man, too, reliving his past through a magnifying glass. Before he was arrested, Baba had spent his nights reading histories of the Qajar era, retelling the tales as if they were his own. At boarding school, Leila was shocked to discover that Persian history didnât exist.
Thirty years ago, Baba said, peasant families used to bring their sick relatives to his hospital and camp out in the waiting room. The doctors and nurses would have to pick their way among rolled-out carpets, charcoal stoves, an occasional goat. Everybody would be smoking and talking loudly, coming and going as they pleased until all hours of the night. They wanted to see with their own eyes what they stood to lose. What would she give now, Leila thought, to hear Baba telling these stories again?
Maman also had changed. Sheâd given up on her garden, leaving it untended and wild. The wells went dry and the fountain painted with doves lay crumbling in the sun. These days, Maman lived for the mirror. She devoted herself to preserving her beauty with expensive creams and an occasional face-lift in Londonâand to finding a suitable husband for Leila. There would be an interesting young man at Aunt Parvinâs party tonight, a physics student from the States who was home for the winter break. He was an identical twin, Maman said, a lucky trait.
How could she be matchmaking at a time like this?
A fig tree spread its meager canopy over her brotherâs plot, which was littered with rotten fruit. The seeds stuck out dully from the pulp like crooked teeth. An unruly vine was wound around the trunk, giving off an acrid scent that permeated everything. Leila imagined her whole family dead and buried beside Hosein, their bones slowly hollowing, submitting to the quiet claw of decay. For an instant, she longed to scratch each of their names in the dry earth.
âAre you still there?â Leila kicked the edge of her brotherâs grave, dislodging a clod of dirt. She remembered their last day together: the stir of Hoseinâs sheets, the taut warmth of him in her hand, the look from him that inhabited her still. Certain things, she decided, just couldnât be erased. At boarding school, Leila liked to dress in her brotherâs old clothesâhis silk shirts and sweatpants, his sleek brown socks worn at the heels. In this way, sheâd kept him close.
The wind blew hard against Leilaâs lambâs-wool jacket.
Leilaleilaleila.
A leaf floated past her face, dispersing the words. A thin lizard, encrusted with mud, waited at the foot of the grave. She listened for her name again, but nothing around her stirred. The insects mutely looted the last of the fruit.
âHelp us, Hosein. Please help us find Baba,â Leila prayed. âTell me he isnât dead. Tell me heâll be returned to us soon.â
Haq! Haq!
Leila looked up, half hoping to catch a glimpse of the Bird of Truth. Instead she saw a dull brown thrush with thickset feathers singing off-key. What was it doing here in the bitter middle of winter?
A sudden excess of light scattered the skyâs fragile blue, then disappeared altogether. Raindrops pricked her scalp. Leila unwrapped her cinnamon bark and placed it on Hoseinâs grave, securing it with a stone. The fig tree shed its final shadow. Then she hurried back to the waiting taxicab.
âHome,â she told the driver. âI want to go home.â
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