The Lemon Grove Page 9

  Twelve

  O ANCIENT CITY, I MURMUR as we pass under the Koran Gate, keep me safe and lead me on. Beloved city of poetry, roses, and nightingales, city of Hafez and Saadi, surviving the centuries in this valley squeezed between ragged mountains, standing in witness to times of love and peace, war and destruction. Your beauty saved you from the wildest of men. Even the Mongols bowed low, learned your language and your music, and were dazzled by your gardens and the magic of your poets. But what can save you from the wars of modern man and the enemies within and without, the ones who want love to die? Can they be fought with poems and roses?

  Beloved city, keep me safe and keep Shireen and Ruzbeh safe if they are here within your walls. And shield me from those who are the enemies of love.

  We speed past the Hafezieh with it’s domed tomb surrounded by tall cypress trees, and I wish I could tell Kemal to stop the motorcycle so I can get off and walk in the garden and visit the resting place of the poet, but I have to do what I came here for. The city park with its old maple trees reminds me of my high school days when I used to hang out there with friends. Downtown Shiraz is bustling with people, traffic, and exhaust. As we travel toward the house, the city becomes greener and the air more fragrant. The tall trees of the famous Bagh-e Eram become visible behind the garden wall.

  I didn’t want Kemal to come with me to the house. In case of any problems, I think it would be better if he’s not there. He leaves me some distance away, wishes me luck, and says he’ll come by and wait for me at the entrance of the alley to the house.

  Keeping my head down, I walk toward the house. My legs are rattling from the ride and I am still dizzy from the roar of the motorcycle and smell of its exhaust. I must hurry. The sun is setting and evening is on the way. I walk fast and try not to attract attention. The darker it gets the safer it is, but only before the night patrols come onto the streets. The words of the Koran are being broadcast from a minaret. A group of people with black-and-green banners stand in front of the mosque. Guards and mullahs, some in black turbans and some in white, are gathered by the door. I rush past them, trying not to think about the day I saw a similar group in the square, waiting for the stones to be cast.

  The walls along the street leading to the house are painted with revolutionary pictures and slogans—“Down with America,” “Islam is our way, Khomeini is our guide.” Farther on there is a portrait of Khomeini looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Nothing escapes his notice. At the bakery, a group of women in black chadors are standing with their children, waiting to buy bread. I realize how hungry I am and how long it’s been since I’ve had any freshly baked bread. When I get to the corner with the news kiosk, I think of stopping. The owner knows me and I see him inside. He’s reading and a cigarette is dangling from his lips. I wish I could ask him if he’s seen Ruzbeh or Shireen, but decide I can’t risk it. Glancing at him I walk past quickly.

  People are standing in line at the butcher shop and the grocery store, trying to finish their shopping and hurry home before the blackout starts. A few guards are patrolling the streets. There are piles of garbage here and there along the sidewalk and the sharp smell of car exhaust. A mass of dust and paper rises up and showers down with every vehicle that goes by. I walk past a street dog, skinny and nervous, searching through the trash.

  It’s getting darker and people are moving like shadows under the dim streetlights. Soon all the lights will be off, out of fear of the nightly MiG raids. Suddenly my shirt is pulled from behind and I have the impulse to run. I turn to see a beggar who mumbles, “Ko-mak, mahze khoda komak. Noon nadarm”—Help, for God’s sake, help, I’ve no bread. Having nothing to give him, I pull myself free and walk away at a faster pace.

  A block or so before the alley, a band of boys, belts in hand, are noisily engaged—it’s hard to say if they are playing or fighting. A couple of them are trying to hold down a boy who is struggling to get away. One is snapping a belt in the air and yelling, “Keep him down.” I wonder if they are imitating a scene from the public floggings in the city square. They stop and stare at me, and for a moment I debate with myself whether they are planning to attack me or intimidate me. I rush by, remembering the days when I walked with my high school friends through these same streets without ever seeing such a thing. Our excitement was spending time in bookstores or at the movies. Who knows where my friends are now, especially those who were Jewish or Baha’is. I suppose that they are gone—vanished one way or another. Some I know are out of the country, but others may have been killed in the uprisings or are probably in jail.

  I can’t get caught up in the past. I need to concentrate on getting to the house and finding the briefcase without letting other things cloud my mind. In the alley, I slow down and look around. The alley is empty. At the door I manage to push the key in but can’t help thinking of the night Shireen stood here with the zealots shouting at her and I was on the other side of the door, not having the courage to open it. I quickly turn the key, step into the courtyard, and close the door behind me, wondering if anyone saw me or if anyone is inside the house. I don’t care anymore if they are waiting for me. The lemon and orange trees along the path to the house make it darker at this time of the day. At the front door, I don’t hesitate, go in, and wait in the dark. I listen for any sound before turning on the flashlight that Kemal gave me.

  “Ruzbeh? Ruzbeh, are you here? It is me—Behruz.”

  Nothing. My God, what has happened here? The house is empty and the beam of my flashlight hits piles of what is left here and there. The carpets and the furniture are gone. And my books and tapes have been thrown on the floor.

  “Ruzbeh, are you here?” I call softly, going from room to room, but I don’t hear anything.

  The space under the staircase smells of dampness. The staircase zigzags in front of me and at the moment I raise my hand to push the board in, the thought hits me that the briefcase is not there. Either the people who have rampaged the place have stolen it like the rest of the household or Mother has taken it with her. I don’t know why I didn’t think about this in advance. I should have gone to Mother and asked her.

  I push the board hard and it falls back with a dry cracking sound. Holding my breath and standing on my toes, I reach inside. My fingers touch the briefcase and I grab it and pull it out quickly. The soft dust scatters and makes me sneeze violently. I realize that Musa couldn’t reach this high. He must have been looking under the step below. Then again, maybe I didn’t explain very well.

  Happy that I’ve found the briefcase but wondering why Mother hadn’t taken it, I continue to look around and see that the first step in confiscating the house has occurred. Everything valuable has been taken. The final step would be some government person moving in. I wonder whether they would ever think of the people who once walked this hallway or were born or died here. Would they be fond of gardening and have a row of jasmine pots by the entrance the way Mother used to?

  I look around for a few more minutes on the first floor. I don’t want to go upstairs. The idea of going into Shireen’s bedroom upsets me, but what if Ruzbeh is there? I walk up the old stairs, whose creaking breaks the silence. There’s no evidence that Ruzbeh is here. I search the room and look in the closet. I wish I could find some sign of Shireen. I would like to find a dress of hers and wrap it around me, hide my face in it, but all the clothes are gone, all her jewelry is gone too. I try to smell the perfume she used to wear, but there is nothing, only the smell of damp air. The bed is pushed to the middle of the room with the mattress pulled halfway off. I push it back and long to see Shireen lying there, stretched out with her head resting on her arm, gazing at me as I walk back and forth and tell her about America.

  I stand there looking at the bed when suddenly I hear something in the yard and run downstairs to the front door, thinking someone is coming in. No one is there, but there is something. I can hear something in the house, some strange noise coming from inside. I run through the yard and down the alley and o
ut onto the street, hoping to find Kemal where he said he would be waiting. It’s dark and the street is deserted. I find Kemal standing there by his motorcycle and run toward him, panting. He starts the motorcycle and I jump on behind, clasping the briefcase to my chest, unable to get rid of the thought that Ruzbeh was in the house.

  Thirteen

  IN THE PAST TWO DAYS my sickness has returned—the same fever and chills that leave me feeling numb. What little progress I’ve made in the past few weeks seems to be lost. It all began after the trip to the city. I started to feel hot and then in a few minutes was shivering as if I’d been thrown into ice water.

  Musa has been staying late the past few nights and giving me all sorts of boiled herbal medicines. He believes that golgav zaban, a purple flower boiled with rock sugar, is good for a fever because it has been used to cure the sick since the old days.

  Last night under the dim kerosene lamp—it must have been at the height of my fever—I opened the old leather case. I had been avoiding doing this, thinking that I might find family secrets that would cause me anxiety.

  Everything inside was in disarray and had an old, dusty smell. All I needed the briefcase for was for the deed to the Naranjestan. I searched for it among the papers and envelopes and eventually started to organize everything. I was distracted by the old black-and-white photographs, looking at them and setting them aside. Some were taken in the gardens of the house in Shiraz, some here in the Naranjestan. And then there were the ones I sent from America—pictures of Juanita when we were traveling together. I was surprised to find letters I wrote to Shireen when I was in the United States. Some dated from the first few weeks after I arrived and were full of emotion and nostalgia. Also the letters that I wrote asking Shireen and Ruzbeh to come to the United States were there, plus the ones where I had described my political activities with the international students in response to Shireen’s letter about the student uprising in Shiraz and the women’s activities she was involved in prior to the revolution. Later I wrote of my concern for Ruzbeh after his injury and to respond to Shireen’s request that I come back to Iran for his sake.

  While I was reading and daydreaming, I heard noises outside. Someone was walking around. Then I heard whispering. Panicked, I shoved everything inside the briefcase and blew out the lamp. I was sure that someone had seen me in the city and followed me here. Then it occurred to me that Kemal and Musa could be up to something, maybe thinking that I had money in the briefcase. I ran out the back door and hid among the trees, watching the house for I don’t know how long. I dozed off a few times, but not seeing anything came back nervously. I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night and early in the morning searched the soft dirt around the building. It’s impossible, I thought. There must be footprints. Someone had been here in the middle of the night—I was sure of it. But I found no footprints. Could it be I imagined it at the height of my fever? Or was it just the wind? I went back inside, feeling feverish and tired, and lay down.

  Now I feel a little better and sitting at my usual spot by the dry stream waiting for Kemal and Musa. Kemal hasn’t been around since we went to the city and Musa should be bringing his herds for an afternoon watering. I have the open briefcase beside me and plan to organize everything, the pictures and letters and documents, putting them in piles and tying them up. I found the deed to the Naranjestan among the papers and put it aside. Among the other documents were the deed to the house in the city and the one in the village, the birth and death certificates—even my grandparents’ and great-grandparents’, and the marriage certificates—my parents’ yellowing and brittle and Shireen and Ruzbeh’s on clean white parchment. Ruzbeh’s and Shireen’s high school diplomas—I couldn’t find mine, if I had taken it to America with me I’m sure I lost it there—and their university transcripts were there as well, plus their passports with expired U.S. visas. There was a surprise too—the birth and death certificates of my sister, a girl named Parvaneh, who lived for only a few months and died before Ruzbeh and I were born. I thought of her name, Parvaneh, which means butterfly. Mother had never mentioned her. Neither had Father. I thought of how Mother used to say Shireen was like her own daughter, when she was small and played with us in the Naranjestan.

  I hear Musa calling from the platform and realize I must have dozed off. Kemal is standing beside him. I didn’t hear or see them coming. Smoke is rising from the fire. Musa is probably preparing his water pipe and some herbal tea for me. I carefully gather all the papers and pictures and put them back in the briefcase, wondering if Kemal and Musa have seen them.

  Before joining them, I walk to the Naranjestan, looking at the trees. There are many lemons scattered under them. They wouldn’t have lost so much of their fruit if they had been irrigated in the spring and summer. I can’t imagine where they get the moisture they need and how some have managed to bear a few fruits. They are covered with dust and rough to the touch. I wonder if the trees are aware of the desert extending toward them.

  As I walk back to the house I see Kemal and Musa watching me. I suppose that I look odd carrying the briefcase. They’re probably wondering what’s in it that I’ve risked going to the city for and why I am carrying it around. I go and sit on the platform, wanting a cup of tea before I talk to them or show them the documents and tell them what I’ve done.

  Musa has everything ready. He puts a cup of tea in front of me, the sweet steam rising, and urges me to drink. I pick up the cup, drinking slowly, and watch the fields and the Naranjestan. Things seem unusually quiet. The only sound is the bubbling of Musa’s water pipe. There’s no wind, and from here the trees look calm, as if they are resting. Musa fills up my cup again. Kemal says nothing. He seems agitated, and I wonder what they were talking about before I got here.

  I open the briefcase, take out the deed to the Naranjestan, and hand it to Kemal. He looks at me and then at the paper. He realizes what it is and starts to read it through. I take a sip of tea, keeping the sweet, warm liquid in my mouth before swallowing. I see that Musa is uneasy. He glances at Kemal, who continues reading.

  I can sense that Kemal doesn’t believe what he is reading. He looks at me without a word and then turns his eyes back to the deed. At the bottom of the deed I have written a note signing my share of the property over to him and Musa. Kemal hands the paper to Musa without looking at me. As Musa slowly reads, I see the wrinkles twitching in his face. He looks at me, then at Kemal.

  I have added at the bottom of the deed that Musa is a partner, that Kemal must pay the expenses of my mother and Shireen’s mother while they are alive, and that if Shireen or Ruzbeh ever come back, they have to be taken care of as well. As for me, I’ve given myself no rights to anything—not the lemon grove, the water, or the land.

  I wish I could know their thoughts, but both are silent. Then Kemal gets up and walks out to the Naranjestan. I watch him walking among the trees as if he were giving them the news. Musa doesn’t move. He takes his handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his bad eye. It’s obvious he doesn’t approve. He doesn’t know that what I’ve done is not for him or Kemal or my sick mother or my wandering brother. Not even for myself. It is for the Naranjestan. I can’t see it so thirsty any longer. I did it for the trees and the fields—for the trees I hate to see so barren and for the fields I can’t bear to see so scorched. I did it for the water. The water that I don’t want to be imprisoned in the well any longer but running free over this land, turning it green as in my childhood memories.

  I think this is the best, maybe the only, thing I’m capable of doing at this time. The property is mine and Ruzbeh’s, but I can’t understand why it should belong to me, who has worked on it not even an hour. Should it be mine just because I was born into the family that owned it for generations?

  I sit for a while and then get up and go to the Naranjestan, where a soft wind is singing through the lemon trees, and think of the days when we wondered whether there were jinnis living in the orchard and wished they would appear to grant our
wishes.

  Fourteen

  I’VE LOST COUNT OF THE coming and going of the days, so slow in passing, and the nights, host to darkness and anxieties. My health gets worse each day. I’m either burning with fever or shivering with chills. It is as if my body and mind are being prepared for their end.

  The weather too has undergone a metamorphosis. The air has picked up the sharp coldness of fall. Unlike the summer wind that loved to linger and sweep up to the dome of the sky whatever was in its path, the autumn wind blows constantly and is in a hurry. It howls and moves low to the ground with no particular direction, like an escaped prisoner running away from everything and everyone, not knowing where to go. I feel its chill constantly, no matter how long I lie in the sun or sit near the fire that Musa makes. My lungs won’t accept the cold air and push it out quickly, feeling like they are going to collapse at any moment.

  In the afternoon sun, the distant village is one with the bare fields beyond. A lone dog is barking and a sad voice carries with the wind. Maybe it’s the cry of a mother mourning her lost child. Or the moaning of someone wandering aimlessly in the desert. I look toward the village road and search for the shapes of a woman and two children—Kemal’s family. They’ve been coming to the Naranjestan since the day I handed over the deed. His wife brings food and prepares tea for us and has cleaned up the house and washed the old blankets and pillows. She’s a young woman with a round face and, unlike the city women, dresses in bright-colored clothes. After lunch she draws water from the well and washes the dishes and makes tea before going back to the village. Sometimes the children stay all day and Kemal takes them home on his motorcycle. Musa’s wife never comes here—he says she is old and has bad knees. The children play in the Naranjestan without coming near me. Their mother keeps her distance too. The boy, Amir, is six years old, with a sharp curiosity in his eyes. The little girl, Golboo, is four years old and has long black hair and the look of a sleepy cat. A few times I have thought about walking to the village, to see it up close, walk its narrow alleys, visit the school, and see where Musa and Kemal live. And if I can gather up my courage, possibly visit Mother.