The Shipwrecked (11 page)

After sunset, when the usual noise of the cell block would die down somewhat, a flock of rooks would set off crowing. As if on cue, the boy would start singing, loud enough to come across the prison wall. His undulating voice sounded familiar and appealing. I was a girl in solitary confinement, and he was most likely, an awkward shy boy, working in the auto body shop next to the prison. He had an Azary
¹
accent and his musical voice kept beat with the rhythm of his steps crunching on the sandy floor of the workshop. I cherished the sound. I would pace my cell
in rapid steps, circling around in ecstasy to the point of feeling dizzy and nauseous. The sound had come to mean the world to me. Like a frog lunging at every gnat buzzing in the air, I would listen intently for every decibel of sound coming through the wall.

       
—What are you dragging your feet for? The tea is brewed. Don't you see?

       
—What?

       
—What do you mean what? Pour two cups for me and the gentleman.

I could hear his hurrying footsteps on the floor. I could imagine him sitting on a bench or leaning against the wall waiting for orders. I could hear him coughing, and snatches of his conversation with others in the shop. Sometimes a smell not unlike a whiff of burned grass would drift into the cell, suggesting some cheap tea being brewed on the other side of the wall. Then there were unsteady footfalls as of a drunk shuffling, followed by the boy chuckling, then his peals of laughter. The sounds reached my ears as if echoed from the surrounding hills. I would smile involuntarily despite the listlessness and clenched teeth set off by the cold prison cell and the morning chill that suppressed any appetite for breakfast. I just listened for the crunching sound of the boy's footfall as I squatted in a corner of the cell hugging my knees and staring at the graffiti scribbled on the cell wall. I tried to imagine the boy entertaining
himself, trying to hit a tin can or something like that with pebbles.

It was early one morning when they brought me here. The wind felt refreshing, and wrapped our chadors around our bodies. We had left the general ward blindfolded under guard. We were walking over hilly terrain. My toes were wet, picking up the moisture from the dewy grass.

“Rest a while,” said the guard. “We've got a long way to go.”

We were lined up close together, like peas in a pod. I could feel the guard standing next to me, and felt naked under his gaze. Intentionally, he blew his cigarette smoke in my face. “Let's get going,” he said, as he stamped on his cigarette butt. “Lots of snakes here. Watch your steps.” He chuckled. The air was redolent with the smell of grass crushed under our feet. From under the blindfold I could see the clay soil of the hills and small houses along the foothills with their rusted metal roofs reflecting the sun, which gave us a clue that the guard was marching us back and forth in front of those houses. We started grumbling. “All right. All right,” he yelled. “Stop talking.”

We then passed a low stone wall and entered an enclosure through a barbed-wire gate. We stopped when the guard ordered “Halt!” Some water squirted on my chador when I stepped on a loose brick.

“Here's a dozen beauties for you, Sister,” the guard said teasingly to the female prison warden. We climbed up some stone steps.

       
—Did you just hire him?

       
—Forget about it.

       
—You son-of-a-bitch. Where do you find these good-looking kids, for god's sake?

       
—You're being a pest, you know? Your total for body work and paint is seventy tomans.

       
—Remember who you're talking to. I am flat broke until the end of the month.

The high-pitched voice of a woman rang in the fetid air of the big, half-empty hall, “Don't touch your blindfolds.”

The smell of rotting tea leaves and kerosene made my stomach turn. I felt a sour taste in my mouth. I fought off an attack of diarrhea the best I could. I knew there wouldn't be a chance for a bath anytime soon.

The same female voice echoed in the hall again, this time sounding more masculine and authoritative, “Do not touch your blindfolds. Before you creep back in your holes, pay close attention to what I say.” I caught sight of big cooking pots turned upside down to dry on the cement floor.

“Three meals a day,” the woman shouted. “Morning, noon, and night. You must be ready in your cells to be taken to the washroom. There you do your business, wash your dishes, fill up your water jug, and do your ablutions.” She paused briefly, wiggling her big toes in her bright orange slippers. “On the way back to your cell,” she continued, “you pick up your meal and your tea. No foot-dragging.
No more than five minutes for anyone.” And I hear the voice behind the prison wall:

       
—Help yourself.

       
—Thanks a lot. Just leave it here. Needs a little more sandpapering, don't you think?

       
—As my brother says, tea must have a deep color. This looks like a baby's piss.

       
—Oh, come on. Don't be such a pain.

“Make no mistakes,” another female guard shouted from behind our line. She sounded as if she was chewing on something. “This is no grandma's house,” she mumbled. “You can't knock on the door every time you have a headache or a pain in the butt.” There was the sound of a metal drawer being shut forcefully. “Do you understand?” she went on. “Don't make a nuisance of yourself. If you have a serious problem, there is a piece of cardboard in your cell. Slide it under the door. Somebody will come and get you.”

There was the clanging of heavy keys passed from hand to hand. We were ushered into our cells. The musty smell of paint was overpowering. I pulled the blindfold off my face. A shaft of sunlight from the barred window of the cell illuminated the graffiti
on the wall. It occurred to me that regardless of the passage of time, I would never stop thinking about those who were here before me—imagining who they were, how they endured their time here, deciphering the words and images they left behind on these walls. I would visualize faces pale with fears, anguish, and hopes of “this too will pass,” allowing my imagination to fancy secrets woven into the designs on the wall. Once I discovered a small ball of black hair stuffed into a tiny hole drilled into a cinderblock near the door, perhaps reminiscence of a belonging, a memory long past.

       
—This is Radio Tehran. It is 9 a.m., dear listeners . . . Her image in my mind . . . Scent of flowers. . .

       
—Hey, boy. Leave that dial alone. They are all lies . . . How long . . .

I slumped on the sack of clothes, exhausted. Something or someone, was being dragged on the floor in the corridor, and there was a hubbub of conversation. Suddenly I felt a tremor under foot. I heard the sound of a corrugated metal gate, like that of a store, being raised.

Gradually, the noise level behind the wall increased, and it included sounds like metal sheets or car fenders, being hammered, water being flushed from a garden hose, and the whine of an electric drill. There were many other noises I could not identify. They all filled my head in ceaseless vibration.

I spread a blanket on the cell floor and placed the water jug and plastic cup next to it. I wondered if I would go insane, but I was relieved to feel that the ambient noise was becoming increasingly routine and easier to get used
to as a natural component of the atmosphere of my existence, a lifeline letting me share in the lives of the people beyond the walls of my cell.

Somewhere a door slammed hard, rattling the glass in the window panes. A gruff male voice interrupted the hiss of the paint sprayer.

       
—Wait and See. I have plans for him, the SOB and . . .

       
—Don't take it too hard. He just made a mistake. . .

       
—Hey, boy, bring the paint. And a rag . . .

       
—Don't go overboard. Give me a call . . .

       
—Sure enough. Fifty tomans now. The whole invoice is seventy tomans; that's fair.

       
—How generous!

       
—Tell Zaghi this: Farmoon said not to get tangled with him . . .

The sound of men laughing. Clicking of some keys, perhaps being swung around on a keychain. A car door slammed shut. The sound of tires on an unpaved road.

       
—Ouch! Ouch! My hand. . .

       
—That'll teach you. Right?

       
—[silence]

       
—Don't let me catch you again talking to any jackass. Understood?

       
—Yes, yes. But he started talking to me . . .

At sundown, before the guard, who I had nicknamed “Orange Slippers,” locked the cell door on me, she said, “You look no more than fourteen to me.”

“Fifteen,” I responded.

“What a waste!” she said as she shook her head.

I put the plate and the water jug on the floor of the cell. I heard no sounds from beyond the wall or anywhere else, except the usual night sounds accompanied with the howling of a blizzard moving into the area.

Mother had brought with her some food and considerable anxiety. “There must be a mistake,” she said emphatically. “My kid has nothing to do with politics! No way, what nonsense!”

My heart was racing, and not because of concern for the imminent physics exam at school. One of the two security agents showed Mother the warrant with my picture on it. Obviously, her pleas not to execute the warrant because I had to take an exam at school the next day would not go anywhere.

Books and papers were strewn all over the floor of the adjoining room. My botany project sat on a piece of cardboard, unfinished. I knew that my absence the next day in the biology class would not be considered excused. I had an acute awareness that it was not time for such thoughts.

Mother held my wrist firmly in one hand and with the other made gestures to the agents. “Remember, you said she'd be released tonight,” she said, as we descended the
dimly lit stairway to the door. “I will curse you if it turns out to be a lie.” From the back window of the patrol car I saw her running, mouth open, waving my gray, hooded overcoat.

There was a layer of grease congealed on the surface of the soup, and no steam rising from the teacup. The tea had a chemical taste. I looked intently at the graffiti scratched on the wall. The words did not seem to have the same meaning as they did the day before. Even my emotions had altered in intensity and pattern.

I laid my head on the clothes bag and stretched my legs. They touched the opposite wall and made me feel claustrophobic. I was startled by the sudden barking of a pack of stray dogs. I spilled what was left of the tea in the cup. I smelled the stench of the wet wool rising from the blanket. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what set of thoughts would pass through my mind in the morning.

My days began with the noise of the corrugated iron gate of the shop being opened, followed by the plaintive singing voice of the young boy. I imagined him as being lanky, with an olive complexion. His lush black hair would cascade on his forehead and swing to the rhythm of the song:
I am a bird. I wish you were my mate in a cold, dark nest
. Perhaps his Adam's apple too moved up and down and his eyes glinted in the early morning sun. Intermittently, there was the sound of the older man clicking his tongue to the beat of the music.

       
—Shall I break it? Didn't your mother teach you not to stand up to your elders?

       
—Ouch! Please, Boss. You are joking, aren't you?

       
—Done a good job with your hair.

       
—[silence]

       
—Don't be cheeky. Go get me the hammer, you punk kid.

I was getting used to monotonous sounds of sanding and hammering. I stopped scratching the wall with the handle of a spoon. On the third day Orange Slippers stopped by my cell. I felt she'd been keeping an eye on me for a while. “Why you hang your head down like a sick chicken?” she asked in an admonitory tone. I said nothing.

       
—Boss, Come and see if the dent is fixed.

       
—Give me the hammer.

       
—Here . . .

       
—Oh, for goodness' sake. Is this filler putty or a baby's shit?

Someone is playing with the radio dial, tuning in one station after another. I didn't know why the man with the gruff voice pestered the boy so much. I developed a dislike for him. But whatever he was, he was a part of life that went on behind the wall. They came in the morning and left at night. In between, they lived life's routine. I felt like an observer watching some cave-dwellers through an opening in the wall of the cavern. My own life had become immaterial to me, like a vaguely remembered dream in
which a middle-aged woman ran after a car trying to give one of the occupants a gray-hooded overcoat. This woman was not my mother. I did not have a recollection of ever having a mother. She was a figment of my imagination.