The Shipwrecked (5 page)

In the early evening the telephone rang. It was Mohammad Agha's aunt who wanted to talk to Mother about Zeynab. I listened to the conversation from the extension in my bedroom. The woman sounded more literate and cultured than expected from a peasant. She said she worked in an office, knew of our family, and had a nodding acquaintance with my father whom she admired. Getting to know my mother would be a great honor, she added. She had also heard good things about my brother and me, and believed Zeynab to be exceptionally lucky to have ended up in our household. She mentioned, sort of offhand, that Zeynab had many suitors, and it was possible that some of them might try to talk her into marriage,
something she would not allow, nor would she allow her to talk to any men.

Profusely, Mother assured her that Zeynab's virtue would be protected at all costs and, at the proper time, she would herself find her a suitable husband, send her children to school, etc. Reassured, the woman hung up and we all felt that we now had a reliable housemaid on a permanent basis. I even fantasized about taking trips, certain that Mother was securely ensconced in her home with adequate help. My brother, too, would rest at ease, once he heard the good news, thanking God for this piece of good fortune.

The dusk had barely fallen when Auntie Malak arrived at our house. Her eyes popped at the sight of Zeynab. “Where did this come from?” she exclaimed. Mother tried to shrug it off. She said casually that the girl was a relative of Mohammad Agha, the carpenter, that she was not much good and completely untrustworthy. The last epithet shook up Auntie. “She is not Afghani, is she?” she asked apprehensively. Mother hunched her shoulders, shook her head, and curled the corners of her mouth as a gesture of uncertainty. “What? Are you crazy?” Auntie exploded, raising her hand to her throat. “If she is Afghani, you're gonna be done with tonight! How stupid! Where did you get her, anyway?”

Mother was being obnoxious, of course, while I was trying to calm Auntie down. But she wasn't to be comforted, casting suspicious glances at Zeynab. “I'd rather
die a death of loneliness, wash floors, and clean house by myself than let a stranger into my life,” she announced. “Just the night before last they raided the home of an elderly couple and cut their heads off. That's what the paper said. It is the work of Afghanis, they say. Same thing with Mrs. Khavary. They gagged her in her kitchen and beat her on the head with a club. They tie up the kids and twist their necks like chickens.”

Zeynab brought in the tea tray. Mother looked at her pridefully and said, “Zeynab is every inch a lady, and I am happy with her.” As she picked up the empty glasses, Zeynab turned and looked at Mother with a grin and murmured, “Don't count your chickens before they're hatched!”

I couldn't believe my ears. Mother gave a hollow laugh, trying to look as if she hadn't heard it. But Auntie, on full alert, heard everything and let her jaw drop. “Did you hear that? Don't count your chickens . . . What gall, the little bitch!” she exclaimed.

Desperate for a way out, Mother groped for words. She said dismissively, “Ah, you blow things out of proportion, Auntie. She just said something. Not that she has any education. Perhaps she just wanted to be complimentary. The end is always better than the beginning.”

Auntie was not to be comforted. She was worried, most of all for my brother. “What if she reports on us?” she speculated.

Mother, frustrated and irritable, gulped down her tea.
“So what? We haven't done anything. What have we to be afraid of? We have nothing to hide,” she said firmly.

At this point, Auntie rose to her feet and straightened the large scarf covering her head, pulling it almost down to her eyes. “You must protect yourself,” she advised. “Just the fact that you're sitting here hale and hearty is itself a crime. Our crime is that we still have our heads on our shoulders. What's worse?”

When Auntie departed, Mother and I felt ill at ease. We began reading the afternoon papers with a bad taste in our mouths because of Auntie's blabbering. Mother stood up, looking around indecisively, as if she wanted to say something but had changed her mind. She sat down again.

By this time Zeynab had finished her work. She sidled toward me, craning to see the pictures in the paper. “These are all dead?” she asked.

“Let me see,” interrupted Mother, “have you recited your evening prayers? Mohammad Agha was very particular about that, you know.” Ignoring her, Zeynab pointed to the paper. “What's written in there?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. When the telephone rang, she jumped. “I'm sure it is for me!” she chirped, as she reached for it. Mother blocked her advance, yelling “Wait a minute, girl!” as she picked up the receiver. “Hello, hello,” she repeated into the phone, but there was no answer.

“I told you it was for me,” said Zeynab defiantly. Mother, trying to control her temper, replied, slowly and
deliberately, “You must never pick up the phone. Your aunt insists on it. Do you understand?” There was so much authority in her voice that even I was transfixed. Zeynab, pale and intimidated, gathered herself and lowered her eyes. “I'm going to water the flowers,” she said timidly. But then she turned to me, and like an excited child talking to a playmate, asked, pointing to the newspaper, “What's written here? Are they dead? Must have been smugglers, right?” Without waiting for an answer, she careened down the stairs, picked up the garden hose, and turned on the tap. She took off her slippers, splashing water on her feet. She exuded the freshness of a flower patch, and her youth, like the fragrance of acacia vine, permeated the yard. She was childlike in her joyousness, making it hard not to excuse her occasional odd behavior and words. Mother was once again well disposed, forgetting the Auntie's injunctions. Her face glowed with a halo of satisfaction as she peeled an apple and shared it with me.

Our neighbor's servant, we noticed, was standing on the roof. “Look at that son of a bitch,” Mother noticed, “ogling at my girl.”

“Hey mister,” she whooped, “what are you standing there for, feasting your eyes? Don't you know you can't invade folks' privacy? Get down or I am calling the Committee right now.” The man snickered and shrugged his shoulders. “It is your own fault—your gallivanting in the yard unveiled. If you had any modesty you'd cover yourselves,” he said.

“Can't we breathe free in our own house?” Mother wanted to know. She picked up her tea glass and turned to Zeynab. “Come on in, missy,” she said. “From now on, don't get out there without a head cover.”

I felt drained and listless. Without a word I picked up my books and newspaper and went inside. Zeynab squatted next to me, mumbling. Suddenly she said, “I just want to talk.”

I ignored what she said and continued reading. She said again, “I know I am not supposed to talk, but I really want to talk.”

“All right, go ahead and talk,” Mother said impatiently. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I'm scared Mohammad Agha will cut my head off.”

“You get up and get ready for your prayers. Don't think bad thoughts,” commanded Mother. “Mohammad Agha is harmless,” she said.

Zeynab got quiet and thoughtful. It was obvious she was dealing with some kind of an internal conflict. Absentmindedly, Mother was thumbing through the pages of a magazine when the telephone rang again but stopped before we picked it up. Standing motionless, Zeynab raised her hand to her face to hide an amused sneer. I looked at her, an ominous feeling going through me. Her behavior was certainly bizarre. She noticed I was staring at her. “What are you reading?” she asked, taking her hand off her face.

I held the book in front of her and asked, “How many
grades have you finished?” Mother, not waiting for an answer, interjected, “My girl, I can put you in adult literacy classes, if you want. Mohammad Agha said you have finished elementary school.”

“I have a question,” said Zeynab, changing the subject. “You are all so educated and understand everything so well. Just tell me how it is possible for two grown people to die in a car crash but an infant gets thrown out through the windshield without a scratch.”

Mother and I exchanged glances. Deep in my heart I had a sense that trouble was ahead. Mother frowned with a certain look in her eyes. She pursed her lips, and deep lines appeared in the corners of her mouth.

“You are so naive,” Zeynab persisted. “I'll be skinned alive if Mohammad Agha finds out I have opened my mouth. But you are so nice; I can't lie to you.”

The doorbell rang. It was the sanitation man calling for a spot of lunch and his monthly allowance. We were left alone again after his departure. I pulled Zeynab aside and told her that talk like that disturbs Mother. “But I swear on the Koran I am not lying,” she protested. “This woman who claims to be Mohammad Agha's aunt is lying. I don't know who my parents are. For all I know I may be a foundling.”

As she turned toward us, Mother heard the last sentence. Color drained from her face. “Do you realize,” she said sternly, “that if you lie, all your prayers will be nullified?” Zeynab laughed pejoratively. “Oh, come on, who says I
pray? Mohammad Agha's aunt has never said a prayer in her life, and he himself is a drunk with no religion!”

Mother was almost in shock. “Look here,” she warned, “I'm going to call her and tell her what you're saying behind her back.”

“I don't care,” said Zeynab, pouting. “She'll come and get me and throw me in the arms of strangers again.”

We were speechless. The illusion of good fortune had turned into a receding cloud of dust. Transfixed, Mother and I stared at each other, lost for words. Zeynab, on the other hand, was excited by her boldness, knowing she was treading on forbidden ground. “I shouldn't have said that,” she moaned, tears welling up in her eyes. “You are such decent people. I bet you'll kick me out now. Right?” she asked, whimpering.

The phone rang and I lunged for it. A woman's voice I couldn't recognize asked for Zeynab. “Who are you?” I queried.

“I am her mother and have just arrived from Ghazvin.”

“But madam,” I said curtly, “she says her mother has died in a car crash.”

“Oh, she's not all there, you know, and says things,” the voice explained. “I'll be there to pick her up.”

Mother, with her ear pressed against the receiver, wondered, apprehensively, “Who are these people? Where did they get our phone number and address?”

“They are after me,” Zeynab said “all those thieves and smugglers.” If Auntie Malak had heard this, she would
have fainted on the spot, I thought. Mother, too, looked pale, making me think that we were now in a real crisis.

“Do you know what you are talking about?” I snapped at Zeynab. “We have known Mohammad Agha for twenty years.”

All this time, Zeynab kept glancing at me pleadingly, seemingly apprehensive of Mother and the misery that lay in her future. Words, as if churned by a force stronger than her will, poured out uncontrollably. Mother, vacillating and nervous, muttered, “Didn't I say we shouldn't hire anyone? Didn't I say we shouldn't trust anyone? How do we know what Mohammad Agha does in his spare time? He does only carpentry work here. We are not with him all the time. Who could have imagined Hassan Agha and that wife of his leaving us in a lurch after fifty years? Do you remember how she put her hands on her hips and stood in my face yelling, ‘Then what's the revolution for?'”

This was a delicate subject and had to be changed. I turned to Zeynab and asked if she could honestly tell us who she is and how she got to know Mohammad Agha. We all drifted into the kitchen, which looked meticulously clean after Zeynab had finished with it. Impressed, once more Mother changed her tone. “Listen to me, girl,” she addressed Zeynab, “don't be afraid and tell me the truth.”

“I swear on the Holy Koran, I'm telling the truth.” Zeynab asserted. “Until a few years ago,” she went on, “I was in an orphanage. Then I was adopted by a rich engineer, Mr. Sham-Akhtar, and his wife. Three years ago she
died. Mr. Sham-Akhtar married me off and moved lock, stock, and barrel to America. Turns out my husband was a heroin-smuggling gang leader, him and his mother and brothers. They tried to get me hooked too, but I ran away and went to the Committee and gave them their names. The guards came and took them all away. A little later, I saw their pictures in the paper, and the report said that they'd hanged my husband and two of his brothers. That made me happy. Then this woman who says she's raised me took me to her house and that's where I saw Mohammad Agha. His job was to bring in girls. One night they sent a customer to my room, and I got into a fight with him. I cracked his skull with a flowerpot and ran into the street yelling and screaming. He was so afraid the Committee would find out. That's how I ended up here. And now you are going to kick me out, I know.”

I was in a real quandary. Was she sincere? I could not tell. I wanted so desperately to see through her. I pulled Mother aside. “We absolutely must protect her,” I whispered, “if she is honest. We must change her life.”

“Are you crazy?” Mother retorted. “It's dangerous. Didn't you hear? Heroin smugglers! She's sent her husband to the gallows. His comrades are not going to let go. They'll be after us. What if she'd tell the Committee all sorts of lies about us? I shouldn't have trusted Mohammad Agha. I never liked him much. Come to think of it, he does look like a cutthroat. That stupid and bad-tempered Hassan Agha! He was worth his weight in gold, compared
to these folks. Fifty years he lived with us under one roof and not a pin got lost or misplaced, though he had control of everything in this house. What do we do now?” Mother said with a note of desperation in her voice. “I'm gonna call Mohammad Agha to come and get this girl out of here.”