The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer

beautiful girl?” he said. Uncle Javad was known for his collection of beautiful girls and Shirin liked the idea that he found her beautiful, too. He pulledout a paper bag from his pocket and handed it to her. Inside were two hairpins decorated with crystal-studded cherries. She walked to her mirror and pinned them to her hair, one on each side. As she fixed her hair she looked at his reflection, behind hers, and saw in his face a vague sadness. She wondered if it was caused by the shadow cast by his stubble, or if it was something more. “I like the pins very much,” she told him, and he said, “I like them on you.” People often spoke badly of Uncle Javad—they said he was a charlatan and a womanizer—but Shirin was fond of him.
    Leila’s mother, Farideh-khanoum, emerges from the kitchen with a wooden crate of apples, which she places on the floor. “Be a good girl, Leila-jan, and take this to the basement. My back is killing me. And while you’re down there, sweep the floor a bit, would you?”
    Farideh-khanoum is not a bad-looking woman, Shirin notices. Her brown eyes, honey-hued in sunlight, soften the rest of her tired face. But she does not possess the kind of beauty that her own mother does. People often called her mother magnifique. “Farnaz-jan, tu es magnifique! ” they would say in French, the language they used for both praise and condemnation. Women would ask her where she had bought a certain bag, or a pair of shoes, or a silk scarf, and she would smile and say, “Oh, this? I got it in Paris,” or “Rome,” or “Hong Kong.” This pleased Shirin. The remoteness of these places safeguarded her mother’s uniqueness and, by association, her own.
    She offers to help carry the crate but Leila refuses. They open the squeaky door to the basement and walk downwooden steps. Leila pulls a hanging chain and a small light comes on. It is cool here, and damp. Crates of pears and pomegranates are stacked in one corner, and Leila rests the apples on top. Next to these is a bicycle, with rusty spokes and flat tires. There is an armoire with a broken door, filled with old clothes—pastel-colored skirts and geometric-patterned silk scarves where perfume still lingers. Framed artworks lean against a wall—watercolor landscapes and charcoal drawings. Dusty books are stored in shelves. In a corner, under a stack of old magazines, is a half-open box. Shirin shoves the lid with her foot and sees brownish bottles inside. She pulls one out, and recognizes it, the rectangular bottle with the picture of the walking man dressed in a tailcoat and tall hat. On the label are the words Johnnie Walker, in English. “Look, a box full of these bottles!”
    Leila takes the bottle and kneels to the floor. “Baba is always talking about how alcohol is forbidden…” She puts the bottle back, closes the box, places the magazines back on top, scattering them a bit. “Maybe they don’t know about it. Maybe they forgot they had it. Should I tell them?”
    â€œNo. Maybe one of them knows about it but doesn’t want the other one to find out.”
    â€œYes, you’re right. But if having alcohol is a sin, wouldn’t I be considered a sinner if I say nothing of it?”
    Leila’s religiosity always surprises Shirin, but she doesn’t contest it. She adds it to the list of differences between them, believes it to be another outcome of living on the floor. “If you withhold information in order to protect someone, God won’t punish you,” she says.
    Leila nods, considering the statement. She picks up the broom and begins sweeping. Shirin pulls an old skirt from the armoire and holds it up against her body. She takes out a few scarves, then a hat. As the shelf empties, she notices dozens of files stacked in the back. She pulls them out and opens one. She reads, Mahmoud Motamedi. Age: 36. Occupation: journalist.