The Shipwrecked (4 page)

Mother was hurt mostly by Hassan Agha's desertion. She never mentioned his name but could not forget him either. She insisted on hiring a new servant mostly
to assuage her wounded pride. But how could we bring a stranger into the house? How would we trust a stranger in this day and age? I was planning to leave, and war was about to break out. I had to find a trustworthy person to care for Mother. Mohammad Agha, the neighborhood carpenter, had a reputation for being a solid and decent man. We had known him for twenty years and had learned to count on him. He was different from the others. I broached the matter with him when he was in the house changing the locks. I told him I was looking for a smart and trustworthy person to look after my mother, and the reason I was talking to him was that my brother the engineer trusted his judgment and had good things to say about him. I was almost certain he would not be interested, finding excuses to deflect the rapprochement. Surprisingly though, he jumped at the suggestion. “With pleasure,” he said, as he put down his saw. “I am beholden to your family and the engineer. His wish is my command.”

I could not believe it. People promise things but never carry through. I looked at him doubtfully. “Do you know someone trustworthy?” I asked. “I mean, like yourself?”

“Do you think I would recommend an unsuitable person to the service of the Grand Lady?” he said, somewhat miffed. “These days,” he continued, “one is suspicious of one's own shadow. I had heard about Hassan Agha and was embarrassed by his behavior. Sincerely, I could not look the engineer in the eye. What a world this has turned out to be! Even a dog does not recognize his master. But
we are obligated to you and the Grand Lady's kindnesses. Believe me, my mother blesses the engineer every night at prayer. If she finds out that the Grand Lady needs help, she would volunteer herself.”

I thought he was buttering me up. Mohammad Agha, an observant man, read the look of skepticism on my face and took up the issue directly. “I will go right now to my aunt's house,” he said resolutely, “and, with her permission, fetch her daughter to attend the pleasure of the Grand Lady.”

This was ideal, exactly the person we had in mind. It did not matter whether she could cook, sew, or keep house. The important thing was that she was Mohammad Agha's cousin, and thus, reliable. She would alleviate Mother's concerns and introduce some degree of order in our disrupted lives.

Mohammad Agha explained that his cousin had never worked anywhere and was mostly a homebody, shy and withdrawn, religious and chaste. In other words, she was exactly the person we were looking for. I was only afraid that her mother might oppose the deal. As an added incentive, I let Mohammad Agha know that there would be something in it for him. He rejected the idea with a vehement shake of his head and waving of his hand, which left me somewhat mortified for thinking along those lines.

Mohammad Agha left his mission, and I rushed home to bring the good news to Mother. Nothing could top this.

At the house, I did not see Hassan Agha himself, but
his wife and the bevy of his brood were there, lined up in the corridor near the entrance. Zahra Khanum, trying to be inconspicuous, was standing behind the sons. She held her head down, and the black chador covered half her face. The sons were nervous and ill at ease, mumbling incoherently. It was the son-in-law who was in control of the mission. We did not know him well, but he certainly was in command.

They wanted money—half the house, part of the garden. Somehow, they knew that legally and in practical terms they had not a leg to stand on, so every time Mother cast ferocious glances in their direction or made a biting remark, they blushed and retreated. There was only one thing certain: neither side was in the same position as in the old days. Shy and maladroit, Zahra Khanum took it up herself to point this out. From where she stood, she jutted her head and squealed in her high-pitched voice, “So why was there a revolution?” Good question, we all thought.

Going directly to the heart of the matter, my brother asked, “How much do you want?” This took the men by surprise and made them even more inarticulate. Zahra Khanum, holding a corner of the chador in her teeth, batted her trachoma-damaged eyelids uncontrollably. The son-in-law, less mindful of us, blurted out a figure, which in his view was exorbitant. For us, however, it was less than expected. We agreed and the meeting ended abruptly.

The anticipated arrival of a new maid and Mohammad Agha's agency in the matter seemed to soften the blow
we had just suffered. “To spite Hassan Agha,” Mother intoned, “I will give this girl a higher salary; I'll give her the upstairs room; I'll personally find her a suitable husband. . .” I interrupted her and urged her to hold off her munificence until later. But she was excited and on a roll: “The old, stupid, ungrateful jackass. When he came to us he had not even done his national service and did not have a penny to his name. He arrived barefoot from Arak,
²
and I sent him to adult literacy classes. When he brought his diseased, trachoma-stricken cousin from the village, I spent so much on her medical bills that I even paid for his children's schooling. I put together a dowry richer than my own for his daughter's wedding. Now they have the gall to ask, ‘What was the revolution for?'”

An hour later Mohammad Agha arrived with his cousin. She was young and fresh faced, rather plump but in a pleasant way. She was wearing a chintz chador but no stockings. Mohammad Agha saw me stare at her bare legs and said quickly, “Forgive her impromper appearance. I just picked her up and brought her over. My aunt was not home. She was going to put on black stockings, but I was afraid it might take too long. So I told her to get going.”

“We are not strangers anymore,” said Mother, “but I wish she'd come with the approval of her mother.”

“In fact,” rejoined Mohammad Agha expansively, “
you
are Zeynab's mother. We are all your servants.”

Zeynab lifted her head and stared quizzically at Mother. She then chuckled, returning her gaze to the floor.

“If memory serves, my son had always spoken highly of your aunt. She is a respectable lady.”

I knew Mother had never met the woman, but she was so excited that she had convinced herself of the truth of her statement, convinced that the aunt was exactly the kind of person she expected her to be.

We sat on the veranda, and Mother, in a convivial mood, struck up a conversation with Mohammad Agha, asking about his family and making complimentary comments about his wife (although she had never set eyes on her). It looked like she was trying to delay negotiations about Zeynab, relishing the pleasure of the moment, like a tasty morsel of food in her mouth. She steered the conversation to the inflationary spiral of prices, shortages of water and electricity, my brother's run-in with the authorities and his recent incarceration, the theft of Uncle Doc's car, and Hassan Agha's traitorous defection. If the conversation continued along these lines, I decided, it would lead to some sensitive issues. So I interrupted her and asked Mohammad Agha to tell us about Zeynab.

“Sit down, dear girl,” said Mother. “You'll get tired standing up. Think of this as your own home and of me as your own mother.” She then stood up, walked to the fruit basket, piled a plate with fruit, and offered it to Mohammad Agha. Zeynab, who had been standing all this time, sat on a chair at Mother's insistence.

“This girl has never worked anywhere,” said Mohammad Agha. “She is exceedingly naive and simple. My aunt too is old-fashioned and religious. She has made this girl into a true homebody.”

“That is how it should be,” declared Mother, eying Zeynab with approval. Zeynab dropped her head down and gave a childlike, meaningless giggle, every inch an ingénue, inexperienced with the ways of the world.

“As a matter of fact,” Mohammad Agha continued solemnly, “the parents of this poor child died in a car crash when she was barely two months old. She herself was tossed out of the car window, and it was only by divine providence that she was spared. My aunt, devout and godly as she is, raised this child as if her own. She is the apple of her eye!”

Mother, casting a pitiful eye in her direction, announced, “I will personally watch over her . . . find her a husband. They could live in the cottage at the end of the garden. The husband could work in my son's office. If they had children that proved studious, I'd pay for their education . . . send them abroad.”

An agreement was reached soon, and Mohammad Agha, in something of a hurry, rushed out of the house. But before he left, he made two firm provisos: Zeynab was not allowed to leave the house under any circumstances—on her days off, the aunt would come for her—and she was not to make or take phone calls.

Mother nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, of
course,” she said, “all these restrictions are absolutely necessary, what with this girl being so young and pretty. You may trust her with me.”

Zeynab put away her bundle and took off her chador. “I'll begin from here,” she declared, as she cast her glance around the kitchen. She then grabbed a broom, opened the windows, piled the chairs on the table, and began to sweep.

“There you are,” I told Mother. “That's a maid for you!”

“What a gem!” replied Mother, ecstatically. She immediately remembered Mohammad Agha's injunctions and told Zeynab that first she should say her mid-day prayers. Zeynab was fully engrossed in her work, beads of perspiration forming on her brow, the thin fabric of her dress sticking to her pale skin, outlining her young firm flesh. She ignored Mother's bidding, mumbling something about work being more important. This thrilled Mother. Even my suggestion that we should first eat something fell upon deaf ears.

By now Zeynab had moved the cupboards, the refrigerator, and other kitchen furniture, and was cleaning the space behind them.

“This is what I call an immaculate, sensible person!” Mother proclaimed. “The important thing is to clean everything, even what is not visible. That filthy Zahra Khanum only passed a hand over things and let it go at that.” Mother was now fuming. “And that good-for-nothing husband of hers, Hassan Agha, just eating and
sleeping and maligning. Good riddance! To hell with them!”

Zeynab's dress was deemed short and too open at the neck. We decided to get her a smock and thick hoses. Mother suggested that she wear a light headscarf when we had company. At this suggestion, Zeynab cast an amused glance at us and gave a laugh, which struck me as incommensurate with her look of shy innocence. We postponed lunch until she finished cleaning up the kitchen.

“It is cleaning the nooks and crannies that counts,” said Mother. “See how everything shines! This girl is a godsend, an angel. I will take care of her myself—find her a husband, set her up in the lodge at the end of the garden, and have her children sent to America. And if her husband knows something about driving and gardening, he will be the chauffeur and gardener. Forget about the ungrateful Morteza—filing a complaint against us. Imagine! One hair on this girl's head is worth a hundred like that scumbag.”

All in all, Zeynab was too good to be true, and with this realization came a certain amount of concern. “Makes me sick to think she may not stay,” said Mother, her face etched with worry. “She is young and gullible. Neighbors will get her away from us. We are finished if your Auntie Malak finds out about her. Mustn't praise her a lot. With such shortage of good help, she'll be whisked away in no time.”

A knock on the door brought our hearts to our mouths.
It was Mohammad Agha. “Miss, he is here to take you home, I guess,” I suggested to Zeynab. “To hell with him,” she blurted out, with one hand at her hip, glowering at the doorway. “Still a free country, isn't it?”

Mother cast a surprised and confused glance in my direction. The bewilderment in her look shot through me. There was something grating and strident in Zeynab's voice that ran counter to her diffident, peasantlike smile.

It so happened that Mohammad Agha had come to collect his tools. We asked him to stay for lunch but he declined. He was in a hurry to get somewhere. Before he left, though, he took Zeynab aside and talked to her under his breath. Like an impetuous, playful child, Zeynab shifted from foot to foot, scratched her upper thigh, and rolled her eyes with impatience.

“The more advice she gets, the better,” noted Mother. “There is good reason to be concerned.” No sooner had Mohammad Agha left than Zeynab returned to her cleaning zealously, as if her life depended on it. Despite her small stature, she was amazingly strong, easily moving heavy furniture around. “Dear girl,” pleaded Mother apprehensively, “don't move that antique vase, please. It might shatter. No need to dust the china. Please leave the crystal chandelier alone.” It was no use. Stubbornly, Zeynab proceeded with her taste, ignoring Mother's pleas. Eventually we gave up and left her to her own devices. Although she insisted on total obedience from the household staff, Mother watched Zeynab with obvious satisfaction
as she went though the house bestowing a sheen of cleanliness on everything she touched.

She finished around two in the afternoon. Not feeling hungry, she pushed her food aside and drank a whole bottle of water. She then washed her face and wetted her hair in the sink, plumped down in the middle of the living room floor, and went out like a light. Perspiration oozed from her pores, and an animal warmth radiated from her young, firm, healthy flesh. The short skirt was riding up her thighs, revealing a glimpse of her flowered underwear. She looked younger in her sleep, with her pink cheeks and turned-up eyelashes. Something primitive and amorphous in her body coupled with that impish, sensual smile, imbuing her childlike presence with ambiguity and suggestiveness.