The Daughter Who Walked Away Page 3

  CHAPTER 2

  IN 1925, BATOUL CELEBRATED her fifteenth birthday. A few weeks later, she settled onto the deep bench in the courtyard, next to her mother-in-law, to hand-sew a new mattress.

  “Batoul, you are a woman now and old enough to share a bed with your husband,” Maman said. The older woman laid her warm hand on Batoul’s and smiled sweetly into the face of the young woman she had raised as lovingly as she had her own daughter.

  Batoul felt her heart stir when she looked into Maman’s eyes. She wanted more than anything to make her proud, even more than she cared for Ali’s admiration or affection. She emulated all of Maman’s actions, with and without understanding, but always with trust that Maman would lead her only toward the right ways.

  In 1919, when nine-year-old Batoul first arrived at the Rajavi house, to her new family, her heart was broken. She missed her brothers, and she cried every day, refusing to eat, bathe, or be soothed. Baba was saddened and insisted that a mistake had been made taking in such a young girl, but he persisted in his kindness and brought Batoul trinkets from the bazaar. When the toys failed to release Batoul from her homesickness, Maman continued to sit by Batoul’s bedside, performing her work from there. She mended clothes, prepared vegetables, and watched the younger children, who adored the toys Batoul refused to play with.

  When the tears stopped, Batoul was left with shame and a deep sense of embarrassment that her aunt had left her behind in this home instead of raising Batoul herself. Her sweet and funny aunt was the only parent Batoul had ever known. Her parents had died during the cholera outbreak that spread through her village upon the return of pilgrims from Mecca. Batoul had been just under seven months old, the youngest of eight children. She had a family, once. The shame of being left behind turned to anger, and the anger turned to sadness once again. Maman sat by her side and worked quietly as days passed and the little girl refused to be consoled.

  One afternoon, as Maman knelt praying in the courtyard, Batoul laid herself on her mother-in-law’s prayer rug and pressed her knees into herself and her back against Maman’s legs. Maman completed her prayers and remained sitting, with the young girl increasingly nestled into her, using her chador as a sheet to block the sunrays that managed through the canopy of plum, peach, and apple trees of the courtyard.

  “My aunt is not coming back for me, ever?” It was statement and a question, the last word nearly swallowed to keep the floodgate of tears from opening again.

  “No, she is not.” Maman looked down at Batoul’s profile and rested her hand gently on Batoul’s head. “We are your family now.”

  Batoul closed her eyes to receive the affection that she desperately sought, some kindness in this unfair existence. Maman stroked her hair and began to sing softly, in rhythm with each stroke. She sang a prayer, a recitation from the Quran. Batoul did not understand the Arabic but she could tell by the way she sang that Maman understood the words.

  When Maman finished the last verse, she said, “Your aunt is a wise woman who loves you very much. She brought you here to a better life. You are my daughter now and I will be your mother, if you let me.”

  Batoul tucked herself deeper into the folds of Maman’s chador. She did not completely grasp the meaning of Maman’s words, but she accepted the loving sentiment they carried.

  Six years later, they sat in the same courtyard, each with her own sewing basket, filled with the never-ending work of managing a home and earning a living. Batoul pressed the cotton panels together as she finely stitched the layers with experienced fingers that were calloused at the tips. She looked into Maman’s face because she knew this was not a casual conversation; something was to be learned.

  “You might be tempted to tell Souzan or Pari down the street. There’s no need for that.” Maman looked up and held Batoul’s earnest gaze. “There’s no shame in your sharing Ali’s bed. It is how it should be, but learn to respect your family, and yourself, by holding your tongue.”

  She continued, “See the tall walls of our courtyard and the wooden door leading to the street. When you step outside, you see a familiar scene, with no apparent dangers. Yet, you know to keep the door shut and locked unless it is necessary to open it and only then to those trusted by our family. Just the same, Batoul, you don’t need to talk to the world outside about what happens inside. No need to attract the attention of the evil eye.”

  Batoul continued to look Maman directly in the eyes, to show her respect and demonstrate her undivided attention, and then Batoul gave the slightest nod of her head to indicate her acceptance and agreement with Maman.

  “Khoub. Good,” Maman said with the relief of someone who felt understood. She raised herself to kneeling and before she stood she pressed her lower back with her hand to lessen the pain and effort of standing. “Now, come with me to the kitchen. I want to teach you how to make something before I start preparing dinner.”

  Batoul packed away the unfinished mattress and the sewing notions, though it was unlikely that anyone would disturb her work. During the day, the three younger children busied themselves with adventures in the neighbourhood, and Baba and Ali went to work.

  ***

  As a young man, Ali apprenticed as a bricklayer with Baba. Ali helped carry loads and mix mortar as Baba did the work of expertly spreading mortar and placing bricks quickly to create the domed roofs that spotted their small city. In 1925, the Shah assigned Shiraz the official status of a municipality; he funded urban development in an attempt to centralize power away from the tribal enclaves. As word of mouth spread about the plans to build an electric plant, government buildings, and schools, a flood of kargar, labourers, arrived in the city seeking work.

  Baba’s ancestors had lived in and around Shiraz for nearly two centuries, and he enjoyed a reputation as a trustworthy contractor. A Shirazi by birth, Baba was a man who could be trusted into a household’s courtyard and kitchen, a man who could be trusted to work among one’s family. The kargar who had travelled along the trade route, coming north from Busehr or south from Isfahan, were foreigners who could be easily identified by their accents and attire. Mainly, they worked on the state-run construction projects, building the infrastructure and serving as anonymous day labourers.

  In his middle age, Baba was still able to bend and lift the loads of baked bricks. He preferred this work, with all the aches and pains, to serving two years in the Shah’s army. The newly passed conscription law exempted the sole adult male in the family. As his sons reached twenty-one years of age, they would all be conscripted. Baba hoped another law would pass in the meantime to save his sons from the drudgery and hazards of being a solider.

  Ali performed the more laborious tasks, building and climbing the scaffolding to bring the bricks to his father. Baba paid close attention to his son, and he was quick to admonish Ali if he was careless or distracted. Baba understood that, like a doctor, a bricklayer was allowed entry into a private realm, and his reputation as a man of honour was his licence to enter these spaces.

  “Eyes on your work, speak only to me, and keep up appearances,” Baba would remind Ali on their way to work each morning.

  “Ali-jaan, Ali dear, Maman and I know you well. We know you work hard and you’re an honest young man.” Baba placed an arm around Ali’s shoulders as they walked their kooche, the residential laneway, to the main street.

  The older man could feel the taut and wiry muscles that ran across the young man’s neck and shoulders, and he felt pride in the youth’s physical stature. Once a boy light enough to be carried to the bazaar on his father’s shoulders, who wrapped his child’s body around Baba’s leg and demanded with tears in his eyes that his father take him along to work, Ali was now virile and resolved to do his part. It was his determination to earn for his family that impressed Baba the most.

  Ali was clever and thrifty like his mother and his grandmother, and he understood the balance between earning and saving. W
hen Aga Khosro’s son Mosein used his wages to buy a new bicycle, Ali had complained to Baba about the unfairness of the situation; Mosein, who only had to stand about selling dates and nuts from his father’s stall, could buy a new bicycle, whereas Ali was lifting heavy loads all day and had no bicycle at all. Baba had not wanted to hear about Ali’s jealousy; it was childish to complain about a bicycle when he had food, shelter, and good health. His gut reaction had been to silence the young man. Baba’s own father would have ended the conversation with an offhand remark to be grateful, and Baba remembered the angry feeling of shame that arose when his envy and suffering were dismissed.

  With the silence between them, there was space for each man to sit with his own struggle and deliberate. Ali had broken the silence with an offhand remark about Mosein looking like a woolly ram who was better off getting his hair cut more often than spending his money on a bicycle. Baba had understood that Ali was coming to terms with his grief, and he was genuinely surprised when Ali did not approach the topic again, continuing to refuse a share of his father’s earnings, happy to contribute to their household’s income.

  The dull ache of Baba’s relationship with his own father stirred, and he squeezed Ali’s shoulder again. Ali leaned slightly into his father but kept the wheelbarrow and all their tools steady as they weaved around other men. The sun had risen two hours earlier and the narrow laneways were teeming with people on their way to work, women heading to their local bazaars, and delivery boys making their rounds. This time of day — as the two walked to their job site, chatting as any men might about the bazaar vendors, the price of kerosene, or upcoming construction projects — was Ali’s favourite time. He was beginning to gain more clarity about his own future, what his days may hold in store. It was familiar but also unknown.

  “Honesty is the foundation, Ali, but you must also learn how to make the right impression to avoid any misunderstandings.” Baba glanced at Ali’s to ensure his message was received. “Give the devil a wide berth, and don’t forsake appearances.”

  “Bale, yes, Baba.” Ali gave a smile familiar to his father. It implied Ali’s grasp of the gravity of his father’s words.

  “Also, tonight, you will roll out your mattress in the blue room.” Baba continued to walk, though Ali stopped and stared, confused, at his father’s back. He quickly steered the wheelbarrow and caught up with Baba.

  “Wait, why are we moving our beds?” he asked with a child’s concern about the break in daily routine.

  “You are going to begin sleeping in the blue room, as will Batoul.” Baba maintained his serious expression and tone, though he felt a slight hint of mischief about retaining his calm when he knew his son must be bursting with apprehension and excitement. Baba smiled and nodded at the passersby to keep himself from blushing.

  This time, Ali did not catch up immediately. He thought he might faint, or worse yet, vomit in the kooche with all the delivery boys watching. He wanted to grab hold of his father and demand more information, but he also did not want to know any more. Not yet. This was already too much information. He wondered briefly, If I stand still in this place forever, can I keep night from coming?

  Reluctantly, he moved forward again. Baba was standing by the doorway of Aga Khaterem, each man with his hands held behind his back, leaning toward the other and discussing the sale of a nearby property. When Ali caught up to his father, words escaped him, and he stood mutely staring at his shoes and keeping the wheelbarrow upright.

  “Ali,” he heard his father call.

  “Bale, Baba.” He looked at his father for direction, mouth slightly gaping and shoulders hunched from the weight of his impending future.

  “Aga Khaterem asked how your Quranic studies are proceeding.” Baba kept his expression neutral, and his tone expressed nothing of the gravity of his earlier message. Simply, he was keeping Ali afloat with his decorum until the young man regained his presence of mind.

  “Babaksheed, sorry, Aga Khaterem. Yes, it is going well.” This would have to do. Ali was having difficulty thinking of another pleasantry. This was a boy’s mind in a young man’s body, still learning how to maintain the appearance of order when his mind was becoming increasingly disordered. Baba bid his farewell and sent his well wishes for Aga Khaterem’s family, then he replaced his arm around Ali’s shoulder in a silent act to express his empathy for the difficulties of being a young man. He wondered how Maman was faring and whether any of them would regain their presence of mind that day.

  In the kitchen, Batoul and Maman spent many hours working together. Batoul was still young and learning how to manage a kitchen that prepared three meals each day for seven people. That day, Maman asked her to nestle onto a comfortable cushion by the warm hearth as she prepared a drink. When Maman passed her the ceramic cup, Batoul drank the warm tea with sugar, milk, and raw egg yolk. Though she suppressed the urge to vomit as the liquid ran down her throat, she also felt very special that Maman had prepared this drink for her.

  “It gives you energy. You have watched how it is made. You must make a cup for yourself every morning of your regle, monthly cycle.” Maman smiled at her from across the kitchen, and Batoul wanted to smile and cry at the same time.

  “When you had pains in your abdomen, I mixed this into your tea to relieve the ache.” Maman lifted and replaced a brown glass jar that sat on the highest shelf attached to the kitchen wall. “It doesn’t take a lot to help, so make sure you only use a fingernail amount.”

  “Bale, Maman,” said Batoul as she finished the last half of the tea mixture in one swallow, washed her cup in a bucket of warm soapy water, and returned it to the shelf of dishes.

  “Do you have any questions about tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Batoul asked perplexed.

  “Yes, you will move your mattress to the blue room, as will Ali,” Maman said over her shoulder, as she soaked grains and beans for the following day. When she did not hear a response from Batoul, she turned and saw the girl with her mouth open and her eyes wide. Maman smiled and walked around the hearth to Batoul. “It will be fine.” Maman pressed Batoul’s hand into her own.

  “Uh…” Batoul moved her lips but spoke no words. She began to cry without a sound.

  Batoul couldn’t imagine sleeping anywhere except by Maman’s side. She could not even remember sleeping with her own mother. As far back as Batoul could remember, her bedtime ritual had been the same. After she and Maman performed their last prayer for the day, Batoul would put away her prayer rug and dress in her long cotton nightgown. She would be first to use the outhouse in the corner of the courtyard, bringing with her an oil lamp and leaving it just by the outhouse door when she had finished. In the tidy kitchen, she would pour water from the copper kettle into her wash basin. Batoul would wash her face with Maman’s homemade Castile soap and her own knitted facecloth, precisely as Maman had taught her. In the courtyard, she would tie up her two long braids, wet and lather her facecloth, and make sure to scrub the corners of her temple, her neck, and behind her ears before she rinsed and wrung her cloth to dry on the clothesline. With the remaining warm water, she would brush her teeth with coarse salt on her fingertip. Then, she would wash her feet and return the basin to its place in the kitchen.

  Maman was an orderly woman who expected her children to learn and follow the rules of her house. Even Baba knew well enough to return items to their place, though Maman would never chastise him in front of the children. Those conversations with their subtle language and tone followed in the quiet of the night when the two adults expected their privacy.

  As Batoul grew older, she began to help Maman prepare the young ones for sleep. She changed them into their night clothes, took them to the outhouse, washed their faces and feet, and settled them into the large bed they shared with their parents. Once Ahmad, the youngest, had stopped nursing, Batoul had assumed the sleeping spot directly on Maman’s left side, with the other children to the le
ft of Batoul.

  Batoul helped the children fall asleep by telling stories of mischievous mice that stole grains from market stalls and built cities underground. Batoul enjoyed making Bijan, Rhoya, and Ahmad giggle; patiently, she answered all of their questions about how the mice escaped capture from the angry grain seller. By the time the children fell asleep, Maman had finished her last chores about the house, performed her ablutions, and arrived under the covers, smelling of the almond oil she rubbed into her worn hands and the rose water that she dabbed behind her ears. The two scents mingled and gave Batoul the impression that Maman had arrived in bed with fragrant pastries.

  Batoul would nestle into Maman’s side, and so began their nightly discussions. With just the two of them awake in the dark room, cuddled together under the blankets, able to hear Baba and Ali still in the courtyard performing their own bedtime rituals, Batoul would begin to talk. During the day, there was work to be done and Batoul did not want to interrupt Maman with chatter. At night, in bed, Batoul felt she would burst with all she wanted to say and ask. Maman listened to Batoul’s musing patiently, stroking the girl’s hair and face and answering the questions as they came. In this private space that was theirs, without work or interruptions, Batoul felt most loved.

  Once Batoul fell asleep, Maman would turn to her left side and await Baba’s arrival. In their own long, white night dresses, Baba and Ali arrived quietly into the bedroom. Baba slipped under the covers next to Maman, and Ali lay next to him. After a long day’s work, Ali often fell asleep quickly and snored lightly. Baba and Maman faced each other and began their intimate, whispered conversations. Each wondered aloud about relations and neighbours, and their talks were peppered with thankful prayers for their good fortune and health.

  Some nights, Batoul would try to stay awake to hear their words, to learn about what was to come, but most nights she was too comfortable and relaxed to remain alert for long. Having enjoyed her private time with Maman, she felt no need for more.