The Lemon Grove

by Ali Hosseini

  There is something strange about the people and the city. The war with its constant flow of casualties and refugees, the threat of nightly air raids, and the ceremonies in the mosques celebrating martyrdom and recruiting people for the front seem to have become an accepted part of life here.

  I walk up the street, thinking maybe I should take the risk and go to the house. If I see any sign that it’s been confiscated I won’t go in. Maybe one of the neighbors could give me some news or the name of a person I could go and see. I try to think of the names of some friends I might be able to look up.

  Beside a construction site a group of Afghani workers are gathered. They have finished work for the day and are washing up at a water tap. I consider asking if I can stay with them for the night, knowing that they often stay together in a shack on the site since they don’t have their families with them. I start walking toward them when suddenly I remember my friend who has a construction company and hires Afghani workers. Why did it take me so long to think of Javid and his wife, Farideh? When I was hiding in the city those months ago I didn’t go to them, thinking it might put them in danger. But now I have to. They’ve been close friends of Ruzbeh and Shireen’s ever since their student days. Like them, they weren’t able to finish school when all the universities were closed after the student uprisings, but they kept in touch. Many nights when I came back from America, we would all get together at their place, talking and arguing about the changes in the country and the direction it was heading. Javid was optimistic about the future and Farideh was just the opposite. I can see now that she was right about the pressure that would be put on women’s rights as time passed and can remember her saying that women have always been invisible victims in this culture of ours, that they have had to shut up and be quiet, but that they wouldn’t stay that way for long and eventually would shout no so loud that the whole world would hear.

  I flag down a taxi and tell the driver the name of the neighborhood where Javid and Farideh live. I wonder if they’re still in the city or even in the country—so many misfortunes can happen without anyone’s knowing. When I get out of the taxi, it takes me a while to get my bearings. I look around for the house. The neighborhood is called Tapeh Televizioun—Television Hill. It’s where the Shiraz TV station was built years ago, on the mountainside, and is one of the nicest areas of the city. By the time I find the house and ring the bell, darkness is descending.

  A man’s voice comes over the intercom. “Ke-eh?”—Who is it?

  “Behruz,” I say. My voice is dry and shaky. I wait for the click of the automatic door opener but nothing happens, and the same voice comes over the intercom again.

  “Who is it?”

  “Behruz Pirzad.” I speak more loudly this time.

  I know I’m at the right place and wonder if they will open the door. They haven’t seen or heard from me for more than a year, and if they know what happened to Shireen, they may not want to have anything to do with me.

  I am ready to give up and start down the hill when I hear footsteps on the other side of the door and then a long silence.

  “Behruz, is it you?”

  I recognize Javid’s voice this time. “Yes—it’s me.”

  The door opens a crack and I see Javid craning his neck to look down the street before opening the door all the way.

  “Come in,” he says, “Are you alone?”

  He certainly is nervous at seeing me.

  “Well.” He looks at me as if not recognizing me. “Where’ve you been all this time, man? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure, come in. Come in.”

  I enter the familiar courtyard with its wide path and flanking rows of cypress trees. The house sits on a high foundation at the far end of the yard and has wide steps leading up to the entrance. I see someone standing at the top of the stairs. It must be Farideh.

  “Hello,” I say as I approach her.

  She walks down a few steps, smiling, then kisses me and gives me a hug.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”

  “No, no. It’s just that we haven’t heard from you in a long time. Come in, please. Where have you been? You look so thin. We thought for a second you were Ruzbeh. We haven’t seen him for months either.”

  I realize that she doesn’t mention Shireen and I don’t know how to ask about her. I decide that the best thing is to wait.

  When we sit down, Farideh goes out of the room and Javid eyes me in silence. His face looks older and he has less hair than I remember. He seems uneasy, and I imagine he must have many questions on his mind. Farideh comes back with tea and pastries. She has cut her hair short and her neck is bare. She is dressed nicely, wearing a silver necklace and turquoise earrings. I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a woman’s bare neck.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Were you about to go out?”

  “Oh, no,” she says. “We were at Javid’s sister’s this afternoon and just got back.”

  “I’m glad I found you at home.”

  She holds the tray out to me. From the look in her eyes, I can guess what is in her mind. She must blame me for what happened to Shireen and wonder how I could have started a relationship with my own brother’s wife. I take a cup of tea and she puts the tray on the table and sits down.

  I remember how night after night we discussed the political situation and the Americans being held hostage at the embassy, an action that branded Iran as an uncivilized country, isolated us, and damaged our credibility and culture and is something we may never recover from. Javid saw it as a way to fight the imperialist West, a view of many Iranian leftists at the time. We argued about imperialism, Western democracy and human rights, and the events that were taking our country in the wrong direction. We talked about the separation of religion and state, and how when a society gives the first priority to God, then naturally the next priority will go to those who represent God, and so on and on, with the ordinary citizens coming last, if not left out altogether.

  Farideh and Shireen talked about their early student activities and described the day they had gone to Tehran for the International Women’s Day march that more than a million people participated in, but still the women lost. Both Shireen and Farideh believed that the government would hold on to power for years to come, and Javid would disagree saying that the Islamists didn’t have the sophistication to run the country. I thought that there was no need for sophistication—that ignoring human rights didn’t require sophistication. Shireen and Farideh were mostly on my side, and I enjoyed that.

  It was interesting to see Shireen at a gathering, how quick she was to express her views in sign language. We had all picked up some of the language by that time. Farideh and Shireen would often have their own conversation going on, with Ruzbeh keeping quiet and listening. After we had worn ourselves out talking, Javid, who loved classical Persian music, would play his oud, and the low and sad strains of the lute and his deep voice would take us away from the disturbing events of the day.

  I look at Javid and Farideh and wonder what they are thinking. It seems we are all avoiding something—or maybe just don’t know where to start.

  We drink our tea in a silence that seems to last hours. Finally Javid says, “Well, where have you been? Where is Ruzbeh?”

  “I was at the lemon grove. As for Ruzbeh, I saw him only briefly yesterday after many months. He’s back there now and I hope that he will stay there and not go back to wandering the desert.”

  There is another long silence. Then, eyeing me, Farideh says, “If no one wants to say anything, let me start.”

  She is bold and direct, as always. “Behruz, we were looking for you. Everything came to us secondhand. First we heard you were killed, then that you had run away and been captured. We didn’t believe you were captured, because we know people who would have told us. We had no idea where to look for you or Ruzbeh. We went to your house. It was guarded. We went to the Naranjestan. We hadn�
�t been there for years. It looked abandoned and there was no sign that anyone had been there …”

  I interrupt her. “What happened to Shireen? Do you know?”

  They look at each other.

  “That’s why I’m here,” I say firmly. “If you know, you must tell me. If you don’t know, I need to leave.” I get up.

  “Take it easy, Behruz,” Javid says. “Sit down please.” I can hear the pleading in his voice but don’t sit down.

  “She’s saved,” Farideh says finally, her voice breaking.

  “Saved?” My eyes go back and forth between them.

  “Yes—saved,” Javid says.

  “Then what I’ve heard is true. Where is she? Tell me, please.”

  “Calm down,” Farideh says, wiping her eyes.

  Javid puts his hand on her shoulder. I sit down, leaning toward them.

  “She’s not here,” Farideh says.

  “Then tell me, for God’s sake. Is she in jail?”

  “No. She’s out of the country.”

  I stare at her. Then at Javid.

  “Out of the country? I don’t understand.”

  She gives me a sharp look to indicate I should keep calm and listen.

  “Yes—she’s gone to Afghanistan.”

  “Afghanistan!?”

  “Yes, and she’s safe where she is.”

  “Please,” I plead. “I don’t understand. Why Afghanistan?”

  “It is complicated and difficult—she was saved and not saved,” Farideh says, on the verge of crying.

  “Farideh-joon,” Javid says. “Be calm, dear.”

  I feel frustrated and angry that they don’t just spell it out.

  At last Farideh continues. “She managed to pull herself free.” Her voice chokes. “The woman who was in charge of her in prison—or wherever it was they were holding her—a few days beforehand told her that the only way to survive was to manage to free herself, that she shouldn’t panic or be afraid, that she should dig herself out no matter what. And if she did, according to Islamic law, the stoning would stop because she would be considered innocent.

  “The woman wouldn’t even tell us her name. She had told Shireen that she would take her to her family. Shireen had written down our address.”

  Farideh grows quiet. I close my eyes, not knowing what to say. I search for words, but everything that comes to mind seems hollow and absurd. I wait and Farideh goes on. “She was in shock, frightened and broken. Her hands and fingers were cut and her face …”

  She gets up and leaves the room. I feel a lump in my throat and struggle to fight back the tears and keep from breaking down in front of them.

  I hear Javid’s voice as if from far away. “Behruz, are you all right? Do you want to lie down?”

  “No. Just tell me. Tell me what happened, Javid.”

  He takes his time taking a sip from his tea as if he does not wish to talk and then says, “It was dark when the woman rang the bell and brought her to us. We called a doctor who is a friend of ours. He came over right away. It was almost two months before she started to show signs of recovery. It wasn’t physical, you see. Yes she had cuts and bruises, but it was the mental shock. I guess none of us could imagine what it was like. Farideh took care of her, even though she was ill the whole time. I played the oud for them every night. I would sit next to Shireen’s bed and play. Farideh slept in the same room and wouldn’t leave her by herself.”

  Farideh comes in and sits beside Javid. She has washed her face but her eyes are red.

  “Are you all right?” Javid asks her.

  She nods.

  I feel awful. “I’m sorry, Farideh,” I say.

  “We looked for you and Ruzbeh,” Javid goes on. “We looked everywhere. We knew Ruzbeh was gone—that he had run away or disappeared somewhere. We went to the lemon grove again and didn’t see anyone. Shireen told us your mother and hers were in the village, but she didn’t want us to go to them. She couldn’t bear it. So we didn’t. We thought you would come around if you hadn’t been captured. What happened to you? We heard you were killed trying to run away.”

  I get up and walk to the window. How foolish I have been. I let self-pity overwhelm me and eat away at the courage that I needed all those months. I let fear keep me around that barren lemon grove. Why didn’t I think of Javid and Farideh all that time? I could have come here then. Maybe I could have helped Shireen somehow. Maybe I could have figured out a way.

  “Tell me what happened to her. Why is she in Afghanistan?”

  “Because she had nobody here. Because we had no other choice!” Farideh snaps at me. “Where were you? How could you leave her and now come asking for her?”

  I look at Javid. He sees my pleading look and turns to Farideh. “Take it easy, azizam.”

  “We couldn’t find you,” Javid says. “And the woman who brought Shireen came back later and said we should send her somewhere safe, away from here if possible, because the religious judge who gave the sentence was questioning how she came to be freed. He thought there must have been a conspiracy or bribery at work for her to have been able to escape.”

  “We didn’t know what to believe,” Javid continues. “Was this woman telling the truth? We didn’t know. Anything is possible in this place. We thought she wanted a reward for bringing her to us, and we had already responded generously. There is so much contradiction and irrationality these days that you lose your sense of normalcy. Every few days we took her from one friend’s house to another, and finally, when she was better, we helped her leave the country.”

  “Why out of the country? You could have…”

  “Could have what?” Farideh says, raising her voice. “Shireen wanted to go.” She turns to Javid. “Didn’t she, Javid?”

  “How could that be?”

  “Take it easy, Behruz,” says Javid. “You look ill. You need to rest.”

  “How is it possible?”

  “We really had no choice,” Farideh says. “She wanted to go—certainly you should understand that. After what happened it was as if nothing mattered to her anymore. There was nothing left for her to hang on to. The house had been confiscated, or was in the process of being confiscated. She and Ruzbeh had become estranged, and you … well, I don’t know what to say.”

  She pauses for a moment. “She had only one thought left, to rescue herself. And she intended to live no matter what. Also, I personally would have done anything so that they couldn’t get their hands on her again. She was even afraid to go to her own mother. Besides, it would have broken her mother’s heart to see her in that condition.”

  Javid puts his hand on Farideh’s shoulder again and she continues with bitterness in her voice. “How could a woman raise her head in this city after what happened? She couldn’t have gone anywhere without being eyed and pointed at like … like the woman in The Scarlet Letter. That was fiction but here it’s real. And it’s happening all over the country. With no sign of stopping, and none of us is doing anything about it …”

  She stops talking, gets up, and leaves the room. Javid follows her. I sink down in the sofa, thinking that I don’t possess an ounce of the insight and courage of either Farideh or Shireen. At the worst possible time, Shireen tried to save herself, while I did the opposite. And have I ever gone out of my way to help anyone the way so many people have tried to help me? I resolve to change, to do things differently.

  Night has fallen and from the window I can see the flickering lights of the city down in the valley. All at once the room goes dark. It takes me a moment to realize that the power is out and the whole city is drowned in darkness. It seems like a long time before Javid comes in with a portable propane lamp. Our shadows, fat and surreal, are cast on the walls and the ceiling.

  “Here we go again,” Javid says. “God knows, but it may be a few hours before we will have the electricity back. This has been happening often these days.”

  Farideh comes in with a glass of water in her hand.

  “I’m sorry, F
arideh,” I say softly. “I’m causing you such anxiety, but why Afghanistan? Another country engulfed in chaos and war.”

  “Well,” Javid says after a while, “it’s the safest avenue we knew, and we had done it before. We managed to send a few friends out of the country through Afghanistan and Pakistan, and from there with the help of the United Nations they were able to go to Europe and Canada and even the United States—friends who were in the opposition and in danger, also a Baha’i family who were our neighbors when we lived in the Golestan area. They were chased out of their house after the revolution and had to live in hiding. If Shireen gets to the U.N. office in Pakistan, she’ll have no problem getting to the West. She has a strong case.”

  “Yes,” Farideh says. “It was the safest way we knew.”

  “I have many Afghans who work for me,” Javid goes on. “Every few months they go back to see their families and sometimes they take their families back and forth. We sent Shireen out dressed as an Afghani woman with a man we trust. She’s with his family in Kandahar.”

  I get up and go to the window to look out at the dark city. “You must help me,” I say. “I need to go there. I need to go and find her. Javid, can you help me? I need to go to her.”

  Farideh, as if she has been waiting for my words, turns to Javid. “We could send him with Zamirvali. The same way.”

  “Things are not as they were a few months ago,” Javid says after some thought. “It may not be as easy, but I’ll look into it. There would be some paperwork to be done, and it might take a couple of weeks.” He turns to me. “Are you sure you are up to this? You look ill.”

  “I’ll be fine after a few days’ rest. Who is Zamirvali?”

  “He’s an Afghan,” Javid says. “A trusted friend who works for me. He took Shireen to Afghanistan. I need to talk to him, but we would need to be careful and not let anyone know you’re here.”

  “Our plan was that Shireen would go to Pakistan from there,” Farideh says. “It may not be as easy as we think for a woman by herself. If you were with her it would be much easier to make it to the U.N. refugee office at the border with Pakistan.”