The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  At this point, Ehteram-Sadat’s uncle motioned to Siamak who suddenly stood up from among the crowd and walked over to him. It seemed as if Siamak had been trained and knew exactly when to get up and play his part. The mullah stroked Siamak’s head and said, ‘This innocent child is the son of one of Islam’s crusaders who has been in prison for years. The criminal hand of the regime has orphaned this boy and hundreds of others like him. Thank God that this boy has a kind and self-sacrificing uncle, Mr Mahmoud Sadeghi, who has filled the empty place of his father. Otherwise, God only knows what would have become of this beleaguered family…’

  I felt nauseous. I felt as if my shirt collar was choking me. I reflexively clawed at it and the top button tore off and flew to the floor. I stood up with such fury on my face that Mother and Ehteram-Sadat became alarmed. Ehteram tugged at my chador and said, ‘Massoum, sit down. For the love of your father’s spirit, sit down. It’s improper.’

  Mahmoud, who was sitting behind the mullah and facing the crowd, looked at me with apprehension. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound. Looking scared and surprised, Siamak who had been standing next to the mullah made his way towards me. I grabbed his arm and snapped, ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  Mother was smacking herself on the cheek and saying, ‘May God take my life! Girl, don’t shame us.’

  I looked at Mahmoud with loathing. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but suddenly the reciting of elegies started and everyone stood up and began beating their chests. I made my way through the crowd and, still clutching Siamak’s arm, I walked out of the house. Massoud was holding on to the hem of my chador and running behind us. I wanted to beat Siamak until he was black and blue. I opened the car door and shoved him inside. He kept asking, ‘What is the matter with you? What happened?’

  ‘Just shut up!’

  I sounded so harsh and angry that the boys did not utter a single word all the way home. Their silence gave me time to think. I asked myself, What has this poor boy done? What is he guilty of in all this?

  When we arrived home, I cursed the earth and the sky, and Mahmoud, Ali and Ehteram, and then sat down and burst into tears. Siamak was sitting in front of me, looking ashamed. Massoud brought a glass of water for me and with tears in his eyes asked me to drink it so that I would perhaps feel better. Slowly, I quietened down.

  ‘I don’t know why you are so upset,’ Siamak said. ‘Whatever it is, I am sorry.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know? How could you not know? Tell me, is this what you do at all the events Mahmoud takes you to? Do they parade you in front of people?’

  ‘Yes!’ he said, proudly. ‘And everyone praises Dad a lot.’

  I heaved a sigh of anguish. I didn’t know what to say to my son. I tried to remain calm and not frighten him.

  ‘Look, Siamak, we have lived without your father for four years and we have never needed anyone, especially not your uncle Mahmoud. I have struggled so that you could grow up with integrity and not with people’s pity and charity, so that no one will ever look on you as needy orphans. And so far, we have always stood on our own two feet. We may have suffered some hardship, but we kept our pride and honour and your father’s pride and honour. But now this freak, Mahmoud, has for his own benefit put you on display like a puppet and he is taking advantage of you. He wants people to feel sorry for you and to say, Bravo, what an excellent uncle he is. Have you ever asked yourself why in the past seven or eight months Mahmoud has suddenly taken an interest in us when in all these years he never once asked how we were faring? Look, my son, you have to be much wiser than this and not let anyone take advantage of you and your emotions. If your father finds out that Mahmoud is using you and him in this manner, he will be very upset. He doesn’t agree with Mahmoud on even one single issue and he would never want himself and his family to become tools in the hands of Mahmoud and others like him.’

  At the time, I didn’t know what Mahmoud’s real motives were, but I no longer allowed the boys to accompany him anywhere and I stopped returning his telephone calls.

  It was mid-October. Schools and universities were often closed. I had only one term left to finish my seemingly unending studies for a bachelor’s degree, but there was always a strike or a demonstration at the university and classes were not being held.

  I went to different political gatherings and listened to everything that was being said, weighing it all to see whether there was any hope of saving Hamid or not. At times, I was optimistic and everything seemed bright and beautiful, and at other times, I was so disheartened that I felt as if I was plunging down a well.

  Wherever a voice was being raised in defence of political prisoners I was there on the front lines, with the boys’ fists waving like two small flags on either side of me. With all the pain, anger and misery I had suffered, I would shout, ‘Political prisoners must be freed.’ Tears would well up in my eyes, but my heart felt lighter. Seeing the crowds alongside me, I was overwhelmed with excitement. I wanted to hold every person in my arms and kiss them. It was perhaps the first and the last time I experienced such emotions for my fellow countrymen. I felt they were all my children, my father, my mother, my brothers and my sisters.

  Soon there were rumours that the political prisoners were going to be released. People said some of them would be freed on 26 October to coincide with the Shah’s birthday. Hope was again taking root in my heart, but I tried not to believe any of the reports. I could not bear another disappointment. Hamid’s father increased his efforts to secure Hamid’s release. He gathered more and more letters of recommendation and sent them to the authorities. We worked hand in hand and kept each other informed of the progress we were making. I shouldered the responsibilities he assigned to me with passion and devotion.

  Through our contacts we eventually learned that one thousand political prisoners were to be pardoned. Now we had to make sure that Hamid’s name would be included on the list.

  ‘Isn’t this another political game to appease the masses?’ I hesitantly asked Hamid’s father.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘Given the volatile situation, the government can’t afford to do that. They have to at least release a group of the well-known prisoners so that the people see them with their own eyes and perhaps quieten down. Otherwise, the situation will get worse. Be hopeful, my girl. Be hopeful.’

  But I was terrified of feeling hopeful. If Hamid was not among those released, I would be devastated. I was even more worried about the children. I was afraid that after all this hope and anticipation, they might not be able to bear the shock of defeat and disappointment. I tried hard to keep information from them, but out on the streets rumours flooded every corner like a surging torrent. Flushed with excitement, Siamak would come home with the latest news and I would coolly respond, ‘No, my son, this is all propaganda meant to pacify the people. For now, they are not likely to do any of this. God willing, when the revolution succeeds, we will open the prison gates ourselves and bring your father home.’

  Hamid’s father approved of my approach and adopted the same tactic with Hamid’s mother.

  The closer we got to 26 October, the stronger my anticipation. I impulsively kept buying things for Hamid. I could no longer curb my fantasies and thought about the plans we could make after his release. But a few days before 26 October, after a lot of running around and many meetings, Hamid’s father came to the house looking dejected and exhausted. He waited until a suitable time when the boys were busy and then said, ‘The list is almost complete. Apparently they have not added Hamid’s name to it. Of course, I have been assured that if the situation continues like this, he will be released, too. But chances are slim that it would be this time around; the list is mostly made up of religionists.’

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I said, ‘I knew it. If I were that lucky, my life wouldn’t have turned out like this.’

  In the blink of an eye, all my hopes turned into despair and with tears in my eyes I again closed the windo
ws that had opened up in my heart. Hamid’s father left. Hiding my deep sorrow and disappointment from the children was difficult.

  Massoud kept hovering over me and asking, ‘What is the matter? Do you have a headache?’

  And Siamak asked, ‘Has something new happened?’

  I told myself, Be strong, you have to wait a little longer. But I felt as if the walls of that house were closing in on me and crushing me. I couldn’t stand being in that sad and lonely home. I took the children by the hand and walked out of the house. There was a large crowd shouting slogans in front of the mosque. I was drawn towards them. The mosque’s yard was swarming with people. We made our way into their midst. I didn’t know what had happened and I couldn’t understand what they were shouting. It made no difference; I had my own slogan. Raging and close to tears, I screamed, ‘Political prisoners must be freed.’ I don’t know what there was in my voice, but a few moments later, my slogan was everyone’s slogan.

  A few days later there was an official holiday. Dawn had not yet broken and I was tired of tossing and turning in bed. I knew security measures would be tight and I should not leave the house. I didn’t know how to calm my restless nerves. I had to keep busy. As always, I took refuge in work. I wanted to purge all my energy and anxiety through hard, mindless labour. I stripped the sheets off the beds, took down the curtains and put them in the washing machine. I washed the windows and swept the rooms. I had no patience with the children and told them to go and play in the yard. But I quickly realised that Siamak was brewing a scheme to leave the house. I yelled at them, called them back in and sent them to take a bath. I cleaned the kitchen. I didn’t feel like cooking. The leftovers from the day before were enough for us, and Bibi had become so weak and ate so little that no matter what I cooked, she still ate only a bowl of yogurt and a piece of bread. In ill humour, I fed the children and washed the dishes. There was nothing left to do. I wanted to sweep and clean the yard, but I was about to collapse with exhaustion. It was exactly what I had wanted. I dragged myself into the shower, turned on the water and started to weep. This was the only place where I could comfortably cry.

  By the time I left the bathroom it was close to four in the afternoon. My hair was still wet, but I didn’t care. I put a pillow on the floor in front of the television and lay down. The boys were playing next to me. I was about to fall asleep when I saw the door open and Hamid walk in. I closed my eyes tight for that sweet dream to continue, but there were voices around me. Carefully, I opened my eyes a little. The boys were gaping at a thin man with white hair and moustache. I froze. Was I dreaming? My father-in-law’s jubilant, yet cracked voice brought all three of us out of our daze.

  ‘Here you are!’ he said. ‘I present to you your husband. Boys, what is the matter with you? Come here. Your dad is home.’

  When I took Hamid in my arms, I realised he was not much bigger than Siamak. Of course, I had seen him many times in recent years, but he had never seemed as emaciated and gaunt. Perhaps it was the clothes that sagged on his thin frame that made him seem so frail. He looked like a boy dressed in his father’s clothes; everything was at least two sizes too big for him. His trousers were pleated around his waist and held up by a belt. The shoulders of his jacket were drooping so much that the sleeves came down to his fingertips. He kneeled down and took the boys in his arms. Trying to embrace all three of my loved ones, I draped myself over them. We were all crying and sharing the pain we had each suffered.

  Wiping away his tears, Hamid’s father said, ‘Enough! Get up. Hamid is very tired and very sick. I picked him up at the prison infirmary. He needs to rest. And I will go bring his mother.’

  I walked over to him, hugged and kissed him and laid my head on his shoulder. I wept and said over and over again, ‘Thank you, thank you…’

  How kind, wise and considerate that old man was to have single-handedly borne the struggles and anxieties of those few days.

  Hamid had a fever.

  ‘Let me help you take your clothes off and go to bed,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me first take a bath.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. You should wash off all the filth and misery of prison and then sleep peacefully. Fortunately, we had oil today and the water heater has been on since this morning.’

  I helped him undress. He was very weak and could barely stand. With each piece of clothing that I took off of him, he looked smaller and smaller. In the end, I was horrified at the sight of the scrawny figure that was no more than skin sagging on bones, covered with scars. I sat him down on a chair and took off his socks. Seeing the thin, raw skin and the abnormal condition of his feet pushed me over the edge. I wrapped my arms around his legs, laid my head on his knees and wept. What had they done to him? Would he ever again be a healthy, normal human being?

  I gave him a bath and helped him put on the new undershirt, shorts and pyjamas that I had bought at the peak of my hopefulness. Although they were too big for him, still they didn’t sag on him as much as his suit did.

  Slowly, he lay down on the bed. It was as if he wanted to savour every second. I pulled the sheet and blanket over him; he put his head on the pillow, closed his eyes and said with a deep sigh, ‘Am I really sleeping in my own bed? All these years, I have spent every day and every second wishing for this bed, this house and this moment. I can’t believe it has come true. What utter pleasure!’

  The boys were watching him and taking in his every move with love, admiration and a little reluctance and reserve. He called them over. They sat down next to the bed and the three of them started talking. I brewed tea and sent Siamak to the pastry shop at the corner to buy some pastries and toasted bread. I prepared some fresh orange juice and warmed up the leftover soup. I kept taking him something to eat. Finally he laughed and said, ‘My dear, wait. I can’t eat too much. I am not used to it. I have to eat a little at a time.’

  An hour later, Hamid’s mother and sisters arrived. His mother was half crazed with joy. She was fluttering around him like a butterfly and speaking to him tenderly while constantly crying. Hamid didn’t even have the energy to wipe away his tears and kept saying, ‘Mother, stop. For the love of God, calm down.’ But she continued kissing him from head to toe until her incoherent words turned into sobs. Then she leaned against the wall and sank down to the floor. Her eyes were dazed and her hair was tousled. She looked terribly pale and was having difficulty breathing.

  Manijeh suddenly threw her arms around her mother and screamed, ‘Bring some hot water and sugar. Quickly!’ I ran to the kitchen and fetched a glass of hot water and candied sugar and spooned it into her mouth, and Mansoureh splashed some cold water on her face. Hamid’s mother shuddered and burst into tears. I looked around for the boys. They were standing behind the door, their tearful eyes moving back and forth between their father and grandmother.

  Slowly, the excitement subsided. Hamid’s mother refused to leave the bedroom, but she promised to stop crying. She put a chair at the foot of the bed and sat with her eyes glued to Hamid. All she did was occasionally wipe away a tear that quietly rolled down her cheek.

  Hamid’s father went out into the hall and sat with Bibi who was saying prayers under her breath. He stretched out his legs and leaned his tired head against a floor cushion. I was certain he had spent the entire day frantically rushing around. I took him some tea, put my hand on his hand and said, ‘Thank you. You have done a lot today; you must be exhausted.’

  ‘If only all effort and exhaustion reaped such results,’ he said.

  I could hear Mansoureh comforting her mother. ‘For the love of God, Mother, stop it. You should be happy. Why are you sitting there grief-stricken and weeping?’

  ‘I am happy, my girl. You cannot imagine how happy I am. I never thought I would live long enough to see my only son at home again.’

  ‘Then why are you sitting there crying and breaking his heart?’

  ‘Just look at what those villains have done to my child,’ Hamid’s mother moane
d. ‘Look how weak and frail he is. Look how old he has become.’ And then she said to Hamid, ‘May God allow me to give my life for you. Did they hurt you a lot? Did they beat you?’

  ‘No, Mother,’ Hamid said sounding uneasy. ‘I just didn’t like the food. And then I caught a cold and got sick. That’s all.’

  Amid the chaos, Mother who had not heard from me in a few days called to see how we were. She was shocked when I told her Hamid was home. Barely half an hour later, everyone showed up bearing flowers and pastries. Mother and Faati broke into tears when they saw Hamid. And Mahmoud, ignoring everything that had happened between us, kissed Hamid on the cheeks, hugged the boys, cheerfully congratulated everyone and took control.

  ‘Ehteram-Sadat, get the tea tray ready and brew a good amount of tea,’ he said. ‘They are going to have a lot of guests. Ali, open the door to the living room and arrange the chairs and side tables around the room. And someone should prepare the fruit and pastry platters.’