The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  ‘You mean you don’t make fun of my praying and my faith and you don’t consider it to be a superstition?’ I asked.

  ‘No! Sometimes when I see you pray with such calm and emotional confidence, I even envy you.’

  With an approving smile, Shahrzad said, ‘Just remember to pray for us, too!’ And I instinctively hugged her and kissed her on the cheeks.

  From then on, I saw very little of Hamid’s friends, and even that limited contact took place in a well-defined framework. They respected me, but they didn’t consider me one of them and tried not to talk about God and religion in front of me. They were not comfortable in my company and I was no longer all that interested in seeing them.

  Once in a while, Shahrzad and Mehdi would stop by and visit us as friends, but I still didn’t feel any closeness towards them. My feelings for Shahrzad were a combination of respect, kindness and envy. She was a complete woman; even men respected her. She was well educated, intelligent and eloquent. She wasn’t afraid of anyone, and not only did she not need to lean on anyone, she was the one their entire group relied on. What was interesting was that despite all her strong characteristics, she had soft and tender emotions. When faced with certain human tragedies, tears would quickly well up in her dark eyes.

  Her relationship with Mehdi was a mystery to me. Hamid had told me that they had got married for the benefit of their organisation, but there was something far deeper and more human between them. Mehdi was a very quiet and intelligent man. He rarely took part in their debates and hardly ever displayed his knowledge and skills. Like a teacher listening to his students review their lessons, he remained silent and only observed and listened. It didn’t take long for me to realise that Shahrzad played the role of his spokesperson. During their discussions, she always kept a subtle eye on him. A nod from Mehdi was a sign of approval for her to continue with what she was saying, and a slightly raised eyebrow would leave her pensive in the middle of a debate. I thought, No, it was impossible to develop such a bond without love. I knew that Hamid’s ideal wife was someone like her, not like me. Still, I felt no resentment. I had placed her so far above myself that I believed I didn’t even deserve to be jealous of her. I just desperately wanted to be like her.

  Towards the end of spring, during the final exams for year ten, feelings of weakness, fatigue and nausea made me realise I was pregnant. As difficult as it was, I did well in my exams, and this time, with mindfulness and enthusiasm, I sat waiting for the birth of my child; a child whose smallest gift to me would be an escape from infinite loneliness.

  Hamid’s family was very excited at the news of my pregnancy and considered it a sign that Hamid had finally changed his ways and settled down. I let them believe what they wanted to; I knew if I complained about his long absences, I would not only betray Hamid and risk losing him for ever, but his family would blame me and consider me to be the guilty party. His mother truly believed and used every excuse to remind me that a capable wife can keep her husband duty-bound to his home and family; as proof, she would tell me how when they were young she had saved her husband from the snare of the communist Tudeh Party.

  That summer, Mahmoud married my maternal cousin, Ehteram-Sadat. I was neither eager nor interested in helping with the preparations and my pregnancy provided the perfect excuse. The truth was that I didn’t like either one of them. But Mother was as happy as you would expect her to be and constantly listed the new bride’s merits over Mahboubeh. With the help of my aunt, who didn’t know whether she should forgo her strict hijab to make her work easier, Mother was busy attending to all that needed to be done.

  On the wedding day, Mahmoud looked like he was attending a funeral. Scowling and with a surly expression on his face, he kept his head down and didn’t exchange pleasantries with anyone. The festivities were taking place both at Father’s house and at Mrs Parvin’s. The men gathered at Father’s house while the women went next door. Contrary to what had been decided, Mahmoud didn’t stay for even a day at Father’s house. He had rented a house near the bazaar and the bride was taken there on the wedding night.

  There were colourful string lights hanging on all the walls and between the trees, and pedestal lamps flanked the doors. The cooking was being done in Mrs Parvin’s front yard, which was larger than ours. There was no music or singing. Mahmoud and Ehteram-Sadat’s father had stipulated that no one was allowed to engage in any irreligious activities.

  I was sitting with the other women in Mrs Parvin’s front yard and fanning myself. The women were busy cheerfully chatting and eating fruit and pastries. I was wondering what the men were doing. There was no sound coming from next door, except occasionally when someone would urge everyone to say praise to the Prophet and his descendants. It seemed they were all waiting for dinner to be served so that they could complete their obligations and shake off their boredom.

  ‘What kind of a wedding is this?’ Mrs Parvin kept complaining. ‘It’s just like my late father’s funeral!’

  And my aunt would silence her by puckering her brow and saying, ‘May God have mercy!’

  My aunt believed that, other than herself, everyone in the world was a sinner and no one practised their faith properly. But her dislike of Mrs Parvin was of a different nature. That night she repeatedly groused, ‘What is that hussy doing here?’ If we had been anywhere other than at Mrs Parvin’s house, my aunt would have certainly thrown her out by now.

  Ahmad never showed up at the wedding. Mother kept asking Ali who was standing by the front door, ‘Did your brother Ahmad come?’ And then she would slap the back of her hand and say, ‘You see! It’s his brother’s wedding after all, and your poor father is left with no one to help him. Ahmad cares about no one other than those unsavoury friends of his. He thinks the world will come to an end if he doesn’t go out with them one single night.’

  Mother’s words made Mrs Parvin air her grievances, too. ‘Your mother is right. Ever since you left, Ahmad has got even worse. He’s hanging out with a bunch of strange people. May God lead him to a happy end.’

  ‘He is so stupid that he deserves whatever happens to him,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, Massoumeh! How could you? Perhaps he wouldn’t be like this if the rest of you paid some attention to him.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it isn’t right the way you have all abandoned him. Your father won’t even look at him.’

  That night Father’s sister arrived at the wedding alone. Up until that moment, Mother kept saying, ‘You see what an uncaring aunt you have? She didn’t even bother coming to her eldest nephew’s wedding.’ And when she saw my aunt walk in, she puckered her lips and said, ‘The lady has graced us.’ Then she quickly got busy doing something so that she could pretend not to have seen her arrive.

  My aunt came and sat next to me and exclaimed, ‘Oh, I almost died on the way coming here! The car broke down and I was delayed for two hours. I wish you had held the wedding in Qum so that the entire family could come and I wouldn’t have to suffer so much travelling back and forth.’

  ‘Oh, dear Auntie, we didn’t want you to go to any trouble.’

  ‘What trouble? How many times does one’s eldest nephew get married for one to not want to take two steps?’

  Then she turned to Mother and said, ‘Hello, madam. You see that I did finally come; and this is how you greet me?’

  ‘Is this the time to come?’ Mother grumbled. ‘Like a stranger?’

  Hoping to change the subject, I said, ‘By the way, dear Auntie, how is Mahboubeh? I really miss her. I wish she had come.’

  Mother glowered at me.

  ‘Frankly, my girl, Mahboubeh is away. She sends her apologies. She and her husband left for Syria and Beirut yesterday. God bless him, what a husband. He adores Mahboubeh.’

  ‘How interesting. Why Syria and Beirut?’

  ‘Well, where else would they go? They say it is beautiful there. They call Beirut the Bride of the Middle East.’

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nbsp; Mother petulantly said, ‘My dear, not everyone can go to the West like my brother.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, they could,’ my aunt retorted. ‘But Mahboubeh wanted to go to a place of pilgrimage. You see, she is obliged to go to Haj, but because she is with child, her husband said for now they should visit the shrine of Her Holiness Zeynab and postpone a pilgrimage to Mecca until a later time, God willing.’

  ‘Well, as far as I know, you have to take care of all your obligations, organise your life and then go to Haj,’ Mother continued to argue.

  ‘No, my dear Tayebeh, these are all excuses made by people who can’t go to Haj,’ my aunt countered. ‘In fact, Mahboubeh’s father-in-law, who is a scholar and a cleric and has ten seminarians in his pay, says when someone has the financial means, he is obliged to go.’

  Mother was sizzling like wild rue over fire. She always became like this when she couldn’t come up with an appropriate retort. She finally found one and said, ‘Absolutely not! My brother-in-law’s brother, our bride’s paternal uncle, is a much more accomplished scholar and he says that going to Mecca has many conditions and requirements. It’s not as simple as that. Not just your family, but even your seven neighbours to the right and your seven neighbours to the left should not be needy for you to be obliged to go to Haj. And in your case, well, with your son being out of work—’

  ‘What out of work? A thousand people are beholden to him. His father wanted to open a store for him, but my son didn’t want one. He said, “I don’t like the bazaar and I don’t want to be a shopkeeper. I want to study and become a doctor.” Mahboubeh’s husband who is educated says my son is very talented and he has made us promise to leave the boy alone until he takes the university entrance exams.’

  Mother opened her mouth to say something, but I jumped in and again tried to change the subject. I was afraid the wedding would turn into a battleground if their bickering continued.

  ‘By the way, Auntie, how far along is Mahboubeh? Did she have any cravings?’

  ‘Only during the first two months. Now she’s feeling very well and has no problems. The doctor has even allowed her to travel.’

  ‘My doctor said I shouldn’t walk too much and I’m not allowed to bend over too often.’

  ‘Then don’t, my girl. You have to be very careful during the first few months, especially because you’re weak. May God let me give my life for you, they probably don’t take care of you the way they should. In the beginning, I wouldn’t let Mahboubeh make a move. Every day, I cooked whatever she was craving and sent it to her house. It’s a mother’s duty. Tell me, have they cooked mixed grain and vegetable soup for you?’

  My aunt was not willing to call a ceasefire.

  ‘Yes, Auntie,’ I said, quickly. ‘They’re constantly bringing food for me, but I don’t have an appetite.’

  ‘My dear, they’re probably not cooking it properly. I’ll prepare such a delicious dish for your cravings that you’ll want to eat your fingers, too.’

  Mother was so angry that she had turned the colour of beetroot. She was about to say something when Mrs Parvin called her and told her that it was time to serve the men’s dinner. With Mother gone, I breathed a sigh of relief. My aunt calmed down like a volcano that had suddenly stopped erupting and started looking around, exchanging greetings with a few guests by nodding to them. Then she turned her attention back to me.

  ‘God bless you, my dear, you look beautiful. You are definitely having a boy. Now, tell me, are you pleased with your husband? We never did see the prince, the way they rushed the marriage… as if the soup was hot and they didn’t want it to lose flavour. Now, is he really a soup to savour?’

  ‘What can I say, Auntie? He’s not bad. His parents were leaving for Mecca and there was no time. They wanted to take care of everything and go to Haj with peace of mind. That’s why there was such a rush.’

  ‘But with no investigation and no enquiries? I heard you hadn’t even seen the groom until the marriage ceremony. Is it true?’

  ‘Yes, but I had seen a photograph of him.’

  ‘What? My dear, one does not marry a photograph. You mean you developed feelings for him and realised he’s the man of your life just by looking at his picture? Even in Qum they don’t marry girls off like that. Mahboubeh’s father-in-law is a mullah, not one of those phoney mullahs, he’s a well-respected cleric and he is more devout than all of Qum. When he came to ask for Mahboubeh’s hand for his son, he said a boy and a girl should talk to each other and make sure they want one another before they give their answer. Mahboubeh spoke with Mohsen Khan all alone on at least five occasions. They invited us to dinner several times and we did the same. And although the entire city knows them and there was no need for an investigation, we still asked around and made enquiries. You don’t just hand over your daughter to a stranger as if you had found her on the side of a street.’

  ‘I don’t know, Auntie. To be honest, I wasn’t willing, but my brothers were in a rush.’

  ‘How dare they? Was your presence taking up their space? From the very start your mother spoiled these boys too much. All Mahmoud does is fake piety and God knows where that Ahmad is.’

  ‘But Auntie, I’m not unhappy now. This was my fate. Hamid is a good man and his family takes good care of me.’

  ‘How is he financially?’

  ‘Not bad. I don’t lack for anything.’

  ‘What does he do anyway?’

  ‘They have a printing house. His father owns half of the business and Hamid works there.’

  ‘Does he love you? Are you having fun together? Do you know what I mean?’

  Her words made me think. I had never asked myself whether I loved Hamid or whether he loved me. Of course, I wasn’t indifferent towards him. In general, he was a pleasant and likeable man. Even Father who had seen very little of Hamid liked him. But the sort of love I had felt for Saiid didn’t exist between us. Even our conjugal relationship was more out of a sense of duty and based on physical need rather than an expression of love.

  ‘What is it, my dear? You’re suddenly deep in thought. Do you love him or not?’

  ‘You know, Auntie, he’s a good man. He tells me to go to school and to do whatever I want. I can go to the cinema, to parties, to fun outings; the poor thing doesn’t say a word.’

  ‘If you’re going to be roaming around the streets all the time, then when are you going to see to the house and cook lunch and dinner?’

  ‘Oh, Auntie, there’s plenty of time. Besides, Hamid doesn’t care about lunch and dinner. If I feed him bread and cheese for an entire week, he will never complain. He is really a harmless man.’

  ‘Of all impossible things… a harmless man! You make me worry. The things you say!’

  ‘Why, Auntie?’

  ‘Look here, my girl. God has yet to create a harmless man. Either he is up to no good and just wants to keep you busy so that you don’t interfere with his life, or he is so deeply in love that he can’t say no to you, which is very unlikely and even if it is true, it will be short-lived. Wait a little, then see what song he sings.’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘My girl, I know men. Our Mahboubeh’s husband is not only pious, but educated and modern. He adores Mahboubeh and doesn’t take his eyes off her. Ever since he found out she’s pregnant, he pampers her like a child, but he also watches her like a hawk to see where she goes, what she does and when she comes back. Between you and me, sometimes he is even a little jealous. After all, it’s love. There should be a little jealousy. Your husband must have his own little jealousies. Does he?’

  Hamid jealous? Over me? I was certain there wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in him. If I had told him right then that I wanted to leave him, he would probably be overjoyed. Even though he had absolute freedom to live his life and to go and come as he wished, and I never dared complain about my round-the-clock loneliness, he still considered marriage to be a headache and a shackle, and grumbled about the constraints of family life.
Perhaps I had taken over a corner of his mind that he would have otherwise dedicated to his goals. No, Hamid was never jealous when it came to me.

  As these thoughts flashed through my mind like bolts of electricity, I caught sight of Faati and quickly called her over. ‘Faati, my dear, come clear away these plates. Is Mother serving dinner? Tell her I will be right there to put the dressing on the salad.’ And with that excuse, I left Auntie and the merciless mirror she had held up to my life. I felt strangely depressed.

  By the start of autumn, I was feeling much better and my belly was slowly growing bigger. I registered in night school for year eleven classes. Every day, late in the afternoon, I would walk to school, and every morning I would open the curtains, sit under the sun that shined in the middle of the room, stretch out my legs, and study while eating the fruit rolls my aunt had made. I knew that soon I would not have much time to study.

  One day Hamid came home at ten in the morning. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He hadn’t been home for two entire days and nights. I thought perhaps he was ill, or could it be that he was worried about me?