Shame prevented Rana from sharing this with others. She dreaded pity and knew that nothing anyone said could soothe her pain. Besides, others might react in a way that would tell Farhad she knows. Before Yalda was born, from time to time Rana tried to guess how her mother might reason through such a situation. She could just hear her saying that regardless of the Major’s indiscretion, she must hold on to her marriage. Such assumptions pushed her to cling to the hope that if she bore him a son, her husband would come to his senses. Now Banu had told her more than she cared to know. The mere thought that this woman’s baby could be a boy put her heart on flames.
Rana wiped a drop of milk from the corner of the baby’s mouth and shifted her position. By now the news of their separation must have spread throughout Shiraz. She smiled bitterly. So much for keeping up appearances.
No matter how calm her parents acted, Rana knew they had their own hard time with the news. With no history of a divorce in their immediate family, their daughter’s separation had to be a disgrace. If her husband hadn’t provoked her, none of this would have come up. She would have sent her parents back with concerns only for the baby. Her marital problem was not their responsibility, and it already made her heart ache to think she had put her father in the middle of all this.
The bottle had emptied, and it now made a whistling sound while Yalda continued to suck air. Rana lifted the baby and propping her against her shoulder, she began to massage her soft back. Now that the fever had broken, she enjoyed caring for her newborn the way she had done for her other two.
“Dinner is ready,” Dayeh walked in to announce. She reached for the baby.
Rana reluctantly gave Yalda to the old nanny. From the first day she had held this baby, Rana had felt a strong connection, so strong that she chose not to mention it to anyone. Guilt had nothing to do with it. Each time someone took her away there was a tug, a sense of being torn, as though it were the two of them against the world.
Dayeh had set a beautiful table. A centerpiece of red geraniums sat between the silver candlesticks that held two tall candles. Warm squares of flat bread, wrapped in an embroidered lining in a silver basket sat next to a lovely tray of fresh basil, tarragon, and mint with radishes shaped into blossoms.
This dining room had always been a favorite place of Rana’s. From ordinary days and late breakfasts on Fridays, down to birthday parties, family dinners, and Norooz celebrations, the mahogany table had been a witness to joyful gatherings. Most of their family pictures were taken here. The room was a mirror, reflecting good segments of Rana’s life. Now, with only the three of them present, it looked too large, empty even.
The sweet-and-sour taste of the pomegranate soup was as familiar as the rooms of her childhood. Rana turned to her mother. “This is Heaven in a bowl!” She laughed. “I have tried following your recipe, Maman, but my soup never turns out this good. What’s your secret?”
Her father laughed. “Oh, don’t be naïve, she’ll never give away her secret.”
They both laughed, but the stern look on Mrs. Ameli’s face told them the joke was lost on her. “I don’t have secrets,” she said and raised her eyebrows. “Cooking is not a science to teach. It’s more of a natural instinct.” She took a sip of her soup then added, “If recipes were all it took, everyone who bought a cook book would be a chef.”
“Look what else your mom made for you,” Dayeh announced, carrying a platter of herb quiche, koo-koo.
“That’s not fair,” Rana said. “You should have warned me. Now I’m all full of Osh.” She patted her tummy.
“You’ll have to try some,” Dayeh said, and she placed a large wedge in Rana’s plate before she could be stopped. “We’re going to put some meat on your bones.”
How strange it felt to participate in a family dinner and discuss koo-koo when her whole world had fallen apart. The dish was also a favorite of Vida’s. Rana tried to imagine what kinds of food Badri would serve the girls. That woman was such a health nut that her food was bland. Remembering how Vida would have loved this dinner took Rana’s appetite away.
Her father took a forkful of koo-koo, put it on a piece of flat bread and topped it with fresh yogurt. Rana enjoyed the way he fussed over every bite and designed his little combinations. He took his time chewing, savoring the taste. “Yum! Your mother may be a gorgeous woman, but the truth be told, this is what I married her for.”
“Grandma, may she rest in peace, was right,” Rana said, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach!”
They all laughed. Rana smiled sadly to herself. What did it feel like to have a husband who came home from work not because the day had ended but to spend time with his wife?
Her father assembled another perfect bite and offered it to Rana. “A morsel of love.”
She took it with a smile and remembered years of her father’s “morsels of love” and how they had tricked her when she refused to eat. But tonight for the first time, that gesture sounded like an excuse to avoid other topics. Ever since the Major had blamed her for the baby’s deformity, Rana thought she saw a new look deep in her father’s eyes, as if a suspicion cast its dark shadow on his mind. As for her own thoughts, what had started as a notion had taken a real shape, one that grew and grew until it filled her mind and made it hard to breathe. The question never left her. Her doctor had forbidden her to lift heavy things. All she had meant to do was lift the dresser enough to lose the fetus. Could the trauma of the dresser falling on her be the cause of Yalda’s deformed leg? If so, then she not only deserved her misfortune, but also could expect much more to come.
Unable to focus on the moment, she pushed her chair back. “May I be excused?” she said and her voice broke.
Her father got up to accompany her, but Mrs. Ameli grabbed his sleeve. “Let her be, honey,” she said and stroked the back of his hand. “She needs time alone.”
One look into his eyes and Rana knew he was not convinced, but perhaps out of respect for his wife, he leaned back in his chair.
Rana left the table and rushed out of the room.
The darkness outside, unchanged by the single garden lamp, masked many familiar corners. Rana closed the curtain. Naturally organized, she wanted to sort her thoughts. But first, she had to unpack.
She opened her suitcase, took out a few blouses, and went to the closet to look for free hangers. Inside the closet, the smell of old paper, leather shoes, and dust blended into the faint scent of youth. Except for a few extra boxes sitting on a top shelf, nothing there had moved in years. During their rushed visits, the couple had stayed in the guest bedroom, which had a larger bed. Rana realized that until now, she had never fully returned to her old room. Nothing in that closet had much value, but it offered the sense of security which only comes with possession, something that in all the years of marriage she had never experienced. The Major’s money had bought everything they needed, but deep down she’d never considered them hers. The house, the car, even the jewelry were insured in his name. She had referred to them as hers, but had known all along that they came from him. W hen something was damaged, she felt accountable. If she spent more than the household budget, she sensed a need to explain. Her lips half opened to a bitter smile in realizing that somewhere deep in her heart, she had seen this day, the day when she would come back to repossess what truly belonged to her.
Rana decided to leave her unpacking to Dayeh. She closed the closet door, sat on the bed, and pushed herself back. Stretching her legs, she cleared her lungs in a deep exhale. What would she do with her life now?
A divorce?
The thought was growing stronger each day, but she still didn’t like it. Had her marriage been a complete failure? Were the past nine years a total loss?
Rana had tried not to think that far ahead, not even while she packed to leave. But now, alone and surrounded by memories of better days, she began to rediscover the meaning of calm, something that had been missing for years.
She had married the Major not for
love or money, but because it had been the right thing to do at the time. She had finished high school. Her older sisters were married and her turn had come. A beautiful girl ready to settle down, with suitors calling often. W hen the Moradi family made an appointment to introduce their son, Rana had laughed about the whole idea. They came one night, and although she didn’t see them, her parents were impressed enough to promise they’d discuss it with their daughter.
Rana smiled at the memory of the night her best friend Minoo had helped her to make the final decision.
“It’s time for a list,” Minoo had said.
She had taken out a paper and wrote down the positive and negative aspects of marrying Farhad Moradi. The tall, handsome young officer came with the promise of independence, her own home, and a new social status. He would move her to the beautiful city of Shiraz, away from her rival sisters and into a romantic place known for its pleasant weather, rich poetry, and the best wine. W hen it came to disadvantages, the girls found enough excuses to dismiss them.
“So what if he doesn’t have a sense of humor?” Minoo had said. “That’ll come later.” And regarding the distance of a thousand miles, Minoo dismissed it with the fact that it would only be a two-hour flight. “Everyone will love to visit you. I know I will. And, you can come back any time you want, that is, if you should ever miss Tehran’s unbearable pollution!”
They joked about it for hours, and finally when advantages of marriage far outweighed the disadvantages, they concluded that marrying the man was the right thing to do.
Rana reached into the drawer of her nightstand and took out a paper and pencil. She wrote in big letters at the top. Divorce. Underneath, she made two columns.
Chapter
Four
THE TRIP THAT HAD BEEN PLANNED to last only a couple of weeks dragged on much longer. Over the first week or so, Rana only saw her sisters and her best friend Minoo. Other relatives and friends called to ask about a convenient time to visit, but a variety of excuses reluctantly invented by Mrs. Ameli kept them away.
“You can’t hide from people,” Mrs. Ameli said on more than one occasion. “They all want to see the baby and Yalda won’t be a newborn forever.”
The Amelis decided to throw a dinner party in honor of their new grandchild, but such an event meant a lot of hard work for Dayeh. She also feared it might start a whole circle of new gossip. “I guess your mother has to show off her new china and silver at some point,” she said to Rana. “I can’t see why she won’t let them come in smaller groups for tea. That would be easier for you, too. But no. She had to go and invite the whole town.”
“Don’t fret, Dayeh,” Rana said. “She’s not expecting you to do all the work. They’ve hired a cook and plenty of extra help.”
Dayeh waved a hand in the air. “Help? With Sanam going home at night, I’m the only one who knows where things are. I can just hear those helpers saying, ‘Dayeh, this’ and ‘Dayeh, that’ all night. I’m telling you, the party’s got nothing to do with you or the baby. It’s all about your mother.” She turned away to put a stack of magazines on the table and mumbled, “Everything’s got to be about her, if not, she’ll just have one of her fainting scenes.”
“Now you’re being mean! If I didn’t know the two of you any better, I’d think my mother was your havoo!”
The word had popped out of nowhere, but the way Rana said it sounded as though she wanted to spit it out and get rid of it for good. That there was actually a word for second wife somehow legitimized its concept. Despite the ban, polygamy for men was very much alive, and the word havoo was thrown around daily. This was the first time that she had uttered it.
A heavy silence fell. Rana had meant it as a joke, but no words could describe the line of thoughts it provoked. Vague images of the Major’s new wife filled the silence.
It took a minute before Rana regained her calm expression and gave a nervous laugh. “Come on, Dayeh! A party will be good for all of us. You know, a little distraction.”
Dayeh did not respond.
On the day of the party, a heavy-set man and two of his helpers in white aprons showed up after breakfast, filling the kitchen with the clanking of dishes as the three rushed about. Even though they brought an extra burner, Dayeh couldn’t imagine how they’d function in that tiny kitchen. Once or twice she went in to warm up bottles for the baby, but for most of the day she did her best to stay away.
“I can’t watch the way they work,” she said under her breath and turned to Rana for support. “That fat guy picks up everything by hand. Who knows when the last time was that he washed his hands.” She kept busy in the dining room, taking out stacks of Mrs. Ameli’s better china, wiping each piece to make sure there were no watermarks, and doing the same with the silverware.
“Could I at least make the salad?” Rana asked her mother after she had put Yalda down for a nap.
“Yes, dear, if it helps to keep you busy.”
Typical! That woman wasn’t about to make anyone feel needed. With all the work being done by others, her only personal contribution was arranging a show y pink carnation centerpiece, knowing it would receive complimentary remarks from her guests.
Hours before the party, Dayeh heard the doorbell followed by Mandana’s loud hello. Although Rana’s sisters had stopped by several times, no one had asked any questions, so Dayeh figured the Amelis must have filled them in on the details of Rana’s dilemma. Except for long conversations with her father, Rana didn’t talk much. Living away had created a distance between her and the rest of the Amelis.
Rana came down the stairs in her yellow, cotton suit. “Do you think this is dressy enough?” she asked Dayeh.
Mrs. Ameli jumped in before Dayeh had a chance to tell her how lovely she looked. “A bit too summery, if you ask me,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “But I guess it’s okay if you’re not too cold.”
“Just okay?” Mandana said to her mother. “What are you talking about, Maman? She looks stunning!” Her eyes searched the room. “W here’s our little guest of honor?”
Dayeh motioned to the upper floor. “Napping.”
Mandana lowered her voice. “I’ll just take a peek.” And she went to the stairs.
As soon as she was out of sight, Mrs. Ameli turned to Rana, “People are going to ask questions, you know.”
Rana smiled bitterly. “Bet they already have some answers, too.”
“It would be best to save face. As my late mother—may she rest in peace - used to say, ‘show pink, happy cheeks, even if it’s from a good slap!’ Don’t tell them anything that could get them talking. Think of us. We have to live in this city.”
Dayeh turned her back and made loud clanking noises as she took out trays and serving platters from the cupboard. Think of us? What about thinking of her daughter for once? If it weren’t for Rana’s best friend, Minoo, the poor girl would have lost her mind over the past couple of weeks. But good old Minoo came often and sometimes Dayeh insisted on taking the baby so the two could enjoy a walk or go out for lunch.
“I wish Vida and Marjan were here. They would have loved a big party.” Something in her voice made Dayeh turn around. The sad look was back in Rana’s face. Dayeh knew how much Rana missed her girls. It was evident in the way she held her baby tight, in the sad lullabies she sang at night and how she sometimes gazed into the thin air. But knowing Rana, she’d never say a word about what went on inside her.
Dayeh couldn’t begin to imagine what Vida and Marjan were doing or how they adapted to living with that horrible woman. Badri’s house constantly changed décor, and Dayeh had no idea how to picture what her guest bedroom was like or how the girls looked, for that matter. Which clothes had Banu packed for them? And who did their hair in the morning? Marjan had just learned to braid her own hair, but little Vida would only allow her old nanny to comb those curls and she hated having her bangs cut, no matter who did it. Three weeks and four days? Out of the many times that Rana called Shiraz, they had only come to th
e phone five times, and even then the conversations were formal. Dayeh had a feeling that was because Rana knew if she spoke in more intimate terms it would only make the girls miss her more. W hen several other attempts turned unsuccessful, it left Dayeh no doubt that Badri had instructed her maid to dodge the calls. On the last call when Rana finally caught up with them, Dayeh waited until she was done, then asked if she could talk to them.
“I miss you, Dayeh joon,” Marjan said, and she sounded cautious. “W hen will you come back?”
“May I die for you, child. I’ll be home before you can blink.”
Marjan’s silence worried her and soon Vida had the phone.
At first, the younger girl showed less restraint, but when Dayeh asked her what kind of a present she’d want from Tehran, she started to cry and said, “I want to go home.” Her crying became muffled as Marjan took the phone from her. “She’s just being a baby.”
“Am not!” Vida shouted in the background and cried harder. But then Marjan was off, too, and Badri’s voice came through. “They need to take their baths now,” she said without addressing her by name. “So I’ll say a quick goodbye on their behalf. Be sure to extend my regards to the Amelis.” And the line went dead.
How did others treat Marjan and Vida when their mother wasn’t around? Did Badri have any patience at all? The day they left, Rana said her trip would last a couple of weeks. Now it was hard to tell when, if ever, she planned on going back.
Major Moradi had not called.
When no one showed much of a reaction to Rana’s sudden departure and even Badri did not contact her, Dr. Ameli had called to talk to his son-in-law. Dayeh figured the good father wanted to patch things up between the couple. He was told the Major was out. A few days later, Dayeh heard him on the phone. “Could you please tell the Major to call the Amelis’ residence?” But as far as she could tell, the call was never returned.
Moon Daughter Page 6
