The Shipwrecked (16 page)

Seconds pass slowly. Images become fainter in my eyes and the noise more distant. But some utterances pierce the hum and the sound of bursting soap bubbles in my ears.

“A woman is in labor . . . there's trouble . . . call emergency . . . only if she gets to the hospital fast . . . may God have mercy . . .” I think of tiny soap bubbles bursting in my head like a bomb exploding.

Khavar Khanom brings in an oil lamp and places it on a window ledge. The yellowish glow of the lamp dilutes the darkness. I now see that I am by myself and there is a gathering of ghostlike bodies around one spot near the entrance door. I walk in that direction past the second pool. Mommy Ati, her hands at her waist, is standing at the edge of the congregation next to the woman with the butch haircut talking to her. She is frowning, agitated. Now she sees me and is clearly upset.

“Where do you think you're going?” she yells at me. “Go sit down. You'll slip and fall.”

I walk slowly and gingerly, to assure her of my safety. The women have gathered in a tight circle around something or someone I cannot see. I cannot penetrate the tangle of wet and naked bodies. I slide down to the floor. The first thing I see is the blond hair spread over the dark-brown mosaic floor. I won't go any further to see the face and the rest of her body. I know she is the same tall, attractive woman who caught my attention in our last visit to the bathhouse. I vaguely recall what the woman with close-cropped hair was saying about her as she applied the imported shampoo to her short hair: “She'd had an easy pregnancy . . . she must be due any day, but has no swelling . . . It doesn't look like she's had any morning sickness . . . I bet it's a boy.”

I see the thin rivulet of blood flowing from under the woman's body to the drain cover. Over the din, I can only
catch snatches of the conversation my mother is having with the short-haired woman.

“Victim of evil eye . . . some people have evil eye . . . they're jealous . . . envious.”

The bomb has exploded at some distance from the bathhouse. With the soapsuds crackling in my ear, I may not have heard it. I can't stand here. My knees are shaking and I feel pins and needles in the soles of my pruning feet. I feel as if something malignant is growing inside of me. I straighten my back, standing at full height. I start walking toward the fourth shower stall which, according to Fariba, has the highest water pressure. On my way I notice Saj Ali's wife whimpering, cursing Saddam.
²
She is not trying to cover any part of her aging body. Somehow, I am amused. I swagger past her, walking as I think the blond woman, now sprawled on the floor, would walk. I feel secure and protected from public view in the semi-darkness of the bathhouse. I stand under the warm water spouting from the showerhead, imitating Mother's ablution ritual. The flow of warm water over my body feels heavenly. I have an urge to grab a razor and shave my legs to get rid of the pubescent fuzz, and the wrinkly knees that Mother likens to those of a camel. I think of grabbing the foul-smelling depilatory compound and smearing it all over my body to emerge white and spotless, like the pregnant woman now lying under the gaze of inquisitive eyes. I have a new and resurgent spirit in me, joyous and unafraid of whatever life may throw my way, even of Saj Ali, covering my face with wet and toothless kisses every time I deliver messages from his son on the front.

I emerge from the shower stall. The all-clear siren has sounded. The lights are back on, and there is no sign of the blond woman on the floor near the exit door, except for spots of her congealed blood mixed with soapsuds. I see Mommy Ati looking around, desperately searching for me. I straighten my back and walk upright as I pass the blood-smeared discarded bits of soap on the floor.

SHAHLA ZARLAKI
is a short story writer and essayist who lives in Tehran. Her short story collection,
We were Dinosaurs,
was published in Tehran in 2010.

¹
A reference to the Iran-Iraq War (1980–1988).

²
Saddam Hussein, the former president of Iraq.

The Wandering Cumulus Cloud

Zohreh Hakimi

THE SKYLARK HAS JUST LANDED
on the wall and begun its tuneful chirp when the rain starts to fall. There is a knock on the door.

“Poor bird!” I lament. “The rain starts just as he begins to sing.”

“Don't worry about the lark,” says my mother. “Go open the door.”

As I watch the bird, I move up the stairs to the entrance hall and open the door. I see Monir, and I'm taken aback by her appearance: she has a gash on her lower lip that extends down to her chin, her eyes puffy and red.

“Hello, Sis,” I blurt out, not knowing what else to say.

She pushes her way past me as she enters the hall.

“Hello,” she says perfunctorily. “Is Mother home?” she asks, some sharpness in her tone.

“Yes,” I reply mechanically. “She is in the yard.”

“Where's Father? Isn't he home?”

“No. I don't know where he is.”

She crosses the hall and I follow her as she runs down
the stair to the yard. “Hi,” she says to Mother, who is standing at the foot of the steps looking up, immobilized by Monir's appearance. Her glance moves from the gash on her lip to a large bruise on the side of her neck.

Monir drops the little sack she is carrying and sits on a step. She lowers her head to her knees and begins to sob. Mother opens her mouth in an effort to say something but she fails. Monir's sobbing echoes around the little yard.

“Oh my God,” Mother finally exclaims. “Has it happened again?”

Monir's shoulders tremble as she sobs uncontrollably.

“For heaven's sake, child,” Mother begs, “say something. I'm dying to know what happened.”

Monir's crying is now a muffled scream. “Mother,” she manages to articulate, “I am
not
going back to that house. If Father insists that I do, I swear to God I'll run away.”

Mother looks at me as if saying, “Here we go again!” She sits on the step next to Monir putting an arm around her shoulder. “Tell me again what happened,” she says.

“Just look at this,” Monir retorts as she points to her face. “What do you think happened?” She then pushed her sleeves up and displays cuts and bruises covering her arms. I avert my eyes.

“That is how the rest of my body looks,” Monir whimpers. “I can't bear this anymore, Mother.” With the cut on her lip and a swollen jaw she has difficulty uttering a word.

Mother, in agony, bites her lip and slaps the side of her face. “Look at that,” she exclaims. “May God break his arms!” It is only now that she notices the rain. “Let's go in,” she says. “We're going to get wet.”

“So I should expect to be beaten to death for Father to take pity on me?” Monir asks provocatively, as she gently touches her injured lip. “The first time you told me to go back to him and I did. This time you can't force me to go back.

“God help us all,” says Mother, shaking her head.

Now the rain is coming down in sheets. The lark is still perched on the wall, soaking wet.

WE CAN HEAR
Father in the yard clearing his throat noisily. Color drains from Monir's face. “Mother,” she implores, “please tell him I can't live with Rasool anymore. He is crazy. Please do your best to convince him to get my divorce.”

Father enters the room. “Hi,” the three of us say in unison. He is taken aback at the sight of us, but instantaneously he looks at Monir. “What happened to your face, Sweetie?” he asks, more curious than concerned.

“Oh, nothing,” Monir responds, evasively. “Mother will tell you.”

He casts a searching glance around the room. “Are you by yourself?” he wants to know. “Rasool didn't come with you?”

Monir shakes her head. “He'll come later,” she mumbles.

He strides across the room and goes to the balcony. Mother follows him there. Monir and I wait behind the door in anticipation of hearing their conversation. We can't hear what Mother says, but we hear Father loud and clear.

“That bastard had promised not to raise his hand on this kid,” he bellowed.

Mother's response was too muted for us to understand, but he hisses vehemently enough for us to hear, “Don't make a big thing out of it. So what if he has given her a whack or two?”

Again, an inaudible comment from Mother.

“She's done the wrong thing. This spoiled kid packs a bag and comes over here at the slightest excuse.”

Father is now positively yelling, “Who cares if she's got a few bruises? She's not dead, for heaven's sake. Does she tell us about when they're having their touchy-feely times together? So they should keep their arguments and rough times between themselves.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” we hear him burst out, “didn't I talk to him three months ago? Didn't he promise to behave himself? What if he turns around and says he'd divorce her? What could I say to that?”

We can only guess what Mother has said to get this reaction from Father: “The hell she has asked for divorce herself! Has she no consideration for family honor? I'm
not going to blow our reputation over this giddy-headed girl. Tell her that if she mentions the word divorce again, I'll disown her. I swear to God.”

“
MY DEAR AUNTIE
,” Monir says earnestly, “I swear on the Koran I can't bear this anymore. What have I done to deserve a lifetime of indignation and abuse?”

Auntie extends her feet into the spot of sunlight streaming in from the window and inhales deeply on the hookah pipe in front of her. The passage of air through the water in the glass urn makes the green leaves in it dance wildly. A large wasp buzzes loudly behind the windowpane. She watches the wasp as she puffs on the hookah.

“He wouldn't beat you for no reason at all,” Auntie says finally. “Perhaps you've disobeyed him in some way. Perhaps you've done something to set him off and make him see red.”

“No, no,” Monir insists, “I swear I never do anything wrong. He just gets up and starts beating on me for no reason at all. I swear he is crazy. Mother can tell you. All my body is black and blue.” She then reaches for Auntie's hand and holds it between hers.

“Auntie,” she pleads, “I beg of you, on your son's grave, tell Father to pursue my divorce.”

Auntie pushes the hookah away abruptly and looks at Mother, frowning. “What is this girl talking about?” She
asks, her voice laden with disapproval. “Who in our family has gotten a divorce for this to be the next?”

Mother lowers her head, clearly mortified. “I don't know. Just my bad luck.”

Auntie now addresses Monir, glaring. “Shame on you! Suppose he's beaten you over the head a couple of times. What of it? That's not a reason to bring up talk of divorce.” Turning to Mother, she continues, “What a way to raise children!” She hisses sarcastically. “Congratulations!” She goes on, “I have sent five daughters into marriage. You haven't heard a squeak from any of them. God knows what they have had to put up with so they wouldn't be called a divorcée.”

For a long moment, Auntie stares at Monir. “I suppose,” she says bitingly, “those poor girls now have to bear the shame of
your
divorce!”

THE SPICE SHOP
of our elder brother is heavy with the aroma of myriad spices. We stand in a corner and wait for him to take care of some customers.

“Hello,” I mutter, when the customers leave. Monir follows suit, somewhat hesitantly.

Big Brother acknowledges us, looking cool and distant.

“Father told me you're back again after a quarrel,” he says without looking at us.

Monir nervously adjusts the chador on her head. “That's why I came to see you, Big Brother,” she says in a
tremulous voice. “Please talk to Father, I beg of you. Get him to file a complaint with the family court,
¹
or give me permission to do it myself. Once Rasool sets foot in the court, everyone will see he is crazy.”

Big Brother flushes, arteries in his neck throbbing visibly.

“If you've lost your mind, I haven't,” he retorts. “I'm not that stupid to ask Father to get involved in that sort of thing. I suppose you mean ultimately to file for divorce.”

Silent tears roll down Monir's face. “What if I do?” she says. “Is that God's will for me to put up with this lunatic for the rest of my life?”

She then pushes the chador off her head to expose the injuries on her face and neck. Big Brother briefly gazes at her. Something darkens in his eyes as he lowers his glance. “Goddamn!” he mutters.

“Her whole body looks like that, Big Brother,” I venture. He looks at me as if he has just noticed my presence.

“Don't you have school and school work to do instead of getting involved in this?” he reproachfully asks.

“No school on weekends,” I respond.

Big Brother reaches for a cigarette in the drawer of the desk in front of him. As he strikes a match to light it, his hands tremble so hard he has trouble holding the flame to the cigarette.