by Ali Hosseini
I stand there wishing I could warm myself by the fire. Then I decide to go down, thinking that I should take the risk if I don’t want to be attacked by jackals or frozen by the desert cold. I start down the hill and then hear dogs barking. They rush toward me, stopping just a few steps away barking furiously. The music stops, and two men approach.
“Who’s there?” a man asks.
“Hush, hush,” someone calls out to the dogs. “Get back.”
“Who’s there?” The man asks again.
“Behruz Pirzad.”
One of the men comes closer and the other tries to get the dogs to stop barking.
“Come. Come,” he says, motioning to me.
I follow him to the campground, where a group of women and children sitting beside the fire look at me in silence.
“Come, khosh aamadi—welcome,” he says. “Sit and warm yourself.”
He points to the kilim that is spread out beside the fire and I sit down. The women get up and disappear into a nearby dark tent. The other two men also leave. The dogs, having done their duty, lie quiet beside the fire with their heads on their paws. I realize how shaken I was when they came at me.
“I’m Davood Herati,” the man says with a smile, his gold tooth shining. He’s a small man with thick eyebrows and a prominent nose. In the light of the flames, he doesn’t look old, but his hair is white. I notice that he is staring at me. “I can’t believe it. You’re just like your twin brother, Ruzbeh. We’ve known him for many years. He was staying with us for a while and left for the Naranjestan just this afternoon. At first I thought he had changed his mind and come back. But our dogs don’t bark at him, they know him.”
The children watch me. A little girl comes closer and looks at me before speaking, “Salaam, Ruzbeh, are you going to stay with us?”
I take her hand and smile. “I’m Ruzbeh’s brother. My name is Behruz.”
Another girl and two boys come closer as well. They stare at me as if not believing what I’m saying.
Davood calls out. “Ay, Zinat—where are you, woman? Bring some food and tea for our guest.”
I turn to the little girl. “What’s your name?”
“Abrisham,” she says after a while.
“Ah. What a beautiful name. Abrisham. You’re the only girl I know who’s name means ‘silk.’”
They look at one another and giggle.
“You better get up and go to bed now,” Davood tells the children. “It’s late and we have to start early tomorrow.”
“Where were you going at this time of night?” He turns to me.
“To Shiraz. I was trying to get to the city road.”
A woman brings over a tray. She is so quiet that I see her only as she turns to go.
“You must be hungry and tired,” Davood says as he puts down the tray in front of me. “Here’s some food. Please eat.”
I take some dates and a piece of bread.
“We’ve known your brother for many years,” he says to me. “He used to give us jobs during harvesttime. We picked lemons and oranges for him.”
He smiles after each comment as if he wants me to feel comfortable, and my fears start to evaporate. I wish they would start singing again but know they won’t. They probably don’t want to put themselves in danger, since the government forbids playing music and singing.
Again in a soft voice Davood addresses the children. “Didn’t I say go to bed? We need to be up early in the morning. It will be a long day of walking.”
“It’s good you came this way,” he says to me. “There’s nothing around here. You could freeze from the cold at this time of the year. We’re on our yearly trip south, where it’s warmer, and are going to the city bazaar to buy what we need for the road.”
A young woman brings a pot of tea with cups and puts them down in front of us. In the glow cast over her face by the fluttering flames, I see that she has a tattoo on her chin, but she straightens up so quickly I can’t make out what it is.
I eat in silence. On the other side of the hearth another woman is spreading out a blanket close to the fire. From the way Davood gestures to her, I guess that it is for me. A few people are sleeping beside the tent, covered with blankets.
Davood puts a cup of tea in front of me and takes one for himself. “You can’t get to the road at this time of night. You’d better sleep here.” He points toward the blankets spread on the ground. “You must be tired. Get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow you can come with us. The road isn’t far, less than an hour away, and there are many cars and trucks going to the city. We like walking—it’s cheaper,” he says with a short laugh. “We just gather our things and hit the road, the way our parents used to do.”
He puts a piece of hard sugar in his mouth and drinks his tea in quick sips. “Don’t worry about anything—you’re safe here. Sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning.”
I take off my shoes, the ones Kemal gave me some time ago that are not good for walking and have left my feet throbbing. I lie down, enjoying the sensation of stretching my legs out beside the fire and hoping sleep will come soon. Everything about these people seems natural—the way they took me in and the women knew just what to do, bringing food and tea and preparing a place for me to sleep. I think of Ruzbeh and feel happy to know that he wasn’t alone in the desert or in danger. He was with these kind people and now I’ve stumbled across their path as well. It’s hard for me to believe that there are still Gypsies in this part of the country. I knew about the nomadic Qashqai and Basseri tribes in southern Iran but thought that the Gypsies had all settled in the cities. I’ve seen them in the streets, telling fortunes, begging, or selling odd things. Even though people mistrust them, they would gather around to hear their fortunes.
I wake up to the barking of dogs and a cool morning breeze. It takes me a moment to realize where I am. Women are hurrying around, carrying things out of three black tents that stand aslant the hill not far from one another. A child is crying in front of one of them. It comes to me that I dreamt about Juanita. We were traveling in a car somewhere in the Midwest and she was explaining something, but I don’t remember much of the dream. I wonder what she would think of these people and their jet-black tents of woven goat hair, so unlike the Native Americans with their painted animal-skin teepees decorated with bird feathers.
I hear the call of mountain doves and realize we’re on the side of the mountain with the vast arid plain in front of us. In the distance there are two dark spots that might be the village and the lemon grove. I must have been totally lost last night to have come in this direction.
Davood appears from behind one of the tents. “Good morning,” he says cheerfully. “I was waiting for you to wake up. The women have boiled some water so you can wash. It’s our custom to wash and wear our best clothes to start our yearly journey.”
I walk with him to one of the tents. He holds the front flap open and asks me to go in. A large pot of water is set on a stone tripod over a small fire.
“Sit and wash yourself,” Davood says pointing to a boulder with a bowl beside it. “I’ll be back in a while.”
Inside the tent, the dim rays of the sun shower in through the woven black canvas of the tent like thousands of needles. I take off my shirt and pour bowls of water on my head and shoulders. The warm water rushing down my back tickles my skin. I enjoy the sensation, not knowing the last time I had a warm bath. I wash the best I can and dry myself with the towel Davood left in the corner of the tent. When I step outside the tent, the morning sun is bright and I have to shade my eyes for a moment.
“I think you should let me cut your hair,” Davood says as he comes over. “You’ll be in trouble with long hair in the city—the passdars will pick you up right away. Having a beard is fine, but long hair is forbidden. I can give you a shave as well.” He smiles and I nod in agreement.
I should have thought about the danger myself. He tells me to sit on a rock a few steps away from the tent, then goes away and comes back with an
old case. When he opens it, I see pairs of scissors and hair clippers all neatly arranged. He puts the towel around my neck in a practiced way and cuts my hair while the activities of the camp go on around us. The women are putting their household items in big cloth bags. The young men are tearing down the tents, piling up the long poles and folding the tents. The children are busy rolling up the kilims and blankets. I don’t see any sign of the dogs that were barking at me last night.
“I was born in Afghanistan,” Davood goes on talking. “Many years ago—in Herat. My father came to this part of the world when I was only a few months old. Some people think we are from the big Qashqai tribe. But we’re Gypsies. In those days life was different. In the villages we repaired farm equipment, sharpened tools, and traded animals with the villagers, but things have changed. There are more tractors and combines nowadays and not as much need for fixing tools. We’re three families and all related. Our numbers used to be greater, but some of us settled in Shiraz and other towns where the young people do odd jobs.”
After he finishes cutting my hair, he shaves me slowly and carefully. Then he hands me a small, worn-out mirror.
“Here, see how much younger you look.”
I haven’t looked at myself for months and can’t believe how thin my face looks. A young boy brings me something to eat—bread and dates and hot tea. Two other boys take down the tent and fold it in a quick and professional manner.
Davood helps to load the last donkey. All their belongings are on four donkeys and a horse. On one donkey, between the tent poles hanging horizontally on either side, an old woman sits holding a bundle and a small child. Another is loaded with two huge sacks and a few pots and pans tied together with a rope going through the handles. There are more children than I thought and four men including Davood. Two of the women have babies tied on their backs. Unlike the city women, who dress in black chadors and wear gold jewelry, they are wearing clothes decorated with colored beads and have on silver necklaces and earrings.
When everything is ready and we start to move on, suddenly the three dogs appear from nowhere and run ahead of us. I walk beside Davood. The children who were sitting with me last night follow behind. “The city isn’t far,” he says. “We’ll be there by early afternoon, but it’s only half an hour to the city road. You can go on by car or bus when we get there.”
Once in a while he goes around to check the loads and talk to his sons and then comes back to walk with me.
“Do you like moving around like this?” I ask.
“Yes. I like it, but not my family. My sons with young children would like to live in the city, for the future of the children. I like to move around and be in the mountains and close to nature, but I don’t know how long I can do it. I am getting on in years. I’m sixty years old and can’t walk as well as I used to.” He gestures toward his wife, who is on one of the donkeys. “She can’t walk on trips like this anymore; her knees gave out a few months ago. This might have to be our last move. Next spring we may come back and settle in the city. We’ll have to sell everything to be able to rent a place. It is hard these days in the city too, with the war going on and all. The city people don’t really like us. They think we’re thieves. They even accuse us of stealing children.” He laughs. “But the villagers are nicer. It’s because, at least in this part of the country, there is a traditional relationship between nomads and villagers.”
We reach the city road and are careful to stay well to the side, out of the way of the many trucks and military vehicles. The cars go by with a whoosh and the trucks rumble past with a sound that hurts my eardrums. It’s dusty, and all along the road trash and plastic bags are stuck in the low bushes. We rest for a while and drink water from jars. The children eat bread and dates. I decide to stay with the group rather than trying to catch a ride. I don’t exactly know why but think it’s safer than being alone.
Walking isn’t as hard as I thought. My mind is busy deciding where I should go and how I can get any news of Shireen once I’m in the city. Would it be safe to go to the house? I have a feeling it’s been confiscated by now or is being watched. It may not even be safe to go and ask some of the neighbors or the man at the newsstand.
We go up and down hill after hill, often stopping to rest where there is a farm, water, or the shade of a tree. Finally, a little after noon, we reach the outskirts of the city. A checkpoint is set up and cars are being stopped. I’m afraid they may recognize me but don’t know what I should do, or even what choice I have except to keep walking. I realize I shouldn’t feed the fear that is starting within me. For a moment I think I must say something to Davood. But what would I say? With each step I take a deep breath and tell myself to be calm.
“What’s going on, Davood?” I ask, nodding toward the group of cars and military men on the road ahead.
“Oh, who knows? Maybe they are searching the cars for opium or draft dodgers.” He shakes his head. “Nothing to do with us. They won’t bother us. We’re used to this. It looks like they’re only checking the people leaving the city, not the people going in.”
What he says is true, but my fear doesn’t go away. I move to his far side to minimize the chance of being seen. Davood seems to realize I’m nervous but doesn’t say anything. I walk shoulder to shoulder with him and when we pass the checkpoint, try to move as calmly as possible, not turning my head to look.
When we get closer to the city, Davood explains that they can’t go into the city with their animals because the police will give them a hard time. They lead the animals to a field where they can graze on the dried vegetation and be unloaded. Everyone looks exhausted. We drink and eat some bread and dates. After some rest, Davood and one of his sons, with his wife and young daughter, get ready to go to the city. I recognize his wife as the woman who brought us tea last night and see that the tattoo on her chin is a star. The rest of the family will stay with the animals. I say good-bye to those who are staying behind and wave at Abrisham. She waves back, smiling.
Twenty
SHIRAZ is BUSIER THAN I’ve ever seen it. Cars and motorcycles are lined up at gas stations waiting for their ration of gasoline. On the street that runs to the bazaar, Koranic verses are blasting out from the loudspeaker of a minaret and vendors are yelling and shouting to advertise their merchandise—knives and nail clippers, old watches and radios, nuts and sweets. The Bazaar Vakil, the old market with its brickwork arches and stretch of shops extending for more than a mile, is full of people. From their dress I can tell that most of them have come from nearby towns and villages. I haven’t been inside the bazaar for years. Everything seems the same—the carpets in geometric and floral patterns and colors of deep red and blue hung in the carpet shops, the brown and saffron-colored spices piled on huge round trays, and the cheap shiny fabrics the rural people like hung up and stacked in piles. There are crowds at all the shops, looking, examining the merchandise, and bargaining with the shopkeepers. It gives you the feeling that time has stopped in this ancient space in the heart of the modern city, where shopkeepers have turned their praying beads and counted their coins the same way for generations. In the pleasant confusion of the bazaar, I feel safer than on the city streets with passdars patrolling.
I tag along with Davood’s family as they go from shop to shop, examining everything, admiring everything, asking the price and, after some hesitation, walking away. After a while I realize that I am trying to prolong my time with them so I don’t have to be alone and face my fears. I wonder if any of these shopkeepers have heard of the woman who was stoned in the city square. I’m sure any number of them know everything that goes on in this city, but would they be willing to share it with a stranger?
I decide I should be on my way before nightfall and thank Davood for his hospitality and for taking care of Ruzbeh and helping me to get to the city. I tell him that the water pump at the lemon grove has been fixed and that they should come there next fall when there will be a need for fruit pickers. I hate to leave these gentle, calm
people who have nothing but their goodness. With a wish for their health and safety, I leave them and make my way through the crowded bazaar.
In the jewelers’ section at the end of the bazaar, close to the shrine of Imamzade Shah Cheragh, I search for Musa’s brother’s shop. If he hasn’t left the country and I can find him, maybe he knows something or can gave me a clue what to do. The way news spreads through the bazaar, he must have heard something. Everyone is busy as if there were no war going on. I find the shop, but it’s closed. I ask the jeweler next door if the shop will be open.
“No,” says the old shopkeeper. “It hasn’t been open for a week. I don’t know what happened to Ebrahim. He was a good neighbor. There is a rumor that he was arrested”—he brings his head closer—“for spying, but I don’t believe that. I think he has left the country to go to Israel. I heard him talking about selling his shop.” He looks around to make sure no one is listening. “If this is the way this place is heading, I might start looking to go myself. I have a son in America—in San Jose.”
“Ah, San Jose, California?” I ask smiling.
“Yes. Yes. I was there just two years ago and saw the Golden Gate. It was beautiful. The ocean was very nice. There were so many Iranians. A young man like you should try to go. There’s no future in this place.”
I don’t know why he is telling me this, but people love to talk about America if they get a chance.
I thank him and walk away, not knowing where to go or what to do except to lose myself in the narrow winding passages of the bazaar until the noise and the smell of old spices and synthetic perfume start to make my head spin and I rush out to the nearest street.
Soon it will be night and the curfew will be in effect. I’m not afraid, though. I’m determined to do whatever I can to find out about Shireen and avoid anything that will attract attention. I know I’ve started down a path I must follow no matter the consequences but don’t know where to go or whom to ask for information.
