The Daughter Who Walked Away Page 8

  “No, of course not. What’s the point?!” Batoul spoke in a high-pitched tone, nearly a whine.

  “Right. You can do something else, instead of listening to the radio,” Soheila suggested and tilted her head compassionately toward Batoul, but Batoul seemed more than a little lost in her sadness.

  “I know I do not have to listen but they are all in the same room, and it’s strange to be elsewhere. Besides, they are my family. A good mother would finish her work and be with them.” Batoul seemed certain of her last statement.

  “Hm, I see what you mean.” Soheila tried to sound as sincere as possible though her own experience was very different. At home, Soheila often left the family sitting room to do things on her own. Frequently, she found the conversations dull or the presence of so many people hectic. She was not alone in this practice. Her sisters-in-law also used the evenings as an opportunity to leave the children with their fathers and discreetly retire to their own rooms to be alone.

  Sometimes the women would visit each other and look through the most recent issues of Rahnema-e Zendagi, which Soheila had ordered from the printing house in Tehran by post, paying fifteen rials for the year’s subscription. They pored over the illustrated magazine. Soheila was partial to the supplements that contained gripping love stories written by H.M. Hamid. She’d learned that this was a pen name for Hosayn-Qoli Mosta’an, who had also translated Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables and renamed it Binavayan a decade earlier to rave reviews. Soheila had read Binavayan and marvelled at Cosette’s plight, but she wept and hurled insults when she read the serialized stories of honest wives who lost their naive husbands to vamps, or sad young girls who fell in love with have-not men and faced the wrath of their disgruntled parents. These love stories she kept for herself to reread and the magazines she gave to her sisters-in-law.

  The magazines eventually ended up in the hands of the children, who fought for turns to complete the two pages of children’s games. They chased each other about the courtyard, with the tallest child, Yousef, holding the magazine high in the air to retain possession. If Pejvak or Arash, one of the smaller children, did get hold of a copy, they would stuff the issue into their pants and curl up tightly until the other children lost interest and walked away. Sometimes the older children, who had learned to read, would show kindness to the younger ones by reading aloud the column called Besnow-o-bavar nakon, which disproved superstitious beliefs with funny phrases that left the children howling with laughter.

  Soheila did not offer the magazines to Batoul and Maman because she knew they were illiterate. She had never asked Batoul if she could read but she assumed it from how Batoul conducted herself. Soheila could not remember what it was like not to be able to read. Mosein had taught her in the first month of their marriage, when she was sixteen years old. He knew that they would be leaving Soheila’s village to move to his mother’s home in Shiraz, and he wanted her to be ready for city life. He worried that she would not be able to get along in a busy city without the ability to read. Soheila imagined that she could get along just about anywhere, but she was glad to have the opportunity to learn how to read so she did not bother correcting Mosein.

  She studied with him in the evenings, learning the alphabet and short words, and during the day when Mosein was at work she practised alone. Her penmanship was still childish in its exaggerated size and hard angles though it did not deter her from being proud of her script. She assumed it would improve over time. Besides, she was most proud of the breadth of literature she had consumed in ten years, which seemed to be more than most people read in a lifetime. Her family bedroom was filled with every book she had ever read, even the ones she did not enjoy. Amassed, they were a physical representation of her wealth of knowledge and served as proof of her personal experience alongside and distinct from her role as a wife and mother. When she looked at those books, stacked five or six high along the far wall, she felt content to begin the day even on days that started with her three children being irritable and complaining.

  Soheila understood that Batoul’s life was confined to her family and her home, by choice. Batoul preferred to be at home, attending to the needs of her family and the household. She seemed unsettled elsewhere, except at the bazaar. Soheila felt that Batoul’s discontent was inevitable. If Batoul doesn’t want to bother with the world outside, she is going to be upset when the world outside ends up inside, Soheila thought.

  Soheila’s initial desire was to tell Batoul to be reasonable, accept things as they are, and keep her discontent in perspective. Yet, she knew enough about friendships with other mothers to keep her opinions to herself. Her friendship with Batoul was limited to distinct domains. Years earlier, Soheila intuited that Batoul considered her to be a work-shy mother whose advice was unsuitable for Batoul’s children. When she first realized that Batoul considered her an absent mother who did not take her responsibilities seriously, Soheila was angry and wounded. She considered broaching the topic and demanding recognition for her diligent parenting. Instead, she decided to use Batoul’s misconceptions to her advantage.

  By the birth of her third child, Soheila had grown weary of conversations with other mothers in Shiraz. These conversations centred exclusively on children: what the children did for the first time, what they struggled with, and what they ate or said or did that day. This is not what Soheila remembered of the jubilant conversations of her mother and aunts. Her impression of the older generation was that they enjoyed themselves more. It was not uncommon for her aunts to sing and dance spontaneously and to make lewd jokes and tease each other. Among the neighbourhood women in Shiraz, Soheila felt stifled by the constant reporting and analysis of children. When she realized that Batoul did not discuss childrearing because she believed Soheila had nothing useful to contribute, Soheila decided to give herself the gift of being free from those conversations. Instead, Soheila grew increasingly playful and Batoul allowed herself to be amused, imagining herself as a benevolent older sister. In this way, Soheila knew Batoul better than Batoul knew Soheila.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Soheila started with a kindly smile.

  “It’s okay,” Batoul interrupted her, dismissing the topic. She leaned forward and out from under Soheila’s arm, which was resting around her shoulders, and poured out two fresh glasses of tea. “I’ll sort it out.” Batoul’s tone was resolute. “Beya, here, take a fresh glass.”

  Soheila was at once saddened and relieved to reach the end of that conversation. She wanted to help Batoul, even if only through expressions of sympathy. Yet, it was clear that Batoul did not want sympathy or practical help with her dilemma. Batoul wanted to be free of it.

  ***

  It was 1945 when Batoul confronted Ali about his effect on their daughters. He was in their family bedroom disrobing of his work clothes when Batoul stepped in and closed the door behind her. She was livid and barely able to contain her outrage, and she didn’t want anyone else to hear her. She had never yelled at Ali before because she thought it unwomanly and crude to raise your voice. Yet, in that moment, she wanted to scream at him, to strike him, to crush his ego and break his will in the hopes he would stop causing her grief.

  Ali turned to see Batoul’s narrowed eyes, her clenched jaw, and the torn-up book she held, partly crushed in her fist. She threw the book at his feet and loose pages scattered across the floor in a trail between the two of them.

  “This is your doing!” Batoul accused him and pointed to the scattered pages. “Akram and Azadeh are supposed to be home learning how to be good wives. Instead, they are wasting their time on this. Only god knows the nonsense they are filling their heads with.”

  Even at a respectable volume, Batoul felt ashamed of berating her husband — but not ashamed enough to stop. Batoul was tired of protecting her girls against the harms of the outside world. She did not want their futures jeopardized when they were just a couple of years from marrying age. Batoul had hoped th
at once the girls finished their ninth and last year of middle school, they could return to focusing on their household skills. She had planned to teach them how to make vinegar, how to sew mattresses, how to take care of a deep cut, and so much else that was essential to running a home. A year had passed since Akram and Azadeh had both graduated. Still, they were naive about how to manage a house and they asked the most hopeless questions.

  One afternoon during a tailoring lesson in the sitting room, sixteen-year-old Azadeh looked up from her stitching at her mother, and said, “Maman-jaan, mother dear?”

  Batoul had postponed her routine trip to the vegetable stand in order to teach the girls how to make a simple long-sleeved cotton shirt. She had explained the process, assisted with measuring and cutting the fabric, and instructed them on sewing by hand. Batoul felt overwhelmed with the amount of direction and assistance her nearly grown daughters needed to perform a task that she herself had done independently as a child. Irritated, Batoul paced behind the young women and chewed on her upper lip.

  “Azadeh, you are already behind. Concentrate on your stitching. See here, your stitch is too big. It is supposed to be invisible.” Batoul bent over her daughter to point out the offending stitch.

  Azadeh looked defeated and turned back to her stitching. She focused on making smaller stitches and was having some success but found herself needing to speak again. “Maman?” Azadeh did not lift her eyes off her stitching this time, in the hopes that her mother would allow her to speak while she worked.

  “Chi-ast? What is it?” Batoul stopped pacing along the wall and shook her head visibly in disapproval of Azadeh’s chatter.

  “I was wondering,” Azadeh spoke into her lap, “how much this shirt costs if we add up the price of the materials and my labour, and whether it is more cost-effective to …”

  “Bas-e! Enough!” Batoul interrupted her with a stern tone.

  Both Akram and Azadeh hunched over their laps and concentrated on their work as if the shirts were the most interesting novels they had ever read.

  Remembering this incident and many others like it, Batoul clenched and unclenched her fists, then resumed glaring at Ali. Silently, he finished dressing. First donning his ironed slacks, he then buttoned his long-sleeved, white collared shirt, and lastly tucked in the shirt for a respectable appearance. He was nearing middle age but he had the body of a younger man, with taunt muscles, a full head of dark curly hair, and an absence of wrinkles around his eyes. He was not a vain man and did not seek compliments, though he made sure to appear dignified whether he was laying bricks or attending prayers. This he had learned from his father.

  Ali picked up the loose page that was closest to him. He scanned the lines of text, and smiled. Then, he picked up the book and scanned the front cover. It was illustrated with a simple silhouette that depicted an unhappy man and a distant woman. He realized that this picture alone would provoke Batoul, and he understood her fear as a parent.

  “Batoul, this is a book of poetry, Ashk-e ma shuq. It’s by Hamidi Shirazi. It’s famous. Young people buy his books.” Ali tried to be as calm and kind as he could. He did not expect Batoul to be glad but he hoped she would simply walk out.

  “Poetry! They are supposed to be learning how to run a house. Instead they are holing themselves in the bedroom reading poetry.”

  “Batoul, I don’t know what you want me to say.” Ali shrugged his shoulders and indicated ambivalence. He looked at the scattered papers and then his wife, who stood in front of the closed door and in the way of his exit.

  Batoul was enraged. She felt she was the only person taking responsibility for their daughters’ upbringing. She refused to be implicated in their ruin simply because of her role as their mother. If Ali permits this behaviour, then he is responsible for the consequences, she thought. “I am finished trying to rear them. They are yours to deal with.” She grimaced, and in a display of disgust she threw up her hands to indicate her resignation.

  Batoul left the room quietly, not bothering to close the door behind her. Ali let his shoulders lower. His muscles had contracted for the duration of the argument. Steps away from the door, he saw Akram and Azadeh sheepishly looking into the bedroom. Their shared demeanour reflected sadness and shame. Ali waved them into the room with a sad smile. They dragged their feet in and stood side by side to stare at the strewn pages of their beloved book of love poems. Akram bit her trembling lower lip. Azadeh bent down to pick up and smooth out the crumpled pages.

  “We will never be good enough for her,” Akram said through her tears as she wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand.

  “I don’t want to be good enough for her,” Azadeh spoke defiantly to Akram from her crouched place among the pages.

  “Your mother wants your happiness,” Ali responded kindly and placed one hand on each girl’s crown. “You will learn that in time.”

  ***

  In January 1948, both Akram and Azadeh married. The weeks leading up to the weddings were a cycle of opposite emotions for the sisters. Each day included at least one session of nostalgia and tears when they anticipated living apart and one session of speculation and giggles as they planned their new lives. After a week of being concerned about the pair of sisters crying intermittently, the family became accustomed to it and returned to their affairs.

  Ali watched his daughters from a distance during the last weeks. He was overcome with the bittersweet feelings of satisfaction to have found suitable matches and melancholy for their imminent departure. He had been searching discreetly for husbands for two years among the established families of Shiraz. For luck, Ali waited until the seventh day of the month to begin the khastegari, marriage process. Ali spread word of his daughters’ marriageability. He received notice from five families and arranged for their brief visits over the course of two weeks. The young men and their accompanying relatives stayed for short visits in the formal sitting room to exchange pleasantries with Batoul and Ali.

  After the first set of visits, Akram and Azadeh, who had glanced at the young men and eavesdropped on the conversations from doors slightly ajar, consulted with their father and indicated their preferences. Ali invited back the young men that his daughters preferred, and both the young men agreed to return for the second part of the khastegari. Akram and Azadeh embraced and squealed with delight to know that their interest was reciprocated.

  Ali, Batoul, Maman and Baba placed themselves on one end of the formal sitting room and made pleasant conversations with each young man and his parents. In turn, each young man sat awkwardly among the elders, eager to meet his potential bride and too anxious to make conversation. Instead, he alternated between staring at his hands and smiling compliantly when his name was spoken or his talents described.

  Batoul was the most anxious participant of them all. She appreciated the detailed descriptions of the suitors. It was the free-flowing small talk that she found unbearable. Unable to contribute naturally to the chitchat, she interjected with descriptions of each daughter’s strengths. The strengths she chose to mention were unusually related to household tasks, such as Akram’s ability to make perfectly steamed rice, or Azadeh’s talent for getting out stains. Batoul was surprised that these talents did not yield greater admiration, since it had taken years for the girls to master these skills.

  When these comments stalled the repartee, Ali would mention his daughters’ more worldly skills, such as Akram’s bookkeeping abilities and Azadeh’s recitation of Hafez at a commemorative ceremony. Batoul noticed the positive effect of Ali’s contributions on their guests. She felt at a loss to understand how prudent skills garnered little attention given that a human’s basic needs remained the same.

  In the kitchen, Akram and Azadeh prepared serving dishes of nuts, dried fruits, and cookies, and they waited excitedly for their entrance. Once called for, each quickly inspected the other. Their hijabs and dresses were a display of vibrant colours,
newly purchased at the bazaar. It was an exciting change from the plain clothes Batoul produced from large swaths of inexpensive brown cotton.

  Batoul felt proud of her daughters when each entered to serve tea and pastries expertly to the guests. In turn, Akram and Azadeh worked slowly and efficiently, with the humble smile of a good hostess. Each young woman’s slow and intentional movements allowed her the opportunity to see her suitor and be seen by him.

  As soon as Azadeh set eyes on Homayoun, she knew she wanted to marry him. He was beautiful, with long lashes, thick eyebrows, clear skin, and dimples. Homayoun was not an ambitious young man. He had been working in his father’s textile shop for five years and planned to take ownership when his father retired. Homayoun’s parents were also not particularly ambitious. They sought a young woman who would be a good mother but also helpful in the business. Azadeh, who was aesthetically motivated, imagined spending years gazing at Homayoun’s handsome features; satisfied, she was ready to pack her trunk.

  In her idealistic way, Akram had considered her priorities and decided that above all else, including beauty and prestige, she wanted harmony with her partner, to be cut from the same cloth. She selected Kareem because she sensed that they would make a good team. During their brief time alone in the sitting room, at the end of the second visit of their khastegari, Akram asked Kareem about the books he liked to read and how many children he wanted. Kareem listed a few of his favourite authors and Akram shared her own favourites. They became sidetracked on an excited conversation about the recent bill introduced in parliament to allocate funds and staff to complete the last volumes of Dehkhoda’s Dictionary. This was enough for Akram. She was in love, emotionally and intellectually.

  During the series of engagement ceremonies, Batoul was in the third trimester of her pregnancy with Mojegan and she was perpetually fatigued and nauseated. She attended the various ceremonies as a spectator, sitting on a comfortable cushion and accompanied by Maman, who brought cool cloths and compassionate smiles. In Batoul’s place, Ali’s sister Rhoya and her cousins prepared the house and the two brides.