plane was loaded with things children like. This plane would fly over the towns to drop whatever toys the children wanted.”
“But they’ll break!” Marjan exclaimed.
“No, the plane flew low over the houses, and the children held out their skirts underneath the plane. Then the pilot dropped whatever they wanted into their skirts.”
“What about Khosrow?” Marjan asked. “Khosrow doesn’t have a skirt.”
“You’re right,” Zari smiled. “But the pilot also gave toys and things to boys even though they don’t wear skirts. Sometimes he stopped his plane on the roof and …”
“Would he give toys to the child who was throwing stones?” Marjan interrupted.
“Of course,” said Zari.
“Oh good.”
“Now where was I?” Zari continued. “Oh yes. The pilot stopped the plane on a rooftop and picked up the good children and took them to the sky with him. They flew past the stars, past the moon. They flew past them so closely they could reach out and gather thestars and put them in their lap.”
“Tell him to bring his plane on our roof,” Marjan piped up again, “and give Sahar to Khosrow … all right?”
“All right,” Zari promised; “now go to sleep.” It occurred to her that if the twins were developing a memory even for recent events, they were no longer babies.
As soon as the children were asleep, Zari went out on to the verandah. Ameh was still sitting there, with her hand under her chin, staring at the cold brazier in front of her.
“Are you thinking of your journey?” Zari asked.
Ameh lifted her head. Zari was taken aback to see tears in her eyes.
“Yes, sister,” Ameh answered. “Even if my heart is sad and heavy, it doesn’t mean that’s all there is in the whole world. Now that it’s too late for happiness in this life, I want at least to prepare for my peace afterwards. They say whoever is buried next to the Imam won’t have to answer to Nakir and Monkir. There’s no inquisition of the dead either. First the Imam Ali, and then Imam Hossein come to you. If you’re a woman, Hazrate Fatemeh comes to you. Hand in hand with these holy ones, the dead are taken to God …”
“It’s strange,” commented Zari, “how Abol-Ghassem Khan disturbed us all with his news! Even the children felt it. They saw Haj Mohammad Reza’s snake yesterday and they weren’t afraid. But tonight they were frightened and couldn’t sleep.”
“You’re right,” Ameh said. “It’s been a long time since I went over the untimely death of my loved ones in my mind. Tonight all of them passed again before my eyes.”
“I’ve been in your family for many years now,” Zari said, “but I’d never heard you mention your late husband or your child before. Tonight …”
“I know. I’ve always kept my grief to myself,” Ameh replied. “I’ve never told anyone what I’ve suffered.”
Zari sat down and took her sister-in-law’s hand. “You’ve always said yourself that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. You used to say that the Imam Ali would lean over a well and tell his sorrows to the water deep down which he couldn’t see.”
Ameh nodded. “Should I sigh for you in sorrow?” she recited, as if to herself. “Then as Ali I look into a well.”
“Am I not as good as a well?” Zari asked.
“You’re young. I don’t want to destroy your hopes in life with my unhappy tales.”
“I’ve had my share of sorrows.”
“I know.” And so it was that Ameh began to tell all she had kept locked away inside her; stories which Zari had never heard before.
6
T hat night, Ameh began, I was sitting right next to this very brazier, in the same wretched darkness, stirring the ashes with these tongs. I was gazing at the brass figurines, holding hands all around the edge of the brazier. That night I counted thirty-two of them. They’re still intact, those featureless little figures.
It was the night my child died. Soudabeh, my father’s mistress, sat with me till dawn, shedding
“But they’ll break!” Marjan exclaimed.
“No, the plane flew low over the houses, and the children held out their skirts underneath the plane. Then the pilot dropped whatever they wanted into their skirts.”
“What about Khosrow?” Marjan asked. “Khosrow doesn’t have a skirt.”
“You’re right,” Zari smiled. “But the pilot also gave toys and things to boys even though they don’t wear skirts. Sometimes he stopped his plane on the roof and …”
“Would he give toys to the child who was throwing stones?” Marjan interrupted.
“Of course,” said Zari.
“Oh good.”
“Now where was I?” Zari continued. “Oh yes. The pilot stopped the plane on a rooftop and picked up the good children and took them to the sky with him. They flew past the stars, past the moon. They flew past them so closely they could reach out and gather thestars and put them in their lap.”
“Tell him to bring his plane on our roof,” Marjan piped up again, “and give Sahar to Khosrow … all right?”
“All right,” Zari promised; “now go to sleep.” It occurred to her that if the twins were developing a memory even for recent events, they were no longer babies.
As soon as the children were asleep, Zari went out on to the verandah. Ameh was still sitting there, with her hand under her chin, staring at the cold brazier in front of her.
“Are you thinking of your journey?” Zari asked.
Ameh lifted her head. Zari was taken aback to see tears in her eyes.
“Yes, sister,” Ameh answered. “Even if my heart is sad and heavy, it doesn’t mean that’s all there is in the whole world. Now that it’s too late for happiness in this life, I want at least to prepare for my peace afterwards. They say whoever is buried next to the Imam won’t have to answer to Nakir and Monkir. There’s no inquisition of the dead either. First the Imam Ali, and then Imam Hossein come to you. If you’re a woman, Hazrate Fatemeh comes to you. Hand in hand with these holy ones, the dead are taken to God …”
“It’s strange,” commented Zari, “how Abol-Ghassem Khan disturbed us all with his news! Even the children felt it. They saw Haj Mohammad Reza’s snake yesterday and they weren’t afraid. But tonight they were frightened and couldn’t sleep.”
“You’re right,” Ameh said. “It’s been a long time since I went over the untimely death of my loved ones in my mind. Tonight all of them passed again before my eyes.”
“I’ve been in your family for many years now,” Zari said, “but I’d never heard you mention your late husband or your child before. Tonight …”
“I know. I’ve always kept my grief to myself,” Ameh replied. “I’ve never told anyone what I’ve suffered.”
Zari sat down and took her sister-in-law’s hand. “You’ve always said yourself that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. You used to say that the Imam Ali would lean over a well and tell his sorrows to the water deep down which he couldn’t see.”
Ameh nodded. “Should I sigh for you in sorrow?” she recited, as if to herself. “Then as Ali I look into a well.”
“Am I not as good as a well?” Zari asked.
“You’re young. I don’t want to destroy your hopes in life with my unhappy tales.”
“I’ve had my share of sorrows.”
“I know.” And so it was that Ameh began to tell all she had kept locked away inside her; stories which Zari had never heard before.
6
T hat night, Ameh began, I was sitting right next to this very brazier, in the same wretched darkness, stirring the ashes with these tongs. I was gazing at the brass figurines, holding hands all around the edge of the brazier. That night I counted thirty-two of them. They’re still intact, those featureless little figures.
It was the night my child died. Soudabeh, my father’s mistress, sat with me till dawn, shedding
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