She said she didn’t mind, but he wasn’t convinced. Parisa had no reason to be jealous, yet each time he cancelled a plan, something in her voice made him feel awkward.
It was hard to imagine Dr. Ameli, that strong caregiver, in need of medical care. W hen the man had agreed to accompany his daughter and further insisted on taking Vida along, Moradi had considered it a blessing. He craved that freedom and wanted to give Parisa his full attention when their son was born. Now what?
Unable to work, he sipped his tea and thought about his life. It reminded him of his father and a strange metaphor he had once used. During a drought when Shiraz’s farmers suffered losses, Moradi’s father joined the business of a friend, a rug-merchant in the bazaar, to make ends meet. Running from one job to the other, he once had said, “My life has become that of a bigamist, stealing time from one place to be in another.” A pre-teen at the time, Farhad hadn’t grasped the full meaning. Now he knew.
W hen he had first started seeing Parisa, he refused to think of it as an affair. She was more of a reward for whatever good he may have done. Even when he wanted to marry her, he knew that those snobs in upper society would see it as plain bigamy. To take more than one wife was often seen as a sign of greed and lust, but his was an ethereal experience. The physical attraction was only a fraction of his many emotions. He had found a missing part of himself, experienced being whole. That feeling alone made everyone else’s opinion immaterial. The more he looked for ways to see himself as an exception, the more he found them. Now for the first time he allowed doubt to penetrate his mind. Am I just another man with two wives?
Could his grief for Marjan push a wedge between Parisa and him? He was reluctant to talk to her about his lost daughter, whom she had never met. His pain was his alone and the only person he shared it with was his sister. He spent many evenings at Badri’s. Was he giving Vida the time he had stolen from Marjan? Poor Vida looked so lost without her big sister. Occasionally he took her to the officer’s club for a treat. Once he even took her to Parisa’s. But despite the fact that Vida seemed to take to her, it had felt so awkward that he decided not to do it again. Every where he looked, the doors closed on him and now Dr. Ameli’s heart attack!
Ever since Marjan’s tragedy, Rana had remained dry-eyed, but her expression cried, her whole body cried. She ate less and was fast wasting away. She moved around the house like a ghost dressed in black, and the only one she smiled for was her baby. Lately she had started to prepare for her trip, but even then her movements lacked enthusiasm. He would find her in Marjan’s room, staring at the objects of childhood, in no hurry to get past her grief.
That mother of hers didn’t even show up for the funeral, did nothing to help her grieving daughter, but she didn’t hesitate to call with more bad news. How was he going to tell Rana about her father?
Major Moradi picked up his mail from the hallway table and reluctantly went to the family room. He found Rana sitting on the sofa, staring at the television set that wasn’t on. She looked at him without responding to his greeting. From there he could see the kitchen table set for lunch and decided the news about Dr. Ameli could wait until after they had eaten.
Rana must have been busy with another one of her nostalgic projects. Family albums lay open on the coffee table and loose pictures were scattered over the couch. Some photographs were trimmed around the edges and pieces of the trimming made a mess on the floor. He brushed a few pictures aside to make room and sat down.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“Oh,” she responded without looking at him. “Just gathering favorite pictures.”
He glanced at an album he had not seen before and figured that was where she planned to put her new selection. The project would probably leave some gaps in the old albums that he had so painstakingly organized, but he no longer cared what she did with them.
It wasn’t until after the table had been cleared that he sat down with his glass of tea and said, “Won’t you join me?”
Rana shook her head. “I’ve had enough tea today.”
“Then just sit down for a minute. I need to tell you something.” He glanced at Dayeh, who was about to leave. “You, too,” he said. “I think you both should hear this.”
Dayeh’s questioning eyes were on him, but Rana busied herself with the pictures again. Did she think he was going to talk about their personal problems in front of the old nanny?
“Your mother called this morning.”
Rana’s eyes shot up. “My mother called you?”
Moradi smiled inwardly at how Rana always asked a question just to buy time.
“Your father is rather unwell.” He said it reassuringly to suggest he was fine now.
“What do you mean, ‘unwell’?”
“He had a minor heart attack.”
Dayeh slapped her face. “Dear Imam Hossein!”
Rana continued to stare at him, wide-eyed.
“She wanted you to know because he asked for you as soon as he regained consciousness.”
Rana stood, as if to go somewhere, but then sat down. “He was unconscious?”
“He’s stable now. Those are your mother’s exact words, ‘he’s stable’.”
Dayeh put a fist to her chest, “Oh, that saint of a man, that father of all fathers,” she said the words quickly and in a monotonous voice. “Save him, ya Allah, save him!”
Despite her sudden pallor and the glistening of tears, Rana maintained her poise. The woman he used to know would be screaming, tearing at her hair, and rushing to the phone to call Tehran. After a few minutes of silence, she took a deep breath, stood up again, and her lips quivered as she commanded, “If you don’t mind, I would rather be alone and call my mother.”
Her tone was so controlled that he thought she must be in shock. He looked at Dayeh, but the old woman did not seem the least bit surprised. In fact, she gave him a look as if to say that such dignity was expected from her lady. He heard the baby crying, and the old nanny left the room, still whimpering and making her usual bargains with Allah. “Dear God, just bring the good doctor back to his feet and I promise to read an entire round of Koran.” Her voice faded down the hallway and Moradi knew she would carry on for hours.
Before leaving the room, Farhad glanced at his wife and almost could not identify the proud woman sitting near the telephone. Had Mrs. Ameli known how well Rana could handle such crisis, she would have called her directly. Rana worshipped her father and from the way she pursed her lips and pressed her eyelids shut, he could almost hear the scream locked inside her. Indeed, life had made a new woman out of her. The way she kept her distance allowed him to see her in a new light. The woman, who had leaned on him in all their times of trouble, no longer needed him. He had pitied the tenuous Rana, felt guilt for breaking her heart, but the last thing he’d imagined was that she’d be the stronger. Had their positions reversed?
Forget the drunken night he had come home with a broken heart over the loss of his father. Forget the brief intimacy that brought an unplanned baby to this world. He had not felt close to Rana in more than a year. Maybe that distance was the reason he was so shocked by this sudden pain at their estrangement.
Chapter
Fourteen
DURING THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, the phone calls to and from Tehran became more and more reassuring. With Vida out of the way at Badri’s house, Rana prepared to go to her father, but just before she had booked her flight, he called from his hospital room. “I knew you wouldn’t trust anyone’s report,” he said, and his attempt at a chuckle made him cough.
“You’re absolutely right. I was just looking at flights.” Rana blinked her tears away.
“Don’t you dare do anything so silly,” he said.
“You sure gave us all a good scare.”
“It wasn’t half as bad as you think. It’s wonderful to feel loved.”
“Oh, Papa, as if you needed to test us!”
He told her they would keep him at the hospital a f
ew more days, but the cardiologist had prohibited traveling for weeks. “I have your passports,” he continued. “But I didn’t think they’d be safe here, so I’ve sent them to the office, just in case.”
In case of what? Was her father holding back? Would he tell her if there was any bad news?
“a re you absolutely sure you don’t need me to come?”
“Absolutely. I’m in the best of hands here and there isn’t a thing you could do to help.” He coughed again. “I’ll be much happier knowing Vida won’t have to do extra time at her aunt’s boot camp on my account.”
He had no idea how she hated sending her there. The image of Vida at Badri’s clutched at Rana’s heart, but the more that child stayed away, the less reason there would be for Farhad to stop by the house. Then again, was that the real reason?
She had a hard time tearing apart that funny combined name. Every where she looked she saw her Vida-Marjan. But she had to separate them, and as she tried, it was hard to believe what she had done to her little girl. She pictured Vida’s days alone in that house and with an aunt who forbade waking up in the middle of the night. Did children grieve? How could she be so self-absorbed? For once, Badri’s words made sense. She did have another daughter and it was time to give Vida the attention she deserved.
As soon as her father hung up, Rana dialed Badri’s. The maid told her no one was home and all the children were at school.
“Please tell her I called to report that I am feeling much better and would like Vida to come home.”
Rana sat by the window and looked out at the driveway. Would Vida get up late at night and stagger in the dark hallways of Badri’s house, looking for her sister? Visions of the day Badri had dropped off her two daughters filled her mind. A car would soon pull up, but this time only one child would emerge. Her throat constricted. Her heart raced. She felt sick to her stomach. Never again would Rana look into her beautiful Marjan’s eyes, nor would she hear her loving voice. Her arms ached to wrap around that slim body, but it wasn’t going to happen. She had to face the reality. The loss of Marjan was no one’s fault, not hers, not Vida’s, not even God’s. There was not going to be a Vida-Marjan ever again and she had to accept that from now on, it would be Vida alone and she needed her.
“Oh, dear God!” Rana called out to the one patch of cloud in the sky as if God had been hiding behind it. As reality shattered the weak dam of denial, her tears finally burst forth. Rana leaned her forehead against the window and sobbed and sobbed.
The baby woke up and her sound brought Rana back to the real time. How long had she been standing by the window? She wiped her tears and went to Yalda’s crib. The infant stopped whimpering as soon as she was picked up. “We will be okay, won’t we?” Rana whispered into the baby’s ear. “Vida will soon be home. Grandpa will recover, and we will all travel together.” More tears slid between her cheek and the baby’s. Rana whispered, “Pray with me, my angel. Pray.”
The delay in their schedule turned out to be a blessing of sorts. Even though it meant that Rana had to carry on with her charade for a few more weeks, it gave her time to review what else to pack for such a long journey. What kind of clothes would Vida need, and how much of a seasonal change should they expect? Beside the new album, which of Marjan’s things could she take along?
Late at night, she let her guard down and lay awake thinking. She had never felt she belonged in Shiraz, or even to this house, but the truth remained that this was the closest she had come to having a nest. Despite a surge of bitter emotions for Moradi, she knew that he, too, was hurting for Marjan. As if that child had been the last link, Rana knew that soon her husband would also be a shadow in her past. Her friend, Minoo, used to tell her a woman would never be completely over her first love. Forget love, what about the only man she had been intimate with? After all, the mere habit of having her husband around had to count for something. Too proud to admit she was hurt, she had never confronted him, never asked what made him need another woman. But pride notwithstanding, she ached to know. Why indeed?
The descriptions of Parisa remained vague. If she could just give the woman a face, it might provide a clue as to what Moradi had seen in her. These were her last days in Shiraz, her last chance to find out who Parisa was. As her father had taught her, if she hoped to put the entire matter behind her, she needed to look the enemy straight in the eye.
The Khalili Lane, which had once been a part of that family’s estate, and where the garden was now located, had not changed since her last visit. Still, Rana looked at it as though this was her first trip. In the past, the taxi had always dropped her off in front of the garden and she had gone in without paying the slightest attention to its surroundings. But today, hiding behind a large scarf and dark sunglasses, she asked the driver to take her to the Namazee Hospital and walked the short distance. She studied the alley with care and paid close attention to the houses located across from the garden. The wrought iron gate would allow her to see the two houses across the garden.
For a moment, Rana closed her eyes and thought of the last time she had been there. In her mind, she saw her little girls running down the gravel path. The memory of Vida’s giggles and Marjan’s firm commands to her little sister filled her with deep sorrow. W hen she opened her eyes, all she saw was the brick wall surrounding the garden. For the first time, the sense of security had changed into a feeling of entrapment.
This was the earliest she had ever been there. No visitors had arrived yet and two men were busy watering the flowers; one had a black hose in his hand and the other hauled large watering cans into the gazebo. The wet flowerbeds glistened under the morning sun, and even from behind her dark glasses Rana could see the vivid colors of geraniums, petunias and marigolds. The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the scent of lilacs. Rays of sunlight broke into a tiny rainbow where water sprayed out of the hose. Rana returned the gardener’s greeting and headed toward the gazebo.
From the bench on the gazebo, Rana had a clear view of the two houses across the way without being seen. Her little sanctuary had turned into the enemy territory and the last thing she needed was to be spotted here. She opened the book she had brought along and pretended to read while glancing at the house now and then. Once a woman, who looked more like a maid, came out of the house to the left. The woman carried a plastic shopping basket and used her key to lock the door before walking past the garden. From time to time a bicycle or a few pedestrians passed by. The gardeners finished their work and were soon gone. Finally realizing she could sit there all day and not see anything of interest, Rana left just as other visitors were starting to trickle in.
The next morning, she went back, but this time less nervous and a little less hopeful. There was only one gardener at work. W hen he stopped his watering and began to make little loops with the hose to put it away, Rana gathered all her courage and asked him in what she hoped would be a casual tone, “Do you know who lives in those houses across the way?”
The man stood straight, stretched his back, and glanced at the alley as if he had never noticed the houses before. He gave an uncertain shrug and said, “The one to the right is empty, and I don’t know who owns it. The left one, I think some Tehrani people moved in last year.”
Rana felt a surge of excitement. So that had to be Parisa’s, and the woman she had seen could be her maid.
“They are so lucky you maintain this lovely view for them to enjoy,” she said.
The gardener put the coils of black hose around a tree stump. “True,” he said, “Mr. Khalili’s garden is the best in Shiraz!” And he walked away.
That evening, when Moradi stopped by long after dinner, Rana noticed a distinct change in him. He had a stubble of a beard and his uniform seemed a little wrinkled. He did not read the paper nor did he open his mail. Dayeh brought him a nice plate, which he barely touched. Even the old nanny eyed him with curiosity.
“How was work?” Rana asked, surprising herself. She had no interest in his work, or in
any other aspect of his daily life, but thought the question may encourage him to talk. She couldn’t share Marjan’s grief, but knew she had to somehow act like a normal wife.
He gave her a vacant look. “Work?” He blinked a couple of times. Something was amiss and if Rana hadn’t just called Tehran, she would fear it had to do with her father.
Moradi walked over to the bar. “Work is work,” he snapped and Rana knew that would be the end of that topic.
“No need to talk to me as if I’m one of your orderly soldiers.”
He started to pour a drink. “Then don’t ask.”
Rana decided she should let him burn in whatever hell he was in.
Moradi retreated to his chair and turned on the television, but didn’t watch it. He kept tapping his left heel on the floor and when Vida tried to climb onto his lap, he pushed her away and growled, “I’m tired.”
Vida, not expecting the push, lost her balance and fell to the floor and started to cry.
Rana shot him an angry look and went to the child. “Don’t cry, honey. Papa didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Vida cried harder. “Yes he did. He doesn’t love me!”
“Oh, don’t you be silly,” Rana said and kissed her, “Mommy loves you.”
“Aha!” Moradi said. “Go right ahead, turn her against me, too. You’ve already done a great job of it with everyone else.”
Rana did not know where all this was coming from. Something was eating him from inside. He got up so abruptly that he tipped a small table and sent an ashtray across the room. She watched him as he went back to the bar and made himself another drink, took his glass, and went upstairs without saying goodnight.
The next day, he left before breakfast.
At lunchtime, Rana took a taxi to the European bistro called One-O-Three, where Kathy had arranged to meet her. More than a month had passed since that horrible accident. Rana had not paid her friend—or any friends—a visit. Most of the women she knew in Shiraz were the mothers she met at school, lucky mothers of Marjan’s classmates, mothers who needed to be there as the third grade assembled. She didn’t even care to see the parents of Vida’s friends, let alone Marjan’s. The look of pity in their eyes stabbed at her heart, and so did the softer than normal tone they used when they spoke to her, as if they feared their voices could shatter her. The only friend she spoke to was Minoo, but she lived in Tehran, and phone conversations were hardly enough. Now that she didn’t see Kathy, Rana realized what a supportive friend she had been. Maybe if she had lost Marjan some other way, somewhere else, she would draw comfort from seeing her friend, but not now, not when she thought of her more as the lucky mother of Claire than anything else. Kathy called on a regular basis, asking to see her, and at this point, Rana had run out of excuses. Hard as it was to talk to Kathy, Rana realized how much she had missed her friend.
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