The Shipwrecked (19 page)

Slowly and quietly, I walk past the reading room. The librarian is napping at the circulation desk—the price of spending the night taking on passengers to earn a little extra driving them around. I don't feel like exchanging pleasantries. With my head down, I walk past the stack room. I open the door to my office. My colleague and office-mate, holding the telephone receiver, half rises from her chair. She can't bring herself to wrap up her conversation. “A daily report of the son-in-law's actions to the mother-in-law.” This is what the librarian at the circulation desk repeats every day at around noon, when she is no longer sleepy and stops by the office behind the stack room. I run my fingertip on the corner of the desk to check for dust. My colleague and office-mate smirks and shrugs. The tissue box is empty. I close the desk drawer and wipe my finger on the corner of my headscarf. I go through the books piled up on my desk. My colleague and office-mate covers the receiver's mouthpiece and whispers, “You came back before the end of your leave?” I nod and smile—the
usual smiling mask of the morning. The janitor walks in with a dust cloth. She is still wearing black . . . but these days black is no longer a sign of being in mourning. I open the small window behind me and turn my chair around so that I face the shaded lawn. The janitor asks about my Youssef. What can I say about her Ismael? My colleague and office-mate hangs up the telephone. When she's done with her pleasantries with me, she tells the janitor, “You didn't show up yesterday. There's dust everywhere!” In a choked up voice the janitor replies, “I went to the cemetery.” My colleague and office-mate picks up a book and walks out. I doubt my memory. I ask, “Did they turn him over to you?” The deformed fingers rub the dust cloth aggressively over the desk. “You know what his father is like,” she says. “Even if they turned Ismael over and he buried him, he wouldn't allow me . . .” The tired hand stops moving. I point to the stool in front of the cabinet. She sits down and leans her head against the edge of the cabinet. I turn away. Doesn't the shade fall on this corner of the lawn? My colleague and office-mate returns. I hear the squeaking of her chair. She turns on her transistor radio. She can't forgo listening to the Home and Family program. Of the economics courses she took during her undergraduate studies, she claims to only remember Charles Fourier's theory of work: jobs should be assigned based on the worker's interests. A crow is wandering around in the middle of the lawn. I turn my chair. The janitor solemnly
gets up and resumes her work. The host of the radio program is interviewing the mother of a martyr. My colleague and office-mate turns up the volume. “Even if I had ten sons, I would willingly and with a clear conscience send them all to the front . . . we are content with the saints' and prophets' approval . . . we yearn for heaven . . .” The telephone rings. The deformed fingers fold. My colleague and office-mate turns down the volume on the radio. I pull a large book in front of me and flip through it. Among the stories about the prophets, I find the story of Ibrahim and his Ismael. They give Ismael to Ibrahim, then demand his sacrifice and again forgive him to Ibrahim! I close the book that makes no mention of Hajar. My colleague and office-mate hangs up the telephone, and carrying a book, heads for the stack room. I swing my chair around. The tranquil crow finds it impossible to tear itself away from the lawn. “When was I ever a mother to my Ismael!” the janitor says. “After he was born, my husband threw me out of the house empty-handed . . . All these years, I tolerated being apart from my Ismael, hoping that once he finished his military service he would come to me . . .” The tired hand drops down. The deformed fingers claw at the side of the coverall. “And yesterday?” I ask. She looks up. A faint smile appears on the corner of her mouth. “I visit strangers' graves. It makes no difference, does it?” I stand up. I take my handbag and head home.

AT SUNSET
, the cloud that made the day hazy turns into rain. Is there no end to Ya'qub's tears? Youssef's chapped lips move.

“The dove will definitely get wet.”

I close the window and say, “It will find shelter . . . perhaps . . . shall I close the curtain?”

He restlessly shakes his head. I drop my hand.

“What was happening outside?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He looks at me skeptically. “Is that why you came back so early?”

I put the pitcher of water next to him. “I shouldn't have gone.”

He raises his head from the pillow. “You said your leave had ended.”

I don't look at him. “I won't go anywhere again until you've recovered.”

“Why?” he asks, confused.

“If you take your medication, your pain will ease and your fever will stop.”

He puts the pill on his tongue. I hand him the glass of water. He swallows the pill and the water. “You're tired of illness,” he says. “Just like he who comes home late.”

I lay his head back on the pillow. “He will come and he will bring you a toy.”

I sit on the edge of his bed.

“I don't want a toy anymore,” he says irritably.

I run my hand over his tousled hair. “It will do you good to sleep. I will tell you the story of Youssef . . .”

ARE THEY GOING
to kill the female dog, but spare the puppy? A new sound, a small sound. Eyelids wounded by light close in the darkness. The blast of the bullets being fired tears the darkness into shreds. They throw my Youssef in the well for the sin of being loved. In the end, who is going to interpret my sleep and my wakefulness? In the empty and silent reading room the shelves tremble and the dusty books shake. My colleague and office-mate sneezes nonstop and dials. How many zeros are there in the telephone number for City Hall? Does the female dog abandon the puppy and go to the ruins on a moonlit night? Grandmother always says disaster follows sin. Youssef looks at her with disbelief. The sword hanging overhead is always shaking. No one puts cats and crows on trial. K. must be punished; so should the taxi driver who doesn't tape a picture of crows on the dashboard. But Raskolnikov is searching for earthly punishment. Is that the sound of the front door? But Youssef doesn't want a toy anymore. The janitor takes the rag out of her uniform pocket. Hajar disappears in the dust of the old book. Grandmother says no stranger's grave will be the same as Ismael's. Does Ya'qub cry over his own heartbreak or over Youssef's shirt? All the clouds in the sky descend to darken the earth. Will the flames from fuel
and sulfur drive away the darkness? Grandmother bites the skin between her thumb and index finger and says, “Of all impossible things! How could a pair of Pahlavi shorts properly cover the privates!” The girl who has lined her eyes with kohl holds her binder in front of her bangs. A fire that can be extinguished will not replace the sun. The rain at dusk drenches the dove. Grandmother says they finally pull Youssef out of the well and return Ismael to Ibrahim and . . . but the rain that blurs the earth and sky will not bestow on Ya'qub even a sliver of sun the size of the palm of a hand.

They come and take the puppy away. The female dog remains. She remains? The hand that was vainly reaching out drops down. The absent sound, the closed mouth. I lift my head off the covered sheet over Youssef's legs. The female dog rejects fate. Doesn't she?

Born in Tehran,
FERESHTEH MOLAVI
has written many novels, essays, and short story collections, including
The House of Cloud and the Wind
,
The Departures of Seasons
,
Dogs and Humans
. She moved to Canada in 1998, and is a member of PEN Canada.

The Queue

Shiva Arastouie

SHE DECIDED AGAINST
the jeans. Instead, she pulled out a pair of black, loose-fitting pants from the drawer and put them on. It had been seven years since she had worn those loose black trousers outside. She had always pushed them aside every time she rummaged in the drawer choosing something else to wear. Her jeans, on the other hand, hung on the closet door ready to put on whenever she went out shopping.

She had only two coverall uniforms. She took the darker one off the hanger and put it on before starting to look for her black Islamic headdress, something that would cover her hair and neck draping over her shoulders. She hadn't worn it for seven years and couldn't remember where it was, so she decided to wear a scarf and fasten it under her chin with a safety pin. She was reminded of her husband, who in situations like this would say, “Darling, just knot it under your chin and relax.”

She changed her mind, started looking for the headdress, and finally found it at the bottom of a box of old
clothes. Pulling it on her head, she felt some satisfaction in its discovery.

She then checked her handbag to make sure she hadn't missed anything. Seven years ago she carried a much larger bag, almost the size of a briefcase, the one she had left at her mother's.

“These days,” her mother would say, “girls carry a suitcase over their shoulders when they go out in the streets.”

She used to pack her handbag with all kinds of stuff, from books and stationery to hairbrushes, lotions, a mirror, painkillers, adhesive tape, sterile gauze, cough suppressant, nail files, thread and needles, stockings, hair clips, deodorant spray, and sanitary napkins.

“Naturally,” her mother would say with a touch of sarcasm, “if you're going to be out and about all day, you need all this stuff.”

She remembered her black binder, and now had to look for it in the pile of old books and notepads to retrieve the university ID card inserted in the pocket on its front cover. She pulled out the perforated card and placed it in her small handbag, which could hardly accommodate anything else other than her wallet, eyeglasses, and key ring.

She had taken the last examination seven years ago. The hall monitor had punched a hole in the corner of her ID card, as confirmation of her presence in the final exam, and returned it to her. She thought of the day she had her picture taken for the card. She had worn the black headdress
and had wiped all traces of makeup off her face. “Try not to frown, Miss,” the photographer had advised. “Think of happy things.” She had thought of her admission to the university and the picture had turned out satisfactorily. She looked fresh and youthful. Even the official in charge of issuing student ID cards commented on it positively, as he affixed it to the card and stamped it in the corner. She looked at the back of the card and was pleased with the data: age 24, female, hazel eyes, brown hair, weight: 54 kilograms, height: 162 centimeters, and blood type: O negative.

There was no comment under “Restrictions,” only an ominous “Warning” declaring: “Any attempt to forge, alter, or abuse this card is an offense subject to prosecution.”

The only alteration to the card since then was the punched hole in its corner, which gave it an added air of authenticity. The picture on the card lacked the prescription glasses, which she would now need to locate Room 374, the office where she was supposed to go, according to the announcement in the newspaper, to get her suspended degree. The glasses were now on the table in the hallway, a space which also served as a living room as well as a reception area when they had guests or visits from their parents. She had left them on the table the night before, going to bed after turning off the television. One side faced upward and the other, attached to the frame by superglue, was slightly askew. When she wore them, they did not fit securely behind her ears. She thought she
should have them in her handbag to look for the room numbers.

Next, she looked at the footwear lined up at the bedroom door. They were all summer-season sandals and open-toe shoes. The problem was that they had to be worn with thick socks —and she hated the feel of them on her feet. In earlier days she always wore boots or shoes that covered her feet up to the ankles so she didn't have to wear socks regardless of the season. In conversations with other women on clothes, shoes, and other matters of fashion, she would say, “It is as if I breathe with my feet. Every time I put on socks or stockings I feel strange, like someone is choking me. I have to take them off to breathe.”

Some women would have the same feeling, “Yes, yes! Me too!”

Other would roll their eyes and say, “Oh, really!”

It took her a while to make up her mind to breathe or not to through her feet. Ultimately she decided to breathe through her nose, which happened to be naturally shapely and well-formed. Women often asked, “Where did you have it done? It looks so nice.”

“It is my own, I swear to God!”

“Oh, really!”

The problem was that she didn't have any socks. She thought of borrowing a pair from the landlady. After all, she had loaned the woman a basket of potatoes—which she hadn't yet returned. She felt she could ask her for a pair of socks.

Her feet, clad in black socks, fit snugly in the white sandals, although the color clash made her cringe and avert her eyes when she looked herself over in the hall mirror. Other than the absence of the big handbag and black binder, she didn't look any different than seven years ago.

The night before, she had placed the binder on the hall table and thumbed through its pages to see if she remembered any of its contents after seven years.

She reached for the house key in the door to drop it in her handbag. But she then decided to leave without it, surely her mother and daughter would be home to let her in. She had persuaded her mother to come over and stay with the child for the day so she could attend to her business. Her mother had shown some reluctance, what with all the broad beans she had to clean and store for winter. She had offered to help and her mother had consented.