The announcement from the speaker startled Shahin: “Accompanying Maryam Moradi…” Her trembling fingers struggled to intertwine. The doctor approached with a forced smile at the corner of his mouth and said, “You know, Mrs. Moradi, we need to take the spinal fluid and…” Shahin’s pupils dilated, her breath fighting to escape her chest. She slapped her own face and exclaimed, “No, Doctor! I won’t allow it. You want to take my child’s spinal fluid, paralyze her?”
Her fingers now shook more freely. She adjusted her scarf rapidly, pacing back and forth in the hospital corridor. Sometimes, she talked to herself or to the sky, sometimes she hit the back of her hand or wiped her face, murmuring, “My face has turned black.” To anyone who glanced her way, she asked, “Did you see? My face has turned black.” The doctor, hesitating, stood by. But he could no longer bear to see her distress. Carefully, he stepped forward and called out, “Mother! Listen, my dear. Unfortunately, even if we don’t take your daughter’s spinal fluid, she will become paralyzed. To ensure her treatment and to better address her condition, it must be done. Otherwise…”
Shahin screamed, “Otherwise what?” The diagnosis of meningitis hit Shahin like a hammer, realizing it would soon transform her lively and beautiful daughter into an almost motionless beauty.
Her hands, strong and restless, fell on her head and face as her screams brought even the hospital security to the scene. She found an unusual strength, easily pushing aside the burly security guard. She screamed the pain with all her being, and eventually fainted. The sound of stirring sugar water that the supervisor* had prepared didn’t allow her eyelids to close again. The next gulp she swallowed revived her. As soon as she realized where she was, she pushed the supervisor’s hand away and, repeatedly saying “Leave me alone,” tightened her scarf soaked with sweat and tears. Wearing flip-flops, she ran towards the emergency ward and told the doctor, “My child. Give me my child. I don’t want you to paralyze her.”
She grabbed the doctor’s collar and asked, “Would you do the same if it was your own child?” and the area was filled with her sobbing.
Some hours later, Shahin was gently searching the frail body of Maryam. It seemed she wanted to draw out the pain from her eight-month-old daughter’s body and inject it into herself. As she often did when she cooed over her, she playfully said, “Who? Who hurt my baby so I can kill them? No. Mother’s here, don’t cry, my love.” Then she ran her hands through Maryam’s curly hair and wept face to face. The pain’s kohl in her daughter’s eyes turned Shahin’s world upside down. The drops of serum mixed with Shahin’s tears, both allying; one reviving the child, and the other as if seizing the mother’s life.
After two weeks, Shahin returned home with a different Maryam. A home that accelerated the pace of her steps with a bit of sympathy.
As the skirt of the sun withdrew from the autumn-touched courtyard, it lifted the wick of the lamp warmer and warmed its cold gem on it. Signs of Gholam’s arrival with the ready flask of tea and the clinking of glasses were complete. The sound of the doorbell ringing quickened Negin’s heart in her throat, and her anxious black eyes darted around. Hastily, she ran towards the door, her trembling greeting being the first and almost last words exchanged between her and her father. Negin brushed aside a few stray strands of hair from Maryam’s face, kissed her forehead, and with a finger on her nose, made her aware of the imminent suffocation. As usual, her mother then prompted Negin to return to her studies.
The grill glowing with a few half-orange coals under Shahin’s gaze promised a brief comfort. The creaking sound of the furnace grew louder, Negin took a deep breath, finding a few moments to play with the whole hand of Maryam, play imaginary bread-baking games, or sing the nursery rhyme “Atal Matal Tootooleh” and trying not to say “put your foot out” where ten years had passed for Maryam.
The phrase “So, Grandma Kareem! What’s the news?” by Gholam, briefly invited calmness to the home. Gholam’s frown unfurled, pouring tea for Shahin and starting
to narrate. As if the ominous shadow of darkness was lifting from their lives. The noise of the children rose like swallows chasing each other unrestrainedly and joyfully, with the only difference that the spring of the two sisters, shorter than the swallows’, was ending.
Playing with a sister who had been suffering from meningitis* for ten years made nine-year-old Negin more experienced than her peers. She lived the signs well. She knew which scream was from the joy of play and which was from exhaustion. A plastic cup thrown on the ground meant thirst, and frowning and turning away meant bedtime was near. What times hunger or being wet bothered her. The dos and don’ts were reviewed daily for her. If her father was at home until the next cleaning of Maryam, they were not allowed to give him tea lest she wet herself again and spill extra water. For Negin herself, the rules didn’t differ much. She knew well when to laugh and cackle, and when to have a composed decorum, to be quiet and focused on homework, or else, to dance joyfully and be herself. The household atmosphere was a significant reason for Negin to love school more than other children, and school tasks didn’t furrow her brows. She went to school earlier than usual and left later than everyone else. When Gholam went on a few days trip, the world showed its kind face to them. The zest for life ran through the veins of the home, and Negin saw the colors of cousin boys and girls… During this brief opportunity, she could go to her elder sister’s or brothers’ homes and experience a peaceful sleep. She wished she was one of their nieces or nephews. The sound of grandchildren playing with Negin and Maryam was sweeter to Shahin’s ears than any other sound. The air was enough to breathe. Staying Gholam forever, the bus breaking down, even death, were fruitless prayers that Negin asked from God. She thought to herself why her mother had to marry such a man and wasn’t there anyone to tell her that he was bad-tempered and wicked?
In Gholam’s absence, Shahin calmly gave tea to Maryam. She entertained the children. Sometimes a cassette on the recorder completed their happiness, and Maryam’s half-done dance, which was nothing but nodding her head and one hand, did not diminish her beauty in Shahin’s eyes.
Negin guessing from the fact that dad didn’t like Maryam because he always referred to her as “this,” was strengthened by an inadvertent night overhearing of her father’s words:
“How many times have I said to take her to welfare? We haven’t had enough misfortunes, a hunch upon a hunch. This venom has also become expensive. If they find a penny in your pocket, you have to drink cool water for a few years.”
Shahin, who in these cases found silence the best option, only poured tea. Gholam took a deeper puff from the furnace and continued:
“If you had taken her ten years ago, we would have been comfortable. It’s not too late now. One less mouth to feed, better. By God, I’m happy I have two sons. I have sons-in-law. What’s the use? Each of them is after their own life.”
Shahin, with courage derived from enduring Gholam and a deep trembling voice trying to hide her accompanying lump, said: “Man! Every time you bring up this topic, you hear an answer. As long as I live, Maryam stays with me. You don’t show a happy face to anyone to come to you. They have a thousand problems. How much does labor for your sons have that they can help you too? You didn’t pursue your work either. The revolution happened. What did they have to do with you? You were an architect at the company. Even if you were the architect of the king’s palace, they wouldn’t deal with you. You fell for friends and companions. At least then your hand was tied to somewhere.”
Shahin was right. Gholam’s happiness was a few pieces of land he had previously. As Shahin, according to habit, collected imaginary garbage on the carpet with her hand, she continued: “You also burned those lands under them, sold them for nothing. Are you happy with the tomatoes, eggplants that you plant and sell to a few doors and neighbors? How much profit does it have for you?”
Gholam’s angry look reminded her that the time of protest was over. He blew cigarette smoke towards Shahin’s face and wanted to continue his speech. The special creaking sound of Mr. Khalil, Gholam’s friend, prevented it.
: “Wow! Our own Gholam.”
And as he showed the bottle in his hand, he said, “I brought the damn thing, let’s get lit.”
Gholam also patted Khalil
’s shoulder and pushed him towards the cluttered room.
As their laughter turned into weak laughs, Negin’s eyes that had been peeping under the blanket for a long time warmed up and Gholam’s half-face disappeared in the cigarette smoke.
Shahin also busied herself with the tasks she always did, perhaps to place her sorrows among them. Everyone knew her for her cleverness and cleanliness. Unaware that she grinded her sorrows every day. She fiddled with the crimes around the stove and the handles of frying pans and pots. She arranged the beds. She folded the clothes several times. Hoping that she could scatter her life like them and rebuild it from scratch. In the mirror, she saw her forty-year-old self, which showed a hopeless old woman, as if the twenty-five years of forced life with Gholam was short.
The days when Gholam had kicked the doorstep of their house were well remembered. Her mother constantly talked about Gholam’s good manners, which had become the talk of the neighborhood: “Look, Shahin. Although they’re not from this city. But mother, in these two years, all the locals talk about his cleverness and good manners and how he deals with people. They say when he gets busy with work, nothing can stop him. What else do you want, better than this? God bless. He also has a good stature and height as a son.”
The first time Shahin talked about Gholam’s beatings and addiction with her mother, she heard nothing but this sentence: “Mother dear! Fighting is the salt of life. Husband and wife fight, fools believe. His job is hard, mother. He will gradually put it aside. Let’s have children. From the joy of the child, he won’t hit anymore. I don’t bring it up.”
Shahin’s beatings were repeated so much that in addition to fools, any wise person would believe that Gholam was not a good husband, or maybe not even a human. Except for Shahin’s mother, who was infatuated with Gholam’s seemingly good manners and smooth talk. Every time Shahin intended to separate and talked to her mother, she reminded her of the serious law of that time: going to her husband’s house in white clothes and returning in a white shroud. In the last ten years, even in imagination, the pitiful look of Maryam kept her from doing this. Negin washed the dishes well, and no one realized that she had well stepped in her mother’s shoes and was performing her practical duty. Occasionally, she witnessed her mother being beaten, but she could do nothing. She had to know that where the swamp rules, the rebellion of a drop means nothing. The house had become fragmented. The pieces of the puzzle of life didn’t fit for her. (A kind and cheerful mother who invited her kindly. An angry and grumpy father, a teacher of pessimism and distrust.) But like a broken tree happy with its roots, the mother and Maryam, she lived.
A few months passed. The bowls that rhythmically got together under the roof on rainy nights made Negin understand poverty. Even the chickens and roosters in the corner of the yard entertained her less. Because from inside their wire nest, she saw and heard the quarrels of father and mother. Negin firmly held her ears with her hands to hear fewer of the curses that followed. “You woman…”
And the arguments ended with the tears and curses of the woman. It was both the nest of the chickens and roosters and Negin’s refuge.
When she heard the neighbor man calling his daughter “my dear” or “honey dad,” she wished she was the daughter of that house tomorrow. Some nights, she also thought to herself, why God, who has great power, does not eliminate Gholam, and thousands of “if” and “I wish” she cultivated for herself in the field of her mind. But these plantings apparently were not supposed to ever bear fruit.
Gholam’s complaints and grumblings increased. The ax of his words hit whatever was at hand. His look became angrier and more frightening than before. Fear and insecurity spent more time in their home. At nights, the drunk father gathered his drunker friends around him and considered a few hours of carelessness as a solution and remedy. Fewer black plastics were brought home for Negin or mother to hand over to Gholam. And these caused Gholam to say things that night that made Negin’s throat dry.
: “It can’t be useless. How do I make up for this venom’s expense? It has to be useful, right? It’s easy, put her old clothes on her. You also wear a chador over your face. It’s not our neighborhood. I’ll take and bring you with the motorcycle. People feel more pity for sick children. How many times have I said what is this you’ve kept?
A person doesn’t feel like looking at her when eating, let alone wanting to eat. Her drool just pours out like that. Not to mention eating. You’re the only one who understands her screams. How long do you want to put your life down for this piece of flesh? Oh God! I’d sacrifice for your generosity.”
The dark clouds of Negin’s sky were not going anywhere, and she had no choice but to shape-play with them. She was short of breath and afraid to breathe deeper. Negin’s worried eyes from under the blanket were peering outside. She couldn’t control the trembling of her face. Her breaths had become rapid, and she wanted to scream and say: “Inconsiderate dad! This is my sister. However she is, I love her. Let her drool, wet herself, scream. I love her. I love her…”
And the blanket over Negin was obviously shaking. Gholam glanced at the blanket and said, “Get up, kid. Go to the bathroom. One day less for your mattress to go up the roof.”
But tomorrow, like most tomorrows, Negin’s mattress was again on the roof.
Shahin’s tears didn’t last, and were barely wiped with the corner of the scarf. Involuntarily, she was drawn back eleven years, when she was pregnant with Maryam. Her mother, while stirring the sugar water briskly, said, “It’s good. You and Gholam have definitely given another bouquet of water.” With a mischievous look, she nudged Shahin’s shoulder and said, “No my dear, it’s not from tiredness. I didn’t whiten these hairs in the mill. How long have you postponed?”
Shahin, who had lowered her head, said, “Three weeks.”
“Good for your health. Now, be careful. Don’t lift heavy things. Don’t eat hot foods.” Shahin’s hand instinctively touched her stomach, and she thought to herself that perhaps fortune would favor this one to grow up without Gholam. She sighed and remembered that she had wished the same during her previous three pregnancies. This wish gave her strength to straighten her back between scrubbings and to nest a heavenly smile on her lips. The remnants of the smile were still on her lips when Gholam’s spoon strike again plunged her into the well of her words.
: “Where are you, woman? Did you hear or did you turn yourself to Ali’s alley? Be ready by dusk tomorrow.”
Shahin pondered the meaning of the word ‘woman’. For Gholam, a woman meant a vessel for lust, anytime he desired. Cooking, working, bearing children, and dying without a word.
: “I’m with you, woman! Unless…”
The other words in Shahin’s ears were like the humming of honey bees. Her eyes remained fixed on Gholam’s face as if the words had frozen in her mouth.
She could only cast a meaningful look at him and go about the tasks she always carved out for herself during times of sorrow.
Days passed in her mind flawlessly, recalling the times when she delighted in Maryam’s teething, but Gholam furrowed his bushy eyebrows and said, “Honestly, what’s this that should make my teeth come out.” Or the times when Maryam soiled herself and upon arriving, he would spitefully say, “At least wash her in the garden so it can be manure for the trees.”
The dagger of his words sharpened each day, and the hatred was evident from the teeth he ground together.
The thunder of Gholam’s voice shook the clouds of her thoughts.
: “Get up. Get up. No need to sour up. Just as I said, be ready by dusk tomorrow…”
Ultimately, the teapot became a companion and an analgesic for her mental and physical fatigue. But no, this time even tea could not soothe her. The tears she tried to hide made her eyes glisten. She felt an odd pain in her throat. On the other hand, she had no choice. If she did not agree, the beatings would intensify, and perhaps Gholam’s hand, which for ten years had not been raised on Maryam, would be raised.
In her imagination, she took an old mat, hoping at least it would be softer under Maryam’s feet.
The sounds of passersby stopping and their annoying tsk-tsk were not the only things that troubled Shahin; whispered propositions poured cold sweat on her body and made her despise her own womanhood, perhaps also despising calling those men-like figures.
She visualized Gholam’s face counting the money at the end of the night and saying with a sinister laugh: “Your business wasn’t bad.”
She imagined how the business had severely thinned Maryam and dimmed the sparkle in her eyes.
Shahin’s protests were futile. Worse still, she couldn’t confide in anyone because, in the eyes of others, Gholam was the kindest and most polite man, and as far as the family was concerned,…
But tomorrow was another day. Shahin broke all constraints. Standing upright with a voice that trembled not from fear but from dignity, she said, “Unless you step over my dead body. Am I to take my child begging?”
The flames of Gholam’s rage flared. The first slap that fell on Shahin’s face prompted Negin to touch her own face on the same side. Gholam’s elbow struck Shahin’s side, and a searing pain twisted in Negin’s side and throat. She saw a blurred image of Gholam’s hand rising and falling, and handfuls of her mother’s hair or torn pieces of her clothing emptying Negin’s heart. Finally, nausea kept her from witnessing the rest of the scene. The next day, Shahin walked more calmly than ever. She sipped her tea with trembling hands, the darkness under her eyes larger than ever. Her voice hoarse from screaming, the corner of her lip clotted with blood. But seeing her reflection in the mirror she said, “It’s worth it. I’d die before I let…” As if even she couldn’t bear to see her own tears.
At night, the demon of darkness reached up to Negin’s face, and Negin, who had held her breath in her chest, was frightened, and the consequences of this fear spread on the wall to dry.
In Negin’s imagination, she gave her mother indescribable courage and pulled her firmly in front of her father, saying, “Enough, man! How much oppression will you do? Now,
there’s no place for you in this house.”
And with a gesture, she showed him the door, and Gholam, sad, gathered his things and left for good. Joy breathed into the home. Negin held her mother’s hand and spun around in happiness. Maryam’s excitement soared higher than any bird could fly. At night, instead of putting the children to sleep earlier, the mother sat with them, recounting sweet childhood memories or telling stories with happy endings. The lamp wick burned differently. The coming and going of family became more frequent and apparent. Negin reluctantly left home for school and rushed home as the last bell rang. She smothered Maryam with kisses. She took out the hidden toys and played carefree. In the mornings, she smiled at the sun and her head wasn’t bowed in shame from bedwetting anymore.
The voice of Gholam rising higher tore through the fabric of Negin’s imaginary cloud.
Even the sun shone listlessly, well aware that darkness penetrated better in this house.
Gholam came forward triumphantly, interlaced his fingers, and the crackling sound, this time, did not shake Shahin’s body. He narrowed his eyes and stroked his rough mustache and said, “Well, what’s the news, woman…”
Before Shahin could say “no,” she again received her share of beatings, but they lasted longer than usual. Gholam didn’t know that Shahin’s courage had grown as tall as him, which led her to pick up the hoe next to the garden and gather all her years of pent-up anger to strike Gholam’s head hard. For a few minutes, she was stunned by what she had done, standing there petrified. Suddenly, she came to her senses, fearfully reached over him. No matter how much she shook him, there was no response. Again, she dragged him to the hallway of the same hospital. With the difference that she wanted them to call her and say, “Unfortunately, we did our best, but…”
And Shahin tried to hide her eagerness to hear the rest of the sentence.
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