Rakhel clutches Kokab’s hand with both of her own. She brings them to her lips and holds them there.
“Go to your room, go prepare yourself for your husband,” Kokab says. “Go, before he arrives. No one but you and I will ever know.”
Rakhel releases Kokab’s hands and wipes her face with her sleeve. She rises with haste, then turns to Kokab. They look into each other’s eyes, speaking wordlessly, because there are no words, any longer, between them. Kokab nods her head. Rakhel looks down, then leaves.
Mahboubeh remembers another story about Asher, as a young man, before he married Rakhel. It happened that one day Asher decided to visit the farms in the outskirts of Kermanshah. Perhaps on a morning in late spring, a day much like this. Mahboubeh reaches down to pull from the earth the green vine that spreads, unruly, from the stalk of her trees to the walls, from there to the stems of her roses, then creeps through the dirt, and grows among the vines of her grapes.
On that day, mist rose from the mountains, the dew evaporated from the tips of the tall grass and wildflowers, the whole landscape appeared dreamlike. Asher rode his mule on the narrow path that went up the mountain. The path was full of small rocks the size of a man’s fist.
The mule lost his footing, began to slide down the slope of that cliff and Asher jumped off the panicked animal, wound one hand tightly in the reins, grasped the harness with the other, dug his heels into the earth, threw the weight of his body back, and pulled with all his might.
Mahboubeh rises heavily from the ground. She looks at her hands. Dirt beneath her fingernails, in the creases of her skin. Blood, too. She has cut herself, in numerous places. She tries to remember when. She shakes her head and brushes her hands against her blouse. Her blouse is filthy with mud stains. She tries to remember when she changed it last. Surely it was clean this morning? She looks up at the sun. It must be noon, at least. Has she eaten? She can’t remember. She is not hungry. Just thirsty. Very thirsty.
Asher pulled until he saved that mule, but he tore something in his groin with the strain of his effort. Mahboubeh turns on the garden hose, holds it with one hand, and cups her hand with the other. She splashes water onto her face, then drinks from her cupped hand. She drops the hose, and walks away, forgetting to turn the water off.
This is the story the women told when anyone asked why Asher was unable to beget children. Somehow, perhaps shortly after Kokab left, this story found its way into the mouths of all the merchants, the clerks, the maids. It was repeated in gardens and kitchens, whispered between prayers at the Sabbath services, told by women in the public baths, by men in the zoor khane, perhaps even reached the Kurds in the provinces. Generations later, this is the story they repeated, that Asher tried to save a poor, wretched beast, and his act of kindness cost him his progeny.
Mahboubeh walks toward her house slowly. “It was Asher Malacouti’s kindness,” she mutters to herself. “His mercy toward a dumb beast that cost him so dearly. And that is why, they said.”
Ten
Kokab went where?” Zahra asks. The chickens cluck and peck at the grain at her feet. She holds a handful and turns to look at Sadiqeh in the early morning light.
“To the mill,” Sadiqeh repeats.
“To the mill? What on earth was she doing there?”
The chickens look at her hand expectantly. Zahra remembers to throw the grain and reaches into the bucket again without taking her eyes off of Sadiqeh.
“I heard it from Fatimeh myself. Zolekhah sent her secretly to follow Kokab when she saw Kokab leave without asking permission to go. Fatimeh followed her clear to the edge of town, until she reached the mill.”
“And Kokab went inside? What on earth for?”
“She stayed inside for more than an hour.”
The chickens cluck and pace about the girls, waiting.
“Did anyone see her inside the mill?”
“Everybody saw her.”
“How can they be sure?”
“She removed her ruband. And showed her face.”
Zahra places the bucket down and brings her hands to her mouth. “She removed her hijab in front of all those men?”
The chickens scurry to the bucket, stretching their necks over the rim to reach the grain. They hop onto one another to find a place to stand. Sadiqeh shoos them away with her broom and picks up the bucket. She hands Zahra the broom and begins to throw the grain to the dirt ground.
“Does Asher know?”
“If he doesn’t know, he will find out soon.”
“Well, Rakhel may become the sogoli of her husband yet, once he finds out what her havoo has been doing behind his back.”
Zahra sweeps absently. The chickens keep away from her broom. She stops and looks at Sadiqeh. “What will become of Kokab?” she asks.
The chickens cluck hungrily. “What will become of her?” Zahra asks, again.
The chickens tilt their heads up at Sadiqeh, who stands still, holding the bucket for a long, long time before she reaches in again and throws more grain to the earth for them to eat.
Zolekhah stands in the breezeway before Asher’s study, holding the lantern. For a few years now, she feels the approach of the seasons in her bones. Winter stiffens her knees. She knows the approach of rain by the ache of her joints. This is the body preparing to become one with the earth, she thinks. She looks up to the fresco. Moses holds the stone tablets in his arms. Zolekhah shudders. The correct course of action is clear, she thinks to herself. She looks back to the painting of Moses. Here, the artist must have thought the greatest moment of illumination, Moses’s hair wild from his days in the mountains of Zion, his eyes burning with truth. Yes, she tells herself again, truth is the correct course of action. She raps on the door to Asher’s study. “Asher?” He does not respond. She knocks again, louder. She sees him from the window, sitting at his desk, facing the window looking out to the outer gardens. She waits a moment, then opens the door. “Son, why don’t you answer?”
Asher turns to face her. “Sorry, Mother, I didn’t hear you knock.”
“I came to discuss a certain matter with you.”
Zolekhah walks into the room. She looks at her son sitting behind his desk, fingers absently moving the beads of the abacas in his lap back and forth, back and forth. “Asher, are you all right?”
Asher looks down. He shakes his head. A moment passes in silence.
“It does no good, son, to keep the pain in your heart. Tell me, tell your old mother what has you so heavy these past weeks.”
“Mother . . .” Asher stops and presses the knuckles of one hand against his mouth. Then he removes his hand and looks to the ceiling. He draws in his breath sharply. “Mother, I am incapable of fathering a child.”
“Is that all? Son, Kokab is not as young as she was, that is why. When a woman’s age advances, it becomes more difficult for her to conceive.”
“No, Mother. The problem is with me.”
“Nonsense, of course.”
Asher stands abruptly and walks to the window facing the courtyard. He presses his forehead against the window. Zolekhah walks to him. She places her hand on his shoulder. She looks out of the window, too. Her son’s breath fogs the glass, so that the fountain is at once visible, then gone. “Mother, I am not man enough to . . .”
“Hush, son, hush.”
“Please, Mother, let me speak the truth, at least between you and me.”
“Don’t say it, lest, G-d forbid, it comes to pass.”
Asher turns to face his mother. “It has passed, Mother, it has already passed.”
She takes his face in her hands. He lowers his face and she pulls him into her chest.
“Mother, I will never have a son.”
“No, my dear, no, you mustn’t say such things. You are simply anxious, that is all. It is not you, but her womb. Her womb is old. It is your bad luck, that’s all. She is no good. We will find another woman.”
Asher pulls away from his mother and wipes his eyes with the back of h
is hands. “What other woman, Mother? A third wife? And when she doesn’t get pregnant? The whole town will speak of my failure. Though they will speak of it soon enough, regardless, as time passes and Kokab remains barren. The most common man will feel that he is more man than I am. And he is. He is more man.” Asher holds his forehead in his hands. He clenches his jaw. “These farmers in our villages, blessed with so many children. Small, ragged little boys, scabs on their knees, sticks in their hands, running behind their goats and sheep in the fields. And these fathers . . . their eyes shine when their sons speak to me. They grow taller, these peasant men. They grow before my eyes. Their shoulders straighten, the tiredness of their muscles melts away, the burden of their loads lightens. They become so, so . . . proud.”
“Soon, my dear, soon you will be proud, too.”
“It won’t be long before every peasant at the caravansary knows, every bastard walking in the street. All of them whispering behind my back at the synagogue, the women with pity in their eyes. And Kokab, here, in that room, to remind me . . . that I am no man at all.”
Zolekhah turns from Asher and draws in her breath. “Son, I came here to talk with you about Kokab.”
“It is no use, Mother, I know the fault is with me.”
“No, Asher, something else.” She straightens her back and turns to face him. “She went to the wheat mill. She left without telling anyone. After she left, Rakhel came to my room and said she feared for Kokab, that the woman might do something to harm herself. I told Fatimeh to hurry and follow Kokab. She walked all the way to the mill. Fatimeh saw her enter. She waited over an hour in the street before Kokab came back out.”
“Why . . . what business . . .” Asher stops, the color drains from his face. He turns wildly and with one move of his hand, wipes all the objects of his desk onto the floor. The abacas breaks, the beads bounce and roll across the rug. “She has done what? Gone where?”
“Son, please—”
“Already taking my shame to the street? Already cuckolding me before the public?”
“Asher, I have not asked her, yet, why she went. I wanted you to ask her, to give her an opportunity to—”
“To deceive me? To make a further mockery of me?”
“Asher, we don’t know why she went.”
Asher grabs a vase from the shelf and smashes it against the ground. “Perhaps to have her grains ground to flour, Mother?” He picks up another vase and hurls it against the wall. “To have it sacked and stored for the cold winter months?” He takes the book of his accounts, pulls off the cover, tears and crumples handfuls of pages with fury. “I should have known. I saw it, I’ve seen it in her eyes.” He throws the book at the window and groans, holding his head.
Ibrahim rushes into the room. “What’s happened?” he asks, a wide-eyed Khorsheed peering from behind him.
“Go from here,” Asher says. “Let me be. Let me be before I drag that whore here by her hair and kill her with my bare hands.”
Zolekhah tries to embrace Asher again, to calm him, but he pushes her away.
“What’s happening? What’s happened here?” Rakhel asks. She pushes Khorsheed aside to look into the room. Kokab walks in after her and stands behind Rakhel.
“You,” Asher says and points his finger. “You shameless harlot!”
Asher lunges toward her and Rakhel covers her face. He pushes past her and grabs Kokab’s arm, pulling her into the room.
“Wait, Asher,” Kokab says.
“Shut up, you whore, you wretched whore.” Asher shakes her violently. “Look at me, look me in the eye.”
Kokab looks at him, her chin firm, her eyes steady.
“No shame? Not a bit of shame? You deceive me and then look me in the eye without a hint of shame?” Asher pushes her away from him, then slaps her hard across the face. Kokab’s head jerks and her lip splits. Blood trickles down her face and neck. She touches her lip, looks at the blood on her fingertips, then looks back at Asher.
“Enough, Asher,” she says.
“Enough? I’ll say when it is enough, woman.”
Asher grabs her throat with one hand. Kokab clutches at his hand. He takes hold of her wrists with his other hand and whispers close to her face, “Tell me, I leave you for a few nights and the hunger gets you, like a filthy cat in heat, huh? You go searching, huh? Or did you find your way out before, too?”
Kokab struggles to free herself. Ibrahim grabs Asher’s shoulders. Asher releases Kokab and turns with rage to face his brother. “Let me do what I must do!” he says.
“Brother, please, wait a moment, allow her to speak.”
“Move out of my way so I can break her neck.”
“Mother, get the women out of here,” Ibrahim says. “Brother, please, do not act in anger.”
Zolekhah starts pushing Khorsheed and Rakhel out of the room. She turns to grab Kokab’s hand and pull her along, but Kokab remains still.
“Come, child, come before he does something terrible. Come, there will be time for explanations, later.”
Kokab looks at Rakhel, who still stands by the door, trembling. Rakhel looks up and their eyes meet. Rakhel turns to walk out but then stops and walks back toward Kokab.
“After all my husband has done for you,” she says to Kokab. Rakhel looks to Asher, then turns and spits in Kokab’s face. She leaves, without looking back.
Asher glares at Kokab. “You,” he says, “you are an animal. At least an animal follows its appetites so it can procreate. You are lower than an animal.”
“Son, allow her a moment to tell us what happened,” Zolekhah says.
“It is between me and this whore I have taken as a wife,” Asher says. Then he spits in Kokab’s face, too. Kokab closes her eyes and moves her head back, as if he has struck her again. She opens her eyes and looks at him.
“Asher, you have known me.”
“Yes. Yes, I have known you. A fool I am to think that an animal might go against its own nature. You are inclined to such baseness.”
“Asher, you have known me.”
“Deception and lies. A fool you have made of me. Was I not man enough for you, either? Or is one man not enough for you?”
Asher pushes Kokab to the floor. He stands over her and clutches a handful of her hair. He pulls back his fist to hit her. Kokab looks up at him.
“The truth is before you, Asher, you choose to be deceived,” Kokab says.
Asher stops for a second, frozen by her words. He looks at her open mouth, blood still flowing from her lip. “I choose to be deceived?” he asks. Then he hits her with his closed fist. “I choose to be deceived?” he asks again, and hits her once more.
“Please, Asher, she is a woman, after all,” Ibrahim says. He places his hand on Asher’s shoulder and Asher turns wildly to face him.
“Honor is a thing to be protected,” Asher hisses. “At all costs, honor is a thing to be protected.”
Zolekhah runs to help lift Kokab off of the floor. Kokab pushes her hands away and raises herself to her arms. She gets up slowly off the floor and stands before Asher. Zolekhah tries to pull her away from her son’s fury. “Come, woman, come before he kills you,” she says.
“I have been murdered, already. A thousand times,” Kokab says. Kokab turns and walks away slowly, holding onto the wall for support. She stands for a moment and turns to look at Asher, then walks in the direction of her room.
Asher pushes past Ibrahim to chase after her. He stops when he reaches the door. He paces back and forth wildly for a moment, then sits heavily on the floor and buries his face in the palms of his hands.
Fatimeh rises for the morning azan. She unrolls her prayer rug and unwraps the black prayer stone from its embroidered kerchief. She rubs the cold stone between her fingers. The writing on the stone is worn smooth. She places it on the mat and stands so that her heart faces Ka’ bah. She raises her arms and brings her hands beside her face, palms turned out to the world. She moves through the motions of her prayer, but her thoughts drift
back to the night before. She had stood by the courtyard pool long after she finished rinsing the plates and watched Asher, Ibrahim, and Zolekhah through the window of the sitting room from the dark. She listened to pieces of sentences that rose above their tense whispers. Asher was to leave early this morning, accompanied by Ibrahim, and stay in the village of Tofangchi for several days.
Fatimeh kneels and prostrates. She keeps seeing Kokab’s swollen eyes. Blue at first, after a few days, bruised well into black. She tries to forget the look in those eyes, to focus on her prayer instead, but her mind keeps roaming back to Kokab, sitting in the dark of her room, silent, motionless. Fatimeh sits back on her heels and beseeches the Lord for mercy. She sits for several moments in thought, and then rises heavily from her rug. Perhaps Allah will forgive an old woman her indolence, and accept her prayers, imperfect as they are. She peers cautiously out of the window of her small room beside the kitchen. The men must have already left.
Fatimeh sees Zolekhah come out of Kokab’s room and close the door behind her with one hand while she pulls her black chador over her hair with the other. Fatimeh walks quickly out of her room to the pool under the guise of having to do her ablutions, just in time to walk across Zolekhah’s path.
“Zolekhah Khanum,” she says, “what are you doing up at Allah’s hour, even before the roosters have had a chance to blink open their eyes? Everything is fine? You are not sick? The girls are not sick? Kokab, something become of her?”
“Fatimeh, can you fetch the mule?”
“Certainly, Zolekhah Khanum, but you don’t mean to go outdoors at this hour?”
“Better this hour when the town and their wagging tongues are still silent.”
“What is the urgency, Zolekhah Khanum? You know I’ve been a servant to this family since my girlhood. I have given my life to this family. For what reason beneath heaven do you need to leave the house at this hour for?”
“I’m returning Kokab to her brothers’ home.”
Fatimeh looks at Zolekhah, her back already bent with the years, the whites of her roots a stark contrast to the midnight of her dyed hair. “Zolekhah Khanum, this is the task of her husband,” she says.
The Girl from the Garden Page 18
