The Daughter Who Walked Away Page 5

  “Yes, yes, Rhoya can finish up. Go ahead.” Still, Maman did not face Batoul to speak. Is she hiding her face? Batoul wondered.

  When Batoul turned to leave, Ali was already in the courtyard. Desperate to stop time and undo the damage she believed she had caused these last few months, Batoul looked all about the courtyard for some diversion. She thought, We finally had one intimate moment. Doesn’t he realize my smile meant I want closeness? That I am willing to try?

  She felt foolish for having imagined their brief encounter was meaningful. If her own family could cast her off, then this man-child could throw her out even more easily. She considered how to respond when he informed her that she was not worthy of being his wife. She began to feel nauseated, and she worried she would vomit, ruining any chances to redeem herself and receive a second chance. She began to finger her prayer beads and pray silently for Allah to help her on her path. Small tears ran along her hot cheeks, and she pursed her lips to keep from sobbing.

  Once they arrived in their room, Ali rummaged among his pile of clothes and brought out a small collection of bank notes. He held them out for Batoul to take, looking abashedly to the middle distance. Batoul could not look at his face. She wanted to speak, to refuse the money, and refuse to be sent away. She wanted to demand another chance to be a good wife. Yet, that was part of the problem. She seemed only capable of making demands, when she should charm him and be desirable, like a glass of sweetened tea, not a kettle of scalding water whistling aggressively. Tears continued to stream along her face, and when she could not think of how to express herself, she thought she could plead with her eyes.

  She looked up to see Ali was still reaching out, offering the few bank notes with a peculiar expression. Batoul knew that expression; it indicated that Ali was proud of himself. He was trying to be humble while also seeking appreciation. He was waiting for her response but seemed too anxious to wait much longer.

  “It’s not everything I make. Most of it I give to Baba for household expenses, but this is the rest of it.” He looked at her with a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to the middle distance. “Here, take it,” he reached just a little further and nudged Batoul’s heavily hanging left arm with his hand and the bank notes. “I thought you should hold onto it for us.”

  Confused about his meaning, she frowned at him, not realizing that she was glaring.

  “It’s what Baba does with their money. Maman keeps it in —” he began to speak in the cadence that she knew was his impression of a wise man.

  “I know where she keeps the money,” Batoul snapped, cutting him off, still frowning and still confused.

  “Why are you mad at me? I’m trying to do the right thing.” Ali threw the bank notes at her feet in a dismissive gesture. His playful expression had turned to contempt.

  At last Batoul understood that by asking her to keep his earnings safe he was attempting to create closeness between them. Her tears continued with renewed vigour and, babbling her apologies, she picked up the money that was scattered about the floor. “I will keep it safe in my clothes chest, here,” she said in a small voice and motioned to the wooden chest directly behind Ali.

  “All right, that’s fine.” Ali’s voice betrayed his teetering between remaining angry and making amends. He didn’t move as she placed the bank notes into a small pouch in the chest.

  “Thank you for trusting me with your earnings,” Batoul whispered.

  They stood beside each other. Both their faces were weary and their eyes downcast.

  “Yes, okay,” Ali said softly as he walked out to the courtyard.

  Left alone in the room, Batoul began to bawl. Amid the sobbing, she gasped for air, but she could barely breathe. She felt that her tears would drown her. She crumpled onto the mattress that had been rolled up against the wall. The sheets cooled by the night air felt soothing on her hot cheeks, and soon the tears stopped but she was too tired to open her eyes. She tucked her legs in under her and nestled herself like a cat onto the heap of blankets and padding.

  Batoul sensed someone entering the room, and she prayed it was not Ali. She was exhausted, and she didn’t want to think about appropriate responses, diplomacy, or a life without her family. She felt a hand give her head long, gentle stroke, and the confidence of the movement let Batoul know that it was Maman. With the knowledge that Maman was in the room, in the dark, sitting by her, there for her, Batoul whimpered a short sigh and inhaled deeply. With her next exhale, she began to cry again. She clutched at Maman’s skirt, rested her torso on Maman’s thighs, and wrapped her arms around Maman’s waist.

  Batoul moaned and sobbed into Maman’s skirt, momentarily feeling embarrassed about wetting Maman’s clothes. Maman continued to stroke Batoul’s head silently. In the silence, Batoul anxiously reassessed the state of her world.

  ***

  The intimacy between Ali and Batoul blossomed during their first spring as a married couple. Traditionally, the mild, sunny season was dedicated to gathering with one’s extended family for elaborate, day-long picnics in the green countryside. Nestled under lush trees alongside a lazy river and spread on soft grasses covered by outdoor rugs, more than forty relatives spent hours catching up over tea, barbeque, salads, and pastries. The adults played backgammon, sang folk songs, and fell in and out of naps. The youth played barefoot football games until it became too dark. The youngest children ran laughing and screaming as a herd, just far enough from the elders to avoid being parented. Parents rested among grandparents; they were happy to be unsought, eager to share jokes, and pleased to tease each other as they had in their youth.

  As a child, Batoul had relished her hours at the river’s edge, exploring the creatures that lived under rocks and pressing her feet into the cold, red mud. The first year she arrived into the Rajavi family, she had at first refused to leave Maman’s side and join the other children by the water. Maman had insisted that Batoul follow and attend to young Rhoya, who ambled eagerly after her cousins. The following year, Batoul needed no coaxing. Several years later, when the older girls headed off on long walks to ponder and analyze their circumstances, Batoul had still settled at the river bank under the guise of attending to the youngest cousins. She did not know what to say to the other young women. She felt like a matron among maidens; their futures were still being shaped, while Batoul’s had hardened as a child bride.

  Upon becoming visibly pregnant, Batoul now remained on the rug and close to Maman under the pretence of needing rest. Often, Ali joined her. With the pending birth of his first child, he seemed eager to be in proximity of adulthood. Increasingly, Batoul and Ali spent more time together on the rug. Among other married couples, they could envision themselves as a set more easily.

  Being pregnant with Maman and Baba’s first grandchild also reduced the intensity of Batoul’s fear of being abandoned. When Ali held her hand in the gardens or introduced her to an acquaintance as his wife, she felt assured of the cohesive nature of their bond. Leading up to and following the birth of their first child, she realized that he would never betray her in the public realm, despite the growing and stark contrast in their worldviews. Her life centred in the practical realm by disposition, and even more so after giving birth. Ali gravitated to politics, philosophy, and modernity; he seemed infatuated with discourse and innovation. Over the years, Batoul assured herself that these were the last remnants of youthful curiosity, mere amusements, which would granulate and disperse naturally on the winds of time.

  CHAPTER 3

  IN 1930, ALI BEGAN HIS TWO YEARS of mandatory military service on the Gulf coast. Every two months he returned home for a few days of leave. At the time, Ali’s brothers Bijan and Ahmad were seventeen and thirteen years old. Each morning, they accompanied their father to work. Ali’s sister Rhoya was fifteen. She worked alongside Maman. With Ali absent, Batoul managed their affairs and raised their two children on her own. For the first time in the five years
they had lived as husband and wife, Batoul felt unencumbered by negotiation and consensus building. Like a traveller unburdened of a sack of stones, she rushed forward with ease and appreciation for her new lightness. During this time, she also became friends with Soheila. When they met, Batoul had recently given birth to her second child, Azadeh. Soheila already had two little boys, and she was pregnant with her third child.

  Khahar-am, my sister, is how Soheila referred to Batoul. At each utterance, Batoul blushed with embarrassment and asked Soheila to speak softly to avoid attention. Soheila would respond, with furrowed brows and head tilted, “No one cares about our conversation.” Then, she would continue telling Batoul about the most recent gossip she’d overheard among her three brothers-in-law.

  Soheila had come to live with her husband’s family in Shiraz earlier in the year when work in her rural village became scarce. Her husband built and maintained wells, but in Shiraz he had begun working alongside his brothers. They were erecting power lines throughout neighbourhoods, wiring homes internally, and installing lighting fixtures. They worked for Aga Jamshoor’s company, Jamshoor Power. Aga had purchased diesel generators, and the demand among households for access was leading to a booming business for Aga and his crew of self-taught electricians.

  Though his brothers were playful and talkative, Soheila’s husband Mosein was a quiet man who spent most conversations with his eyes downcast and his head slightly tilted and nodding. Even so, Batoul still found it awkward to make casual conversation with him, or anyone. In Batoul’s estimation, people enjoyed voicing their opinions even though voicing opinions didn’t change matters. Chatter and idle hands made Batoul anxious. She was only content to chat with Maman as they both worked. Even then, they talked about the progress of their work.

  When Soheila visited Batoul’s home, they would begin in the sitting room, drinking tea and chatting, but it would not be long before Batoul brought in her sewing basket and began to work. Invariably, she would hand something to Soheila to mend or embroider. Often, Soheila and newly married Rhoya would glance at each other in their shared amusement about the predictability of Batoul’s habits. They understood discreetly that they shared a love for Batoul, and their affection for her had deepened over the years, despite Batoul’s distant persona.

  “See, to make the stitch invisible, just sew in the fold of the fabric, and there will be no sign of the tear in the crotch,” Batoul said through pursed lips that held sewing pins. On the carpet, she smoothed out a pair of Ali’s pants that he had left for her to repair.

  “Yes, so there was a problem with the crotch.” Soheila bit the corner of her lower lip and gave Rhoya a sidelong glance with raised eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Batoul said absentmindedly, not hearing Soheila’s playful tone.

  “And you fixed the problem with the crotch?” Soheila bit her entire lower lip, and her shoulders undulated.

  “Soheila, baase, that’s enough,” Rhoya said with a teasing smile. She readjusted her seat to distract herself from laughing. “Batoul doesn’t think like that.”

  With that remark, Batoul looked up first at Soheila and then Rhoya. She rolled her eyes to indicate that she understood the joke perfectly, and she was still not amused. “Yes, yes,” Batoul replied solemnly. “Soheila, don’t you want to know how to sew properly?” She asked with genuine concern for her friend and a quick admonishing look at Rhoya.

  In response, Rhoya smiled and raised her palms to claim innocence. Being a newlywed, Rhoya enjoyed sitting among the married women, excluding her own mother, and broaching intimate topics.

  “Khahar-am, I have no interest in doing anything properly,” Soheila explained. “If anyone at home thought I could do it properly, I’d be too busy sewing crotches to visit you.”

  To appease Batoul, Soheila started to perform the small task her friend had set out for her. After only a few stitches, her enthusiasm for storytelling overtook her. Before Batoul could thank Soheila for her help, she had set aside the sewing notions and continued gossiping animatedly. Soheila and Mosein shared a room with their boys in Mosein’s family home, where his mother, three brothers, and their families also lived. It was a large and busy household with a regular flow of visitors. Soheila was keen to allow her mother-in-law, Khanome Jalali, to fuss over Soheila’s boys while she spent her days with Batoul. Being the youngest of his siblings also meant that Mosein’s children were the youngest grandchildren. With a multitude of sons and daughters-in-law to perform housework, Khanome Jalali preferred to spend time nestled between cushions on the courtyard carpet enjoying her grandchildren. She made available large basins of water for their games. She fed them wrapped sweets that she had stashed away in the folds of her dresses. She told them childhood stories about their mischievous uncles.

  Soheila often complained to Batoul about her mother-in-law’s meddling in her boys’ upbringing. She preferred Khanome Jalali to restrict herself to entertaining the children instead of instructing Mosein and Soheila on how to raise them. She resented Khanome Jalali’s condescending tone, but she was also grateful for the kindness of the older woman. It was Khanome Jalali who helped Soheila fit into her new home. Cooking meals, cleaning, and keeping stock of supplies was already a challenge for Soheila, who never had an interest in managing a home, but being the youngest daughter-in-law further exacerbated her circumstances.

  Of all the menial household tasks, she disliked cooking the least. Soheila enjoyed the creativity required to make each meal a beautiful presentation. Unfortunately for Soheila, her eldest sister-in-law also enjoyed cooking and had worked hard over the previous decade to establish herself as the household cook.

  At Khanome Jalali’s suggestion, the daughters-in-law agreed that Soheila would do well to take responsibility of market purchases. It was evident that Soheila was the most sociable woman in their family and she would most enjoy the discourse and drama required of bazaar goers. Soheila appreciated the opportunity and excuse to leave home each day to perform the household shopping required for a family of seventeen. It was on such a daily trip to the bazaar that she first met Batoul.

  On the day they met, Batoul and Soheila were in their early twenties, yet Batoul appeared considerably older in her brown dress and plain shoes. Under her dark blue scarf, her hair was tied in two long braids that hung down her back, neat and out of the way. From experience, Batoul had learned to dress conservatively to be taken as seriously at the market as the older women were.

  From a distance, Batoul was discreetly assessing the fishmonger’s stocks and calculating her offer for ten pounds of white fish. The bazaar was teeming with the faces of familiar women; each sought the best ingredients within their budget; each planned a feast for the celebration of Noruz, the spring equinox. Common courtesy was in short supply and sharp elbows were abundant as the buyers became desperate on the last market day of fresh fish before the festivities began. Having witnessed the buyers’ desperation for even the most measly looking offerings, the five fishmongers joked easily with one another. Instead of haggling with the women, they exchanged bits of news and gossip with each other.

  When Batoul saw Soheila arrive at the edges of the rowdy crowd of older women who were hustling for space to inspect the fish, she didn’t know what to make of her. Soheila was dressed in the style of rural villagers, with colourful fabrics layered one upon another. Batoul imagined that her own mother must have dressed similarly, having come from a remote village in the province of Yazd that housed fewer than thirty families. The vibrancy of Soheila’s clothes was matched by her youthful face, which smiled for no one in particular but in appreciation for the day and the world. She was slightly taller than the older women who dominated the space closest to the fish vendor. Eager to survey the offerings, the women leaned over the rows of fresh, silver-skinned fish that lay on crushed ice and bouquets of parsley.

  Batoul observed Soheila stand on her tiptoes and scan the stocks. She noticed th
at, with the subtle tilt of her head and a slight lift of her chin, Soheila easily caught the eye of the youngest fishmonger. The young man, similar in age to Soheila, smiled bashfully, losing all interest in the other fishmongers and the older women, who were yelling and waving their arms in a vain attempt to attract his attention. The young fishmonger blushed, straightened his posture, and combed his hair with his fingers nervously. Instantly, he became self-conscious and assumed a serious expression in an effort to convey his maturity.

  Batoul watched Soheila wordlessly indicate fifty pounds and point in the direction of a delivery boy. The fishmonger gave a small nod and smiled momentarily before weighing and packing nearly all of the white fish. Swiftly, he placed the wrapped fish in a wooden crate filled with ice to pass on to the delivery boy. The crowd of women emitted a loud moan as they reassessed the remaining stocks. A few looked back with disgruntled expressions to see who had purchased the fish, and joining them in their indignation, Soheila also looked behind her to search the crowd for the offender. It was at that moment that Soheila’s eyes met Batoul’s, with a look that continued to endear her to Batoul decades later.

  Under the pretence of feeling wronged, Soheila reached her hand to her mouth to cover her smile. Surprised by her own reaction, Batoul also smiled. She knew it was difficult to compete with the older women at the bazaar, especially when festivities were near. As reverent as Batoul was to her elders, often making space for them to get closer to the stalls and helping them carry their goods home, she also felt that they took her kindness for granted.

  “You won’t snitch on me, will you?” Soheila asked as she took a spot at Batoul’s side. Her eyes were playful, and Batoul realized that Soheila had no genuine fears of retribution.