The Shipwrecked (7 page)

“Where are you gonna go? Back to the engineer?” I asked. “What engineer?” she spat back. She then looked at me morosely, as if she was going to continue, but the fluttering of a moth behind the windowpane caught her attention. She remained motionless for a moment before she came to herself and hurriedly put on her shoes and chador. Before we had time to react, she left the house, slamming the door behind her.

“Oh my God, what do we tell Mohammad Agha?” said Mother, whimpering. “She was kind of entrusted to us.”

For a while after Zeynab's departure, we were chafed with pangs of conscience. But soon a sense of relief came over us, now that the interlude was seemingly over. We were no longer involved. It was out of our hands. “Some people never change,” said Mother, more in justification of our course of action than as a usual observation. “We tried to be charitable and give her a helping hand, and look what a commotion she caused! Good riddance! Never mind that we don't have any household help anymore.” On this note we indulged in a moment or two of self-pity laced with an appropriate amount of sympathy for Zeynab and her kind, before putting the bizarre affair out of our minds and getting back to our normal routine.

Then came the first phone call of the day. It was Auntie Malak expressing her chagrin and disapprobation about our role in the events of the night before. For our part, we called Mr. K to tell him that the affair was over and he could relax. The doorbell rang just as we sat down for lunch. “It's Mohammad Agha,” said Mother, considerably alarmed. She wanted me to answer the door and advised me that I deal with him firmly. I had no stomach for the encounter and felt a tinge of embarrassment.

Gingerly, I opened the door and was astonished by what I saw. There she was, Zeynab, perched on a motorcycle behind a dour-looking young man with a full, dark beard. Apparently delighted to see me, she jumped off the bike and rushed to the door. The young man averted his glance and stared at the ground, hinting that my head was not covered. “Excuse me a minute,” I said, running back
into the house to get my headgear. Mother followed me back to the door, panting. “Is she back? Has she blabbered to the Committee? What trouble are we in now?”

When Mother appeared at the door, the young man greeted her respectfully. “Dear lady,” he said, “this girl is a distant relative of ours. Her father was a close associate of mine, God rest his soul, and we have known her family a long time.”

“According to her, though,” replied Mother, somewhat sarcastically, “she's all alone in this world. We've been told a hundred different versions. How come she's found family and friends now?” The young man ignored the remark and proceeded to produce an identity card, which he held in front of Mother's face. “I am an employee of Ghods Department Store and this is my ID,” he said assertively. “This young lady is my brother's fiancée. My brother was in the war front and took shrapnel in the back, which paralyzed him. We ask that you look after her for a while until we know what's going to happen to my brother. It is not right that you let her roam the streets.”

Zeynab furtively whispered in my ear, “He is lying. He is from the Committee.”

We were in a terrible bind now. If that was true, we had no choice but to do his bidding. Before he roared off on his bike, he told us emphatically that we were not to turn her over to anyone else. We would be responsible if something happened to her.

Back to square one, we thought. Zeynab was elated,
like a dog reunited with its owner. She threw off her chador and hung around my neck, kissing me on the cheek repeatedly. She then picked up the broom and started cleaning feverishly. “A ball of fire she is!” exclaimed Mother, unable to contain her delight with Zeynab's work. “I only wish she weren't off her rocker. Now that she has reported us to the Committee, we have no choice but to keep her for the time being.”

Auntie Malak was coming to lunch, and we were at a loss at what to tell her. A word about the Committee and she would have a heart attack. Mr. K would certainly sever relations with us altogether. So we called Auntie and postponed the lunch to another day, making some excuse. Meanwhile, Zeynab continued the work, humming under her breath, and occasionally stopping to chuckle for no reason at all. When she finished, she announced that she wanted to take a shower. This triggered the anxiety over the wine crates in the backyard. I went hurtling down the stairs to see if they had been taken away—and they hadn't been. Frustrated, I ran upstairs and told Zeynab to hold off on the shower. I signaled Mother to keep an eye on her while I hid the crates in the utility room. “What the hell,” said Mother impatiently. “Dump that filth down the toilet and throw away the bottles in an empty lot.”

The wine did not belong to us but it was proving to be a serious liability to keep in the house. As Zeynab started on her lunch, I emptied the wine, stuffed the bottles in a sack, and threw them in the trunk of the car. I drove all
the way to Gharb Township, where friends of ours were having construction done, and flung the sack in a deserted corner of the lot. When I got back, Zeynab had finished lunch and was stretched out on her mattress fast asleep. There was a glow on her face, making her look sated, safe, and cheery. And I felt depressed. I was developing an affection for her, and that made me feel conflicted and at odds with myself. Every time she prevaricated or made up a new cock-and-bull story, she looked prettier and more appealing, eyes glinting and cheeks blushing, as if the risk of being caught in a lie added to her attractiveness.

The doorbell rang. It was Mohammad Agha. He walked in quietly, looking somber and demure. He was his usual self—noble and dignified, inspiring trust. What a monster we had made of him! It was Zeynab who had ensnared us in her web of insane lies.

Deferentially, Mother invited him to take a seat and offered him tea. I turned to Zeynab and said that she should get packed and go with him. She grabbed my arm and drew me away, as she whimpered, eyes streaming, “I swear on the Koran, I swear to God, this man is worse than Shemr. He has ruined hundreds of girls. Believe me, if you go to his aunt's house, you'd see what I mean. If you force me to go with him, how will you answer to God? Or the Committee?”

As I went over to talk to Mother privately, Zeynab's eyes followed me intently and she stared at us as we conferred. Her face was in a constant state of flux, like undulating
forms on the surface of water, making it hard to fathom what lay beneath them. Her expression reflected fear and hope, sincerity and mischief. She looked so pitiful, and I felt simultaneously drawn to her and repulsed by her. Something enigmatic and mysterious pulsated from her that bewitched and frightened me at the same time—like dark unchartered terrain, full of promise and temptation but impenetrable and menacing, a disturbing dream unbound by the norms of reason and convention.

Once again, Zeynab looked guileless and vulnerable, moving in my direction to seek aid and solace. With eyes brimming with tears, in a voice soft and plaintive she whispered, “In the shower I was talking to God. I am not kidding. I don't say my prayers because I don't know the words but I talk to God. When Mohammad Agha brought me here, I thought I was going to heaven. Your mother was an angel. So were you. I was crying in the shower, telling God, they are good people; I must tell them the truth. Mohammad Agha told me not to open my mouth, or I'd be kicked out. But something made me talk. I couldn't lie to you folks.”

I was moved to uncertainty. She was telling the truth. Even if she wasn't, I had an overwhelming urge to believe her. I wanted her and her words to lower my defenses and overcome my resistance.

“This girl is crazy and a pathological liar. She has no idea who she is and where she comes from,” Mother had determined.

Perhaps, I thought. But who were we, I asked myself, with all the genealogical charts and documented vital dates, well-defined thoughts, carefully assessed plans, clearly demarcated philosophical grounds, trivial pursuits, and major apprehensions, who were we?

“Zeynab will stay with us,” I rumbled across the room. “We will not turn her over to anyone.” Mother was so shocked by my announcement she could have been knocked down by a feather. But before she could raise her voice, I repeated the verdict. My heart palpitated with an undefinable exhilaration.

Wordlessly, Mohammad Agha finished the tea and stood up. He mumbled something by way of leave-taking and departed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Zeynab gave a shrill yelp and began laughing, laughing spasmodically and endlessly. I could not tell if she was laughing with joy or having made a dupe out of me. It did not matter. I had done my deed and was happy about it. I had an urge to make her sit down and tell me her stories. I could also tell her the stories I had buried deep inside me. Perhaps Mother's plan of marrying her off to a decent man who could be put to work for my brother and sending their offspring abroad for education, etc., could now be implemented.

We sat down to lunch in an eerie silence. We were all deep in thought, as if trying to make sense of the events of the past few days. None of us felt at ease.

Around four in the afternoon, Zeynab awoke from
a nap and sat upright. “I had a terrible dream,” she announced cheerlessly, but did not elaborate.

Around sunset, a telephone call came from the young man, the employee of Ghods Department Store. He wanted to talk to Zeynab. Mother, like someone suddenly awakened from a sleep, was dazed and confused. She stared at me quizzically. From outside there were sounds of shouting and sporadic gunfire. I felt the onset of an anxiety attack and tried to collect my thoughts. Mother hurriedly drew the curtains tight and locked the front door, her face contorted with worry. Zeynab took the receiver and listened without saying a word. She seemed wan, and a bitter, defiant look came over her face. Her eyes lost that childlike impetuosity, looking more like those of a mature woman crushed under the weight of experience. She handed the receiver to my mother and said blankly, “I am leaving.”

As she went to fetch her bag, the man explained to my mother that his brother had decided to marry Zeynab. Their mother, a pious woman, he remarked, would like to keep her for a while. He added that, God willing, we would be invited to the wedding.

“Wonderful, congratulations,” intoned Mother reflexively. “Every young girl must marry someday.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Zeynab, almost disgustedly.

“Listen,” I told her urgently. “You don't have to go if you don't want to. Wait, my brother knows the Committee chief.”

“What Committee?” she said sneeringly.

“So,” I spat out, hurt and angry, “all that talk of a marriage and the department store employee is another one of your fabrications, huh?”

“What difference does it make?” she replied coldly, as she moved toward the door. “Unlucky folks are unlucky wherever they go.”

At the front door, she turned and gazed in my direction. “In my dream this afternoon,” she said, “I was in heaven, when a hand reached out and grabbed my hair and said I didn't belong there. I belonged in hell. I knew right there and then that I had to go.”

I wanted so badly to stop her. I wanted for once to do something from the heart, something fantastic and irrational, but was immobilized with indecision, not able to find the courage to act.

“What do you think,” asked Mother. “Was she telling the truth?”

GOLI TARAGHI
is a well-known and widely read novelist in Iran. Her works have been translated into several languages. Her latest collection of short stories,
The Pomegranate Lady and her Sons
, was recently published in the United States. Born in Tehran, Taraghi was educated in Iran and the United States, and presently lives in France.

¹
These so called committees were created in the course of the revolution to orchestrate demonstrations in urban neighborhoods against the former regime. Later, they were unofficially in charge of enforcing civil laws and Islamic standards of social conduct.

²
An agricultural region in central Iran.

Mermaid Café

Mitra Eliyati

ONE BY ONE
all the taverns and cafés in our small seaside town were shut down. The only one left was the Mermaid Café. Now a crowd of angry townsfolk was gathering in front of it. I was there with my buddy, Sohrab, waiting to see if the mob would attack the café. We thought we would rush in, and rescue the mermaid by lifting her off her perch above the doorway and running out the back door.

From where we were, we could hear her melancholy song. She was singing with such sadness it almost made me cry. The light from the naked bulb hanging over the door glistened off the slicked-back hair of the guys leaving the café.

Uncle Yusef had promised to take me to the Mermaid Café if I got high grades and finished top of my class. This never happened, because my father disapproved of the idea. “Not a place for kids and such,” he had ruled.

“This damn place should be closed down,” I heard Haj Yadollah's voice behind me. He then told the women
to stay away. There were some children milling around among the adults.

Two men, in black hats, went into the café. They slammed the door behind them so hard that the mermaid with the goblet in her hand was visibly shaken.

Every time I passed the café, I pretended I did not look at the mermaid's golden locks and curvaceous body.