The Daughter Who Walked Away Page 6

  “I should, given that you’ve just bought the fish I was considering,” Batoul answered in an unpractised tone of amusement.

  It must not have sounded as playful as Batoul had intended because Soheila inhaled audibly, bit her lower lip, and looked on the verge of tears. “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t realize.” Soheila’s voice quivered and she bit her thumbnail at the corner of her mouth in an upset gesture.

  “Oh, no,” Batoul said apologetically. “I wasn’t serious.” Batoul cowered with embarrassment. She had wanted to be playful, as playful as Soheila, and she had made a fool of herself. “Please, don’t cry. I didn’t mean it. I won’t say anything. I can buy from one of the other sellers. I don’t need much.” Batoul stared at the dusty ground, unsure of how to remedy her blunder.

  “Well, you could make it up to me,” Soheila sighed. “There is a bracelet that I liked at the gold seller’s.”

  With that remark, Batoul’s eyes widened in surprise; she would not buy this stranger a bracelet. Then she saw the same playful expression return to Soheila’s face. “You aren’t serious?” Batoul asked, partly relieved and partly perplexed.

  “Of course not! Just like you.” Soheila smiled kindly and rested her hand on Batoul’s shoulder. “Unless you are going to tattle, and then I’m going to have to shut you in this basket.” Soheila pointed to the large and half-empty straw basket of walnuts steps away from them.

  “You have my word,” Batoul smiled. For a moment, she felt uncomplicated joy, a feeling that had become a distant memory, one she had last experienced as a young girl playing in the courtyard with Ali.

  Initially, Soheila’s exuberance had bothered Batoul. Often, she complained to Maman about the village girl who cornered her in the bazaar to talk about nothing and everything. “She calls out my name and waves her arms wildly to get my attention. It’s embarrassing to see everyone’s head turn to look at me,” Batoul criticized. Upon hearing the childish exaggeration in her own voice, Batoul did not look up from her lap where her infant daughter, Azadeh, had fallen asleep nursing.

  “Everyone?” Maman asked with an affectionate grin.

  “Maman, you understand what I mean. There I am trying to be taken seriously, and along comes Soheila in those rainbow dresses of hers, and …” Batoul heard it again, the childish nature and tone of her rambling.

  “Do you like her?” Maman asked.

  Maman always preferred direct questions and answers. This, Batoul knew and appreciated. Still, Batoul was not ready to be direct about her feelings. Instead, Batoul gazed upon her daughter and gently wiped away the droplets of milk that clung to Azadeh’s glistening lower lip.

  “Like her? What does that matter?” Batoul veered away. “She’s obviously not accustomed to being in a big city, and …”

  “Batoul, you could use a friend,” Maman interjected firmly, yet kindly. The older woman stopped sewing and faced Batoul with a concerned look.

  “What!” Batoul’s voice cracked. “What do you mean?” The upset sound alarmed Azadeh, who grimaced in her sleep. Batoul rocked her body gently to soothe her sleeping infant. Quietly, Batoul continued, “Besides, why would I want her as a friend? Did I mention …”

  Again, Maman interrupted. “She sounds lovely, Batoul. We will have her over tomorrow, immediately after morning chores.”

  With that, Maman stood and left the room, too tired to play the games of younger people. Batoul felt both elated and concerned by the thought of having Soheila visit.

  The following day, Soheila arrived at their door, exactly on time. Her wardrobe was even plainer than Batoul’s, her two long braids matched Batoul’s, and her demeanour was as steady as a boulder. The sudden change in Soheila’s presentation unsettled Batoul, who began to fear the worst.

  “Salam, beeya-tu. Hello, come in,” Batoul said when she received Soheila.

  “Salam, Khanome Rajavi. Thank you so much for having me in your home.” Soheila addressed Maman first. “Batoul has spoken very highly of you, and I am so pleased to meet you.” Soheila smiled sweetly and spoke unassumingly.

  In astonishment, Batoul turned and stared at her with brows furrowed. Maman approached Soheila and, holding the younger woman’s face, kissed her cheeks thrice. “Khosh amadid. Welcome, Soheila. It is lovely to meet you. Batoul can’t seem to stop talking about you,” Maman said as she led their guest into the formal living room.

  Before entering the room, Soheila looked over her shoulder at Batoul. Soheila’s smile was the widest Batoul had ever seen. So wide that Batoul spotted the gold fillings in her molars. Batoul was relieved that Soheila was a gracious guest. Her concerns were wholly dissipated when it became apparent that Maman was also enjoying herself.

  Hosting a guest who was new to her house and her city inspired Maman to relate stories that Batoul had not heard before. Maman’s most absorbing tale pertained to the various quarters that had once existed throughout Shiraz. In a sombre tone, she recounted her disturbing memories of the violent riot that destroyed the mahalleh, the Jewish quarter, in October 1910. The mahalleh, which was the only area Jews were legally permitted to reside or own property, had been impoverished as long as Maman could remember. Locals villainized and denigrated Jews, and the local government codified laws to prevent Jews from rising out of destitution.

  “My father-in-law told me how they lived. Their lives were difficult. It was true. Their homes were in disrepair, and their streets were littered with trash. It was no way to live.”

  Maman recalled the law that particularly outraged her father-in-law, who entered the mahalleh often to conduct business with the silversmiths. It prevented Jews from leaving the mahalleh while it was raining. Perceived as unclean, Jews were segregated during rainfall to prevent the defilement of Muslims by the water that ran off Jewish bodies. In the privacy of his home, her father-in-law raged about the ludicrous nature of this law and the simple-mindedness of its creators. He had been one of the silent minority of Muslims who were sympathetic to the unjust treatment of the Jews.

  “Unfortunately, the majority was bloodthirsty.” Maman wrung her hands in memory of the tragedy. “In a mere six hours, the brutes killed thirteen Jews. They displaced another six thousand. All that was left of the mahalleh was rubble.”

  At the time, Ali had been an infant, and Maman described holding him tightly to her chest for the duration of the riot. From their courtyard, she heard the distant noise of the ferocious and predatory mob that robbed and destroyed two hundred and sixty homes, which were located a few blocks away from the Rajavi household. The following day, she saw the Jewish families who had lost everything to ruthless prejudice. She saw mothers holding their babies, destitute and without recourse. In her husband’s arms, Maman cried for the plight of these women, these mothers. With the help of other compassionate Muslim families, the Rajavis collected food and clothing for the displaced Jews.

  On her cushion, Maman leaned against the wall and shook her head in disbelief at the inhumanity she had witnessed twenty years earlier. Batoul gazed at her hands resting in her lap, uncertain of how to respond. Throughout their eleven-year relationship, Batoul had never taken an opportunity to comfort Maman. The younger woman relied on Maman’s compassion and loving kindness as much as she relied on Maman’s practical wisdom. In moments of clarity and self-awareness, she realized that Maman’s demonstrativeness laid the foundation for the resilience and courage that Batoul, Ali, Bijan, Rhoya, and Ahmad developed in pursuit of their personal ambitions. Batoul could appreciate the importance of empathy, affection, and forgiveness, but she could not put them into practice; the right moment never arrived. When Akram scraped her knees or when Ali’s workmate died unexpectedly, Batoul was at a loss. Their streaming tears, their downcast expressions, their overt need for consolation and comfort frightened her. They wanted something from her that she did not want to give: empathy.

  Empathy necessitated that she accept emotiona
l pain as tangible and worthy of attention, and she could not do this. Empathy required her to recognize the omnipresence of her own emotional pain. Empathy threatened to incapacitate her with grief, anguish, and self-hatred. Instead, she focused on the concrete tasks at hand: she cleaned Akram’s wound and prepared Ali’s funeral clothes. She downplayed their emotional needs because she believed that she would never be able to fulfill them and that she would disable herself if she tried. From the sidelines, Batoul watched as Maman offered the kind words, the loving caresses, and the silent presence that addressed their deeper wounds. To see Maman gripped with sadness as she remembered past atrocities agitated Batoul. She resented the turn in the conversation that led to these memories. She resented being confronted by these seemingly unresolvable feelings. She resented the silence that seemed to demand something impossible of her.

  Soheila broke the silence with gentle regard, “My village has also struggled. Yet, it remains dear to me. I assure you, Khanome Rajavi, that the unpleasantness of the past has not tarnished the beauty of Shiraz.”

  Maman responded with an appreciative smile and patted Soheila on the knee. Batoul knew that Maman treasured the reputation of her city nearly as much as the reputation of her family. She wondered admiringly how Soheila had intuited the appropriate response to the older woman’s pain. To change the subject, Batoul offered another glass of tea to the women. Maman excused herself to tend to her chores but insisted that Batoul and Soheila continue without her.

  “It’s good practice for Rhoya to take care of the children,” Maman said over her shoulder as she straightened her dress and left to check on her daughter and two granddaughters in the courtyard.

  Once alone, Soheila smiled her wide, open-mouthed smile again.

  “You expected me to be trouble,” Soheila said in a playful voice as she wagged a finger at Batoul.

  “Chi? What?” Batoul protested. Batoul turned to the samovar to pour herself another glass of tea. She avoided eye contact and pondered the truth in Soheila’s statement.

  “You thought I would … I don’t know … jump in the fountain, climb the trees. Something crazy,” Soheila said as she popped a bite-sized raisin cookie into her mouth. On the cushion, Soheila stretched out on her side and propped up her head with her palm.

  Speechless, Batoul looked to the middle distance to appear innocent. Her mouth opened several times to speak. Yet, she could not form a sentence that did not implicate herself or insult Soheila.

  “Dokhtar! Girl! It’s fine. Did I pass the test?” Soheila asked, smiling. She popped another cookie into her mouth. Her tone was playful, but it was obvious she hoped she had performed well.

  “I think Maman really likes you,” Batoul said with a serious expression, nodding profusely.

  “You? Did I pass your test?” Soheila’s expression also became serious. “That’s what this was, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know …” Batoul said languidly as she tried to sort out her response. She thought, Was this a test? Had that been weighing on my mind? She realized that she had been hesitant about forming a friendship with Soheila, and she had wanted a sign of how to proceed.

  “I am not going to push myself on you, Batoul,” Soheila said with a kind tone and a sympathetic expression. “I wanted to show you that I am not dahati, some uncivilized village girl.”

  “I didn’t think you were dahati,” Batoul objected fiercely, but she failed to feign honesty. She was unused to lying or making pretence, and hearing herself speak falsely bothered her. “Bale, okay. It’s true that I didn’t have a very good impression of you, but not because you come from … a village. I came from a village, too,” Batoul said. She noticed that she had Soheila’s attention, despite her eating cookies one after another in quick succession.

  “You are very … vibrant, and I am … not, and I don’t really know how to be around you,” Batoul admitted. She was suddenly very tired of explaining herself and began to eat cookies too. This made Soheila smile, which caused a bit to catch in her throat. With a mouthful of cookies, Soheila started coughing and sprayed Batoul’s face and shoulders with wet pieces of cookie. When Soheila saw the mess that covered Batoul, she laughed harder.

  Batoul smiled through pursed lips and shook her head slightly at Soheila. She wiped her face and put another cookie into her own mouth. It felt gratifying, even rejuvenating, to be Soheila’s friend.

  ***

  In 1940, Batoul celebrated her thirtieth birthday. She declined a fete and Maman accepted her decision. Instead, Maman silently prepared khoroesht-e bademjaan, Batoul’s favourite stew of eggplant and beef, for their evening meal.

  Batoul was uncomfortable at parties and gatherings; their lack of function and structure caused restlessness and anxiety. She preferred measurable work, and she was driven to be efficient and organized. When she walked into a room, she immediately tidied before she began any other task, even if the task was to rest. Putting things in order helped to clear her mind and consider what to do next. The next task was her constant preoccupation, even during intimate moments. Her acts of love and affection toward her family were genuine but planned in their intensity and duration. She was most likely to end an embrace with her children with the words, “I love you, now go be where you need to be.” Of all her family, her children were most attuned to her subtleties, and they could sense the end of a playful conversation or a loving embrace before it was over.

  Batoul’s anxiety presented itself as a curt imperative, a frustrated tone, and the refusal to alter her plans. Her anxiety was easily triggered by unexpected and time-consuming occurrences, such as an unplanned social call or spontaneous storytelling. She tried to enjoy the unexpected but would often step away from family conversations to complete tasks elsewhere, voicing a parting remark, “I just need to check on something.”

  When on her own, Batoul felt like a solider, ready and able. Immersed in her task, she felt at peace, thrilled to complete the chore in record time. She found it difficult to teach the children to perform household chores, though she considered it critically important that they learn these skills. Batoul regularly began instructions about specific chores but eventually left the lessons to Maman, who had much more patience for the children’s slow and awkward performance. Batoul would stand in the doorway to watch Maman and the children laugh as they learned, feeling like she was watching a magic act.

  The day Batoul tried to teach Akram how to wash rice, she left eight-year-old Akram crying and refusing to learn how to cook. Frustrated by Akram’s inability to identify and remove all of the small pebbles from the dry grains of rice, Batoul threw her hands in the air and glared at Akram. “Dokhtar-am! My daughter! This is not difficult” Batoul raised her voice and pursed her lips.

  “Yes, it is!” Akram said through crying eyes that were squeezed shut.

  The silence in the kitchen felt immense to the little girl, who did not know how to resolve the conflict. Batoul felt at a loss, too. She had imagined sharing this moment with Akram just as she had experienced it as a child in Maman’s kitchen. Yet, here she was yelling at Akram and trying to convince her to work harder at her task, one her daughter swore she would never perform again. Batoul also wanted to give up, but mostly she wished Akram would stop being a child, stop feeling, and start learning without emotions. It was incomprehensible to Batoul why people could not set their emotions aside for the sake of getting their work done. It seemed more sensible to master a skill, complete one’s task, and then decide whether there was anything to cry about. Being dejected was a waste of time.

  “You’re not making this any easier.” Batoul did not know what else to say. Maybe Akram will understand that she is wasting time by crying, Batoul thought. These words only caused Akram to cry harder and run out of the kitchen. Batoul did not pursue her, because she did not think she would be able to comfort her. She might as well get all her crying done, Batoul thought.

 
It was Maman who taught Akram how to clean rice, and Batoul was grateful for it. At least they are learning, Batoul told herself to relieve the worry that she was not fit for motherhood and her children would grow to be incompetent.

  She received some comfort from Maman, who assured her that her grandchildren were very clever and understood how to complete many tasks. As they worked side by side each day, Maman reassured Batoul by listing each child’s talents and accomplishments in terms of household duties. It reduced Batoul’s anxiety considerably to know that the children were skilled in the daily management of the household.

  She tried to appreciate the importance of having the children attend the newly built public school to learn how to read, write, and count. But she wanted her sons and daughters to be able to care for their families first and foremost. Taking care meant storing and preparing food, making and repairing household items, and saving and spending money smartly. She imagined that the girls would get married locally, and the boys would begin to work with Ali before they married. She worried about all the time the children spent playing with the contraptions Ali brought home or listening to him reading ] the newspaper aloud. Time was precious, and these daily sessions were its misuse.

  Ali disagreed, and one night he made sure Batoul knew not to interfere. Batoul had entered the sitting room after completing preparations for her next day’s work in the kitchen. She found Ali sitting in a circle with Baba, twelve-year-old Akram, ten-year-old Azadeh, four-year-old Akbar, and Maman, who rocked two-year-old Omar on her outstretched legs. Omar’s head rested on a pillow propped up by Maman’s feet, and the side-to-side motion was putting the little boy to sleep.

  The family was huddled over an ornate wooden box that had three openings on one side, which were covered with dark mesh. Batoul could see that the box was connected to the electric power supply, and she assumed that this box was the radio Ali had mentioned a few days prior.

  The year was 1940, and a month earlier, the crown prince had inaugurated Radio Iran. A radio program had played the national anthem and the prime minister promised that the radio would become a source of information and entertainment. Ali, Baba, and many of the neighbourhood men had heard the program during a visit to the local teahouse. The teahouse owner, Aga Kazemeen, was one of the first in Shiraz to purchase electric power and then the first person in the neighbourhood to own a radio. At the time, programs ran for four hours in the evenings. During the previous two weeks, Ali and Baba had often headed out in the evening to sit with the other men and listen to the news.