The Daughter Who Walked Away Page 7

  Batoul considered leaving the sitting room to attend to other chores, but she was tired and could not think of another task she could perform in the last hour before prayers and getting the children to sleep. She resented having to share the sitting room with a radio occupying everyone’s attention. Neither did she want everyone’s attention. She had looked forward to a quiet evening with little or no conversation. She sat cross-legged by Maman’s side, with her back to the wall and within arm’s reach of the contraption. Maman looked sweetly at her and gently patted Batoul’s thigh.

  “Dast-et daard nakoneh. Thank you for your work, Batoul,” Maman said quietly as she leaned leftward toward Batoul.

  “Khahesh mekon-am. You’re welcome. I did not do much.” Batoul smiled modestly and looked to sleeping Omar.

  Needlessly, she tucked in the blanket Maman had placed on him. Maman squeezed Batoul’s thigh to let her know that she was grateful for her daughter-in-law’s efforts. It was these gestures that warmed Batoul’s heart the most, these moments when she received explicit thanks for her work. She expected it from the children, but they did not appreciate that their lives were improved as a result of her diligence. Every so often, she would ask Akram, Azadeh, or Akbar directly for their thanks, and they would give it, but it was never satisfying. In asking for acknowledgement, Batoul knew she had imposed her needs on the children and they had conceded for fear of having a disgruntled and bad-tempered mother. Batoul was not sure how she would react were the children to refuse her request. She hoped she would not retaliate by being ill-mannered. She did know that she felt sad and empty even when she received the gratitude she requested.

  Ali was not helpful in this respect either. Batoul wondered whether her work was unimportant to him, though he never indicated that he thought so. He did not seem concerned about the day-to-day management of the house, the work that consumed Batoul. He was very interested in the children and their upbringing, and these topics formed the bulk of their nightly conversations. Ali spent most evenings talking with the kids about their day at school, looking over their notebooks, and discussing their lessons. He’d chat about their progress with Batoul once all the children were asleep and the two lay side by side. Batoul would listen as much as she could tolerate before she excused herself and rolled over to sleep.

  She cared about the children, and she wanted them to succeed. They were her children too, and she loved them dearly. Often, when she turned over to sleep, she would silently cry in frustration. She sensed that a gap was forming between her and her children, a gap that she would never be able to bridge. Her children were literate, and they were enthralled with their father; he could review their writing, decipher their accomplishments, and discuss their ideas. Batoul understood the importance of the children’s education, and she understood the importance of Ali demonstrating his interest in their progress. She thanked Allah that she was married to a man who was entirely devoted to their children, and she would never speak ill of Ali for she understood that he was a good provider and her children were blessed. But it also hurt to be outside of this inner circle.

  Sitting next to Maman, watching her children staring wide-eyed at the radio Ali brought home, Batoul felt angry at the introduction of something else to draw the children away from her. Batoul bit her lower lip and listened to Ali describe how the knobs on the radio worked.

  Ali was happy to share this new experience, their first radio, with his children and to see their excitement. This was the kind of experience he sought most as a father: to introduce his children to the tools and systems of the world and to help them learn how to help themselves. He looked forward to seeing Akram’s and Azadeh’s expressions and hearing their comments when he read the newspaper aloud each evening. Ali took pride in his children’s interest in learning and in their understanding of the world. He did not care to compare his children to the ones next door because he knew his standards were unique to him. He certainly wanted his daughters to marry reputable men, but he wanted them to be able to judge what made a man reputable. He wanted them to think logically, consider the facts, and come to their own conclusions. It was essential that the girls go to school so they would learn how to make their own decisions. He believed his job as a father consisted of two key objectives: earn an income and expose his children to what lay beyond their courtyard walls.

  Often, he felt alone in parenting the children to think outside the realm of mundane tasks. It seemed to Ali that Batoul did not care much about the world outside, and even that she sometimes pretended there was no world outside of the courtyard. During the first years of their marriage, Ali feared that his daughters would assume this narrow view and become encumbered by menial tasks that consumed their days.

  When the local public school opened in Akram’s eighth year, Ali immediately enrolled Akram and six-year-old Azadeh. To make sure they attended, he walked them to school daily. With one primly uniformed daughter on each side of Ali, they walked hand in hand through the side streets that trickled into Khiaban-e Zand, the main road, and past Bazaar-e Vakil to the newly constructed public school for girls.

  During the first week of school, he sensed that the girls were somewhat self-conscious about being seen in their uniforms outside of their home. They were usually chatty and inquisitive about their surroundings, but seemed subdued and guarded on the walk through their neighbourhood. Initially, the girls had adored their uniforms and wore them about the house pretending they were already in class. Akram played the part of the kindly yet studious teacher, and Akbar, Azadeh, and her stuffed doll Sanaz sat in a row as the exemplary students.

  Despite the girls’ discomfort about their uniforms, Ali continued to smile proudly at them and directed their attention away from themselves and to the changes in the cityscape. Ali identified the buildings he and Baba had helped construct or repair, the intersections where political rallies were held, and the new infrastructure that allowed them to have electricity at home. The little girls had rarely travelled farther than their kooche, except for family picnics in the gardens, and they had never walked through the city with their father. To be Ali’s audience every morning as he described past events and what was yet to be left Akram and Azadeh feeling giddy and pampered. He spoke earnestly to them and they tried their best to participate in the conversations up to the last moments of their walk when they approached the schoolyard and became excited and distracted at the sight of their friends. Upon reviewing his daughters’ notebooks and their first pages of handwriting practice, Ali became resolute in his opinion that his children complete primary school.

  As soon as Batoul walked into the sitting room the evening he brought the radio home, Ali’s intuition warned him that conflict was imminent. After he and Baba had heard the radio for the first time at Aga Kazemeen’s, Ali had excitedly described it to the rest of the family at dinner and stated that he would begin saving money to purchase one too. Batoul’s disapproving reaction angered him. At their best, when Ali was excited about something, her comments were apathetic, and at worst, they were dismissive. It seemed that she was incapable of joining others in their excitement.

  Batoul had reacted contemptuously to Ali’s plan to buy a radio. “It seems like a trivial purchase. That’s what I am saying. The money would be better put to use on so many other things.” Batoul assumed a matter-of-fact expression, shrugged, and began collecting dirty dinner plates for washing.

  “Do you mean the money should be spent on cleaning the rugs and painting the walls?” Ali spoke ironically, raised his brow, and leaned back to prepare for confrontation.

  Maman, Baba, and the children all stared at their plates uncomfortably, sensing a war of words to follow. Upon seeing Maman’s uncomfortable expression, Batoul chastised herself for getting caught up in another heated debate with Ali. She resigned herself to keep her opinions to herself and avoid making a fool of them both in front their family. With a stoic look to Ali that expressed her desire to
avoid a fight, Batoul carried the stack of dishes to the kitchen. That was the last Batoul heard of the radio until she walked into the sitting room to see her family surrounding the wooden box like it was found treasure.

  When Ali asked Akram if she wanted to be the person to turn on the radio, she was delighted to be singled out by her father. With a serious expression, she turned the knob and the room suddenly filled with loud white noise, startling everyone and waking Omar, who began to cry miserably. Ali quickly turned down the volume of the untuned radio and smiled apologetically at Akram, who was concerned that she had somehow broken the device.

  “Takhseer-et neest. That was not your fault,” Ali rubbed Akram’s shoulder, giving her a little shake and a consoling smile.

  “That’s right, it was not her fault,” Batoul said curtly as she picked up crying Omar and took him out of the room to soothe in the darkness of their bedroom.

  Batoul did not see Ali’s expression, and neither did she return to the sitting room to listen to the radio. She let herself fall asleep when she lay on their mattress to nurse Omar. She understood that she had been unkind in her words, she understood that her cruelty deteriorated her relationship with Ali, and she understood that there would be consequences immediate and for years to come. Her understanding of these truths caused her to suddenly feel exhausted and seek an exit from contemplation and a sense of impending doom. She fell asleep to postpone the consequences.

  Ali woke her after a couple of hours, when the children were asleep, and he asked her to join him in the sitting room. As she rose and made her way through the dark house, Batoul understood that she was about to face the repercussions of her unkindness, and some relief came from being moments away from that. She could not conceive of what might occur, and in response her senses felt heightened. She felt overwhelmed by the unnatural glow and hum of the incandescent bulb that hung from the ceiling of the sitting room.

  Ali sat in his usual spot, on the cushions along the far wall of the room. Batoul decided that he looked more sad than angry. She chose to sit only a few feet away, and tried to appear calm. She laid her hands in her lap but within seconds they were busy knotting loose threads from her dress, picking up crumbs from the rug, and scratching at something that had adhered to a nearby cushion. As soon as she realized she was distracted, she returned her hands to her lap and her gaze to Ali.

  Ali continued to look sadly at the middle distance. He was not sure what he wanted to say. He never imagined that he and Batoul could be at odds to the point that they were unkind to each other. His dreams of married life had closely resembled the relationship between his parents. Now, it seemed childish to have imagined that his marriage would be similar to theirs. Ali was loving and devoted like his father, but Ali was not a man of convention, unprepared to take risks. Batoul was organized and determined like his mother, but she was not tactful and agreeable. He struggled to think of the first step to resolve their argument but was unsure of the nature or substance of their disagreement.

  Batoul grew frustrated sitting and waiting for Ali to speak. She did not understand why he could not begin the conversation. It seemed she was being tormented in this room, without action, without words, and with only his sad expression that could mean anything. She preferred an argument to this silence. She considered apologizing for speaking rudely to him about the radio but she worried that he would use the opportunity to make demands of her. Batoul asked herself what demands she was concerned about. It was unlike Ali to make demands. Yet, she was certain that if Ali had his way he would want her to change how she conducted herself, and she was not interested in opening a doorway into that conversation. These thoughts stirred her defiance and indignation, causing her to assume a stern expression and a resolve to wait out the silence, to let Ali be the first to speak.

  Ali was momentarily preoccupied with images of his perfect family life and the ideal image that often came to him: he and Batoul sitting side by side and listening to their children take turns reading aloud tales of kings and beasts from Shahnameh. Ali banished the image, believing that Batoul would not sit for any length of time to listen to stories. He returned to the present moment, looked up at his wife, and resigned to make the smallest of requests. “I would like to have the evenings with our children to do as I please,” Ali said in one breath. “Without comments or interference.”

  Batoul’s hands lay still and her mind worked quickly to consider the request. Without comments or interference from her, she understood. She wanted to respond glibly, “Do as you please.” But she had the presence of mind to avoid saying these words aloud. Instead, she pursed her lips, nodded for several seconds, and considered whether any response was required of her. “Alright,” she managed. Not smiling and not frowning, just making the sufficient amount of eye contact.

  Ali sat quietly for another few moments, again staring into the middle distance, and when Batoul said nothing further and began picking at something on a cushion, he stood up and wished her a good night.

  Batoul said a quiet good night and waited for him to leave the room. Once alone, she lay on her back and stared at the brightly glowing light overhead. Several moths had found their way into the room and were beating themselves against the thin, hot glass of the bare bulb. Batoul shook her head at the bizarre behaviour of these insects, to repeatedly endanger themselves without benefit. She turned to her side and spotted the radio on a low table in the far corner of the sitting room. At least it does not take up a lot of space, Batoul thought before she rose to turn off the light and return to bed.

  ***

  Soheila visited a couple of weeks after Ali bought the radio. As soon as she sat across from Batoul to have tea, she spotted the machine, then shrieked and clasped her face with her hands. She flew across the room to the device, nearly toppling the samovar.

  “Soheila!” Batoul protested at her friend’s wild behaviour.

  “Batoul!” Soheila squealed and wore a wider smile than usual. She planted herself cross-legged directly in front of the radio and studied its features. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a radio?! When did you get it?” Soheila spoke over her shoulder to Batoul, reluctant to take her eyes off the radio in case it did something spectacular.

  Batoul rolled her eyes at Soheila’s enthusiasm. She poured out two glasses of tea, each with sugar cubes on their saucers. One cube for her, and two cubes for Soheila, who enjoyed everything with more sugar than necessary. With the sugar secured between her front teeth, Batoul sipped her tea through the sweetness and the cube quickly dissolved.

  Soheila, still transfixed by the radio, closely examined the top and sides of the wooden box. “Batoul, when did you get the radio?” Soheila asked again.

  “Oh! Must we talk about that dreadful contraption?!” Batoul felt hot and uncomfortable. For two weeks, she had spent every evening sharing a room with the radio and watching her family absorbed in the detailed news reports and hour-long music programs. What does it matter what happened halfway around the world in Germany, or even up north in Isfahan, Batoul wondered angrily. It does not change whether the children require new shoes, whether Baba needs to see the doctor, or whether the roof has holes in it. The only thing worse than having the radio on for two hours was the useless discussions that followed, debates about events that had nothing to do with any of them. Batoul could not understand how her family could become engrossed in these topics.

  “Soheila, that thing is a toy for people who have nothing better to do,” Batoul said sternly.

  “I am a person with nothing better to do, and I love toys.” Soheila came over, pinched her friend’s cheek playfully, and dropped onto the cushion opposite Batoul.

  With a sugar cube between her teeth, Soheila asked jovially, “What has the radio done, Batoul? Is it a tool of the devil?”

  “No, don’t …” Batoul did not know what to say.

  She could feel a headache coming on, and she pressed
her temples and frowned.

  “Khahar-am. My sister. What’s happened?” Soheila wore a concerned expression, her brows furrowed and her lower lip slightly pouting. “I can see you are upset, and I want to help. Can you please talk to me?” Soheila walked around the samovar and the sofra adorned generously with tea glasses, a heaping bowl of fruit, and an ornate serving dish of raisin cookies.

  Soheila put her arm around her friend and pressed their bodies together. It was not often that Soheila reached out to embrace Batoul, and even in that instance, it was short-lived. During the decade that they had grown to become intimate friends, Soheila had learned that Batoul was a strong-willed and reserved person who preferred to discuss the practical aspects of life and steered away from speculative discussions, displays of sympathy, and expressions of compassion. It did not surprise her that Batoul disliked the radio since the content lacked any practical use. Even so, Batoul’s angry reaction seemed out of proportion.

  “Beya, here.” Soheila offered Batoul a cookie from the serving dish.

  “Na, merci. No, thanks.” Batoul hung her head low. “Every evening, Soheila, they all sit around that thing and listen to a bunch of nonsense. Then, they blather on about what they just heard.” Despite her thirty years, Batoul sounded like an irritated child.

  “And you don’t want to listen?” Soheila asked, though she knew the answer.