The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  ‘How come you’re home at this hour of the day?’

  He laughed and said, ‘If you don’t like it, I can leave.’

  ‘No… I just got worried. Are you feeling well?’

  ‘Yes, of course. The telephone company called to say they are coming to instal the phone. I didn’t know how to get hold of you and I knew you didn’t have any money at home, so I had to come.’

  ‘A telephone? Really? They’re going to instal a telephone for us? Oh, how wonderful!’

  ‘Didn’t you know? I paid for it a long time ago.’

  ‘How would I know? You hardly ever talk to me. But it’s great; now I can call everyone and feel less lonely.’

  ‘No, Mrs Massoumeh! That won’t do. A telephone is for necessary occasions only; it’s not for women’s silly chatter. I have to have a telephone for certain important communications and the line has to be free. We will be receiving more calls than making them. And remember, you are not to give the number to anyone.’

  ‘What do you mean? Mother and Father can’t have our telephone number? And here I was, thinking the gentleman bought a telephone because he was worried about me, because he’s gone for days and wants to at least know how I am feeling, or so that I can call someone if I suddenly go into labour.’

  ‘Now, don’t get upset. Of course you can use the telephone when necessary. I meant I don’t want you to talk on the phone twenty-four hours a day and keep the line busy.’

  ‘At any rate, who would I call? I don’t have any friends, and Mother and Father don’t have a telephone and have to go to Mrs Parvin’s house to make a call. That leaves only your mother and sisters.’

  ‘No! No! Don’t you dare give them the number. Otherwise, they will use it to keep tabs on me all day long.’

  The telephone was installed and my link to the outside world, which had been limited because of my advancing pregnancy and the cold winter weather, was again restored. I spoke with Mrs Parvin every day. She would often invite Mother over to her house to talk to me. And if Mother was busy, Faati would chat with me. In the end, Hamid’s mother found out about the telephone and, piqued and cantankerous, she asked me for the number. She assumed I had not wanted her to have it, and I couldn’t tell her that it was what her son had ordered. From that day on, she called at least twice a day. Gradually, I picked up on the timing of her calls and when I was certain it was her, I wouldn’t answer the telephone. I was too embarrassed to continue lying to her that Hamid was sleeping, or had run out to buy something, or that he was in the bathroom.

  In the middle of a cold winter night, I felt the first shocking stab of labour pains. I was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. How could I let Hamid know? My mind was in a muddle. I had to get a grip and remember the instructions the doctor had given me. I had to organise myself, I had to write down the time interval between the contractions, and I had to find Hamid. His telephone number at work was the only number I had for him, and although I knew no one was there at that hour of the night, I dialled the number. There was no answer. I didn’t have any of his friends’ telephone numbers. He was always strangely careful not to write down any telephone numbers or addresses; he tried to memorise them. He said it was safer that way.

  My only option was to call Mrs Parvin. At first, I was uncomfortable waking them up at that hour, but the pain of the contractions erased my hesitation. I dialled the number. The sound of the ringing echoed in the receiver, but no one answered. I knew she slept soundly and her husband was hard of hearing. I hung up.

  It was two in the morning. I sat and stared at the second hand of the clock. The contractions were now coming at regular intervals, but they were not as I had expected them. With every minute that passed, I became more frightened. I thought of calling Hamid’s mother. But what would I say? How could I tell her Hamid was not at home? Earlier that evening, I had told her Hamid had come home from work and was downstairs visiting Bibi. Later, Hamid called from somewhere and I told him to telephone his mother and tell her that he had gone to see Bibi. If I called now and told her Hamid had not come home at all, she would scold me and lose her mind with worry over her son. She would go to every hospital and wander around the streets, looking for him. Her concern for her son verged on obsession and was void of any reason and logic.

  Stupid thoughts ran through my mind. I was holding my hands under my stomach and pacing up and down the room. I was so panicked that I thought I was going to faint. Each time the contractions came, I froze where I stood and tried hard not to make a sound, but then I remembered that even if I hollered, no one would hear me. Bibi was almost deaf and slept deeply, and if I did manage to wake her, there was nothing she could do to help me. I remembered my aunt telling me that when Mahboubeh’s contractions started, her husband became so nervous that he began running around in circles, telling her how much he loved and adored her. My entire being filled with hatred and disgust. Our child’s life and mine were not worth anything to Hamid.

  I looked at the clock, it was three-thirty. Again, I called Mrs Parvin. I let the telephone ring for a long time, but it was no use. I thought I should get dressed and go out into the street; eventually someone would drive by and take me to the hospital. Ten days earlier, I had prepared a suitcase for myself and the baby. I opened it, emptied it out and looked for the list the doctor and Mansoureh had written for me. Again, I folded everything and packed the suitcase. I had a few more contractions, but the intervals now seemed irregular. I lay down on the bed and thought I had made a mistake. I had to concentrate.

  I looked at the clock. It was four-twenty. The next time I jolted up with stabbing pain it was six-thirty in the morning. The contractions had stopped for a while and I had fallen asleep. I was nervous. I went over to the telephone and dialled Mrs Parvin’s number. This time, I was going to let it ring until someone finally answered. The telephone rang about twelve times when on the other side of the line Mrs Parvin’s sleepy voice said hello. Hearing her, I burst into tears and cried, ‘Mrs Parvin, help me! The baby is coming.’

  ‘Oh my God! Go to the hospital. Go! We’re on our way.’

  ‘How? With all this stuff?’

  ‘Isn’t Hamid there?’

  ‘No. He didn’t come home last night. I must have called you a hundred times during the night. It’s God’s will that the child still hasn’t come.’

  ‘Get dressed. We’ll be right there. I’ll get your mother and we’ll come right over.’

  Half an hour later, Mrs Parvin and Mother arrived and rushed me to the hospital in a taxi. Despite the intensifying pain, I felt calmer. At the hospital, the doctor said it was still too soon for the child to come. Mother took my hand and said, ‘When a woman in labour prays during a contraction, her prayer will come true. Pray for God to forgive your sins.’

  My sins? What sins had I committed? My only sin was that I had once loved someone; it was the sweetest memory I had of my life and I did not want anyone to erase it.

  It was past noon, but there was no sign of the baby. They gave me injections, but they were useless. Each time Mrs Parvin came to the room, she looked at me with dread and just to have something to say, she would ask, ‘But where is Hamid Agha? Let me call his mother. Perhaps they know where he is.’

  I would groan and in broken words tell her, ‘No, don’t. He will call the hospital when he goes home.’

  Seething with anger, Mother said, ‘What is the meaning of this? After all, shouldn’t his mother come and see what has become of her daughter-in-law and her grandchild? Why are they all so uncaring?’ Her constant grousing was making me even more stressed.

  By four in the afternoon, worry was rippling over Mother’s face and I could hear Father’s voice outside the door. ‘But where is this doctor? What is this nonsense about him being kept aware of the patient’s condition over the telephone? He should be at her bedside!’

  ‘Where are our own precious midwives?’ Mother said. ‘My child has been in pain all day. Do something!’

  Now and
then, I fainted in pain. I no longer had the energy to even moan.

  Mrs Parvin wiped the sweat from my face and told Mother, ‘Don’t cry. Childbirth is always painful.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I was there when many of our relatives gave birth. My other sister, God rest her soul, was the same way. She died in childbirth. When I look at Massoumeh lying there and suffering, it’s as if I’m looking at Marzieh.’

  It was strange that, despite all the pain, I was still aware of everything that was going on around me. Mother went on and on about how I resembled Marzieh, and I kept getting weaker and losing more hope with every passing second. I thought to myself, I’m a goner, too.

  It was after five o’clock when Hamid came. Seeing him, I suddenly felt safe, I felt stronger. How truly odd that in trying times a woman’s closest and best support is her husband, even if he is unkind. I didn’t notice when his mother and sisters arrived, but I heard the commotion. His mother was fighting with the nurse.

  ‘But where is the doctor? We are losing the baby!’ I knew her concern was for her grandchild, not for me.

  The nurse who was examining me said, ‘Oh my, what hissy fits! Madam, the doctor said he will come when it is time.’

  It was eleven at night. I had no energy left. They took me to a different room. From the conversations around me, I understood there was a problem with the baby’s breathing. The doctor was quickly pulling on his gloves and shouting at the nurse who couldn’t find my vein. And then everything went dark.

  I woke up in a clean and bright room. Mother was sitting next to my bed, napping. I was not in pain, but I felt profoundly weak and tired.

  ‘Is the baby dead?’ I asked.

  ‘Bite your tongue! You have a baby boy as handsome as can be. You can’t imagine how happy I was when I found out it’s a boy and how proud I felt in front of your mother-in-law.’

  ‘He’s healthy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The next time I opened my eyes, Hamid was in the room. He laughed and said, ‘Congratulations! It was really difficult, wasn’t it?’

  I burst into tears and said, ‘Being alone was more difficult.’

  He put his arm around my head and stroked my hair. All my resentment was forgotten.

  ‘Is the baby healthy?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but he is very small.’

  ‘How much does he weigh?’

  ‘Two kilos and seven hundred grams.’

  ‘Did you count his fingers and toes? Are they all there?’

  ‘Of course, they are all there,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Then why won’t they bring him to me?’

  ‘Because he is in an incubator. The birth was long and exhausting. They will keep him in the incubator until his breathing becomes normal. But I can already tell he is very playful. He is constantly moving his arms and legs and boohooing.’

  I felt much better the next day and they brought the baby to me. The poor thing had scratches all over his face. They said it was because of the forceps. I thanked God that he had not been harmed, but he was constantly crying and refused to take my breast. I felt faint with exhaustion.

  There was a huge crowd in my room that afternoon. No one agreed on whom the baby resembled. Hamid’s mother said he looked exactly like Hamid, but Mother believed he looked like his uncles.

  ‘What will you name him?’ Mother asked Hamid.

  Without a pause, he said, ‘It’s obvious, Siamak.’ And he cast a meaningful glance at his father who laughed and nodded in approval. I was stunned. We had never discussed baby names. Siamak was a name that I had never considered and was not on the long list of the ones I had thought of.

  ‘What did you say? Siamak? Why Siamak?’

  Mother added, ‘What sort of a name is Siamak? One should name a child after the prophets so that he will be blessed in life.’

  Father motioned to her to keep quiet and not to interfere.

  Sounding resolute, Hamid firmly said, ‘Siamak is a good name. One should name a child after a great man.’

  Mother looked at me quizzically and I shrugged, suggesting I didn’t know who he was referring to. Later, I discovered that among his group, most of the men had similar names. According to them, they had been named after true communists.

  After I was released from the hospital, I went to Mother’s house and stayed there for ten days, until I felt stronger and had learned how to take care of my child.

  I returned home. My son was healthy, but he cried all the time. I would hold him in my arms and walk all night until dawn. In the morning, he would sleep for a few hours here and there, but I had a thousand things to take care of and could not rest. Mrs Parvin came to see me almost every day and sometimes she brought Mother with her. She helped me a lot. I could not leave the apartment and she did all my household shopping for me.

  Hamid felt no sense of responsibility. The only change in his life was that on nights when he did come home, he would take a pillow and a blanket and sleep in the living room. And then he would complain that he had not slept well and that he had no peace and quiet at home. I took my son to the doctor a few times. He said children who are delivered with forceps and experience a difficult birth are often nervous and ill-tempered, but they don’t have any specific problems and my child was perfectly healthy. Another doctor said perhaps my son was hungry and my breast milk was not enough for him. He suggested I supplement his food and give him formula as well.

  Fatigue, weakness, lack of sleep, my son’s constant crying and, most important of all, loneliness made me more depressed every day. I couldn’t confide in anyone. I believed it was my fault that Hamid had no interest in being at home. I had lost my self-confidence, I shunned everyone, and my old disappointments and defeats revealed themselves to me more forcefully than ever before. I felt the world had ended for me and that I would never be free of the burden of that heavy responsibility. Often my tears flowed as my son cried.

  Hamid paid no attention to me or to our child. He was busy with his own daily routine. It had been four months since I had left the apartment except to take my child to the doctor. Mother kept saying, ‘Everyone has children, but no one sits at home the way you do.’

  With the weather getting warmer and the child growing older, I started to feel better. I was fed up with being tired and depressed. And finally, on a beautiful May day, I reclaimed my ability to make decisions. I told myself that I was a mother and had responsibilities, that I had to be strong and stand on my own two feet, and that I had to raise my son in a happy and healthy environment.

  Everything changed. The joy of life flowed inside me. And it was as if my son, too, had sensed the transformation in me. He cried less and sometimes even laughed and reached out to me when he saw me. Seeing him like that made me forget all my sorrows. He still kept me up many nights, but I had grown accustomed to it. Sometimes I would sit and watch him for hours. Every move he made had a special significance for me. It was as if he was a world I had just discovered. From one day to the next, I grew stronger, and from one day to the next, I loved him more. Maternal love was slowly seeping into every cell of my body. I kept telling myself, I love him so much more today than I did yesterday; a love stronger than this is impossible. But the next day I would feel he was even more dear to me. I no longer felt the need to talk to myself. I talked and sang to him. With his large, intelligent eyes, he made me understand which song he liked more, and when I sang a rhythmic song, he clapped his hands in tune with it. Every afternoon, I took him out in his pram and walked under the old trees along the roads and alleys in the neighbourhood. He loved our outings.

  Faati used every excuse to come over and hold Siamak in her arms. After the school year ended, she would sometimes spend the night with me. Her presence was a huge comfort. Again, the Friday lunches at my in-laws’ house resumed. Although Siamak wasn’t a well-tempered child and didn’t easily go from one person’s arms to the next, Hamid’s family truly loved him and refused to accept any excuse to cancel
a lunch.

  The gentlest and most beautiful relationship was between Father and Siamak. During the previous two years, Father had come to our home no more than three times. But now, once or twice a week, he would stop by after closing the store. At first, he would try to come up with a reason for his visits; he would bring milk or baby food. But soon, he no longer felt he needed an excuse. He would come, play with Siamak for a while, and then leave.

  Yes, Siamak had given my life a new scent and colour. With him in my life, I sensed Hamid’s absence less than I did before. My days were taken up by feeding him, bathing him and singing to him. And wisely, he refused to allow me to spend a moment without paying full attention to him. The little rascal demanded all my love and attention. I had completely put aside school, classes and exams. The fascinating device that kept us very entertained during that time was the television that Hamid’s father had bought as a gift for Siamak.