A Persian Requiem by Simin Daneshvar
“Has she been talking a lot of nonsense?” the old man asked Zari softly.
“On the contrary,” Zari replied quietly, “she made a lot of sense.”
“You see how the old man is going senile?” shouted Khanom Massihadem abruptly. “Why don’t you ask Tal’at what goes on on the other side? What happens after the end? Because she’s been there and back, you know. I thought she’d disappeared into that pitcher of water and I was too frightened to drink. Or I’d think she’s gone inside the flowers and I wouldn’t look at them. It’s all the rubbish you’ve been saying, you daft old man, and now my brain’s out of order.” Then she mimicked the old man, “‘Only death is true, the rest is a lie.’ Tal’at, for God’s sake tell him that Death had wings and took you away. He keeps telling me I’ve tired myself out and I’m just imagining things.”
“I have to go now,” Zari said.
The old man accompanied her to the door. “I’ve brought a pair of scissors to cut her hair,” he whispered; “she can’t stand to see her mother and relatives, and won’t let them near her. Do you know how to cut hair? It really gets in her way.”
“I know how to do it, but it’s getting late and I’m expecting guests tonight.”
“Can’t you spare five minutes?”
Maybe the patient heard the old man’s whisper or had guessed what he was saying. “Have you gone mad?” she screamed, clutching her hair tightly with both hands.
“Your hair will grow out thicker than ever in less than a month, my dear,” he said. “By then you’ll be healthier yourself and have a little more weight on you. I want to throw sugar-plums over your head with my own hands at your wedding. But hurry up and get well, my dear. I’m an old man.”
What a soothing voice he has, Zari marvelled. He could tame anyone with that voice—a person with delusions, a person in a hurry …
Khanom Massihadem motioned to Zari, saying, “Come closer, I want to tell you something in your ear.”
Turning to the old man, she said, “You go to the end of the room and shut your ears.”
Zari was forced to bring her head close to the woman while she whispered, “When you cut my hair, plunge the sharp end of the scissor into my artery, will you?”
Then she sat obediently while Zari wet her hair, combed it, and cut it short like a boy’s. When she’d finished, Zari handed the scissors back to the old man. For a minute their eyes met; Zari looked into his bright and lively gaze which belied his age. The old man nodded knowingly and Zari realized he had guessed her secret. The old man put the scissors back in his pocket and Zari said goodbye, not certain whether the sparkle in those eyes was somehow a reflection of the snowy-white eyebrows or whether it was from his new-found knowledge. Khanom Massihadem, who had been staring at them, suddenly shouted, “Get lost! Go drown yourself. Go to the other side …” And again she started to shake her head.
Zari was about to step out of the room when the head nurse arrived with a pill wrapped in some paper. She gave it to Zari.
“I had to go out and buy it for you,” she said. “The warden went to the Department of Health this morning for our supplies of medicine, and he’s not back yet. We’ve no drugs at all. If we don’t get some by tonight, with all these lunatics …” She didn’t finish her sentence, but walked over to the pitcher of water in the corner of the room. She took the glass from the top of the pitcher while Zari unwrapped the paper to take out the pill.
“Wait, Khanom Zahra. Pain-killers are not too good for pregnant women,” said the doctor.
“Do you know me?” Zari asked in amazement. After a pause, she said, “I recognized you too. You’re Dr Abdullah Khan.”
And again she stared at him. The man looked as if he had knowledge of all the secrets in the world. “If only his fingers would touch my forehead …” she thought, “this is a man who’s healed people all his life; he has comforted them, guarded their secrets and only brought them to their attention for their own good.”
But Zari was in a hurry. She had to get home as quickly as possible. Her headache was getting worse, and her heart felt no lighter than Khanom Massihadem’s. McMahon was coming to dinner, and she kept praying he hadn’t arrived yet so she could at least rest for half an hour in a darkened room.
Outside, Gholam was sitting in the droshke next to the driver, smoking a pipe. When he saw her, he jumped out, emptied his pipe, and helped her to get in. The droshke seemed to move along so slowly, the horses shying each time they passed a car, and Zari began to feel as if they would never get home. But they did, finally.
Yusef and McMahon were sitting in the cane chairs on the pavement in front of the house. Mina and Marjan were sitting on McMahon’s lap, leaning over the table. With one hand he was holding the children and with the other he was turning the pages of a book they were looking at. When Zari reached the twins, they laughed and clapped their hands. The men and the children seemed very cheerful. But Zari knew that if she sat down next to them, some of the sadness in her heart would infect them too. With her splitting headache, she hadn’t the strength to smile and put on a pleasant face. When McMahon saw her, he carefully lowered the children to the ground and rose to his feet. They shook hands.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Zari apologized. “I’ll go to the kitchen for a minute and then I’ll be with you.”
She went straight to the bedroom and threw herself on the bed fully dressed, burying her head in the pillow and with it the pain that was radiating from her eyes, ears and left jaw. “If this pain doesn’t go away,” she thought, “I’ll ruin their evening.” She decided for a moment to take two aspirins, then she remembered Dr Abdullah Khan’s words and changed her mind. The old man had not spent a lifetime treating people for nothing! He was wise, and held the key to many a secret. How quickly he had managed to guess her condition with those bright eyes of his!
Someone came in and switched on the light.
“Put it off!” Zari ordered.
“Are you sleeping?” It was Yusef’s voice.
“Please turn the light off.”
Yusef did as he was told and went to her side, sitting on the floor.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
“I have a headache,” said Zari.
Yusef removed his wife’s shoes and put them quietly on the floor. Then he came closer and massaged her neck and her temples.
“Would you like me to get you some vinegar to smell?” he asked gently.
“You go to your guest. When I feel better I’ll come too.”
“I can ask him to leave.”
“No. But I’ll feel more comfortable if you go to him.”
Yusef left, and it was a while before he came back again. Switching on the bedside lamp, he said, “Turn your head towards me so I can begin my treatments. I bet you’ll feel better.”
Zari turned around. Yusef was holding a tray which he placed on the vanity stool. On the tray was a bowl of steaming hot water. He dipped a small towel into it, wrung it and put it on his wife’s face. He repeated that several times, then holding her head in an embrace, tried to make her take some hot lemon and honey. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her ears, and said soothingly, “Close your eyes and go to sleep now.” He put two cotton wool swabs moistened in rose-water on her eyes, and said, “Why do you tire yourself out like this?”
Zari suddenly burst into tears. “Why should there be so much unhappiness?” she sobbed.
Yusef picked up the wads of cotton wool which had fallen on the pillow, dipped them again in rose-water, squeezed them and placed them on Zari’s eyes. “You’re not responsible for all the unhappiness, you know,” he said.
Zari sat up abruptly and the cotton wool swabs fell into her lap again. “And you’re not, either!” she exclaimed. “So why do you put yourself in danger?” And after a pause, “I saw Fotouhi. He’s decided against collaborating with you.”
“Now I understand. That frightened you, and it gave you a headache.”
“That wasn’
“Someone has to do something …”
“If I beg you not to be that someone, will you agree?”
“Listen my love, if you start getting restless and impatient, it will distract me from what I’m doing.”
Zari threw herself into her husband’s arms and said, “We have three children and one more on the way. I’m so frightened, Yusef!”
“Would you like me to read you a Hafez poem and see what he predicts for us?”
“No!”
“Would you like me to bring the radio in this room and play you some music?”
“No. Just promise me you won’t be the one person to change things. I know you people want to go down to Khuzestan and do something dangerous there.”
“I have a good idea. McMahon’s story has been published. I’ll ask him to come here and read it to you. I know it will make you feel better.”
“All right,” Zari agreed. “Prop up the pillows behind me. I’ll sit up. I feel better already.” But she was only pretending.
Khadijeh came in first. She had come to take away the tray. “May all your troubles be on my head!” she exclaimed. “The master was frightened out of his mind, thinking you’d caught this disease that’s going round the town.” She went away for a few minutes and reappeared with a small round table from the parlour on which she arranged some glasses and drinks. Zari had given her instructions for everything that morning. She had even prepared the stuffing for the chicken herself that afternoon before going to the asylum, telling Khadijeh to leave it in a basket over the cistern to keep it cool.
“Ameh Khanom hasn’t returned yet?” she asked Khadijeh.
“No, she hasn’t,” Khadijeh replied, adding with a sigh, “If only it were God’s will for me to go on a pilgrimage too! Perhaps she might think of getting me a fake dashport or whatever they call it, from that fellow. I’m not about to go to Karbala yet, but I would hide it until the Imam is willing to receive me, his humble and sinful servant.” She paused, then continued, “I broke an egg as an augury to find out who had fixed the evil eye on you, and it turned out to be the master himself!”
When Khadijeh had left, Khosrow and Hormoz came in. Khosrow threw an arm round his mother, saying, “Hello, mother dear! Would you like me to fan you a little?” Then, “What can I do to make you better?” Hormoz was smiling, and asked after Zari’s health as he stood politely by the bed. Khosrow put his face next to his mother’s and said, “Mother, please can Hormoz and I have our dinner in my room?”
“Why, dear?”
“We’ve decided never to speak to English officers again from now on. We’re not even going to have anything more to do with their Indian soldiers.”
“But McMahon isn’t English, he’s Irish.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Hormoz.
“He’s not even an officer, he’s a reporter,” said Zari.
“Well he’s probably a spy,” said Hormoz, “otherwise why shouldn’t a young man like him be wearing an officer’s uniform in wartime? He’s younger than Singer, isn’t he? I’m sure Singer sends him here to find things out from my uncle.”
“You shouldn’t judge people like that when you don’t know anything about them,” Zari reprimanded gently. She was about to go on and tell them that McMahon even dreamed of independence for his country and wrote revolutionary poetry, but she decided against it and just gave them permission to have dinner in Khosrow’s room. She wasn’t in the mood for explaining or defending.
As the boys were leaving, Zari said, “Khosrow, tell Khadijeh to give the twins their dinner and put them to bed.”
When Yusef came in, he switched on the light, even though the bedside lamp was still on. The bright light bothered Zari’s eyes, but she didn’t complain. When McMahon came in, he reached out and put on the dressing-table light, and sat on the stool in front of it. Zari had not noticed until then that the middle finger on his left hand was missing. He had gained weight, and seemed to have more wrinkles on his forehead.
“I hear your story has been published,” said Zari. “I’m glad.”
McMahon smiled. “I’ll read it to you, even though I’m afraid your headache might get worse!” He said. Turning to Yusef, he added, “Are you rationed for drink?” He was speaking English distinctly that night. Maybe he was trying to modify his thick Irish accent or perhaps even to hide it.
He took a sip and began. His voice was like a lullaby and Zari closed her eyes. Yusef sat next to her on the bed.
19
The old Charioteer gathered up his flowing white beard, a souvenir of millions and millions of years, and used it to dust the Golden Chariot of the Sun. Then he reached for the gold key which was dangling from his belt and headed for the East. Yes, it was time now. The Sun would be arriving wearily on his way. The old man opened the gate to the East with his key. The Sun was late today. But finally he showed up, yawning and dusty from his travels. The Charioteer brushed off the dust from the Sun with his thick white beard, and polished his beams. The Sun climbed into the Chariot, ready to begin his journey across the sky. But he didn’t start right away, and the Charioteer waited.
“The Master sent you a message,” said the Sun, “that’s why I was delayed.”
“His wish is my command,” replied the old Charioteer.
“He sent His regards and said He wants you to clean out the Celestial Attic right away, throwing out or burning all the odds and ends. But His most important instruction is for you to take out the stars belonging to His subjects from the attic and send them down to Earth. He wants everyone to take possession of their stars from now on.”
“Do you think cleaning out the Celestial Attic is such an easy thing to do?” grumbled the old Charioteer. “We’ve stored things in there for over five hundred thousand years; you can hardly find anything for all the rubbish.”
“You know the Master,” said the Sun. “When He gives an order, He means it.”
With that, the Sun took off, and the old Charioteer was left to clear out the Celestial Attic, mumbling under his breath as he went, “Why doesn’t He just wipe out the whole species from the face of the Earth and be done with it! They’ll never be up to any good, these humans! What a waste to have blessed them with a spark of His own spirit! After all, they go back to that unruly creature, the ape. When He was watching over them Himself, they never stopped bringing disasters upon each other; now He wants to give them a free rein over their own lives! How he spoils these earthlings! How He lets them get away with things. Ever since they managed to stand on two legs, He has become very excited and talks of nothing but the ‘noble human race’! I know all about that noble race. From what I hear, they have few talents besides slaughtering and oppressing one another …”
Grumbling, he walked on until he reached the Celestial Attic. There, he first reached for the Tablets of Destiny, stone and clay tablets which had the fortunes of people predicted and written out in an outlandish script. He broke up all the tablets and threw them away into space. He also disposed of the remaining odds and ends like old wings belonging to angels and cherubs, burnt-out stars and meteors which had never reached their destinations … Then he started on the files belonging to ancient gods. What a huge pile! He collected them all in a corner of the attic and went to the adjacent hall where replicas of the ancient gods were stored. There were all kinds of gods … tree gods, serpent gods, star-, fish-, and sun-gods, and finally, both winged and wingless human gods. In a corner of the hall he spied a battle-axe, which he used to chop down Ashur and Shiva.
He had had his fill of these gods. Suddenly he caught sight of Gilgamesh, the legendary hero. “How dare you!” He exclaimed in surprise. “Posing as one of the gods …!”
In a twinkling, the old Charioteer turned him into dust and blew him away.
When he got to the beautiful, shapely goddesses, the ol
Before long, the old man began to feel hot. He came out of the hall to look at the sky. The Sun, in his Golden Chariot, had reached the mid-point of the heavens. The Charioteer returned to the attic and pulled out the papers concerning the holy cities and mountains … records of the cities of Ur, Nineveh (later named Karbala), Benares, Chichen Itza, Jerusalem and other holy places, as well as records of the Himalayas, the Zagros mountains, Mount Olympus, the Andes, Mount Sinai, the Calcutta Hill, Mount Hera and any other mountain frequented by the ancient gods or used by them for their rendezvous with a favoured mortal. All these records he put on top of the files of the ancient gods.
There was almost nothing left now in the Celestial Attic except for one file containing several pages on the sacred trees … the Tree of Knowledge, the Lotus Tree, and others. On the rest of the pages were lists of talismans, prayers and other palliatives which the Master had created over the past five hundred thousand years for his noble human race. The old Charioteer picked up all the papers and records and existing files from the Celestial Attic and piled them in one corner of the sky. Then he rubbed his hands together and made a spark which he held out to the pile, setting everything on fire.
The old man didn’t wait to watch them burn. Instead, he went to the cupboard where he stored and locked away all the stars which he had swept up with his celestial broom from the sky every dawn. After all, if he didn’t stow away the stars somewhere for safe-keeping, they would be scattered all over the sky and anyone passing through might choose to play marbles with them. Anyone, even the Sun, or the idle angels and cherubs. He removed the gold key to the cupboard which hung around his neck, opened the cupboard and called out, “Children! Come along and give me a hand!” His voice echoed round the heavens, and from every corner of the sky, millions of cherubs rushed to his aid. In a twinkling, they had prepared all sorts of sacks and bags sized according to every city, town and village of every earthly country, and they also made a variety of ladders with sun-beam rungs to go down to Earth.