in her fingers and toes she knows that the life she has built is done and that the passing decades will find her gone from here, inside a different future. For several hours, she sleeps the sleep of the sated women she used to watch in Tehran and Oklahoma, the ones who never worried because their homes never changed.

  But the flesh doesn’t adapt in a day and, in the middle of the night, she wakes in a panic. The smell of paint and wooden slats, concrete and dust, wafts everywhere and she imagines herself, for a moment, stuck in some nightmarish version of her childhood house in Isfahan. Right now, if Baba’s claims are true, that same old house holds him in a kind of limbo. A drop of sweat, like a punctuation, falls from her hair. It rolls off her collarbone and into the hollow of her neck. When she lifts herself onto her elbows, the air chills her back where she’s sweated through the sheets, her long hair sticking to her skin, slick and black like the down of oil-spill birds in science magazines.

  She stares into the dark, at the spot where Gui might sleep. She has often told him that he smells like the mountains, dewy and grassy and evergreen. Now her sheets, smelling so strongly of nothing, keep her awake.

  She swings her legs to the side of the mattress, feet hitting the cold floor too soon. She makes coffee on the burner. That first night is endless and dark, as many first nights have been. The hours weigh down her shoulders like a wool garment soggy with rainwater. The apartment seems to have swollen to triple its size and the image of Mam’mad, her first friend in so long, engulfed in flame returns to torment her. It sticks like a lead morsel in her belly. She tells herself that she can digest it in a few days. She will make herself digest it in a few days.

  The next night, Niloo stops by her office to gather some books and journals. She hasn’t come in for days and her mail has piled up. She tears open the first envelope; a stern Dutch warning from her department chair. She has canceled too many classes. The red light on her phone blinks urgently. She dials her password: three voice mails from colleagues and one other. The last message begins with some grainy whirring and a click. The lead pellet rolls past her navel—only calls from Iran sound this way. Then, her father’s raspy voice, still comforting, like warm coffee or an old afghan, breaks the humming in fits and starts. The connection is terrible and she hears only every other word. He sounds tired. Older. He says something about a flight, something about Istanbul (maybe referring to last year’s trip?) and then he hangs up. She listens to the message half a dozen times, failing to decipher the words. She deletes the others, leaving Baba’s message; she will try again later. She tucks her mail into her purse and waits in the chilly, damp night for a tram, counting along with the arrivals clock from nine minutes, to eight, to seven.

  She sits alone in the rubble of her living room, turning her flashlight on and off, staring at the half-built kitchen island, the marble countertop that she so carefully chose, lying on its side. Outside, a hard rain starts. What constant breathlessness in uprooting; it’s the unbearable stretching on of life. How relentlessly it endures for you—a comfort. She makes tea on the burner and searches through journals from her office. She reads a colleague’s piece, and three others, and, even though she isn’t hungry, she counts out four hundred calories of protein in the form of hard-boiled eggs and raw almonds, and she goes to bed.

  Around lunchtime, early morning in New York, Maman calls, first on Niloo’s mobile, then at her office. Niloo ignores the calls but they continue at ten-minute intervals. Finally she picks up, and her mother begins shouting even before saying hello. She has spoken to Kian, who, given his eigh
teen-hour workday, didn’t think through the politics of sharing everything Niloo told him. “I ask you!” says Maman, her tone accusing, her English slipping even further in her fury, “I ask you if Baba calls, and you say, ‘No, he doesn’t make the calls.’ And I ask if you hear informations from Iran, and you say no informations! But is lie! Your sweet grandmother sits in Ardestoon in dreams of you, all the time is hoping you get her package and what you do? You say, ‘No informations.’ Iran is all in shits and violences and you have urgent request from your Baba and what you do? Nothing. Why you do nothing? Why you have no heart? I am shame of you, Niloofar. Shame of you.”

  Niloo wants to remind her mother about Madrid—their last visit as a family—and about the fright they suffered there. She wants to say to Maman, What do I owe this man who has broken my heart, damaged it over and over, so many times that it no longer looks like a heart? I can forgive people who injure once and leave. This man arrives every few years, always older, kinder, pulling me back, mending my heart so he can break it again. He offers promises and explanations and fantasies of a life that’s finished. “One day we’ll picnic again under the cherry trees in Ardestoon,” he says—a lie. He’s never said a final, respectable goodbye.

  When Maman has finished her rant, she waits, panting into the receiver. Niloo can’t defend herself. That isn’t the biggest truth she has omitted and now her heart thunders thinking of the other one—her mother will have a stroke when she finds out that she’s moved out. She tries to think of something calming to say, something with proper measures of regret and explanation. But Maman starts up again. “I just call to say you . . .” She realizes she is still speaking English and switches to Farsi. “I’m coming to Amsterdam in two days. Your Baba called from Istanbul and he says he’s clean and he’s trying the Dutch embassy. I’ll just stay in the guest room like last time. Say hi to Gay.” And, before Niloo can point out the insanity of believing Baba’s promises of being clean or of wanting to stay, before she can work out how she will explain a vanished Gui and a vanished apartment and her relocation to a strange bed in the middle of a dusty construction site lit by oil lamps, Maman hangs up with such rage that the phone clicks twice, once when it falls on Maman’s glass table and the second time when she successfully slams it.