The Lemon Grove

by Ali Hosseini

  I feel weak and think I’m going to pass out. I know my illness is starting to come back. I tell them that I need to lie down.

  Javid brings me some aspirin, then takes the lamp and helps me to the guest bedroom. He pulls back the blankets and I lie down on the bed. When he leaves, taking the lamp with him, the room is pitch-black … I close my eyes and see a figure in the distance. I see the flare of her red dress and her hair flying in the wind. She is waving, but in greeting or farewell? For a moment I think she is calling for help. Webs of light and dust break my vision. She moves away and fades from view. I must run to her, run into the desert. I want to call after her but can’t open my mouth.

  Twenty-one

  IT’S DARK AND I WAKE UP breathing hard, coughing and sweating and not knowing where I am. I hear muffled voices in the other room and it takes me a few seconds to realize I’m at Javid’s. The door opens and Javid stands there, the hallway light pouring past him into the room.

  “Good you’re awake,” he says. “I was waiting for you to wake up. We’ve called someone to come over. He’s a doctor and a trusted friend. You need to be looked at.”

  “No I don’t. I’m okay.”

  “You do need to be looked at. Anyway, he’s here.”

  I have neither the patience nor the will to fight Javid. He comes back with the doctor and turns the light on. I close my eyes for a moment and, when I open them, an Indian doctor with extremely white teeth is smiling at me.

  “I’m Dr. Suresh Sharma.”

  “Hello,” I say, shaking his extended hand.

  He starts to examine me, looking under my eyelids, in my ears and throat, taking my pulse, and listening to my heart and my breathing.

  “Javid tells me you were in America,” he says in English.

  I nod.

  “Where?”

  “The Midwest.”

  “Chicago?”

  “Near there.” I don’t really feel like talking or going into detail. I’m afraid that if he finds out how sick I am it will jeopardize my chance of getting to Afghanistan.

  “I would love very much to go to America,” he says, sighing. “It’s not good here anymore, or even safe. Sorry to say this, but it’s true.” He shakes his head from side to side as if it’s loose on his neck. “The Namazi Hospital here was the best in the Middle East, and I worked with good Iranian and American doctors. They’re all gone now—not just the Americans, the Iranians too. Everything has stopped. There is zero research done. No medicine. No equipment. We’re overwhelmed by the war casualties.”

  He puts his stethoscope on again. When it touches my back, I jump at its cold feel. He tells me to breathe deeply and moves it around listening to my lungs.

  “I’m working on going to America to become a surgeon,” he says, taking the stethoscope out of his ears. “I came here almost ten yeas ago—in the good old days, as they say now.” He smiles. “And now I’m stuck here because of circumstances. Circumstances—we are all here or anywhere because of circumstances. You in America, then here. Me in Hyderabad, now here! Tomorrow who knows? Even the gods are in our lives because of circumstances.”

  He pushes on my kidneys and I cry out. With a frown he eases his touch and goes on with the examination.

  “Your kidneys are sensitive. Do you urinate a lot?”

  I hesitate at first, but then I answer him. “It seems that I do.”

  He tells me to lie on my back and pushes down on my chest and the lower part of my belly. I feel a sharp pain, but this time control myself. I don’t say a word about the incident in the Naranjestan. I’m afraid he is going to tell me that I’m seriously ill.

  “It seems that your lungs are weak. Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Possibly it’s from being in the countryside—in all that dust and wind. You have a temperature and your blood pressure is low. I would like to take urine and blood samples and do some tests, but you would need to come to the hospital for that. I suggest that you get some rest. I’ll write prescriptions for something that will make you sleep better and something for your kidneys. Unfortunately there are not many good medicines available now, but these will do the job. And above all you need to rest—rest as a sitting Buddha rests.” He gives me a wide smile.

  I thank him and tell him I hope he makes it to America. He gives Javid the prescription.

  “Get these pills for him and have him rest. Get him a damp towel to put on his forehead. I would love to stay and chat,” he says as he prepares to leave, “but it’s late.”

  Javid walks out with him and comes back in a few minutes. “How did you like our doctor friend?” he says. “He never runs out of things to say, especially about himself or India.”

  I force a smile.

  “Well, as the good Dr. Sharma said, you need to rest. The drugstores are closed at this hour. I’ll get the medicine for you tomorrow. Let’s hope I can find one that carries them.”

  Twenty-two

  IN THE PAST TWO WEEKS, away from the open country, I have been able to relax a bit by reading poetry and preparing my mind for the journey. Afternoons I sit in Farideh’s flower garden inside the walled courtyard. It’s a large courtyard, much larger than those in most houses here, and a place to enjoy. Farideh works in the garden almost every afternoon for an hour or so after she comes home from her work at city hall.

  Her garden isn’t like traditional Persian courtyard gardens that have a hoze—pool—in the middle, surrounded by symmetric plots laid out in a geometric design like a Persian carpet. At first glance it’s a riot of colors and shapes that look mismatched, as if Jackson Pollock had stood on the redbrick edging of the garden and madly splashed his colors down. But when you stand gazing at the rich textures of red and yellow, green and white, orange and purple, you realize that it’s designed to put you into an abstract space alive with order, balance, and rhythm. After a while you see how everything—the spaces, shapes, colors, and fragrances—comes together and takes you away from the chaos of this old city that was once famous for its wine and rose gardens.

  Farideh says that in any part of this ancient country there are stories that show how gardens and poetry have been complementing each other throughout the ages. One that she says she enjoys the most is about a poet-king who loved gardens. He built a garden with a small stream snaking through and filled the garden with flowering plants from different parts of the country. The king would invite poets to the garden and have them spread out at equal intervals alongside the stream. Cups of wine with gold coins in the bottom and balanced on leaves would be floated down the water. The challenge was that the first poet would recite the first line of a poem and the next poet had to compose the second line by the time a cup of wine reached him and so on. Any poet who couldn’t make the next rhyme would lose his chance of grabbing the passing cup.

  How we would be content now with a forbidden glass of red wine.

  “You must be able to find wine around here,” I say after she tells me the story.

  “Yes,” she answers. “Practically every basement in the city has become a winery. But you have to consider the consequences of every act in this city of ours.”

  I think she is refraining from saying that I had acted foolishly in the past. She drinks her tea and tells me that three things have kept them going—the garden, Javid’s music, and reading. “Can you believe it?” she says, “Javid and I are not even thirty, yet we live like old people. And we’re the lucky ones.” Then she stops. “You know, I miss Shireen so much. I don’t have very many friends here anymore. Most of them have left. We worked in the garden together—she loved it.” She reflects for a moment. “It was like therapy for her. She would plant and I would water. We worked for hours in the summer heat. Shireen planted most of the gole-laleh abaassi and gole-laadan—four o’clocks and nasturtiums. She had a way of doing things. Just look at those flowers, how they complement one another.”

  I look at the pink trumpets of the four o’clocks and the gold and orange nas
turtiums sprawling along the pathway and wish she were here to see them.

  “You know, Behruz, I love children. So does Javid. We wanted to have a child, but we’ve decided not to, at least for now, not while we have to live with this war that seems to have no end. If it works out and we get to a more civilized place, maybe then. Like Javid told you the other night, we’re serious about leaving. Many of our friends have applied to go to Canada. Some have gone to Europe, some to America.”

  I am surprised at the way Farideh has opened up to me. Being in the garden seems to have relaxed her and made her talk freely. I listen, feeling sorry and confused about what the future could be in a place where the younger generation is deprived of an ordinary way of life.

  Talking to Javid these past few nights, I have realized that he has started to be much more relaxed with me. In the past I had sensed his jealousy. I guess he thought of Ruzbeh and me as spoiled children with money and land, and to a degree resented my having had the opportunity to go to America while he had to work from childhood and was forced to depend only on himself. He was a good student and passed the university entrance exams to study architecture only to be unable to finish just one semester short of graduating because the universities had been closed. At the time, he had Marxist ideas and argued passionately in favor of the abolition of private property. Now he’s wealthy because of his own efforts and insight. He made his money by buying confiscated properties and the fancy cars and Persian carpets that were left behind by wealthy military officers, government officials, and university heads who had fled the country or been executed or jailed. This house is impressive and stylish with stone stairs and columns at the entrance replicating those at Persepolis. The spacious living room has huge windows that open to the city below. The fireplace is flanked by two guards like those in the ruins of the ancient palace. I can’t help wondering about who owned it and where the family is, or whether they’re even alive.

  The other day on the afternoon news I saw an interview with several Afghani men talking about the war and consequent problems in Afghanistan. I got upset and told Javid they shouldn’t have sent Shireen there. “Listen, Behruz,” he said, “don’t you get it, man? Don’t you see what is happening here? There are no choices. If you find a way, you’re lucky. Do you know how many people are running for their lives, going on foot across the desert to Afghanistan and Pakistan or over the mountains of Kurdistan to Turkey? Many are robbed and cheated if not abandoned by the smugglers. But then, why should you get it? You’re so disillusioned that nothing seems to reach you. Sorry Behruz, but these are the facts. Anyone who has a chance is getting out. The smart ones are those who got out years ago and stayed out.” I noticed his sarcastic smile and knew he was thinking of me. “Everything is changing for the worse here. What happened to Shireen wasn’t an isolated incident—that sort of barbarism is happening all over the country. She’s lucky she is out. That’s the only way we could help her.”

  I kept quiet, not wanting to say anything more. In the evening, after a good dinner of the sort I hadn’t had for many months, Javid played his lute and sang in his deep, sad voice that sounded even sadder than I remembered.

  Oh, love, all the best years of my youth

  I searched for you

  up the mountains, down the valleys,

  in the crooked city streets.

  The desert made me thirsty

  The forest made me sleepy

  The city choked me

  But your love in my heart

  Kept me alive.

  The Indian doctor has come twice to see me. God how he talked, first trying to persuade me to go to the hospital for tests, then telling me about his plans to leave the country. He has managed to get an acceptance letter from a medical school in Milwaukee. A friend who works there sent it to him. He said he doesn’t even know what the place is like, but it’s a start and if he doesn’t like it there he’ll go somewhere else.

  “I can’t stand the aristocratic behavior of the British,” he explained. “Otherwise I would go to England. I think America is a better choice. It’s like India, with many different kinds of people and religions. Of course if only we could get people to have fewer children, maybe India would have a better future too.”

  His plan was to go to Mumbai to apply for a visa to the United States and see his mother as well. If I ever go back to America, he says, I should look him up.

  “And don’t get me wrong about leaving Shiraz,” he went on. “I love the city and the climate, but all my Iranian colleagues have left or are leaving, and I’m seeing things happening here that dishearten a believer in nonviolence. What have we humans learned from history after all? Shouldn’t we learn from past mistakes? Why does history always repeat itself? Or should I say do we let history repeat itself. Pardon me for going on like this.”

  Before I can leave for Afghanistan, I need to be sure about two things. One is that Ruzbeh will stay with Farideh and Javid as they suggested, and the other that they will bring Mother to the city, since she needs medical attention. Javid has promised to follow up and find out what has happened to our house—it belongs to Mother and she should be able to get it back.

  Last week, Javid and Farideh went to the Naranjestan to bring Ruzbeh to the city and try their best to let him know that Shireen has left the country, without giving too much detail. To their surprise, he took the news better than we had feared, but he decided to stay with Mother and come to the city later.

  Today Farideh left work early and went to the village to try to find Ruzbeh. I want him here so he can be seen by the doctor and get the medicine he needs. I know Farideh has a sweet way with him and will be able to convince him to come. I wish Javid could have gone with her, but there were some complications at city hall about one of the apartment buildings he is constructing.

  It’s late afternoon and Farideh should be back by now. I wonder whether something has gone wrong. Has Ruzbeh run away again and is she looking for him? I’ve been trying to be more positive the past two weeks, thinking that soon I’ll be leaving and I don’t want anything to go wrong or make me lose confidence.

  In the garden, as sunset approaches, the dark flowers are fading and the white ones are coming into sharp relief. I’m engaged in watching the slow change of the colors when I hear the door and Javid walks in, briefcase in hand.

  “I didn’t see Farideh’s car,” he says in an agitated tone. “Isn’t she back yet?”

  “No,” I say. “I’ve been waiting.”

  “God, what a day,” he says. “There’s no logic in the head of any person in the city hall.” Then after a moment he adds, “I hope Farideh is not in trouble.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “There are roadblocks at all the major intersections and cars are being checked. It wasn’t a good day to send her for Ruzbeh. What a stupid mistake to let her go by herself.”

  “Do you think something happened, Javid?”

  “What if they stopped her with Ruzbeh in a private car? She could be in trouble, being with a man she’s not married or related to.”

  “Oh jeez,” I exclaim and see Javid staring at me. I realize this expression, so common in America, must sound strange to his ears.

  “Maybe we should go after her, Javid.”

  “Yes, we ought to,” he says.

  I walk with him through the courtyard to the main door, wondering if this is another situation where I’m going to lose my nerve.

  “Wait a minute,” Javid says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come. What if we are stopped at a roadblock and you are recognized.”

  At that moment we hear a car pull up. Javid opens the door halfway. “It’s Farideh,” he says and opens the gate for her to drive in.

  Farideh gets out of the car, followed by Musa and Ruzbeh. I’m relieved to see them but surprised that Musa has come.

  Farideh winks and whispers to me as she passes, “Here, I brought your brother. It wasn’t easy, but here he is, as handsome as ever.�
�� I want to hug her, but I can only manage to say thank you.

  “Hello, young man.” It’s Musa coming to shake my hand. I smile and remember how he calls me young man. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to leave without saying good-bye?” He smiles and looks happy to see me. “We’ve been having quite a time at the orchard!”

  Ruzbeh looks tired and seems nervous.

  “Salaam, Ruzbeh,” I say as I embrace and kiss him. I realize right away that he is much better than he was the afternoon in the Naranjestan when I left him. I’m sure Musa has taken care of him and made him rest. I step back and look at him, his hair cut and face clean-shaven, and the sports coat he has on. If you didn’t know him—well, you would never guess anything was wrong.

  Javid shakes hands with Musa and then hugs and kisses Ruzbeh. “It’s been a long time, my friend. I’m glad to see you. Let’s go in.”

  At the moment we turn to go back to the house we hear a motorcycle pull up.

  “Oh,” Musa says, “Kemal is here.”

  Javid opens the door, and Kemal pushes his motorcycle into the yard. He shakes hands with everyone and looks at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

  We go in and Javid brings a tray with cups of tea. Farideh comes into the living room. She has taken off her scarf and chador. “It took a long time,” she says. I sense disturbance in her manner and wonder if something is wrong. “Musa and Kemal decided to come, and I spent some time with your mother and Bibi Khanom. They seemed fine. Your mother says she’s ready to come back to the city.”

  Ruzbeh is quiet. I wish we were alone so we could talk. I ask about the Naranjestan.

  “Things are fine,” Musa says. “Everything is going smoothly. Things have been going well since the day the pump started to work.”

  He sits back in his chair and, looking at me, launches into a story.