The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  ‘But we are not expecting anyone,’ I said with surprise. ‘We haven’t told anyone yet.’

  ‘No need for you to tell anyone,’ Mahmoud said. ‘The list of the prisoners who have been released has been published. People will know and they will come.’

  I immediately realised he was planning something and I angrily said, ‘Listen, brother, Hamid is not well and he needs to rest. You can see for yourself that he has a high fever and has difficulty breathing. Don’t you dare ask anyone to come here.’

  ‘I won’t, but they will come.’

  ‘I will not let anyone in this house,’ I snapped. ‘I am telling you now so no one gets upset later.’

  Mahmoud suddenly looked like the air had been let out of him. He just stood there gaping at me. And then as if he had remembered something he said, ‘You mean you don’t even want to call a doctor to come see this poor man?’

  ‘Yes, I do. But it is a holiday. Where am I going to find a doctor?’

  ‘I know a doctor,’ he said. ‘I will call him and ask him to come.’

  He started making telephone calls and an hour later a doctor, accompanied by two men, one of whom was carrying a large camera, arrived at the house. I cast a scolding look at Mahmoud. The doctor asked everyone to leave the bedroom and started examining Hamid, while the photographer took pictures of his scars.

  In the end, the doctor diagnosed Hamid’s illness as chronic pneumonia. He wrote numerous prescriptions and told Hamid to make sure he took his medications and got his injections on time. About Hamid’s diet, the doctor told me I should very gradually increase the amount of food he ate. Before he left, he gave Hamid two injections and some pills to take that night until we could buy everything we needed the next day. Mahmoud gave the prescriptions to Ali and told him to buy everything first thing in the morning and to bring them over.

  It was only then that everyone suddenly remembered that martial law was in force and there was a curfew. They all quickly gathered their things and left. Hamid’s mother didn’t want to go, but his father took her away by force with the promise that he would bring her back early the next morning.

  After everyone left, with much begging and pleading I convinced Hamid to drink a glass of milk and gave the boys a light supper. I was so exhausted that I didn’t have the energy to gather up the dishes scattered around the house. I just dragged myself to bed and lay down next to Hamid. The doctor had given him a sedative and he was already fast asleep. I looked at his thin face for a while and cherished his being there. Then I turned and looked at the sky outside the window, thanking God with my entire being and vowing to return Hamid to his former self. I fell asleep before I could finish my prayer.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A week later, Hamid’s condition had improved. He no longer had a fever and was able to eat more, but he was still far from healthy. He had a cough that became worse during the night and suffered from a general weakness that was the result of four years of malnutrition and untreated illnesses. However, I slowly began to realise that these were not Hamid’s real problem. More than being physically sick, he was mentally unwell. He wallowed in depression, didn’t want to talk, showed no interest even in the news, which in those days was critical and grave, didn’t want to see his old friends, and refused to answer any questions.

  ‘Do you think his depression and lack of interest in what goes on around him is normal?’ I asked the doctor. ‘Is everyone who is released from prison like this?’

  ‘To a certain extent yes, but not this severely,’ the doctor said. ‘Of course, in varying degrees, they all experience intolerance for crowds, a sense of alienation and difficulty readapting to a normal family life. But Hamid’s unexpected release, this revolution, which has always been his dream and his goal, and being in the bosom of a family that has so warmly welcomed him should excite him and give him a new passion for life. These days, the problem I have with people like Hamid is how to keep them calm so that their emotional state is more in tune with their physical condition.’

  ‘But in Hamid’s case, I have to prod and provoke him to simply go through normal daily routines.’

  I couldn’t understand the reason for his depression. At first, I attributed his silence to his illness, but he wasn’t all that unwell any more. I thought perhaps our families were not giving him the space and the time he needed to readapt to life. There were so many people around us all the time that we couldn’t even find half an hour to talk to each other. Our house was like a caravanserai with a constant flow of people coming and going. To make matters worse, on Hamid’s second night at home, his mother had brought her things over and had stayed with us. And then Monir, Hamid’s oldest sister, had arrived with her children from Tabriz. Although everyone helped around the house, neither Hamid nor I could stand the throng.

  I knew Mahmoud was to blame for much of the mayhem. As if he had discovered a creature that was a freak of nature, he showed up every day with a new group of spectators. To stop me from complaining, he had made himself responsible for meals and constantly had food delivered to the house, saying that I should give the excess to the needy. I was surprised by all that generosity and splurging. I didn’t know exactly what lies he had concocted, but he was somehow pretending that Hamid had been released from prison as a result of his efforts. If he had dared, I am sure he would have loved to strip Hamid naked every day so that he could show his scars to the audience.

  Politics was always a hot topic at the house. Eventually, some of Hamid’s old friends and new fellow believers started coming to see him. They brought with them eager young disciples to see the great hero up close and to listen to him talk about the history of the organisation and about their comrades who had sacrificed their lives. But Hamid didn’t want to see any of them and would come up with different excuses to avoid them. In their company, he was always quieter and more depressed. I was surprised, because he did not react that way to Mahmoud’s friends and others who came to see him.

  One day when the doctor came to examine Hamid, he asked me, ‘Why is your house always so crowded? Didn’t I tell you my patient needs to rest?’ And before leaving, when everyone could hear him, he said, ‘I told you on that first day that this patient requires calm, clean air, silence and rest to recover and to return to his normal self. But this house is always like a sports stadium. It’s no surprise that he is in a worse emotional state than he was on the first day. If you continue like this, I will no longer accept any responsibility for his health.’

  Everyone gaped at him.

  ‘What should we do, Doctor?’ Hamid’s mother asked.

  ‘If you can’t keep the doors to this house closed, then I suggest you take him some place else.’

  ‘Yes, my dear doctor, from the very beginning I wanted to take him to my house,’ she said. ‘It is larger and not so jam-packed.’

  ‘No, madam,’ the doctor said. ‘I mean a quiet place where he can be alone with his wife and children.’

  I was elated. He was saying what I had been wishing for in my heart. Everyone offered a suggestion and they all left earlier than usual. Mansoureh waited for everyone to leave and then said, ‘The doctor is right. Even I am going crazy here, never mind this poor man who has spent four years in isolation and silence. You know, the only solution is for you to go to the Caspian coast and for Hamid to convalesce there. Our villa is sitting there useless and empty, and we won’t tell anyone where you are.’

  I was beside myself with joy. This was the best thing we could do. And the Caspian coast was the land of my dreams. Given that by order of the government the schools were closed and because of unrest at the university classes were not being held, we could easily spend some time in the north.

  The beautiful and vibrant seaside autumn welcomed us with a pleasant sun, a blue sky and a sea that changed colour every second. A cool breeze brought the salty smell of the sea to the shore and the sunshine provided a sweet excuse to sit on the beach.

  The four of us stood on the t
errace of the villa. I asked the children to take a deep breath and told them that air could breathe new life into anyone. I turned and looked at Hamid. But he didn’t see that beauty, didn’t hear my words, didn’t smell the sea and didn’t feel the breeze on his face. Doleful and indifferent, he went back inside. I told myself, Don’t give up! And I thought, I have the right setting and the necessary time; if I can’t help him, then I don’t deserve to be called a wife and I don’t deserve this blessing that God has given me.

  I planned a regular schedule for us. On sunny days, and there was no shortage of them that year, I came up with different excuses to take Hamid for a walk on the beautiful sandy beach or in the woods. Sometimes we walked as far as the main road to do our shopping and strolled back. Drowned in his thoughts, he would follow me without speaking. He either didn’t hear my questions or answered them with a nod or a simple yes or no. Still, I took no notice and talked about things that had happened in his absence, about beauty and nature, and about our lives. I played with the children, sang songs and laughed. At times, I sat mesmerised by the scenery that like a painting on canvas was so beautiful it seemed unreal. Euphoric, I would praise all that splendour. On these occasions, Hamid’s only reaction was to look at me with surprise. He was moody and listless. I stopped buying the newspaper and turned off the radio and television. Every piece of news seemed to agitate him even more. Having lived for so long with anxiety and stress, living without the news was pleasant and relaxing for me, too.

  The children were not cheerful and happy either. ‘We robbed them of their childhood too soon,’ I said to Hamid. ‘They suffered terribly. But it is not too late. We can make it up to them.’ Hamid shrugged and looked the other way.

  He observed his surroundings with such indifference that I even thought he might have become colour-blind. I created a colours game with the children. Each of us had to name a colour that we could not see in our surroundings. We often had differences of opinion and appointed Hamid as the referee. He would listlessly take a quick look around and offer an opinion. I kept telling myself, I am more stubborn than he is, and I wondered how long he would resist and ward us off. I extended our daily walks. He was no longer short of breath after a long stroll. He was stronger and had gained some weight. I kept talking without sounding frustrated or disappointed until he slowly started to open up. At times when I felt he wanted to talk, I would become all ears and I would not disturb the setting.

  We had been on the coast for a week when, one bright and sunny day in October, I prepared for us to go on a picnic. After walking for some time, we spread our blankets on a hill with a stunning view. On one side, the sea and the sky had displayed every shade of blue and merged together at some faraway point. And on the other side, the lush forest was reaching for the sky with every colour present in nature. The cool autumn breeze was making the colourful branches dance and its chill on our cheeks was pleasant and revitalising.

  The children were playing. Hamid was sitting on the blanket, looking out at the horizon. His face had taken on some colour. I handed him a cup of freshly brewed tea and I turned and stared at some distant point.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m just thinking.’

  ‘Thinking about what?’

  ‘Forget it. They weren’t pleasant thoughts.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Will you promise not to get upset?’

  ‘Yes! Why?’

  I was happy that he was curious to know what was on my mind.

  ‘I used to think that it would have been better if you, too, had died,’ I said.

  His eyes gleamed.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘So we think alike.’

  ‘No! Back then, I thought you would never return to your life and you would die a slow and agonising death. If you had died with the others, it would have been instantaneous and you would have suffered less.’

  ‘I always think about this, too,’ he said. ‘It torments me that I wasn’t worthy of such an honourable death.’

  ‘But now I am happy you didn’t die. These days, I often think about Shahrzad and I am grateful to her for having kept you alive for us.’

  He turned away and again stared out at the horizon.

  ‘For four years, I have been thinking about what they did to me,’ he said pensively. ‘How had I betrayed them? Why didn’t they keep me informed? Didn’t I deserve at least a message? Towards the end, they even cut off my lines of communication. I had been trained for that mission. Perhaps if they hadn’t lost their trust in me…’

  His tears didn’t allow him to go on.

  I was afraid that the slightest move I made would close the small window that had opened. I let him cry for a while. When he quietened down, I said, ‘They didn’t consider you an outsider. You were their constant friend and dear to them.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They were the only friends I ever had. They were everything to me. I would have sacrificed everything for them; even my family. I never denied them anything. But they rejected me. They threw me away like a traitor, a lowlife, and they did it right when they most needed me. How can I ever hold my head up again? Won’t people ask, How come you didn’t die with them? Perhaps people think I was a snitch and betrayed them. Ever since I have come home, everyone looks at me with suspicion and doubt.’

  ‘No! No, my dear, you are wrong. They loved you more than they loved anyone else, even more than they loved themselves. Even though they needed you, they put themselves in greater danger than ever before just to spare your life.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. We had no such agreement between us. Our principal concern was our goal. We were trained to fight and to die for it. There was no room for this sort of drivel. Among us, only the traitors and those who could not be trusted were rejected. And that is exactly what they did to me.’

  ‘Oh, Hamid, that is not what happened,’ I pleaded. ‘My dear, you are wrong. I know things that you don’t. Shahrzad did this for us. Before all else, she was a woman and she longed for a quiet family life with a husband and children. Do you remember the love she showed Massoud? He filled the empty place of a child in her heart. As a woman, as a mother, she could not deprive Massoud of a father and make an orphan of him. Even though she believed in the fight for freedom, even though her goal was the welfare of all children, once she experienced maternal feelings, like all mothers she made an exception for her own child. Like all mothers, the well-being of her child and the dreams she had for him became a greater priority. A tangible priority that was different from the abstract slogan of happiness for all the children in the world. It is an instinctive bias that even the purest souls experience when they become a parent. It is impossible for a woman to feel as much compassion for a child dying of hunger in Biafra as she would for her own child. Shahrzad became a mother during the four or five months she lived with us, and she did not want to deprive her son of anything in life.’

  Astonished, Hamid looked at me for a while and then he said, ‘You are wrong. Shahrzad was strong, she was a fighter. She had great ideals. You cannot compare her to an average woman, not even to yourself.’

  ‘My dear, being strong and being a fighter is not incompatible with or an impediment to being a woman.’

  We sat quietly until Hamid said, ‘Shahrzad had great goals. She—’

  ‘Yes, but she was a woman. She talked to me movingly about the emotions and the hidden aspects of a woman who suffers because of what she has been deprived of in life. She talked about things she had been unable to talk about until then. Let me put it this way, one day she said she was jealous of me. Can you believe it? She was jealous of me! I thought she was joking. I told her I was the one who should be jealous. I told her she was a perfect woman when I, like women a hundred years ago, had to spend my life slaving in the house, and that according to my husband, I was a symbol of oppression. Do you know what her response was?’

  Hamid shook his head.

  ‘She recited a poem
by Forough.’

  ‘Which poem? Do you remember it?’

  I recited it:

  Which summit, which peak?

  What have you given me,

  you simple deceptive words,

  you who renounce bodies and desires?

  If I had put a flower in my hair,

  would it not have been more seductive

  than this hoax,

  than this reeking paper crown on my head?

  Which summit, which peak?

  Give me refuge you flickering lights,

  you bright mistrusting homes

  on whose sunny rooftops laundered clothes

  sway in the arms of scented soot.

  Give me refuge you simple wholesome women

  whose soft fingertips trace

  the exhilarating movements of a fetus beneath your skin,

  and in your open collars

  the air forever mingles with the smell of fresh milk.

  I went on: ‘Do you remember the night she left? She was clutching Massoud to her chest, kissing him, smelling him, crying. As she was leaving, she said, “No matter how, you must protect your family and raise your children in a safe and happy environment. Massoud is very sensitive. He needs a mother and a father. He is fragile.” At the time, I didn’t grasp the true meaning of her words. It was only later that I realised her constant insistence that I protect my family was not her giving me advice, she was actually struggling with herself.’