by Ali Hosseini
People say that in ancient times this land had forests and wild animals and was the hunting ground for kings and princes. A branch of the Silk Road passed nearby leading west to Arabia and east to Samarkand. The ruins of caravansaries still mark the route. Did I read it somewhere, or was it Musa who told me about the ruins of a palace out in the desert? A palace that shows itself only to certain people. If you have the destiny to see it, or so the story goes, no one knows what it will do to you. It’s said that people have come out of the desert, their hair having turned totally white or having lost their minds or gone blind, but some ended up becoming wise and even rich. Around here these stories blow with the wind.
I don’t believe all the tales that people tell, but on the other hand, that is what the desert does to you if you stay too long—you start to doubt the truth and believe the false. Did I see the palace or was it another trick of the desert? I wonder what Musa knows and isn’t saying. Maybe I’ll go back and look again. Maybe it was the ruin of the palace that Musa told me about. The glass palace with a mirror that could show the future. Maybe I could find a piece of the mirror.
I return to the Naranjestan exhausted and stretch out on the platform beside the farmhouse. It’s late afternoon and Musa is driving his herds to the well. Two goats run to the well ahead of the rest and at the same time thrust their heads into the empty water bucket, and as they keep pushing it, their horns bang against the metal. The sheep, numbering around a dozen, stand together patiently, their heads low, each trying to hold its head in the shade of another. Their round bellies move up and down as they breathe. The smell of wool, urine, and dung fills the air. Musa walks over to the platform, throws down his walking stick, and sits in the shade of the wall.
“This heat is after me or my herds,” he says, breathing heavily. “It’s like fire pouring from the earth and sky. I’ve never seen such heat.”
He takes off his hat and rubs his head, then wipes his face and the back of his neck with a handkerchief. He hasn’t rested for long when he gets up and walks to the edge of the well, taking the bucket the goats have abandoned and lowering it. Hearing the sound, the animals rush toward him. He yanks at the rope a few times to make the bucket fill before pulling it up. Water pours from the holes of the banged-up bucket. The animals circle him, trying to shove their heads in. He pushes a few away and holds them while two by two they drink. “Hold on a second,” he says, “easy, easy, let her finish first. You creatures are just like humans, greedy and selfish.” He draws water several times until the last animal is satisfied. Then he throws the bucket down the well once more and calls out to me.
“Come and cool yourself down.”
I watch him wash his hands and face. Even though sweat is running down my face, I don’t feel like moving. My shirt is like a piece of old leather, and my skin is sunburned and flakes off when I rub it. I’m used to all that now, used to my rough beard and smelling of earth and desert.
“It’ll cool you down,” he says.
I get up and walk to the well. I’ve never liked to go close to it, even in my childhood days. It has always scared me—a mysterious circular hole that could suck you into the heart of the earth. It’s at least twelve feet across and the low cement wall around it is about two feet high. Standing at the edge, I stretch my neck out cautiously and look down at the dark surface of the water. I don’t know how deep it is—twenty feet perhaps. It was dug out God knows when. As far back as I remember it has been here. Father had a plan to abandon it and have a drilled well with a better pump. His thinking was that the disease of the Naranjestan was from the old well.
Musa pours water on my hands as I rub them together and wash. The cool water tickles my skin as it runs down my neck and back. I pull off my shirt and wash it out. Before going back to the shade, I wash my feet. The cuts and bruises start to burn. I go back on the platform and stretch out on the kilim. Musa brings some brush from the orchard to build a small fire for his water pipe and boil water for tea. He fills the pipe with water from the bucket and tosses what’s left on the mud bricks of the sitting platform, causing the smell of damp earth to rise. From a plastic bag he takes out two handfuls of crushed tobacco that he puts in the bowl of the water pipe and tamps down with his thumb. I enjoy watching this sturdy, patient man, so efficient and confident in everything he does. He functions like clockwork—coming here, watering his animals, smoking, taking a nap, all a natural and enjoyable routine to him. I disrupted all this in the first days I was here, but it’s obvious he has settled back to his usual routine, adding in the things he does for me. When the fire is ready he puts a few tiny embers on top of the tobacco and carries the pipe to the shade, sitting down with crossed legs, his back to the wall.
With the sound of bubbling water and the pleasant smell of burning tobacco, my eyelids start to get heavy.
“Do you remember I said you should never trust this fellow Kemal?” Musa says, and I open my eyes. Not having slept well last night and after wandering in the desert, I was starting to fall into a deep sleep.
“Please listen to me carefully and I’ll tell you why,” he goes on after sucking on the pipe and letting a billow of smoke rush out of his mouth. “Kemal hasn’t done me any harm, let me say that first. But this man may be involved in whatever you can point your finger at. Dangerous deeds. I’ve heard this from the villagers—you know how they talk. He is always going to Shiraz. Sometimes he disappears for days. What for? Nobody knows.
“But I think I know, and he tries to hide it from me. You shouldn’t be fooled by his attentions to you, by his bringing you books or newspapers or vodka from the black market.” The smoke rushing out of his nostrils covers his face momentarily. “And I don’t know what he’s been telling you, but all that is not my business. What concerns me, and for certain should concern you, is what I told you a bit about before. I couldn’t say much then, because you weren’t well. He has his eyes on this property, on the Naranjestan. That’s the thing that’s got to do with us. With you, I should say—who am I to include myself? Your parents and Ruzbeh did a lot for me. Actually your father protected my father from the wrath of the villagers. He was a city man who ended up living here because of a love affair. Love—love can become the source of many problems.”
He stares at me with his one eye for a long time before continuing. “Maybe one of these days I’ll tell you more about my father. I’m obliged to your parents for their kindness, and to Ruzbeh and Shireen, and I feel sad and disturbed for the lemon grove. My heart aches for Ruzbeh, who worked so hard for this place. During the revolution, when some of the villagers were after the orchard, he fought them back. Shireen was beside him, always.” He becomes quiet for a moment. “Shireen was a brave woman. Not afraid of anything. She stayed here and faced the villagers. I myself saw her, stick in hand. You know that she couldn’t talk after what happened to her when she was little—I don’t need to tell you that—but she stood up to them all the same. At any rate, there were villagers that respected and liked Ruzbeh and Shireen. They must have been able to calm the attackers down.”
“You know I liked it the way Shireen talked with her hands. I would stand and watch her and Ruzbeh, talking without saying a word, just gesturing hands moving so fast. Human beings are so fascinating! Sign language, they call it, right? Do you know it too?”
I nod and my heart wrings, thinking about Shireen.
“You know what? At that time Kemal never came here. He wasn’t part of the group who were trying to take this place.”
He fixes his eye in the distance and sucks on the pipe again.
“May God forgive those who do unforgivable deeds … I’m trying to make you see what is going on here. Kemal believes that his father lost his life for this place. Do you remember I told you that his father was killed? He was killed in a fight over land—he was hit with a club on the head. God rest his soul. Kemal’s father was an aggravating man, sticking his nose in everyone’s business, but he wasn’t killed over the Naranjestan. It was
over Mansor Khan’s land. I don’t know exactly what happened, but at the time of the revolution, the time of lawlessness, Mansor Khan was trying to expand his farm onto his neighbor’s land. He had brought a tractor and started to plow the land next to his. The neighbor gathered a few people, including Kemal’s father, to stop him. A fight broke out and Kemal’s father was killed.
Kemal is like his father, but his animosity toward your family is over something else. He was burned by something else, and badly. Although it was years ago, he hasn’t forgotten it.”
The water pipe bubbles violently as he sucks on the tube and smoke rushes out all around him. I’m not really interested in what he’s telling me. I just want to close my eyes and go to sleep.
“You weren’t here then,” he says. “You had gone to America. Kemal wanted to marry Shireen.”
He stares at me with his one eye, waiting to see my reaction. I remember that Shireen wrote to me at the time about this without mentioning the man’s name. So it was Kemal. I don’t say anything and keep quiet to hear what the old man has to say.
“Haji Zaman, Shireen’s stepfather, was dead and Bibi, her mother, wouldn’t do anything without your parents’ advice. But no matter what Kemal did or said or whom he sent to ask for her hand, it didn’t work out. Shireen herself didn’t want it. She had been in love with your brother from a young age—I suppose that from childhood they were in love. She was going to school and knew what she wanted. She wasn’t going to come back and live in the village again. Maybe you know all this already. Who knows what Kemal has done against Ruzbeh and Shireen? If you ask me, he may be the cause of Ruzbeh’s running away. And the hateful things that were done to Shireen? May God never forgive him if he had anything to do with that. As God is my witness, I’ve only heard this from people talking. I heard that two people from the village and some of your neighbors in the city went with …”—he hesitates for a moment—“went with Kemal to a mullah to testify that Shireen had given up her husband…” He gazes out at the fields for a moment, and then looks at me. “… and stayed alone with you at home—you know what I mean …”
Suddenly I sit up in anger and stare at him as he goes on sucking on his water pipe, his face curtained momentarily behind the smoke. I turn my eyes to the fields. I want to get up and go find Kemal. I want to wrap my fingers around his neck until he tells me the truth. Until he tells me if he had anything to do with what happened to Shireen.
“Calm down,” Musa says softly. “Calm down. It could be pure gossip. Only God knows. No one can trust what people say. These days you can’t even trust your own eyes. These days people are like the desert.” He points toward the horizon. “You see water out there? No, it’s only sand and heat.”
He puts more embers on the pipe and fans it with his hand.
“Sit and listen to me. I know you can’t believe what I’m saying. I’ve only heard the villagers talk. Empty talk, you know. There is too much empty talk these days. You probably can’t believe that Kemal could be that cruel. I can’t either. But the past is past, and we can’t do anything about it. What we need to do is prevent bad things from happening when we can. We need to do everything we can to find Ruzbeh. What I’m saying is that you should be careful and not be fooled by Kemal’s bringing vodka or books or who knows what. I believe he knows what he’s doing. He has connections with bad people. And I think everything he does is to get this land.”
I don’t want to listen. I don’t care who wants this orchard or who is conspiring to steal it or whether there is any hope for it to survive. Maybe someday someone will take care of it. But it’s not going to be me. Or Ruzbeh. Right now I don’t care if it’s all swept away by the wind. Maybe that would be for the best, the way that everything here has been on a path of destruction. I think of Shireen and look at my hands and my fingers. Bones, muscles, and nerves—the result of millions of years of evolution. I stare at my thumb, the way it curves to the center of my palm to grasp something. I stare at my arm, amazed to think how it could move in a perfect half circle to throw a stone.
Eight
WHEN WE HEAR THE SOUND OF Kemal’s motorcycle approaching, Musa stops talking and looks at me for a moment. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he says and then goes back to smoking his water pipe.
I watch Kemal, trying to control my anger. He parks his motorcycle beside the pump house and walks to the well.
I want to go and look straight into his eyes and ask him, “What did you have to do with what happened to Shireen?” I want to see past his smiling face and calm gestures and find out what is behind those black eyes. I need to find out whether he is the friend he pretends to be. Whether he rode his motorcycle through the desert to find Ruzbeh as he says or whether he scared him away.
I watch as he shakes the dust off his clothes and unties the handkerchief wrapped around his forehead. He throws the bucket down the well and yanks it up quickly. Then he takes off his sunglasses, kneels down, and plunges his head inside the bucket, staying there for such a long time I think he’s going to drown. Then with a sudden movement he takes his head out and shakes it right and left, sending drops of water flying.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying in vain to gather my thoughts. When I open them I see him walking toward us. He comes to the platform and shakes his head again, letting droplets of water rain on us.
“Stop it,” Musa yells. “You’re putting my pipe out.”
But Kemal, still shaking his head, takes another step closer. Musa grumbles and shields the top of the water pipe with his hand, sucking harder in an effort to save the burning embers.
Kemal laughs and jumps up onto the platform. “What’s the matter, old man?” he says. “Don’t let me stop you. You can go on talking about me.” His loud laughter makes me jump.
“Here we go …,” Musa says. “I thought I was going to have a quiet afternoon, and who comes along to destroy it? The Devil himself.”
To my surprise, Kemal doesn’t answer him. He squats against the wall and silently watches the fields, then suddenly gets up and walks to the well. There is an uneasiness about him, a restlessness, as if he is waiting for something to happen.
I watch him, my mind clouded by what Musa has been telling me. I don’t know what to believe. It occurs to me that they could be talking behind my back and deciding what they should tell me. It would be easy to take advantage of my silence since I hear only their sides of things and never put a question to them.
I wonder if there is any truth to Musa’s suspicion of Kemal. Did he really try to harm Shireen by going to the mullah? Did he do it for the land? If he was after the Naranjestan, why didn’t he make a move during the first years of the revolution when anarchy ruled the country and people in the rural areas were seizing land from the landowners? A few days after we met, he opened up and talked to me as if I were his best friend. He said that he helped Ruzbeh and Shireen when the villagers tried to take the Naranjestan. Now I doubt his sincerity in encouraging me to look for Ruzbeh and his promise to help to rebuild this place. I wish there were a way to know the truth in all of this. I feel tired and am aching. I think my illness is not getting any better. Not only is my body exhausted but my mind as well, and I can’t seem to do anything or think straight and figure out what is going on around here.
Kemal pulls off his shirt and pants and walks to the edge of the well. I watch him, wondering what he is up to. He lowers the bucket down and then grabs the rope and disappears into the mouth of the well as quickly as if he’d never been standing there. My eyes are still on the well, not believing what I’ve seen, when I hear the faint sound of splashing water.
“It’s his habit,” Musa says. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my long life. Any time he comes here in the middle of the day, he goes down into the well. If you want my opinion, he either belongs to the tribe of jinnis or is crazy. He doesn’t have any tolerance for summer heat. I’ve told him many times that it’s not good to bathe in a well. Especially this well that we use for d
rinking—the animals too.”
The sound of splashing awakens a temptation in me. I get up and walk to the well, putting my hands on the wall and bending over to look down. It takes a while for my eyes to get used to the darkness and then I see him. He is on his back floating on the water. He looks up, his eyes two shining spots in the darkness.
His hoarse voice flies up. “Come down, Behruz. Come and cool yourself off.”
When I straighten up, I see a pile of cement blocks near the well. Fear and anxiety fill me as I think about picking one up. I turn toward the fields, trying to push these thoughts out of my head. Before doing anything I need to talk to him. I need to go down into the well, to look at him eye to eye and ask him. If he admits it, I’ll take him under the water. I don’t know if I have the physical strength or whether I will come up alive, but I will try to take him under—or him and me both. I start pulling off my clothes. It’s as if I’m not in control of myself and a force is pushing me into the well. Grabbing the rope, I lean over the mouth of the well.
“What are you doing?” Musa calls. “Don’t do it. Don’t go down. This man …”
I hold the rope tight and brace both legs against the wall, hanging in the air for a moment. Beneath me, the water glistens darkly. I don’t care what Musa says or thinks. I just want to go down and face Kemal.
I move lower, first one leg and then the next, holding the rope while I let my body slide down. I’ve gone only a few feet when the rope starts to slip from my hands. I try to hold it tighter but my palms begin to burn and the wall runs past my eyes in a flash. My back hits the water and I go under. Frightened, I start to kick as hard as I can until I manage to get my head above water. Coughing and breathing hard, I try to hold on to the damp wall, but my hands slide off. From the other side of the well, Kemal laughs and splashes water at me.
