Rana dialed Badri’s number. No one answered and she wondered if Badri had mixed up the dates. Standing inside the empty house, her mind filled with her daughter’s voices. She’d call again after she had unpacked and taken a shower.
Half an hour later, Rana twisted a towel around her wet hair, wiped the fogged bathroom mirror with the palm of her hand, and peered at her reddened face covered in beads of moisture. Nothing could ever relax her as much as a good, steaming shower did. She switched the fan on, squeezed her damp toes into her bathroom slippers and opened the door. She had taken but one step into the bedroom when she gasped at the sight of her estranged husband, sitting on the edge of their bed, staring in her direction.
Rana’s entire body tensed. Was the slight parting of his lips a semblance of a smile? She wasn’t sure because he didn’t look happy at all. In fact, his eyes darkened with deep sorrow, the kind she had only seen the day his father had died.
“Hello, Rana.” His voice was lowered to a mere whisper, and Rana remembered how her friend Minoo thought it sexy and theatrical.
She grabbed the front of her bathrobe and held it closed, while tying the belt into a hard knot. What would she do if he came any closer? Heat rose in her cheeks and the question of why he was there hung in the air.
He stood, but before he could take a step, there was a commotion in the hallway, the door burst open, and their little girls ran inside.
“Mom-eee!” Vida cried out and ran into her mother’s arms. Rana got down to her knees and inhaled the smell of baby shampoo from her daughter’s soft hair. Kissing any and every part of her face that came in touch with her lips, Rana let her tears roll down into Vida’s hair without bothering to wipe them. She felt Marjan’s shy hand on her back and turned to embrace her with one arm while still holding on to Vida with the other. Silent tears now changed into uncontrollable sobs as she let go of all the emotions she had locked inside.
“Let me look at you,” she said at last and leaned back a little, wiping her eyes. “I can’t believe you two have grown so much in such a short time!”
“One month and nineteen days,” Farhad’s deep voice now filled the room. “That’s not so short.”
Rana didn’t know why she turned to face him and quickly turned away again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Badri had said she would bring the girls back. He wasn’t expected. The huge gap between them had been there for months, and she had no intention of closing it. What in the world made him think she wanted to see him at all?
She let go of Vida’s hand and Marjan took her chance to wrap both arms around her. Rana held her tight, and feeling her delicate shoulder bones, she wondered if the girl had eaten much during her stay at Badri’s. She squeezed her as if to push the sorrow out of her little body and realized how much she needed her big girl. She loved her children equally, but in a way, separation from this one had been even harder.
Vida took hold of Rana’s sleeve and tried to pull her toward the door. “Come, Maman, see what we got.”
“What do you have, honey?”
Marjan gave her the familiar, knowing look. “It’s a surprise!” she said.
“Yes. A big supplies, Mommy!” Vida said, going back to baby talk the way she always did when overexcited.
Out in the hallway, Dayeh held a shoebox with holes around it. “We sure needed one more of these!” she said and shook her head. “As if there weren’t enough alley cats to keep me awake at night.”
“It’s not a cat,” Vida said and pouted. “It’s a peeshee.”
Rana laughed.
Marjan explained, “Papa got her a kitten because she stopped being a cry baby.”
Rana could not believe her ears. A man who emphasized order and practicality, Moradi had been dead set against the idea of any pet, even a goldfish. “Those creatures belong in the wild,” he always said. “To be inside a house is a sure way to shorten their lives.” Once, when Marjan had caught a butterfly and brought it home in a jar, he had opened the lid, and ignoring her cries, let it fly away. “If God meant for that thing to live in a jar, He wouldn’t have given it wings!” he had said. So what brought about the change of heart - if the man had one?
Vida opened the shoebox and took out a rounded ball of white fur. The kitten had its eyes closed, but as Vida lifted its chin and scratched under it, he opened his green eyes and looked around sleepily.
“What did we decide?” the Major said in a soft tone that Rana had not heard in a long time. He approached Vida and gently took the kitten from her and placed it back in the shoebox. “Let’s keep him there for now,” he said in the same soft tone. “He may come out once we’ve set out a litter box for him.”
Rana could not believe the gentle soul before her. Had the man changed, or did he have a plan of his own? Was he, too, acting a part?
Throughout the evening, despite her resentments, Rana tried to behave as if nothing had happened. The household resumed its normal routine now that the lady of the house had returned. Still unsure if her act was convincing enough, she made an effort not to say or do anything that might make the children sense the tension she felt. God only knew what Badri had filled their brains with and it was up to Rana to undo the damage.
“Did you see little Yalda?” Rana asked the girls and made sure her back was to Moradi.
“She’s asleep,” Vida said.
“I saw her,” Marjan said. “She’s so much bigger.”
Moradi was quiet.
Once they were past the initial excitement, both girls seemed to keep a cautious distance. They seldom touched their mother, as if afraid that she might disappear again. But after a few hours even Marjan acted more relaxed.
Banu showed up earlier than expected and was immediately sent out to buy the necessary ingredients for dinner. Rana gave the girls a few mechanical toys and china dolls she had bought in Tehran. As they began to play and Major Moradi sat down to watch the news, she finally had a chance to go upstairs and get dressed.
Soon after dark, the family gathered for a simple meal of macaroni and ground lamb that Dayeh had quickly put together. Rana took her seat across from her husband and did her best to avoid looking at him. On a few occasions, she felt the heat of his lingering gaze. He made no attempt to initiate a conversation, and if any of his comments were intended for her, they came addressed to the children.
“Marjan, don’t you think Mommy looks all better?” or, “Vida, tell your Mom how many times you went on that high slide in the park.”
The triangular conversation reminded Rana of a fairytale she had once heard about the newly weds who had a fight and were not on speaking terms. As a young girl, she had found the story comical and laughed at the way the couple addressed the candelabra each time one needed to say something to the other. But now she saw no humor in it and could imagine just how lonely the young bride in that story must have felt. As for herself, only once did she use the girls as a vessel to send her husband a message.
“Well Marjan, I hope you don’t mind company because Mommy needs to sleep in your room so she’ll be close to the baby just in case she should wake up in the middle of the night.”
Major Moradi cleared his throat and took a sip of water from his glass, but he did not say a word.
Marjan beamed a smile. “Does this mean you will read me stories all night?”
Rana chuckled. “Not all night. Mommy needs to sleep, too, you know!”
Major Moradi said nothing and Rana felt a small gratitude for his silence. Had he been any more communicative, she wasn’t sure she could have masked her fury. For the rest of dinnertime, he appeared to be inexplicably absorbed in the simple meal on his plate.
After dinner, Dayeh served tea and Rana invited Vida and Marjan to help her give Yalda a bath. They welcomed the offer with enthusiasm, and while Major Moradi repositioned himself in front of the television, Rana and her daughters climbed the stairs.
An hour later, with the baby fed, bathed, and asleep, the girls took a shower, change
d into their nightgowns and went down to say good night to their father. They were back before Rana had finished brushing her teeth.
“Papa-joon wasn’t there,” Vida said.
“Oh?” Rana responded, surprised at the hurt feeling inside her. Apparently, the man had wasted no time. He didn’t even respect her enough to pretend and be there at least for the first night before he resumed his evening excursions. She imagined him somewhere else, but where? All she could picture was a house that had no shape, and her husband’s arms around a woman who had no face. In her imaginary scene, he drank vodka, spoke incessantly, and was acting more joyful than ever before. Ha! What had she expected? Did she really think that with a warm bed awaiting him, he might stay here?
Rana was shocked to realize that she had hoped for more attention from him, had been prepared to reject him, and had even thought of words to hurt him back. After all, each time he went away on an assignment, he showed extreme passion upon his return. Did he feel any attraction to her at all? She refused to admit that she had enjoyed his heavy glances during dinner. Was it possible to still need love from a man she despised? No, all she needed to push that thought away was to remind herself where he had gone. The thought made her hate the man enough to want nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.
Dayeh came back carrying a bedroll for Marjan, and while spreading it on the floor, she said to Rana, “The master asked me to tell you that he went to bed early. He’ll be going to Jahrom in the morning.”
Rana wondered if Dayeh was trying to cover up for Major Moradi. But when their eyes met she knew it was true. She couldn’t miss the hint of a smile that lit the old nanny’s face. How amused Dayeh had seemed by the Major’s new attitude, perhaps even pleased with it. Certain that Moradi’s words to Dayeh were nothing but a poor excuse to go away, she went to the window, cupped her hands around her eyes, and peered into the garden. It took her a few seconds to adjust to the muted light of the moon behind clouds, but there it was, the Major’s Jeep parked in the driveway.
Chapter
Seven
RANA HAD FORGOTTEN just how noisy the officer’s club could be during the bi-annual dance. A brass band played loud western music in honor of foreign guests, but the tango beat was lost in the moaning of clarinet and the sad Spanish song sounded even sadder in Persian key. Two soldiers, formally dressed and armed with huge rifles, stood guard at the entrance and saluted the Major as he and Rana approached. Strands of colorful lights hung over the courtyard and women in long gowns strolled alongside men in crisp khaki uniforms. Ten years into these gatherings and Rana still had a hard time differentiating the officers’ ranks. A few groups had already occupied the tables near the pool while the rest mingled and socialized.
Rana had selected a turquoise evening gown, one of the few items of clothing that hung loosely around her and camouflaged her post-baby waistline. Her mound of brown hair was pinned up with a jeweled clip and she had even bothered with a little makeup. She wasn’t used to such fuss with her appearance, but tonight she had to look her best and win everyone over. Major Moradi walked a step behind her, but he didn’t hold her arm the way he normally would. For the past few weeks, they had barely spoken, and when they did, it had either been pretence for the children’s sake or brief and to the point. Not once did he attempt to touch her, which had been a relief at first and then turned into an inexplicable ache.
Rana greeted a few couples with a nod and a smile, wondering all along if behind their polite salutations lay gossip. For the entire month since her return, the unspoken words about her husband’s furtive life hung in the air that circulated the house, as if their problem was a heavy pollution that could be ignored but not denied. Banu and Dayeh no longer referred to Moradi as “your husband.” They called him either Agha—the master—or Major Moradi. Only the children acted normal around him, although once or twice Rana saw the inquisitive look in Marjan’s darkened eyes. Moradi’s invitation to attend the semi-annual gathering had sounded halfhearted; then again, anything they did lately had been cast in formality.
Under different circumstances Rana would have refused to attend a party, but now she had an agenda. Maybe an appearance at the officer’s club was precisely what she needed to put her in touch with a few Americans. Nearly a year had passed since she was last seen in public with him. How many of those officers knew about Moradi’s other woman? Or worse, she wondered if the news of her baby’s deformity had gotten around.
At Pahlavi University, the primary language for teaching was English. As a result, Shiraz was fast turning into a bilingual town, second only to Abadan, where the oil refineries had brought in waves of foreign experts over the recent decades. As Rana meandered between tables, she could hear the Americans every where, but they spoke too fast to understand. Then she heard Kathy Parker.
“Oh, my Gawd, is that Rana Moradi?” The woman’s plump and friendly face beamed as she approached. “What a pleasant surprise! I heard you’d gone to Tehran.”
Kathy spoke slowly and as if mindful of Rana’s poor English, made an effort to enunciate every word. Her speech was so animated that Rana had no trouble understanding her, even when she used new words. Kathy’s husband, Frank, worked closely with Major Moradi and Rana had always admired the ease with which he and his wife conducted themselves.
“I come back one week,” she said, conscious of her deep accent, and unsure of what else she could add to that. “I must to thank for flowers,” she finally said, embarrassed that she had failed to thank the woman months earlier when a dozen roses had arrived right after Yalda’s birth.
“You’re welcome,” Kathy said and beamed a huge smile, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. “Don’t worry, your good husband has thanked us enough. He told us you had a harder time with this one.” She stood back and took another look at Rana. “But you sure look radiant tonight. Did you bring us a picture?”
Rana shook her head. Americans carried what looked like a mini album in their wallets, a custom that she found both peculiar and endearing. But now she wasn’t sure what to make of the question and wondered if Kathy knew about the baby’s deformed leg.
Kathy took Rana’s arm and pulled her toward a circle of American women in bright colored, sequined dresses. Rana had forgotten how tall some of these women were. They stood up and extended long arms to shake her hand, but one was so overweight, she just smiled broadly without leaving her chair. Rana was reminded of a book Marjan had brought home and felt as if she, too, had shrunken and entered A lice’s Wonderland.
“Girls, you remember Mrs. Farhad Moradi, don’t you?”
Most of the women were new to her; the turnover in the army was quick and Rana had not gone to the club in almost a year. She shook hands with each one and heard their names, confident that she could not possibly remember half of them. Kathy’s was an easy one, but names such as Gwendolyn and Anneliese were a mouthful. Rana found a smile to be the best substitute for the words she didn’t know. She glanced over the crowd and spotted her husband across the long swimming pool. He held his hat in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, and seemed to be deeply engaged in a conversation with an old general. Not too long ago, he would have been proud to take her around and introduce her to all the new people. How quickly things had changed. The detachment she felt was as if they were parallel lines, together yet forever separated.
Rana turned her attention back to the crowd. People were huddled in groups. Women bending towards each other to make sure they were heard over the blast of music. How many of Moradi’s colleagues or their wives were aware of the other woman? Had any of them met her? Or worse, did they take the initiative to invite her to their homes just to please Moradi? And if so, how did she fare in comparison?
The shiver she felt had to be from the night air. She had to stop the questions from pushing her thoughts forward. But each question seemed to generate a dozen new ones. She couldn’t even be sure that she and Parisa had never come face-to-face. For all she knew, her husban
d could have met the woman anywhere, even here!
A server holding a tray politely bowed before her. Rana took a glass of chilled wine and accepted the small napkin from his gloved hand. Wine was exactly what her father would have recommended to calm her nerves. She glanced across the pool at three older gentlemen who stood where her husband had been a minute ago. The band was now playing a familiar waltz and she realized that was the only tune performed close to perfection.
A few guests entered the dance floor and all heads turned to watch. There used to be a time when Rana and her husband would be among the first to dance. He was a good dance partner and Rana remembered how easily the two had coordinated their steps on the eve of their wedding. How wonderful it had felt to relax and let him lead.
“Would you like to sit down?” one of the ladies asked, pulling a chair over for her.
Rana smiled back. “Yes, thank you.” And she took the chair, leaned back, and scanned the area. As if sifted by an invisible hand, men and women were once again separated. Men were drawn to the bar area, where clouds of cigarette smoke rose to the lights above it, while women took the seats on the other side and filled it with the sound of chatter. She spotted Mrs. Rezai, a retired general’s wife, who was surrounded by a circle of giggling women and wondered if she was entertaining them with her usual anecdotes. General Rezai would no doubt be somewhere with the men, smoking his stinky cigars. Three tables away, Farah Milani was leaning close to the woman next to her, and the way she shielded her lips with the palm of one hand could only indicate gossip.
Rana took another sip of wine. With the baby now on formula, she didn’t have to worry about what she put in her body. It had been a while since she last touched wine and she could already feel her muscles relax.
“So, how’s the little one doing?” Kathy asked, and she pulled her chair closer. “I bet she’s as pretty as the rest of the Moradi women.” Rana hesitated, but this time her pause had nothing to do with language. The phrase, “Moradi women” had acquired a new, rather strange, ring. Rana pictured her husband walking into one of these functions with both her and that Parisa woman at his side, and she smiled sadly as she tried to imagine which of them would be on his right.
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