The Lemon Grove

by Ali Hosseini

  “That afternoon when I saw you sitting under the willow tree where you always sit, I called out, ‘Behruz, come and wash yourself—we’re going to have tea—we’re going to have a celebration for the water coming back,’ but you didn’t move.”

  “You were calling Behruz!” Ruzbeh says, smiling as he finishes his tea.

  “How would I have known, young man?” Musa replies. “Then I walked over to get you to come and join us.”

  “Yes, you did,” Ruzbeh says laughing. “You looked right at me and said, ‘Behruz, don’t you want to come and have some tea?’”

  My heart fills with joy seeing him like this, but at the same time I feel anxious, knowing that his behavior could change at any moment.

  “Later I was preparing my water pipe and you told me that the Gypsies were going south. I stopped and looked up. ‘Gypsies? What is he saying?’ It was then that I realized I was talking to Ruzbeh. I was taken aback, I can tell you.”

  Javid and Farideh watch Musa with interest. I can see they are fascinated by him.

  “How could this be?” Musa continues after taking a sip of tea. “Behruz was here all along and now suddenly it’s Ruzbeh here beside me. Is this a vision? Have these young men been playing with me all along, switching back and forth all summer and I didn’t know it? Has Kemal got something to do with this? Then I yelled for Kemal to come over.”

  “I rushed out,” Kemal says, “thinking something had happened to the children and saw Musa pointing at Ruzbeh. ‘What’s the matter, old man?’ I said as I went up to Ruzbeh and, shaking hands with him, said that it was a very good day to come back. The day the pump is fixed.”

  “How did you know it was Ruzbeh?” Javid asks.

  “I’m not sure but I knew right away.”

  Farideh bursts into a laugh. “I wish I’d been there.”

  We have a simple dinner that Farideh and Javid have prepared. When they take the dishes to the kitchen, I hear them arguing and a moment later Javid rushes into the living room.

  “I wish someone had told me about the roadblock.” He looks at Musa and Kemal.

  “Well, young man,” Musa says, “it was over as soon as it started and we didn’t want to spoil the evening. Things are difficult enough as they are.”

  In confusion I look at them.

  “They were stopped at a roadblock and questioned,” Javid explains. “It was at the entrance to the city. This could be a big problem.”

  “I was telling Javid,” Farideh says, coming back into the room, “that the person who questioned us looked familiar. I think he was at the university when we were there and belonged to the radical Islamists. He always caused problems for the girls who weren’t wearing scarves. After the revolution he joined a militia. I don’t know if he recognized me. Kemal talked to him and he let us go. Now Javid is all upset.”

  Kemal breaks in. “I don’t think there’s any problem. I know some of those guys. I told him we worked at Mrs. Farideh Rahimi’s farm and were going to the city to buy some equipment for a broken tractor. Looking me up and down, the guard said, ‘We need farmers like you these days! We need to grow what we need and become self-sufficient so we can put an end to importing goods.’” A self-assured look covers Kemal’s face. “That’s what he said, and here we are.”

  “I don’t trust any of these people,” Javid says. “They could have followed you. And if they come here …” He hesitates. “We need to come up with something.”

  I wouldn’t blame him for getting rid of me right on the spot, I think to myself. They have already risked so much.

  “Well,” Javid says, “I better take them to my sister’s. That would be the best, I think. She’s out of town. The house isn’t that far and the curfew hasn’t started yet. I’ll take you all there now, and early in the morning I’ll come and take Behruz and Zamirvali to the bus station.”

  Everybody gets up quickly as if the guards were actually on their way to the house.

  Twenty-three

  THE MORNING IS BREAKING, and the sound of the muezzins travels up the hill from the city below. Musa comes to wake me up, but I’ve been awake for a while. I have my Afghani clothes on and have been anxiously waiting.

  It’s cold this time of year and seems the worst time for a journey—a long journey across the desert and jagged mountains of two ancient countries. I insisted on leaving for Afghanistan as soon as possible. Now everything is arranged and I’m ready. Javid managed to get me an Afghani identity card from the labor department—it had belonged to a man named Valid Shah, who died in an accident at a brick factory where he worked. Javid wouldn’t say how much he had to pay as a bribe to get it.

  Last night under darkness we managed to get to Javid’s sister with no problem, although the whole event added to my anxiety. I was sure something would go wrong and prevent me from leaving for Afghanistan.

  I’m pleased beyond measure that Ruzbeh is here. It would have been very hard not to see him before going away. He said he has been staying with Mother and been taking his medicine. Also it’s obvious that spending time with Musa has been very positive for him. At Javid’s I watched him closely to see if I could detect any signs of uneasiness. He was calm and quiet. I’ve seen him this way many times but know that his silence can lead to a deep depression that pushes him to leave and wander the streets.

  Last night at last I got a chance to be alone with Ruzbeh and wanted to ask what was on his mind, but I was afraid how he would react. I didn’t want to throw him off balance, so I carefully asked about Mother and the Naranjestan before bringing the conversation around to us. I knew I might not have another chance to talk to him or even see him again.

  “Ruzbeh,” I said nervously, “you must hate me.”

  He stared at me in a such a serious way that I hated myself for asking the question and prayed he wouldn’t be upset.

  “No, I don’t hate you,” he said.

  “I’m glad,” I said. “I want to tell you that I’ll do everything possible to find Shireen. Maybe then you can come and join us.”

  “Find her first,” he said firmly.

  I looked at him, trying not to get emotional. I didn’t want him to lose the confidence he had been showing.

  “Hatman, hatman—of course, of course. I must,” I told him. “And I want you to promise me you’ll stay with Farideh and Javid.”

  I got up and hugged him. “You’ll stay with them?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll try.” We looked at each other close to tears. I felt that I had just raised my head above water and taken a deep breath.

  “I would have liked to take you with me,” I said, “but Javid didn’t want to send both of us together since the chance of succeeding would be lower.”

  “You go find her first,” he repeated.

  Musa, Kemal, and Ruzbeh are in the dining room, and when I walk in, all three stop eating and stare at me.

  “Behruz, you amaze me,” Musa says. “I had no idea. You look just like an Afghan. I’m sure it will make it safer for you and everything will go fine.”

  “I’m not amazed,” Kemal says, laughing and looking at my turban and baggy pants. “Like we say, if there were water, he would be a professional swimmer!”

  I ignore him and look at Ruzbeh, who is feeling the material of my shirt.

  “Looks good on you,” he says smiling.

  I return his smile and take a cup of tea but don’t really feel like drinking or eating anything. At that moment we hear the door and Javid and Farideh walk in.

  “Wow,” Javid says. “Very nice!”

  Farideh touches my shoulder and smiles. “You look handsome,” she says. “Watch out for the Kandahari girls when you get there.”

  I smile back at her. I know they are all as nervous as I am and are trying hard to be supportive.

  “We’d better get going,” Javid says. “We need to stop on the way and pick up Zamirvali at the construction site.”

  Farideh hands me two books of poetry. “The Rubaiyat
is for you, and Farrokhzad’s Another Birth is for Shireen.” Her eyes are moist. “She liked to borrow it when she was here.”

  Musa has a small plastic bag. “Kemal and I got you this. It’s dried fruits and nuts to take on the bus.”

  I thank them and put everything in my shoulder bag. When we are in the yard, Musa holds up a Koran for me to kiss and walk under.

  “Come on, Musa,” Kemal says, “you can’t believe in this.”

  “Hush, Kemal,” Musa says.

  I go along with these rituals and am even more surprised when Farideh pours water on the ground behind me, a Persian custom I don’t even know the meaning of.

  “Young man,” Musa says as he gives me a hug, “take care of yourself, you hear?”

  Kemal shakes my hand calmly. “Don’t worry about Ruzbeh, your mother, or the Naranjestan. I’ll take care of things here. Remember that Kemal is a man of his word.”

  Farideh hugs me. “Find Shireen. Don’t worry about us. I’ll do all I can for your mother and will send Ruzbeh to you when the time is right. Be strong. Be hopeful.”

  I become aware of Ruzbeh standing close beside me. We embrace and everyone is quiet. It seems that neither of us wants to let go. I hold him tighter and can feel his anxiety. Finally we step back and wipe our tears. He puts a small box in my shoulder bag. “Give this to Shireen,” he says, trying to keep back his tears.

  At the moment I’m ready to get into the car, I ask Javid if Ruzbeh could come to the bus station with us.

  “Sure,” he says. “Let’s hurry.”

  Ruzbeh gets in and sits next to me. I’m pleased that I will have a few more minutes with him. As we drive away, I turn and see them standing by the door waving.

  Good-bye, Farideh, I say to myself. You, too, be strong and hopeful and try to make it out of Iran. Good-bye, old man. Good-bye, dear friend—how you softened my pain with your kindness. Goodbye, Kemal. Be good to the old man. Be good and learn from him.

  Twenty-four

  AFGHANS WITH BUNDLES OF CLOTHES and food fill the bus. It surprises me that there are women and children among them—I thought it was only the men who came to work or escape the war. With my turban and baggy pants, I look like any Afghani man in the crowd. I even have dark-red tasbih, the prayer beads that all the men carry. Here in the back of the bus I sit beside Zamirvali, a man in his forties who looks like he has been in the sun every day of his life. He sits quietly but notices everything around him. He is whispering a prayer and turning his prayer beads between his rough fingers. I sit quietly while turning mine.

  Last week I worked a few hours a day alongside Zamirvali and his Afghani coworkers, carrying bricks and shoveling dirt so that my hands would look like those of a worker. I let my beard grow and learned how to roll a turban and keep it on my head. Zamirvali is helping me to mimic the speech of the Afghans, who speak Persian with a distinctive accent that sounds archaic and humorous to an Iranian ear. We have an agreement that if we run into a problem with the authorities, we’ve never met and don’t know each other.

  It took us a day and a half on the desert roads, cold at night and hot during the day, to get to the city of Zahedan, the capital of the Iranian province of Baluchistan. All through the trip, we passed roadblocks one after another. I was nervous each time I had to show my ID card and hadn’t totally calmed down when we would be stopped again. Many times we had to get off the bus so it could be searched for weapons or whatever contraband the Kalashnikov-carrying guards were looking for.

  Each small town we passed looked like the previous one—dusty, with rows of green and black banners, portraits of war martyrs posted along main streets that were almost all named Khayban Imam Khomeini, and Koranic verses blasting from mosques. All the gas stations had long lines of vehicles waiting for gas and people crowded by the pumps. At the roadside teahouses and bus stops, there were children in old clothes, some barefoot and some wearing plastic sandals that let their toes peek out. At a few places the children were begging and washing car windows for money.

  We rested at Zahedan for a few hours and changed buses. The teahouses were full of Baluchi men. Almost all the Baluchis had huge mustaches and rode big motorcycles. Zamirvali told me the motorcycle is the ultimate vehicle for smuggling opium, guns, and sometimes people through the desert and across the border.

  From Zahedan it took half a day to get to the city of Zabol, close to the border with Afghanistan, and from there it was a short ride to the border crossing. I was afraid they would search me and worried about the dollar bills that Javid had given me just before I left. I was carrying them in a flat sack under my shirt and had my forged documents in my pocket ready to show when asked for. The crossing was crowded with Afghans, Baluchis, and Pakistanis taking merchandise across. I was surprised to see a group of Yemeni Arabs, who said proudly that they were going to Afghanistan to fight the Russians. Because the border crossing had been closed for two days—it was anyone’s guess as to why—a disorganized row of buses, minibuses, and trucks stretched out on each side, the constant wind and blowing sand adding to the chaotic situation. The bribery was as open as the desert.

  We passed the border into Afghanistan with no problem. The countryside seemed deserted compared to Iran. Zamirvali said that the Zabol border crossing was the safest one. The border guards know that the opium smugglers don’t go through there but instead pick the hardest and most impassable routes over the mountains, places even the military people think twice about using.

  Since yesterday when we passed the border, I’ve been feeling sick and not sleeping well. It’s cold, and the bus isn’t in good shape. The wind howls and blows in through every window. The shaking rattles my bones and my mind wavers at the edge of consciousness. I ask Zamirvali for water to wet my mouth but after drinking the salty water, feel thirstier. He gives me some dried apricots, saying it will help my thirst. We have oranges we bought from roadside vendors just outside Shiraz that I eat when I’m thirsty.

  Zamirvali turns his prayer beads and watches the countryside through the dusty windows of the bus as if he doesn’t want to miss a hill or a village. I can tell from his reserved conduct that he’s been through a lot. I like it that he doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary, since I don’t have the energy for conversation.

  “We are entering Lashkar Gah territory,” he says as we go down a mountainside. I notice that his voice shakes and he speaks haltingly. He wipes his face with his handkerchief.

  “There,” he says, pointing to a hill in the distance. “My village used to be behind that hill. The people have all gone to Pakistan and Iran. My family still has land there, but there are mines everywhere and no one lives there. One of my brothers was killed fighting the Russians and one went to Pakistan with his family. I never thought a village could die like that. Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?” He shakes his head.

  “One day I was a farmer with my own land, now I’m a laborer in another country. We never know what’s coming our way, what’s awaiting us on the other side of the hill. Only Allah knows. We are all in his hands.” He pauses for a minute.

  “I had to take my family to Kandahar. My plan was to take them with me to Iran, but then the war with Iraq started, as if we didn’t have enough problems. Can you believe that? We ran away from the war here only to face it there.”

  Not many cars are on the roads except for military Jeeps and small trucks carrying armed and bearded men. Yesterday we couldn’t travel because there was combat on the mountain road ahead of us. We saw a group of mujahedin carrying weapons up the mountain on donkeys and could hear the sound of bombs falling. When the Russian MiGs flew overhead, we covered our ears and had to get out and hide in the ditches, crawling out only when night came and we could travel under cover of darkness. The villagers didn’t even get off the road and went on as if nothing unusual were happening. Farther down the road we had to drive around the skeletons of tanks and other vehicles that were still on fire in the middle of the road. Even now, almost a day later, I
can still smell the sharp odor of explosions and burning tires.

  The villages we pass are a blur of dust, barefoot children, and women in burkas. The little girls wear clothes once brightly colored but now old and faded. In every village it seems a funeral is going on. At one place we see a wedding. There are musicians playing the saz and drums and women dancing with their best clothes on. A few miles past the village I see through the dust-covered window of the bus a white horse galloping riderless down the valley.

  As we approach Kandahar over the winding mountain roads, I begin to feel a different kind of tension and anxiety, knowing that we will soon be there.

  I open my eyes with a jerk and see the trees alongside the bus running away from me. My mouth is dry and there is a throbbing against my temples. My back hurts and I know that the bus ride hasn’t been good for my kidneys. Zamirvali puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “You were talking in your sleep.”

  He pours a cup of water and hands it to me. The warm water soothes my mouth and throat as it goes down. Cup in hand, I watch the water jump out with each bump and jerk of the bus and struggle to keep it from spilling as my dream plays out before my eyes.

  … I’m in the house in Shiraz, lying in bed beside Shireen. She has her red dress on and is turned toward the door. Her black hair is pushed to one side and her long lashes are interlocked. She looks sad, sadder than I’ve ever seen her. I caress her back slowly up and down. I sense a slight change of light in the room, and when I turn and look toward the door, I see a shadow there. My hand stops on the curve of her back and at that moment the shadow disappears. I think I saw Ruzbeh standing there. I get up and go through the dark hallway and down the stairs. The creaking steps are shaking. It must be an earthquake. Everything is shaking. The whole house is shaking and the walls are splitting. I try to hold onto the railings, but they break off in my hands and the steps give way under my feet.