The Shipwrecked (6 page)

I felt it contingent upon me to show some backbone. “No way!” I protested. “First we must get to the bottom of what she says. If she is telling the truth, we can't hand her over to those wolves.”

Mother was reluctant. “What if she is in cahoots with those thieves?” she said, now in the throes of doubt. Trying to defuse the tension, I told her jokingly she was worse than Auntie Malak. It suddenly occurred to Mother that Zeynab had taken a shower in the downstairs bathroom and had possibly seen the crates of wine bottles left with us by a friend for safekeeping. “Those crates are behind the bathroom window in the backyard,” she said fearfully. “I am sure she has them! Now she has an advantage over us. One word and she'll report us to the Committee. Imagine that! Here we are, our maid's captive!”

“We'd better not talk about the crates,” I said dismissively. “I'll dispose of them tonight somehow.”

“Throw them in an empty lot or something,” she suggested. “To hell with that wine. I told you not to store them in the house.”

Zeynab, oblivious to us, was mumbling to herself absentmindedly and incoherently. “I had a good time in the
engineer's house,” she said to no one in particular. “Until his wife died and he went crazy. He'd cry every night and beat his head against door and walls and then turn on me and give me a good thrashing.” She then reached for an apple and started gnawing at it, quiet and pensive.

That night we had an invitation to dinner at Mr. K's home, and this added to our ordeal. We were torn between suspicion and sympathy. For a moment, allowing sentiment to take over, Mother said, “Poor girl, snatched up by these wolves! We can rescue her. I'll keep her here . . . find her husband . . .” she muttered, her voice trailing off.

Before anything else, we had to do something about the wine crates, regardless of what we did with Zeynab. By now, we had thrown away all unsanctioned objects, such as playing cards, backgammon boards, videos, music tapes, incriminating photos, etc., all in fear of a raid. Mother covered her head even when she answered the phone. We kept the windows shuttered, went to bed early, and turned off all lights. We had cut down on socializing—which had taken a toll on Mother's temper. She was already demoralized by Hassan Agha's departure and Morteza's grievance lodged with the authorities. After a couple of short visits to Europe, Mother had toyed with the idea of liquidating everything and moving to the other corner of the world to get away from all this. But she had decided against it. How would it be possible to go into exile at her age to a land where streets evoked no memories and language was a barrier? How could one sit next to a small window
all day and watch the never-ending European rain? Despite everything—the murderous Afghani wetbacks, religious-police raids, runaway inflation, Hassan Agha's desertion, war, bombardment, and insecurity—Tehran was home, and every part of it interlaced with her life. Even its problems and heartbreaks were meaningful and could be shared widely. Its rare moments of relief, too, were of a public nature. Death itself had familiar rituals, and life in this town, with all its chaos and agony, had familiar and comforting patterns for Mother and was latent with the expectation of better things to come. Living abroad, however, would have meant nostalgia for the past and recycling old memories.

Time was now of the essence and we had to take some action. Mother had the urge to do something drastic, something untoward, to protect Zeynab, this helpless creature, but was scared of the consequences. She was more inherently cautious than to act on impulse. That made her so much more desperate for a reasonable escape route.

“Did you notice how casually she spoke of her husband's execution?” noted Mother. “She almost sounded jolly. It made my blood curdle. I don't even know these people. But when I see their pictures in the paper and read the caption they have been executed, I get sick. But this girl sounds as if she is used to such things. She could do the same thing with us.” At this point it looked like we had to get rid of her. But how? And how to deal with Mohammad Agha?

“I know you don't want me,” said Zeynab, as if reading our thoughts instinctively. “I should have kept my trap shut. I know it was stupid of me to talk. I'm not going back to Mohammad Agha and that bitchy aunt of his. I just got myself out of their clutches. I know where I'll go.”

“Where?” asked Mother expectantly.

“Back to the engineer, Mr. Sham-Akhtar,” replied Zeynab with authority.

“But you said his wife is dead and he is in Europe,” exclaimed Mother, thinking she had caught her in a lie. But Zeynab was right on the ball and came back with an answer. “But his mother is here and she liked me. Besides, I heard that he is now back,” she came back without missing a beat.

The dry and hollow timbre of Zeynab's voice told me that she was lying. But to Mother this was a ray of hope. “That's my girl,” she whooped. “You just do that. If they kept you all those years, they must be better than anyone else. You just go to their house, and I'll put Mohammad Agha and his aunt in their place for good.”

“But you don't know that woman,” warned Zeynab. “A few months ago she had some problem with a neighbor, and she told a bunch of lies to the Committee. They came and took that woman away.”

Once more the color drained out of Mother's face. She immediately regretted pitching herself against the aunt. “Very well,” she said, in retraction of her threat, “I won't
get tangled up with that woman. That is none of my business. As for you, dear girl, just go to Mr. Akhtar's and stay there.”

It was hard for her to utter these words but they had to be said. We had to extricate ourselves from Zeynab and her predicament. After all that had happened, we had to act conservatively, with self-preservation in mind.

As for the dinner party, it was decided that Zeynab should go with us. Mother helped her put on one of her old-fashioned winter garments with a high collar. When Zeynab saw herself in the mirror, she burst out laughing, almost like a child.

“I look just like the aunt, one of those madams,” she said as she guffawed.

Mother winced. “Now you look respectable,” she said defensively. “What was it you were wearing before? It was shameful.”

While Zeynab was busy adjusting her outfit, I called a friend about moving the crates of wine. I knew Mr. K would take exception to having a stranger in his house, but we had no choice. We even thought of declining the invitation. But then we felt we needed the company. Besides, the affair was a farewell party for me in anticipation of my upcoming trip out of the country.

Mr. K did not easily let anybody in his house. He had made elaborate arrangements with trusted friends and relatives for coded ringing of the doorbell. He would alert his dogs to stand guard before he opened the door. The
dogs had been especially trained to be suspicious of the chador and to attack women wearing it.

When we arrived, we touched the door and a light came on at the top of the doorway. When we rang the doorbell, we could hear a siren sounding inside the house, setting off the dogs. A metallic voice in the intercom asked, “Who are you?” Then another voice from behind the door asked the same question for confirmation. Following a long pause, the door opened and we entered. We hastily took off the chadors and other headgear before the dogs reached us. Mr. K immediately stared at Zeynab, who was putting away her chador. He then looked quizzically at Mother. I intervened and explained that she was not a stranger but a new maid we could not leave at home because we didn't trust her that much. I hastened to point out that we were letting her go the next day anyway. This not only failed to calm Mr. K, but exacerbated his agitation to such an extent that I began to regret coming to the party at all. Earlier that morning, sixteen people had been executed for an assortment of charges, including corrupt practices and infractions of religious moral standards. This had put everyone on edge.

Mr. K asked us to wait out in the garden until he had warned his family and guests of the presence of a stranger in the house. Zeynab was certainly proving a disruptive factor among us. We were all related, close-knit and like-minded. That night a foreign element had infiltrated our gathering, causing concern and discomfiture. Mr. K's wife,
adjusting her headgear, sidled up to Mother, wanting to know why she had trusted a stranger. Bringing Zeynab had definitely been a mistake, but it was too late.

Zeynab, oblivious to the disturbance her presence had caused, was delighted to be at an affair of that kind. With wide-eyed curiosity, she was looking everyone over. At some distance from where the guests had congregated, a chair was placed for her with a bowl of fruit and confectionaries at her feet. Soon it was time to tune in to the Persian broadcast from Radio Israel. My Uncle Doc was addicted to foreign broadcasts and knew the wavelengths and schedules of all of them. But Mr. K cast a wary glance at Zeynab and signaled to him not to turn on the radio.

Auntie Malak wanted to know what Zeynab's wages were. I noticed that Mother was not averse to the idea of palming Zeynab off on Auntie. Accordingly, she began giving a praising account of Zeynab's housekeeping virtues. She hinted that the girl needed a home and did not expect any pay. The only reason why we were trying to place her was that we were leaving town for an extended period. The thought of an unpaid domestic excited Auntie, but she was too nervous about strangers to fall for it.

The party was not like always. Mr. K, given to telling tired old jokes, was now silent. Auntie Malak, who loved to discuss the news and current affairs, was wordless and pensive. So was my uncle, who had been told not to turn on the radio. The younger folks, usually garrulous and strident, were quiet and sullen. Tooba Khanum's husband,
always critical and ranting about the sorry state of affairs, seemed on the verge of an explosion, now that Mr. K had whispered in his ear, pointing to Zeynab, to keep his mouth shut.

At one point, when Zeynab got up to go to the bathroom, the whole company simultaneously converged on Mother with questions. She held up her hand. “Listen,” she almost yelled. “The girl is Mohammad Agha's niece, for goodness' sake. And you all know
him
. She is no stranger!”

Except for Mr. K, this was enough to set everyone's mind at ease. Even my uncle turned his radio on almost immediately. But Mother, always inclined to melodrama and wanting to share her anxieties with as wide an audience as possible, could not resist mentioning her uncertainties about Mohammad Agha's character. God only knows, she went on, but Zeynab had mentioned something about his involvement with heroin-smuggling gangs. She then dropped a bombshell: Zeynab had informed on her husband, resulting in his execution by the authorities. At this point Auntie Malak gave a loud squeal, raising her hand to her throat. “Afghani, she is an Afghani, I knew it,” she croaked through choking sounds. “I'm outta here,” she said, turning to Mother. “So you wanted to pass this one on to me! How could you? Did you want to have me murdered? You can't trust anyone anymore, not even your own relatives!”

Mother appeared puzzled and looked at the others
questioningly. Mr. K, in extreme distress, looked at Mother and babbled, “These things are dangerous! Your son has just been released from prison. Just the mention of the word ‘opium' these days is enough to send you to the gallows.”

“We shouldn't have brought the girl,” said Mother somberly. “Let's go.”

Now that the party was in disarray, no one objected to our departure. We called Zeynab, who was playing with some children in the hall and watching television, looking so harmless and vulnerable. I wanted so badly to believe that she was sincere and that I should take her under my wing against the dictates of common sense. But that was beyond me; I did not have the willpower. When we got home, Zeynab was still in a buzz from the party and said nothing about leaving. She jumped in the bed she had spread in the downstairs hall and was asleep within minutes.

We had a rough night. In a state of high nervousness, Mother jumped at every sound. Early in the morning we were startled when the telephone rang. It was Zeynab's so-called aunt calling to talk to her. Mother spoke to her, calm and collected, explaining that we could not keep Zeynab because we were leaving for Europe. Sensing something was amiss, the aunt spoke diffidently. “I'm embarrassed,” she said. “I should have told you the truth. This girl is a bit on the crazy side. Her father died some years ago, and her mother, my younger sister, lives in
Ghazvin and is a mental patient. I have raised this girl and I know she takes after her mother. She comes up with strange tales. Her mother arrived in Tehran yesterday and is dying to see her. I apologize for inconveniencing you. I'll just come and get her.”

“Not so fast,” replied Mother. “Let me talk to her first to see what she says.” Mother did not wait for a reply and hung up.

The aunt had sounded reasonable and credible enough for Mother to change her mind once more. “We shouldn't have judged Mohammad Agha so fast,” she said thoughtfully. “He's worked for us twenty years and has always been sensible and level-headed. This girl is lying through her teeth, confusing us in the middle of all this chaos. Of course we can't keep her if she is a mental case.”

Zeynab, who has been eavesdropping behind the door, burst into the room. “I am not waiting for Mohammad Agha and his gang to come and get me. I'm leaving right now,” she said in a rage.