The Shipwrecked (10 page)

“I can,” I said, and then changed the subject.

Mammad left the next day. I limited my outing, as I knew Mr. Yazdani was always hovering in the background like a phantom watching my every move. I imagined myself as an assertive woman who would resolutely walk up to him, handing back the house key, silence him with a stern glare, and walk away. He would be shaken by surprise, and speechless like a mute.

Once I ran into Madame on my way back to the house.

“You are still here?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“I've just arrived,” was the only rejoinder I could think of. “Why should I want to leave?”

It occurred to me that I really did not have any other place to go.

In bed at night, I often touched my belly to feel the movement of the baby inside. Sometimes I did not immediately detect any motion. I would be overcome with fear that the fetus was dead. I held my breath until I felt some movement, softly kicking the walls of my womb, some indication of a growing, thriving life.

But that night it was not an anxiety attack I was experiencing. It was an overwhelming excitement, as if my whole body was charged with a renewed energy, a sense of liveliness filling my entire body. It was not an unknown feeling, but it took me a while to recognize the same sensation I had once experienced before.

The sea was tranquil and shimmering in the sunlight. I was lounging under a parasol painted with a sunflower design. The beach was crowded with people, some stretched on the sand, others afloat in the sea, their heads bobbing up and down in the gentle waves. I moved closer to the sea. I did not know how to swim. I sat on the warm, wet sand and stretched my legs as water caressed my naked feet. The wet sand felt warm and soft under my feet. I stretched out on my back, looking at the blue sky. Nobody seemed to notice me, as if I was a part of the scenery. I felt integrated with all around me, feeling the living presence of the sea, the thrill of being alone and forgotten, floating
between earth and sky, savoring the deep peace within. I am alone, and I am free, drifting here and there, following the whims of the wind, going wherever it chooses. I had never felt that sense of freedom, that transcendence, before. I had a sensation of being suspended in the wind, gliding over the waves like seagulls effortlessly on currents of air. I was overcome with a sense of gratitude. I was grateful to the sea, to the earth, to the sky, savoring that deep peace offered me, trilled with joy as being a part of the natural world. I had a vague, indescribable awareness of being completely free. It superseded any notions of freedom I had had before.

My heart was racing and the novelty of the experience, the overwhelming beauty of existence, brought tears to my eyes. There was something sacred about it. I promised myself never to forget the exhilaration of that moment, to let it be the guiding light of my life, to live free and never allow the darkness and sorrows of the world to drive that sense of freedom out of me.

I was not able to keep that promise. I convinced myself that the experience was due to too much sun and the sea air. But that night, in the bleak, enclosed space of the room, I felt it again. The gentle movements of the fetus in my womb imbued me with the power of being in harmony with an infinite universe. I got up and pulled the blanket over the baby sleeping in her crib. I opened the window slowly and took a deep breath of the night air, redolent with the fragrance of the jasmine. I did not know what
time it was. The lights were out and the night was quiet. Only the muffled chorus of crickets broke the silence of the night.

I saw a tiny speck of light at the far end of the yard. It was the glowing tip of a cigarette. Immediately I recognized the silhouette of a man squatting by the flower-bed holding it. It was Mr. Yazdani. I jumped back reflexively, fearing detection. But the old man was in his own world, oblivious to his surroundings. It was strange to see him silent and motionless. I closed the window and went back to bed.

A day or so later, there was a knock on the door. It was Yazdani. By now I recognized his knock. It had a certain rhythmic quality about it. It brought to my mind a picture of him standing in the hall preparing a flood of words to unleash on me when I opened the door. His confidence that I would open the door engulfed me and made me reach for the doorknob. But something stopped my hand in midair.

I did not open the door.

After a few more knocks on the door, with varying degrees of force, Yazdani gave up and left. An hour later the telephone rang. I reached for the plug and pulled it out of the socket, somehow knowing that it was Mr. Yazdani. He had called several times before. I returned to the kitchen and slumped in a chair. I did not feel like doing anything.

I don't know how long it was before I heard a knock
on the door. I was startled by it, although I had been hearing movement in the hall. I went over to the baby's room and closed the door so she wouldn't be awakened by the noise.

I stood next to the door, my heart racing. Inside me, I could feel the movement of the fetus, strengthening my determination not to open the door.

Now Mrs. Yazdani was downstairs knocking on the door. She slapped the door with the palm of her hand, calling me by name. The couple had probably seen me come in, and knew that I had not left the apartment. In the background I heard the voice of one of their sons. They were having a heated exchange among them but I could not figure out what they were saying. After a few minutes they gave up and went upstairs.

I heaved a deep sigh of relief.

It was early evening when I was transfixed by the sound of a key turning in the front-door lock. Then I saw the handle move. I rushed toward the baby's room, standing in front of it defensively. The door opened slowly and Mr. Yazdani's head with its shock of gray hair poked into the room. He glanced around and was surprised to see me. I screamed loudly, involuntarily.

By now he was inside the room with hands raised in an attempt to calm me down. A stream of words were pouring out of his mouth so fast I wasn't able to comprehend. Finally, he paused briefly. “Forgive me, please,” he said, articulating every word. “I didn't mean any harm.”

Now Mrs. Yazdani came down the stairs, shouting “What's the matter? What's the matter?”

She had her husband's striped pajama bottoms on but no chador. “What the hell?” she yelled at her husband, and rushed to embrace me.

“He made a mistake,” she said. “He meant no harm.”

The baby had been awakened by the commotion. She drifted into the living room, rubbing her eyes. Mrs. Yazdani swept her off her feet and thrust her into my arms. “Please, calm down. You're scaring the baby,” she said.

Mr. Yazdani was more intensely red in the face than ever before, his eyes sunken in their sockets. He was foaming at the mouth. “I thought something had happened to the innocent child,” he managed to say.

Mrs. Yazdani pushed him out of the room and headed for the kitchen. She came back with a glass full of sugar water and forced me to drink it. She then took my hand and pressed it to her breast. The baby had stopped crying, but kept her arms tightly around my neck. Mrs. Yazdani told me not to move as she left the room, only to return a few minutes later carrying a plate full of fresh plump apricots. She picked one, split it in halves, giving me one and the baby the other half. The intense orange hue inside the fruit indicated that it was ripe. It was from her own tree in the garden, she informed me.

“Mr. Yazdani has gotten old and senile,” she said in a sorrowful tone. “He is scared of death and does weird things. He is miserable. He is in the yard hitting himself
on the head, crying. You can go see for yourself if you don't believe me. Forgive him out of the goodness of your heart.”

She asked me not mention the incident to my husband. When I assured her I wouldn't, she got up and left.

The next day I ran into Mr. Yazdani in the hallway. It was not a chance encounter by any means; it was obvious he had been waiting for me. He looked older and more decrepit than before. With a deep bow and in a tone more stilted than ever he addressed me: “My dear daughter, I was apprehensive of the welfare of your precious little darling. I had no intention of intruding,” he began, and then proceeded to give an account of the accidental death of a relative by gas poisoning, an incident which he said was his motive to check on me. He followed the narrative by repeated pleas to forgive him, despite my own repeated assurances that I had. He held me up in the hall until his wife called him upstairs.

I think it was at that moment that I decided to move.

I am jolted by Mammad's mother calling me. We are standing in the middle of a roomful of boxes. “How can you move all this singlehandedly?” she wonders, looking around. She continues, “Some folks are not very helpful. They always come for dinners and receptions but not when they are expected to help.” I don't know who is the target of her invective.

“Not a big deal,” I say, trying to make light of the
situation. “We'll throw everything in the truck and let it go at that.”

Mr. Yazdani comes into the room, excitedly reporting the arrival of the truck, a fact of which we are already aware. To initiate the loading process, my mother-in-law tries to pick up one of the boxes. I pull her back. “It is too heavy,” I warn. “Don't even think about it.”

“Not you, either,” she says, pointing to my protruding belly.

We are milling among the boxes, trying to come up with a way of packing them into the truck.

“Hello,” I hear a voice behind me. I turn around. It is a friend of mine and her husband. For a moment I think they are apparitions. I had never asked anybody for help with moving. But they had come on their own initiative and—what is more—they had brought a few more friends with them. Mammad's mother, looking relieved, picks up the baby and moves out of the way.

Mr. Yazdani, in his usual harried and hasty manner comes into the room. “Are you sure you haven't packed the garden hose?” he wants to know. I simply point to it on the hook in the yard.

My friends roll up the carpet in the living room and hoist it up to the bed of the truck where a few of them are standing, working out a strategy to make the best use of available space. From the window I look at them. They are young men, their light-hearted banter echoing in the narrow alley.

I haven't done such a good job of packing, although I have moved several times in my life. A plastic bag overstuffed with bathroom items bursts and disgorges its contents, among them an unsightly oversized ewer, made of red plastic. For some reason, the young men find the object amusing. They all laugh heartily. I try to share in their merriment, but I can't. Somehow, I am embarrassed by the plastic baby bathtub, plastic ball, plastic soap dish strewn on the bed of the truck, as if I am defined by them. Why didn't I throw them away, leave them behind? By the same token, why don't I dispose of all those sentiments, emotions, precepts that crowd my mind? Can I ever be rid of them?

A young man is holding up the red ewer over his head for further amusement and fun. I feel a sharp pain in my back and the onset of despair. Would that ewer be suspended up there forever as an emblem of my existence? Finally, the ewer loses its entertainment value and is packed away out of sight, but I do not feel any relief from the painful bite of its symbolism.

In the meantime, Mr. Yazdani keeps going in and out of the apartment trying to be a part of the packing activities, but being more of a distraction and a nuisance. “I want to make sure you don't leave anything behind,” he tells me.

Now fully packed, the truck moves slowly out of the alley, onto the main thoroughfare. I have already said goodbye to Mrs. Yazdani. All I have to do is turn over the
key to Mr. Yazdani and get back my security deposit. I have been waiting for this moment.

He is standing by the door holding his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes against the afternoon sun. He looks flushed in the heat of the day. I move toward him with my head down looking at his belt buckle—and the belt, which is frayed by age. I hand him the key and pull the check from his fingers. I avoid eye contact, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Not that it matters anymore. “All the best, dear girl,” he mumbles.

Slowly, I walk away. I wish he were not standing there so I could look back at the house and the alley once more. I already miss Madame, the little girl from across the alley, the climbing musk roses and jasmines. I resist the urge to look back. The sun is hot and the truck has now maneuvered itself out of the alley, easing its way into the traffic. I catch a glimpse of the household goods under the tarpaulin. I pick up the baby in my arms and walk toward the taxicab. I will be at the bus terminal within the hour.

FARIBA VAFI
is a best-selling author of several novels and short story collections. Her novel,
My Bird
, was winner of the Yalda and Golshiri Literary Awards in Iran for best novel of the year in 2002, and was translated and published in English, German, and Italian. Vafi lives in Tehran.

The Burnt Sound

Behnaz Alipour Gaskari

AFTER THE FIRE
in the solitary cell block, we were moved to another location in the prison. The fire, which had started in the auto repair shop adjacent to the prison wall, rapidly spread to the cell block. Through the skylight we could see the flames raging. After many years, I can still hear women's cries for help, and screams of fear muffled by the roaring fire and billowing smoke.