Mysteries of Motion

by Hortense Calisher

  Only an Arabic answer is possible. “Madame Fateh—qisma—Kismet, gave me only one.”

  An abdominal groan from the ladies. He won’t dare turn toward their starry expanse, agreeing now with what Bakh used gravely to tell him: Chador is a protection for the man. What’s Ferey’s allegiance, to men or women? To neither probably; that’s his value. “Bakh’s new wife, is she of the family, too?”

  He’s managed to say something wrong at last.

  “She is of Ardebil. As one can see.” Fereydoun confides, buttonhole to buttonhole.

  A sudden keening from Manoucher’s wife. “I did not want to leave prison first. She makes me.” Palms outstretched toward the other Soraya, the Farsi trembling off her lips, she beats time to it. “We came into that prison nearly together; we should leave together.” Her eyes are shut. Two drops squeeze from them, and a tiny voice from below. “Because she knows I am soft for Manoucher. Yes, it is true. ‘Go,’ she says. She is already getting too old for children she says. Already six months older than me, almost twenty-five.” She opens her eyes. The other Soraya closes hers. They hang onto each other like a pair of just-revealed caryatids waiting for the archaeologist’s pick. “So I say—‘I will wait. I will not have children. Until she, too, comes to America.’”

  They remind him of his young cronies of yore. A touch of Damon and Pythias, the complications of the womb notwithstanding. Attacks of adolescent vowing—whose attitudinizings used to strike silvery shadows in his samovar.

  He can’t seem to remember that those two have been in prison. Prison, not jail; jail is apolitical. The fact keeps sliding away from him. As does his own possible role here. What’s operating here is the clan, that engine always running during either the light or the dark of lives lived within its enclosure. He wants to get nearer it. Even if it burns.

  At this moment, everyone’s ignoring him for what’s being revealed. Not that they didn’t already know. But now the clan’s obligatory scene is upon them.

  For Madame is muttering to Fereydoun, in schoolgirl German. “To think. To think—that to ransom those two, Bakh let those Schweine have his last two opium fields.”

  “Shhh. Hald dein Mund.”

  Wert gives no indication of having overheard. The special myopia of those who use a whispered other language as the last resort of intimacy always amuses him.

  “I was just telling Madame,” Fereydoun says, switching to English, “that her daughter-in-law really adores her. Adores you and admires you, Madame. What’s she done but copy you—if I may say.”

  “You’ll say it anyway. What hasn’t he said to us, Mr. Wert. In the years he’s managed us.”

  And how they smile at each other, the servility perfectly balancing the complicity.

  “Then, I’ll say it. Madame—what’s Manoucher’s Soraya done to him but copy what you did—to Bakh?”

  “Das war personlich! Nicht Radicalismus!”

  Whether it was personal or radical, she likes being reminded of it. “But are those girls really—” Wert says. “Of course, country to country, radicalism changes.”

  “In my country, Mr. Wert, if you are in prison, then you are radical. How nice you speak German, too.”

  They watch her join the two girls, who are surrounded by the women. “Yes, how nice,” Fereydoun whispers doubtfully. “For your information, Manoucher’s wife was sent to prison for writing something. A lecture—about parts of speech. Very clever. Actually one more manifesto.” He shrugs. “And one more university riot. But the other Soraya—she’s been against the mullahs from the beginning. And that’s serious. She can’t go back.”

  “So—Bakh’s really out of opium now?” Or again? He’ll hear nothing good of the old man from now on. The clan being the clan.

  “Ah—those fields were earmarked for Madame. Part of her—settlement. He’ll compensate her. He now has interests in outer space.” Fereydoun pets his watch, soothing it like a cat. “Not everyone can arrange a broadcast by satellite.” He smiles at the word; his manner is loosening, his English, too. “The other Soraya—she’s his favorite.” He’s scarcely moving his lips. “We think—he tried to marry her. To get her out of prison, of course. But he wanted to.”

  Wert stands rigid. The possibilities open like fans. “Who sent those girls to prison?”

  But Madame’s already at his elbow, shepherding the girl. “She is very like your American girls, non, M’sieu Wert? Like all our girls, she knows for the household—but like yours she is also modernly talented. The spécialité computer is very chic, non? But of course she can have children—if it is wanted. She is not like some.” A glance at her daughter-in-law. And at Fereydoun. “It is understood—she would remain the only wife. But she is also so American she wish to choose her own husband.” Madame’s giggle rumbles in bronze. “She is very hard on us. We are supposed to arrange. Méchante, you went even to prison to avoid us. Hah! And then what happens, naughty girl?”

  All the women sigh. Or a good many of them. He daren’t look to see.

  “Quand même, m’sieu, a lovely thing happen.” Madame’s eye doesn’t soften. “Elle a de la chance, this girl. She fall on her feet anywhere. We are très embarrassés but we are all agree, non?” A murmur from the others. “She is fallen in love, Mr. Wert. With your letters to Bakh.”

  The other Soraya is looking at him steadily. Her face is carved farther past youth than the prettiness he first saw: she can well be twenty-five. Why should that hearten him? When he can’t bear those pink socks.

  “They invited you early, Mr. Wert,” she says. “Stop pretending to look at your watch, Fereydoun, you know it wasn’t to be until four. And we all know who gave you the watch.” All the while staring at Wert, her lashes unwavering. Her lip doesn’t tremble. “Mr. Wert—I’ll just give you what I have for you from Bakh.” Even in the black that Manoucher’s wife wanted to put her in, she wouldn’t make a man hostile. Pity is, that won’t help the revolution either. Though there are black circles under her eyes. So she was against the mullahs from the beginning—bright girl, if he can believe it. All that will have to be sorted out later. But if she herself’s had a hand in this charade, it’ll be doomsday before he’ll know. What dignity, in either case.

  An idea occurs to him, on how to save both their faces. What she’ll have for him—in the ritual way they like to make wreaths of past friendship—will be the letters. Abide by the ritual then. Save her face, poor smart, muddled girl, prisoner of more than revolutions—and save his own skin. For in spite of all their effort, they know he’s not the suitor here. His cousin has not applied for him.

  “Then, if there’s time—” Wert said. “I’ve come a long way. Perhaps—” he turns properly to Madame, “the other Soraya will make tea for me?”

  How ridiculous—she’s not a sixteen-year-old, to be made to show her jejune accomplishments. Head bent, she’s swaying a little. Well, he won’t ask her to sing. Or to dance. Immediately he’s ashamed of himself. Manoucher’s wife is hovering anxiously near the girl, who says palely, “I came far, too. From Isfahan, day before yesterday.”

  “And before that—” Manoucher’s wife cries, but is hushed by the girl’s hand.

  “Hush—” the girl says in Farsi. “You owe me nothing. Ah, Soraya, it’s not each other we owe. Or even Bakhtiary.”

  The Farsi cadence doesn’t change her. Not like it does the others.

  “And he owes us nothing,” she says, looking at Wert. “In prison, any letter is precious. It’s from the outside.”

  “When were you let out?” He speaks in Farsi.

  “I—” She looks at Manoucher’s wife. “A—month? I had no calendar.”

  “And three days. Manoucher flew her at once to the hospital in Shiraz. But she had bad dreams there. Then to Isfahan.”

  “I have no bad dreams in prison. I know what I am doing there.” She’s shaking, now. Wert puts out a hand. She fends him off. “It’s nothing.”

  “Isfahan—” He can’t help himself. “You
saw Bakhtiary.”

  “I—saw him. Y-yes.” Her teeth are chattering; is it ague? Malaria? “Ex-cuse me. I have pill for this.” She slides the shoulder bag down, slowly, painfully opening it, moving constrictedly to take the glass of water the servant’s already slipping her. So they know what the trouble is, then. The pill she extracts and swallows isn’t big enough for quinine.

  Fereydoun asks low: “You dreamed in Isfahan?”

  “No, like in prison.”

  Watching her move slowly to open the bag again, it comes to him. They whip them there. She’s been whipped. Out of the bag comes a letter—but only one, and not his handwriting. He recognizes the familiar stationery. An envelope like it is still on his mantel in London. What else can there be, to bring?

  A box, a small, red morocco box. How small, to travel so far. Farther than either he or she. Beautiful, Bakhtiary said in Venice, the only time Wert ever saw him shy. It came out so very beautiful, that mask, I had one made for myself.

  And better than a gravestone. Wert is reaching for it when the girl topples forward. Fereydoun catches her first, in his long, eighty-year-old arms. The box with Jenny’s death mask in it, eluding all their fingers, has been dropped. No one will ever be able to say by whom.

  They’ve laid the girl face-down on the cushioned seat which borders the room, Madame and Fateh waving all the other women back except the servant. The back of the pink turtleneck is stained wet and glaucous. “Not blood, what is it?” Fateh whispers. Manoucher’s wife, bending over it, tosses back her head, agonized but proud. The sweater is slowly peeled off by the servant. Fateh, chafing the girl’s wrists, moans like a cat. The girl’s back rises and falls. The upper back is half scab, here and there oozing. Below, the healed small-of-the-back is like rose-colored leather.

  “The hot plate,” Manoucher’s wife says loudly. “The dastband e gapani they put her in, first. Handcuffs from over the shoulder. The night they bring her in, the electricity is off in our part of the prison. And in the room where they use the grill. So they use coal-fire, and iron door. Shiraz Hospital say she’s lucky. From the grill, you cannot have skin grafts.”

  Across that breathing body, Madame touches her daughter-in-law. “And you?”

  “Only the lash, Madame. But twice.”

  “So that is why Manoucher. Why you refuse him.”

  “Oh no, Madame. I don’t refuse him altogether. Not from the back.” Swiftly the daughter-in-law turns her back to them all, kneels forward, and flips up her loose blouse. The lash marks, crossed vertically and horizontally, are perfectly healed.

  “Madame! Watch out!” Fateh tries to pry Madame’s nails from her own pearl string.

  “Jalel. Moron. Let me be.” Madame’s hands tug at the heavy rope. She drops to her knees in a shower of beads. Beside her the two exposed girlish backs form a ruined folio, opened at the worst page.

  Next to Wert, a nickering begins, a flute choking higher and higher. Fereydoun is tittering. He grasps his throat, squeezing the hysteria he can’t stop. Mir-li-li-iiiiii-ton—ton. Gagging, he stops in front of Wert, the tears sprouting from his begging face. Before Wert can move, the servant does it, one long worn hand from behind the chador, crack, crack, on each smooth-powdered cheek. Fereydoun drops in a crouch, head down, arms hanging, heavy convulsive intakes…whooped breath…chip chip a-chip…and at last silence. “Madame usually does it for him,” the servingwoman whispers. Above the veil her brows are grizzled, the lids papery. The blunt bazaar accent cackles. “He can’t stand the sight of a chicken being cut into even; it’s natural.”

  Madame kneels in her purple sweater behind the exposed wounds of the two girls, all three bowed as toward a prie-dieu. The other Soraya sits up, turning between the other two clasping women, her eyes still closed. The breasts that face Wert are unscarred, rose-swollen, milky-white. Fateh, swooping down upon her with a harem screech, covers the girl with a scarf. But unmistakably, he’s been allowed a glimpse of her. The old servant, her veil between her teeth, is oblivious, picking up the pearls.

  Fereydoun takes him by the arm. The aisle of women at the door, parting for him, gives off sparkles of gold tissue, black glitter, red-tinted black hair. Throwing off Fereydoun’s arm, he retrieves the letter, which he stuffs in a side pocket—and the small box, which he cradles in both hands. They know it contains Jenny; he’s sure of it. Blinking their mica eyelids they stand like sad eagles either side of a pyramid whose old marriage door he’s expected to reenter. Making an apologetic cringe with his box, he passes them.

  The bathroom Ferey leads him to is the women’s. Two sunken tubs are separated by a broad ledge massed with tall vats of powder and bath salts, loofahs and towels, articles for the hair, all a replica of what one heard their finer bathhouses at home used to be. Fereydoun, at the toilet, is modestly slow at opening his pants. Wert turns his back. The note from Bakhtiary is a one-liner, not from his custom-made multilingual typewriter, but in hand. “Last letter. One sentiment. It’s time.” Scrawled beneath is an ankh.

  Time for both of them. But he can’t open the box, shrinking even from shaking it, to hear whether the old plaster-of-Paris has broken. The face inside already clings to his fingertips. Wish I felt nothing. Wish I felt something. Which is true?

  “Shall I take care of that for you?” Ferey, washing his hands with a great yellow ball of heady-scented soap, regards him equivocally.

  To guard it? Or to destroy? Smart equerry, he’s not saying. Casually, Ferey seizes an atomizer and sprays his jowl. He’s at home here. Leave it to him.

  What better than to leave the past, seamless or smashed, to an old eunuch who knows what his trade is: certain peculiar services.

  Wert passes him the box, and is freed to urinate, to use the soap—to share any of their domestic arrangements here, including a wife. And without compromise—which must always have been the value of eunuchs. A diplomat can’t compete. He nods. “Probably you have closets galore.”

  Along the way back to the main apartment, the notes archways, tilings and cushionings subtly Middle East. Even the windows have been heightened and made mosquelike. But where they aren’t draped the view is of dismally gimcrack low roofs, or that palely transitional modern brick which can’t seem to make a firm imprint on space.

  “But why are we here, you’re asking—” Fereydoun says, “in this neighborhood? Everybody asks.”

  “Quite.”

  “Bakhtiary didn’t want us to shine out. Now—it doesn’t matter.”

  “Because he’s dying?”

  “Because we’re all in this country now. Or—whoever can be.”

  “Bakhtiary would never come. I invited him.”

  “No. He would never come.”

  “Even to Manoucher?”

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that about dying, the old man is so pale.

  “Will you excuse me, Beel. Only a moment.” On their left there’s a small room, door open, with a window on another vista—east. Ferey leaves the door ajar. There in the middle of the room, he’s salaaming. No doubt about it; he’s praying. Their movements make them supple beyond what Western devotions generally do for one. When he emerges he’s noncommittal, but blowing his nose.

  The main room’s walls are a dazzle of rugs, making it one of their Arabian-nights enclosures. Now its deep burnishment sickens him. These rugs know too well the mahogany that blood turns to. Under their woolen astronomy of charming animal alembic and arboretums flattened for foot or eye, too often that spongy wound-color. Yet the inhabitants of this always migrant oasis can still thrall him. Crammed now on folding chairs, they’re no longer his or a newspaper’s invention. Their bank accounts have been streaming ahead of them for years against this possible moment; they’ll be buying houses and schooling the children here, yet he can’t imagine them on the world’s chopping-board like other people; he can’t see them as ever settling in. This tent of theirs floats with them, always perfectly aligned—and landing anywhere.

  Up there on one sid
e of the room Bakh presides on screen in his gnarled garden, armed for entry into the oldest eternity, with child-bride and at his feet a dish of sand, scrawled with religion. On the opposite wall there is now a hugely ready video installation—no doubt sent the way a five-pound box of candy “from your local merchant” used to be, by a conglomerate. Merely one of the contradictions daily exploding around the world, which any dutiful newscaster would report. Yet would such a reporter see what it is more than money which joins that beaky woman over there in her pared Paris black, that tail-coated patriarch who looks about to address the whole chattering family-wedding crowd yet is never seen to speak, Madame herself, just settling her own group on a separate dais, the boy teenagers stiffly Englished up in haircuts and jackets which ask for blond heads not black, and their awkwardly frothy girl counterparts—all the way down to the bright infant dots on a shoulder or a lap?

  Except for their servants there’s not a chador among them, or any remnant trace of the beads and saddles of the old donkey culture. Over the last seventy-five years most of these people wouldn’t have slept toeing a brazier or even in the more formal quiltings but in beds imported from the West, and their Cartier jewelry may be thieved from them at the best hotels, yet they’re joined to the old bodgi and her vast peasanthood by what they all share. A shallow jube of understanding runs through them all like that old water ditch of theirs, in the way that same dirty old life support used to frame their cities—and must still link their villages. The remarkableness of the jube was its shallowness, in which, stared into long enough, all their human commerce became clear. He must always have known what this people’s enclosures contained. What unnerves him is that he may always have wanted it.

  Up there on the grainy screen at his left, in that garden picture of erotic duties to self and who knows what obligations to truths greater than the self, his old friend’s expression, that dignified alertness to advantage, hasn’t changed. But did we in the Department ever consider what Bakh meant by advantage?