by Ali Hosseini
I opened one of the dust-covered bottles. It hissed and a dark liquid oozed out, running down the sides and dripping on the ground. I moved quickly, as if I had desired the moment for a long time. Fire poured down my throat, but I kept drinking. Suddenly I started to cough, my body twisting, my chest collapsing. Then I felt calm and light, as if I were floating. Blackness slowly gathered, engulfing me. I didn’t close my eyes and could see stars sparkling everywhere around, but the air became heavy and I remember I was hot and sweaty, then cold and shivering. I wanted to get up, but the ground gave way beneath me. I went down and down, circling and swirling so fast I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
I don’t know how long I lay there unconscious before I heard a voice, as if in the distance, ordering me to open my mouth, and then I didn’t remember anything until the old man said he came along and saved me. He saved me from dying and here I am with the memory of the horrifying event at the city square that will continue to haunt me. There is no salvation from that. I wonder where the old man is now. From the door I can see the trees of the lemon grove bending in the wind, the same trees that shaded us from the sun when we used to run underneath them.
In the happier times, we used to come here from Shiraz in the old VW that Father loved to drive—Mother in front and us in the back, delighted that there was no more schoolwork and we were going to stay in the Naranjestan. From the farmhouse we could look out toward the village, shimmering in the bright summer sun. Then we would see two dark shadows on the road, a small one beside a tall one, and know that it was Shireen and her mother, Bibi Khanom, come to help Mother with the cooking and cleaning. We waited for Shireen. Her black hair was always in braids on the sides of her face, and her light-green eyes, unusual for an Iranian, mesmerized us.
There were many insects in the Naranjestan flying or jumping around and many butterflies going from blossom to blossom as we ran and tried to catch them. Father would sit in the shade of the willow beside the channel that carried the water from the pump house to the wheat fields. He would drink his tea, smoke his water pipe, and give orders to Haji Zaman, Shireen’s stepfather.
We would often go and watch Haji Zaman while he operated the equipment in the pump house and told the field-workers what to do. He was called Haji even though he hadn’t traveled to Mecca to fulfill the Islamic pilgrimage. We watched his limping figure as he moved around in a hurry and tried to stay away from his tense gaze and angry shouting. And when Ruzbeh imitated his limping walk, I laughed and encouraged him to do it more.
In the spring, Haji Zaman would empty the pesticide bottles into a huge plastic bucket of water and stir it with a stick. Then he would help the Afghani workers fill the spraying pumps and strap them to their backs. The Afghans had bushy mustaches and would look at us with sad eyes. We were afraid they were going to steal us, put us in sacks on their backs, and take us to Afghanistan. They were probably just missing the children they had left behind.
We watched while they sprayed the Naranjestan, listening to the hissing of the pumps and watching the soft clouds cover the leaves and blossoms. Later we would walk through the Naranjestan and pick up the butterflies that had fallen to the ground and were trying to take to the air. We would put them in the sun and watch them for hours, hoping they would recover and fly away. In those years the Naranjestan was sick and no one ever figured out exactly what kind of disease it was.
Ruzbeh, where are you now? I wish you would come so we can talk the way we used to those summer nights. So we could watch the stars again. So we could look for the Big Dipper, like we used to. The stars seemed so close we would try to touch them. I couldn’t, but you said you did. You said if I stood on my toes and stretched up my arms, I could touch a star. I tried many nights but could never reach them, could never touch anything in the darkness above me. You said, “Think of your favorite girl and try to catch her star.” You would stand up and raise your hand, twirling it in the dark and then bringing down your closed fist, saying, “See, I caught one.” When you opened your hand I almost thought I could see a shining spot in your palm.
How we loved it here when the Naranjestan was green, when the pump with its top, top, top sound sent the water to the trees and the fields. The orchard was alive then, and the nearby desert felt far away. How you loved the nights—the silence of the fields and the stars. And how we loved Shireen. Later, after high school, it was love that kept you here. You stayed, and we both knew why. We knew that Shireen loved both of us and would have to chose between us. So one had to go and one had to stay. I decided to be the one to go. And you understood, just as I would have if you had been the one to leave. It was love that made me go to America—love for you and Shireen.
Besides, you always had the support of Mother, who couldn’t stand your being away from her. You were her small boy. You were born not more than ten breaths after me but you were her “little one.” She couldn’t have borne the idea of your leaving for a foreign land. So it was I who went away. We had never been separated until then. Even in school, we had always been in the same class. For six long years I missed you—and missed Shireen. I went away, thinking it would make things easier for all of us. For you and Shireen, so you could be together without any shadow over your lives. For Mother too, who never quite trusted me and always worried I was a bad influence. I knew she could part with me but that it was out of the question to send both of us away.
Three
A HAND is SHAKING ME. “Wake up, Behruz. Wake up.”
I open my eyes and see Musa standing above me. He takes my hand and helps me sit up.
“I let you sleep all afternoon while I went to check on my herds. I need to take them back to the village soon. I’ve made some tea. Here, have a cup. It will be good for your stomach. I’ll come back and bring you something to eat.”
He sits by the door, then takes off his hat and rubs his fingers over his short hair. “I’m glad that in the two days you’ve shown so much progress. I believe the danger is over.”
I drink the tea slowly, its warmth soft inside me. The sleep has done me some good. I feel more rested and am breathing easier.
“Whatever God wants will be,” he says, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“Let me tell you a story so you can understand what I’m talking about.” He looks out toward the fields, cocking his head. “It’s been said that in the olden times there was a king who wished for a son. Finally God granted him a beautiful boy. A son so handsome that people were proud of having such a prince and would come from all over the kingdom just to have a glimpse of him. The king, afraid that something might happen to his son, asked his astronomers to look into the heavens and find out how the prince would meet his death. The astronomers went to their books and looked into the sky for seven days and seven nights. Finally they told the king that the death of the prince would be caused by a scorpion. Hearing that, the king became silent for three days. Then he spoke. He ordered a glass palace to be built and put the prince inside. One day when the prince was seven years old, he asked his nanny why he wasn’t allowed to go out into the garden and had to watch everything from behind glass walls. The nanny told him the finding of the astronomers—Now see the power of the Almighty—Hearing the reason, the prince wanted to see what a scorpion looked like. The nanny thought a bit and then made a small scorpion out of clay and put it in the prince’s palm. As soon as the clay scorpion touched the prince’s flesh, it came alive and stung him. You see? How can we know what plan God has for us? You come to this desert, to a place where you think there is no one around, but suddenly someone comes from nowhere and saves you. Yes. One who wants to live dies in a mysterious way and one who wants to die is saved in a mysterious way.”
He pours me another cup of tea.
“Where was I?” he says after a moment. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard that the ruins of the glass palace are somewhere in the desert not far from here. I’ve spent all my life in this arid land. I know every up and down of it, from here to the far side of t
he plain and the mountains beyond. But I haven’t seen the ruins of any palace. No … But there is a place beside one of those little hills …” He points outside the door. “Every time I go there I hear a whisper, like sand sliding over glass. Maybe there is something there, under those hills.”
Then as if remembering something, he starts to search the pockets of his old coat, going from one to the other. Finally he finds what he was looking for and hands it to me.
“When I found you, you were holding this.”
I take the key. It’s Shireen’s key to the courtyard of our house in Shiraz. My heart jumps and I feel sick at the sight of it … the voices come alive in my head, loud and demanding, when they stopped Shireen from turning the key to come in and started interrogating her, wanting to know who she was, who she was there to see. And I was shivering on the other side of the door, not having the courage to unlock it.
I open my fist and stare at the key. It’s the last thing that carried her touch. I found it the night they took her away and always kept it with me. Maybe if I could tell someone, perhaps this old man, the voices and images would finally go away. But how can I put it into words?
Forgive me, Shireen—forgive me. Fear kept me from opening the door. Fear kept me rooted. Later I went back searching for you, hoping they’d let you go. I was terrified walking down the alley. Terrified that the militia, and among them the zealots, were waiting at the house to grab me. I knew that in their eyes and by their laws we had committed a sin. A sin that required the worst kind of punishment—not in the afterlife, but in this life, a punishment from the horrible depths of religion’s history.
I was afraid to go into our house so I turned around and walked back into the street. Our Jeep wasn’t there. They must have taken it along with everything inside the house. In the dim light of the alley I saw the key. It was on the ground next to the door. I knew you had dropped it when they took you away.
You were late coming back home from your weekly trip to the village and I was waiting for you. I walked up and down in the yard and watched the door to the alley, listening for the familiar sound of the key in the lock. Not even a spark of light from the windows dared break the darkness. It was another blackout night.
I knew there were eyes behind the neighbors’ drawn curtains. People always want to know the secrets of others. They wanted to find out what was happening in our house, why I had come back from America, what was going on now that my brother had gone out of his mind, abandoning his wife and house. They wanted to know what had happened to my mother, and where I had taken her.
That morning I was delighted—you were coming back from the village after visiting your mother and my mother. I couldn’t stay put thinking about you and wanting you to be with me. I went to the garden of Hafezieh and sat beside the poet’s tomb. With him alone I shared our secret, reading his poems and whispering that I loved you. Even in this time when love must be hidden, when couples can be stopped by the zealots patrolling the streets because they dare to hold hands or smile or wear clothes that aren’t black. Our revolution was not for the earthly pleasures of this life, but the one after—or so we were told. I knew our beloved poet would understand me, because in his time, centuries ago, it was the same—hypocrisy was at its height and lovers had to hide. I walked in the shade of the cypress trees, lost in the hope that someday we could come here freely.
In the afternoon I rushed home to wait for you. It was another Wednesday, those Wednesdays we waited for so impatiently—how slow they were in coming. I waited for you to be in my arms. I would try to take your mind off Ruzbeh and you would help me cope with life in this strange new Iran I’d returned to. You were late, and how impatient I was, wondering if the Jeep had as usual caused more problems on the road or Mother had become hysterical again. Had Ruzbeh run away again or returned more disturbed? I always hoped that he would stay away so you could come to me.
It was almost midnight when I heard the Jeep stop in the alley, and I ran through the courtyard to the door, only to stop short when I heard shouts coming from the alley. My hand dropped as I reached for the latch. I knew you were behind the door, key in hand and scared to death. Only the thin metal was between us and I didn’t dare open it. I could hear them questioning you. They were shouting but you kept silent. What could you tell them? That you couldn’t speak? That for years you’d been silent? And even if you could have spoken how could you have explained who you were and the reason you were there?
And if I had opened the door, what could I have said?—that you were my sister, my wife, my brother’s wife? At a time when a man and woman found together must be married or be brother and sister or mother and son. What could I have done?
I wanted you to be with me like the first time. Like the year before, when you ran to me, threw off your chador and your scarf, your silver bracelets jangling as you used sign language to explain about Ruzbeh, how you waited but he never showed up, and Mother, who went on weeping for him and complaining that you hadn’t been a good wife. I saw the tears shining in your green eyes. I opened my arms and you fell into them. We held each other, your head on my shoulder and my lips on your neck. Your hair brushed my face and in spite of my nervousness I could sense your anxiety through your trembling body. This was the closest we’d ever been. I pushed the image of Ruzbeh out of my mind and kissed you. At first you hesitated and pulled away. I waited motionless. It seemed forever before you came back into my arms. We never thought it would be this way, but I was not sorry and could see you felt the same.
For a year, despite all the difficulties we managed to go on and keep our relationship secret. When Ruzbeh came home from his wandering, which happened only once or twice, anxiety and guilt overcame us and we would decide to end our affair. Ruzbeh’s well-being was more important to both of us. We took him to doctors and got his prescriptions refilled and made sure he would take his medicine on schedule, but each time, a week or two later we would find the pills in a wastebasket and he would be gone. We knew that he hadn’t been able to stop the noises in his head—the bombing, the shelling, and the cries of the wounded that he had heard would haunt him. He had no choice except to walk, he told us, to try and get rid of them that way. We would drive through the streets, in a city of half a million people, looking for him and would argue, accusing each other of wrongdoing and him of not wanting to be helped.
Behruz, go—go back to America, you would write on the pad of paper you always carried for times when communication was difficult. You were disappointed and frustrated with me and said I should go back to my old life and my girlfriends.
I told you I would go back if I could, would try to find a way, but how? Everything is hopeless in this miserable place.
And you would go on saying that you were sorry that I was unhappy, sorry that you wrote with the news of Ruzbeh’s being injured in the war and asking me to come back. You thought, you would say, that if one person could help him it was me and how wrong you’ve been.
I would tell you that the situation wasn’t your fault or mine. No one could have anticipated that things would be worse than when you wrote. That I hadn’t come back just because you asked, I had my own reasons. I wanted to come back, and I didn’t anticipate these problems either. And I, even though embarrassed, would admit my weakness, that I wasn’t capable of dealing with all the despair that had come my way and I needed you.
Yes, everything is miserable, you would write down angrily and hand me the paper to read. Yes, it’s more miserable for women, but even so, you said that you want to be happy. You wanted to love and live and wouldn’t give in to a gradual death that many of us are allowing ourselves to fade into. You wouldn’t give in to despair and would fight it no matter what.
You put your finger on my chest, pushed, and said that I had lost hope and that was the worst thing and you couldn’t understand that and that I should find a way to go back to America, because the problem of Ruzbeh was yours and you would deal with it yourself and the relationship I w
as in with you was not good for either of us.
That would be your last comment and a moment later you would be in my arms. But the night you needed me the most, I abandoned you. I ran up to the roof of our house under the cover of the blackout, jumped from roof to roof, and got away. Day after day I wandered around the city looking for you while trying not to raise any suspicions. I heard unkind words spoken about us. I learned that they were searching for me, that they were going to purge the city of people like us.
“Behruz?”
I hear Musa and raise my head. His expression is intense. “Are you all right? Here, have some more tea.” He fills up the cup. “I have to go soon. But first I have to tell you a few things. I know you’re not well, but this is important and there’s not much time.” He lights a cigarette. “In the shape you are in, smoking is not good for you or I would offer you a cigarette.”
He becomes quiet suddenly and watches the fields through the open door as if trying to track someone’s movement.
