The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t need any money right now.’

  But his offer made me think about our financial situation. How was I going to cover our expenses? Would I have to be forever dependent on my father or on Hamid’s father or on others? I was again overwhelmed with anxiety. I tried to comfort myself; the printing house would reopen and resume work, and Hamid was a shareholder.

  For three entire days, Faati, Mrs Parvin, Siamak, Massoud, Father’s employees and occasionally Mother worked with me until we finally restored some order in the house. Hamid’s mother and sisters came to tidy up Bibi’s rooms downstairs. By then, Bibi had been released from the hospital and was convalescing at their house.

  In the process, I went down to the cellar and threw away all the odds and ends.

  ‘God bless the SAVAK,’ Faati laughed. ‘They made you finally discover what’s in this house and forced you to do a major spring clean!’

  The next day, I enrolled the boys in school. Poor Massoud started year one in such poor spirits and, unlike Siamak, he tried so hard not to give me any trouble. On the first day of school, I could read in his eyes his fear of that unknown environment, but he said nothing. When I was saying goodbye to him, I said, ‘You are a good boy and you will quickly find friends. I am sure your teacher will like you very much.’

  ‘Will you come to pick me up?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I will. Do you think I will forget my kind and darling son?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just afraid you will get lost.’

  ‘Me? Get lost? No, my dear, adults don’t get lost.’

  ‘Yes, they do. And we can’t find them again; just like Daddy and Shahrzad.’

  It was the first time since Shahrzad’s death that he had spoken her name, and her full name, not Auntie Sheri, which is what he used to call her. I didn’t know what to say. I wondered how he had interpreted their disappearance in his young mind. I took him in my arms and said, ‘No, my son. Mothers don’t get lost. They know the scent of their children and they follow it and find their children wherever they may be.’

  ‘Then, don’t you cry while I’m not there!’ he said.

  ‘No, son, I won’t cry. When did I ever cry?’

  ‘You always cry when you are alone in the kitchen.’

  There was nothing I could hide from that child. With a lump in my throat, I said, ‘Crying isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes we need to cry. It makes our heart feel lighter. But I won’t cry any more.’

  As time went on, Massoud proved to be just as trouble free at school. He did his homework on time and was careful to never upset me. The one effect of that night that remained in him and which he couldn’t hide from me were his terrified screams that would wake us up in the middle of the night.

  Two months passed. The universities opened. But the last thing on my mind was going to classes. Every day, Hamid’s father and I went to see different people, made requests, pleaded and begged, lined up contacts and connections; we even wrote to the office of Queen Farah pleading that Hamid not be tortured and executed and asking to have him transferred to an ordinary prison. Several influential people made promises, but we were not sure to what extent our efforts were effective and what Hamid’s circumstances really were.

  Sometime later, a trial was held and it was determined that Hamid had not participated in armed activities. He was saved from being executed and was instead sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Eventually, we were given permission to take him clothes, food and letters. Every Monday I would stand at the prison gates, holding a large bag of food, clothes, books and writing materials. Much of it was usually returned to me on the spot and of those items the prison guards did accept, I didn’t know what was in fact delivered to him.

  The first time they gave me his dirty clothes to wash, I was startled by their strange smell. They smelled of stale blood, of infection, of misery. Terrified, I inspected every piece. The sight of blood and pus stains drove me insane. I closed the bathroom door, turned the taps on full and wept to the roaring sound of water pouring in the bath. What was he suffering in prison? Would it not have been better if he had died the way Shahrzad and Mehdi died? Was he spending every second praying for death? Over time, by carefully examining his clothes I learned about his injuries and their severity. I knew which ones were more serious and which ones were healing.

  Time was passing and there was no indication that the printing house would be allowed to reopen. Every month, Hamid’s father gave me some money for us to live on, but how long could that go on? I had to make a decision. I had to find a job. I was neither a child, nor incapable. I was a woman responsible for two children and I didn’t want to raise them on the charity of others. Sitting still, whining and holding my hand out in front of this and that person was beneath me, beneath my children, and especially beneath Hamid. We had to live with honour and pride; we had to stand on our own two feet. But how? What work could I do?

  The first thought that occurred to me was to become a seamstress and to work for Mrs Parvin, with Faati’s assistance. Although I wasted no time getting started, I hated the work, especially because I had to go to Mother’s and Mrs Parvin’s houses every day where I had to face Ali and occasionally Mahmoud, and I had to tolerate Mother’s reprimands.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you sewing is the most important thing for a girl?’ she would say. ‘But you didn’t listen and wasted your time going to school.’

  Every night I read the employment classifieds in the newspapers and every day I went to different firms and companies to apply for a job. Most of the private companies were looking for secretaries. Hamid’s father cautioned me about work environments and certain issues that working women faced. His warnings were valid. In some offices I was leered at and appraised from head to toe as if they were selecting a lover, not an employee. It was in the course of these interviews that I realised having a school diploma was not enough. I needed other skills. I went to two sessions of a typing class and after I learned the basic rules I stopped going because I had neither the time nor the money to pay for the tuition. Hamid’s father gave me an old typewriter and I spent the nights practising. Then he introduced me to an acquaintance who worked in a government agency. The day I went for my interview, I found myself face to face with a man aged thirty-one or thirty-two with piercing, intelligent eyes who looked at me with curiosity and in the course of the interview tried to discover the information I was not volunteering.

  ‘You have written here that you are married. What does your husband do?’

  I hesitated. I thought because Hamid’s father had made the introductions, he might know about my circumstances. I mumbled that my husband was a freelancer and unaffiliated with a company. I could tell by his look and his sarcastic grin that he didn’t believe me.

  Weary and tense, I said, ‘I am the one looking for a job, so why is my husband any of your business?’

  ‘I was told you have no other source of income.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Mr Motamedi, the vice-president who recommended you.’

  ‘Would you not hire me if I did have another source of income? Aren’t you looking for a secretary?’

  ‘Yes, madam, we are. But there are many applicants who are better educated and more qualified than you. In fact, I don’t understand why Mr Motamedi recommended you, and so strongly!’

  I didn’t know what to say. Hamid’s father had told me that when I went to job interviews I should never mention that my husband was in prison. Yet, I couldn’t lie, because sooner or later I would be found out. Besides, I needed a job and that position was well suited to me. I was desperate and losing hope. With tears rolling down my cheeks and in a voice that was barely audible, I said, ‘My husband is in prison.’

  ‘For what?’ he asked with a frown.

  ‘He is a political prisoner.’

  He grew quiet. I didn’t dare speak and he didn’t ask any more questions. He started to write something and after a few secon
ds he looked up. He seemed upset. He handed me a note and said, ‘Don’t discuss your husband with anyone. Take this note to the office next door and give it to Mrs Tabrizi. She will explain your responsibilities to you. You start tomorrow.’

  The news of my taking a job exploded like a bomb.

  With eyes that seemed to be popping out of their sockets, Mother asked, ‘You mean in an office? Like men?’

  ‘Yes. There is no difference between men and women any more.’

  ‘May God take my life! The things you say! It’s the day of reckoning! I don’t think your father and brothers will allow it.’

  ‘It is none of their business,’ I snapped. ‘No one has the right to interfere in my life and the lives of my children. Everything they did to me in the past was enough. Now I am a married woman. It’s not as if my husband is dead. He and I have power over my life. Therefore, it is best that they don’t belittle themselves.’

  This simple ultimatum closed everyone’s mouth. Although I didn’t think Father was too opposed to my working, as he had on several occasions expressed his pleasure that I was standing on my own two feet and not relying on my brothers.

  The job proved effective in boosting my morale. I started feeling a certain sense of self and security. Although I was often exhausted, I was proud of not needing anyone.

  At the agency, I was an assistant and an office manager. I did everything; I typed, answered the telephones, did the filing, oversaw certain accounts and sometimes even translated letters and documents. At first everything was difficult. I found every one of my duties confusing and overwhelming. But barely two weeks later, I had a better understanding of my responsibilities. Mr Zargar, who was now my supervisor, patiently explained everything to me and monitored my work. But he never again asked me about my private life or expressed any curiosity about Hamid. Gradually, I started correcting grammatical and stylistic mistakes in the texts I was given to type. After all, I had been studying Persian literature at the university and had spent half my time during the past decade reading books. My supervisor’s attention and encouragement gave me more confidence. Eventually, he would simply tell me what he wanted to express in a letter or a report and I would write it for him.

  I enjoyed my work, but I was facing a problem that I had not thought of before. I could no longer go to the prison every week and it had been three weeks since I had had any news of Hamid. I was worried. I told myself, No matter how, I must go there this week.

  The day before, I prepared everything. I cooked a few dishes and packed some fruit, pastries and cigarettes. Early the next morning, I went to the prison. The guard at the front gate rudely and sarcastically asked, ‘What’s the matter? You couldn’t sleep last night so you showed up at the crack of dawn? I’m not going to accept any deliveries this early.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I have to be at work by eight o’clock.’

  He started mocking and insulting me.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ I said. ‘What kind of language is this?’

  It was as if he was waiting for me to object so that he would have an excuse to make every vulgar comment about me and my husband. Even though over time I had faced every insult and disrespect, until then no one had cursed us in that manner and shouted obscenities at me. I was shaking with rage. I wanted to tear him to pieces, but I didn’t dare utter a single word. I was afraid Hamid would no longer receive my letters and at least a small portion of the food I brought.

  With trembling lips and swallowing my tears, insulted and broken, I went to work, still carrying the bag. With his sharp eyes, Mr Zargar noticed how distraught I was and called me to his office. While handing me a letter to type, he asked, ‘What is the matter, Mrs Sadeghi? You don’t seem well today.’ I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand and I explained what had happened. He shook his head angrily and after a brief silence he said, ‘You should have told me sooner. Don’t you know what emotional state your husband will be in if he doesn’t hear from you this week either? Go quickly and don’t come back until you have delivered everything to him. And from now on, you will come to work on Mondays after you have dropped off his things at the prison. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, but sometimes I have to wait until noon. What can I do about my absenteeism? I can’t lose this job.’

  ‘Don’t worry about your job,’ he said. ‘I will write it down as you being away on office business. This is the least I can do for these selfless men and women.’

  How kind and understanding he was. I saw similarities between him and Massoud and I thought my son would grow up to be like him.

  Over time, the children and I adapted to the new routine of life. The boys consciously did their best to not create any new problems for me. We ate breakfast together every morning and got ready for the day. Even though their school wasn’t too far away, I drove them there in the same Citroën 2CV that had been a true saviour during this time. At lunchtime they walked home, bought bread on the way, warmed up the food I had prepared ahead, ate and took some downstairs for Bibi, too. The poor woman had been ailing terribly ever since her hospital stay, but she didn’t want to live anywhere other than in her own home, which meant we had to take care of her as well. Every day after work, I would do our shopping and then stop by to see her. I would clear away her dishes, tidy her room and chat with her for a while before going upstairs. And then the housework would start. Washing, cleaning, cooking for the next day, giving the boys their dinner, helping them with their homework and a thousand other chores that would take until eleven or twelve o’clock to finish. Finally, I would collapse like a corpse and sleep. Given all that, I no longer thought I could continue my education. I had already lost one year and it seemed I would have to lose many more.

  That year, another event distracted us for a while. After many family fights and arguments, Faati got married. Mahmoud, who felt he had learned a lesson from my marriage, was determined to have Faati marry a devout bazaar merchant like himself. Faati, who unlike me was meek and easily bullied, did not dare object to the suitor Mahmoud recommended, even though she despised the man. Apparently, the punishments I had suffered had left such an impression on her that she seemed to have forever lost her self-confidence and the ability to voice her opinion. As a result, the responsibility of defending her rights fell on my shoulders, which once and for all confirmed my title as the family’s fighting cock.

  This time, however, I acted with greater wisdom. Without engaging in any discussions with Mahmoud or Mother, I privately talked to Father. I shared with him Faati’s point of view and asked him to not bring about the misery of yet another daughter by consenting to a forced marriage. Although my footprints were later detected in Father’s decision and made Mahmoud loathe me more than ever before, still, the marriage did not take place. Instead, Faati married another suitor whom Uncle Abbas had introduced and whom Faati had taken a liking to.

  Sadegh Khan, Faati’s husband, was a kind, handsome and educated young man who came from a cultured middle-class family and worked as an accountant in a government agency. Although he was not wealthy and Mahmoud contemptuously described him as a wage-earner, Faati was happy, and the boys and I liked him. Understanding my sons’ need for a father, Sadegh Khan developed a friendly relationship with them, often arranging entertainments for them and taking them on outings.

  Our life had almost settled into a regular routine. I liked my job and I had found good friends who filled the lunch hours and idle times with jokes, laughter and gossip. Often our discussions were about Mr Shirzadi, one of the departmental directors, who disliked me and always found fault with everything I did. Everyone said he was a sensitive man and an excellent poet, but I saw nothing in him other than hostility and a foul temper, so I was careful not to cross paths with him or give him any excuse to criticise me. Yet he constantly made wisecracks and snide remarks, insinuating that I had been hired through internal connections and that I was not qualified for my job. My friends told me not to worry,
that it was just his disposition, but I felt he was more ill-tempered with me than with anyone else. I knew that behind my back he called me Mr Zargar’s belle. Over time, I too developed a strong dislike of him.

  ‘The only thing he doesn’t look like is a poet,’ I would tell my friends. ‘He looks more like a Mafioso. Poetry requires a delicate soul, not all this arrogance, aggression and spite. The poems are probably not even his. Perhaps he threw a miserable poet in prison and now holds a knife to the guy’s throat to write poetry under his name.’ And everyone would laugh.

  I think all this talk finally reached his ears. One day he used the excuse of a few small typographical errors to tear up a ten-page report that I had worked hard to prepare and he tossed the pieces on my desk. I lost my temper and I screamed, ‘Do you even know what is bothering you? You are constantly looking for excuses to criticise my work. What wrong have I ever done to you?’

  ‘Huh! Madam, you can’t do any wrong to me,’ he growled. ‘I have read your hand. Do you think I am like Zargar and Motamedi and you can wrap me around your little finger? I know the likes of you very well.’