The Book of Fate by Parinoush Saniee Page B

our fantasies.
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    In early June, as soon as the final school exams were over, Parvaneh’s family moved away from our neighbourhood. I knew they were planning on it, but I didn’t think they would leave so soon. Later, I learned that they actually wanted to go sooner, but had decided to wait for the school year to end. For a while, Parvaneh’s father had been commenting that the neighbourhood was no longer a good area to live in. He was right. It was good only for the likes of my brothers.
    It was a hot morning. I was sweeping the room and I still had not pulled down the wicker blinds when I heard Parvaneh’s voice. I ran into the yard. Faati was at the front door. Parvaneh had come to say goodbye. Mother got to the door ahead of me and held it half closed. Then she snatched the envelope Parvaneh had given to Faati, gave it back to her and said, ‘Go quickly. Go before her brothers see you and cause another scandal. And don’t bring anything here any more.’
    With a lump in her throat Parvaneh said, ‘But ma’am, I only wrote to say goodbye and to give her our new address. You can read it.’
    â€˜That won’t be necessary!’ Mother snapped.
    I grabbed the door with both hands and tried to pull it open. But Mother was holding it tight and kicking me away. ‘Parvaneh!’ I screamed. ‘Parvaneh!’
    â€˜For the love of God, don’t hurt her so much,’ Parvaneh begged. ‘I swear she didn’t do anything bad.’
    Mother slammed the door shut. I sat on the ground and wept. I had lost my guardian, friend and confidante.
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    The last suitor was Ahmad’s friend. I often wondered how my brothers approached these men. For instance, how did Ahmad tell his friend that he had a sister of marrying age? Did they advertise me? Were they making certain promises? Or did they haggle over me like two bazaar merchants? Whatever their approach, I knew it wasn’t respectable.
    Asghar Agha, the butcher, was just like Ahmad, in age as well as in his crude manners and personality. And he wasn’t all that literate. He said, ‘A man has to make his bread with the might of his arm, not sit in a corner and scribble away like a half-dead, pencil-pushing clerk.’
    â€˜He has money and knows how to straighten out this girl,’ Ahmad argued.
    And with respect to my being too thin, Asghar Agha said, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll give her so much meat and fat to eat that in a month’s time she’ll be as big as a barrel. Instead, she has sassiness in her eyes.’
    His mother was an old, dreadful-looking woman who ate non-stop and endorsed everything her son said. Asghar Agha met with everyone’s approval. Mother was happy because he was young and had not been previously married. Ahmad was his friend and supported him because, after a brawl at Jamshid Café, Asghar Agha had vouched for him and he had not been thrown in jail. Father consented because the man’s butcher’s shop had a decent income. And Mahmoud said, ‘It’s good, he’s a tradesman and he has what it takes to deal with this girl and not let her step out of line. The sooner we wrap things up the better.’
    No one cared what I thought and I didn’t tell them how much I loathed the thought of living with a filthy, ignorant and illiterate thug who reeked of raw meat and tallow even on the day he came to ask for a girl’s hand in marriage.
    The next morning, Mrs Parvin rushed over to our house in a state of panic.
    â€˜I hear you want to give Massoumeh to Asghar Agha the butcher. For the love of God, don’t do it! The man is a knife-wielding hooligan. He’s a drinker, a womaniser. I know him. At least ask around and find out about him.’
    â€˜Don’t blabber, Mrs Parvin,’ Mother said. ‘Who knows him better, you or Ahmad? And he told us everything about himself. Like Ahmad said, men do a thousand things before