Moon Daughter

  Praise for Sky of Red Poppies

  Sky of Red Poppies walks the reader through stretches of breathtaking and thought-provoking narrative to provide answers to Iran’s brilliant past and brutal present. Well worth considering!

  —Dr. Ahmad Karimi Hakkak, University of Maryland

  Sky of Red Poppies takes its readers on a fascinating journey through the landscapes of Iran and provides a glimpse into a far too often over-looked side of Iranian culture and history. A must read!

  —Melody Moezzi, author of War on Error

  Ghahremani is that wonderful kind of writer who tells compelling stories in rich and lyrical language. Sky of Red Poppies is an illustration of her mastery of both.

  —Judy Reeves, author of A Writer's Book of Days

  Ghahremani understands the many conditions of the human heart… Sky of Red Poppies is a compassionate story of universal truths.

  —Yvonne Nelson Perry, author of The Other Side of the Island

  Sky of Red Poppies is the moving story of relationships tested under the most stressful of human conditions, that of a repressive government. Zohreh Ghahremani writes with warmth, humanity and a poet's vision.

  —Claire Accomando, author of Love and Rutabaga

  Set against the backdrop of a pre-revolution Iran, Sky of Red Poppies is a poetic epic and a powerful read.

  —Jonathan Yang, author of Exclusively Chloe

  For many years I have had the privilege of publishing Ghahremani’s charming, nostalgia-laced words of wisdom on the pages of iranian.com. Now it's time for a broader audience to enjoy a heartfelt journey into a fascinating life.

  —Jahanshah Javid, iranian.com

  Praise for The Moon Daughter

  The Moon Daughter captures the bittersweet yet triumphant story of an Iranian mother and daughter who immigrate to the United States in the 1970s. In this delicately wrought novel, each woman struggles against the hand that fate has dealt her with intelligence and strength, illuminating the paths of two very different generations of Iranian Americans. But rather than settle for easy answers, this skillfully-woven tale lays bare the emotional truths at the core of the immigrant experience: the complications afforded by loss, the changes of heart that make us all human, and the power of love to bind us together across continents and generations. The Moon Daughter is captivating, heart-felt, and deeply meaningful.

  —Anita Amirrezvani, author of The Blood of Flowers and Equal of the Sun

  In her new novel, Zohreh Ghahremani leads her readers into the town of Shiraz which, like its wine, intoxicates us.

  —Shahrnush Parsipur, author of Women Without Men

  Just as in Sky of Red Poppies, Zohreh Ghahremani’s The Moon Daughter offers readers a riveting and poetically rendered window into Iranian culture, this time through the story of a woman and a baby whose flaw speaks to much deeper defects in families and cultures. Prepare to lose sleep--you will not want to put this book down.

  —Laurel Corona, author of Finding Emily and The Four Seasons

  "Brilliantly portrayed with vivid imagery, intriguing characters, and lyrical prose, The Moon Daughter reveals rare insights from both mother and daughter in their search for love, compassion and justice. At once tragic and triumphant, this spellbinding drama is riveting through the final page."

  —Marjorie Hart, author of Summer at Tiffany, a New York Times bestseller

  This eagerly awaited second novel from the remarkably talented Zohreh Ghahremani… offers readers a glimpse into the troubled lives of women in Iranian culture, past and present, in a voice at once personal and immediate. The author's love of art and poetry animates her prodigious storytelling gifts in a powerful exploration of pressing women's issues in Iran, creating a memorable tale of love, revenge and ultimate belonging.

  —Kathi Diamant, author of Kafka's Last Love

  Zohreh Ghahremani's The Moon Daughter captures an important period of Iran's tumultuous history and draws a detailed and intimate portait of the lives of one Iranian family and the changes they endure. Her ability to tell the stories that have not yet been told about Iran enriches the fictional landscape of American fiction and evokes the powerful voices of an emerging Iranian-American voice.

  —Persis Karim, Director of Iranian Studies, San Jose State University

  A testament to the transcendent power of fiction, The Moon Daughter takes its readers on a journey through, across and between two strikingly distinct, yet decidedly connected worlds. Zohreh Ghahremani manages to enlighten, engage and entertain her readers in a way all authors aspire to and few ever achieve.

  —Melody Moezzi, author of Haldol and Hyacinths

  In The Moon Daughter, Zohreh Ghahremani takes us again to her native Iran where we discover that no matter the country or the culture, heart-break and joy, loyalty and betrayal, love and simple kindness are common denominators in human relationships. Both new and returning readers of Ghahremani’s work are promised another novel that combines lyrical prose, exotic setting, and compelling story.

  —Judy Reeves, author of A Writer’s Book Of Days

  Other books by Zohreh Ghahremani

  SHAREEK-E GHAM (PERSIAN, 2000)

  SKY OF RED POPPIES, 2010

  Zohreh Ghahremani

  The Moon Daughter

  a novel

  This book is a complete work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE MOON DAUGHTER. Copyright © 2013 by Zohreh Ghahremani.

  All rights reserved.

  First trade paperback published in the United States of America by Turquoise Books.

  Turquoise Books and the “t” logo are trademarks of Turquoise Books.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  For inquiries, please contact:

  Turquoise Books

  turquoise@turquoisebooks.com

  Visit our website:

  www.turquoisebooks.org

  Book layout and typesetting by Anton Khodakovsky

  Cover painting entitled The Moon Daughter © Zohreh Ghahremani. 2013,

  oil on canvas, courtesy of the artist.

  Cover design by Susie Ghahremani

  Author photograph © Elvee Froehlich

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013932493

  978-0-9845716-3-9/SAN

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgement

  IF “IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A CHILD,” it took an entire city to help me raise my first. A book is indeed a writer’s child and I am beyond grateful for the support I have received across the city of San Diego and through the One Book, One San Diego program. The number of people who helped me along the way makes it harder to narrow down the list of those who should be acknowledged and I will be a dreamer to think I can name them all. Please accept my heartfelt apology for any names I fail to list here.

  Once again, I am indebted to my loving family: Gary, Lilly, Susie, and Cyrus. They continue their relentless support and enthusiasm, showing up for my events time and again. It was their encouragement and patience that gave The Moon Daughter a chance to come alive. A simple “thank you” will never make up for the sacrifices they have made.

  My dream editor Kyra Ryan believes in me enough to never give up. If my English is any better, she is the reason. A master of her craft, she is also a powerful writer who inspires me to give my stories the life they deserve.

  Deep gratitude goes to my good friends Barbara Sack and Katherine Porter and to my darlings Lilly & Susie f
or taking the time to read the entire manuscript and offer their fine editorial comments. And if you like the cover design, it is owed to my Susie’s artistic touch and the way she brought out the best in my simple painting.

  I am grateful to the best circle of writers: Michele, Anne, Pennie, Kathi, Laurel, Susan, Caitlin, Marjorie, and all the good members of San Diego Writing Women as well as the Association of Iranian American writers for offering camaraderie.

  I feel fortunate to know Judy Reeves not only as a teacher, but also a true friend. Her selfless dedication to San Diego Writers, Ink was the reason I became a charter member and in fact, it was Judy who encouraged me to submit the first chapter of this novel to A Year in Ink. I am most indebted to her as well as its two editors Sandra Alcosser & Arthur Salm, who approved its inclusion in Volume 2.

  The support of my Iranian-American community has been my column of strength. As long as I have that, nothing can stop me.

  Above all, I will forever be indebted to you, my loyal readers, who not only read, share, and support my work, but invite me to your lives and ask me to keep writing. I hope my heartfelt words will once again settle in your hearts.

  Dedication

  To the loving memory of my mother Sarvar Khazai, who remained a lady to the very end. Thank you, Maman, for your gift of life.

  Part One

  Rana

  Chapter

  One

  THE FIRST TIME RANA HELD HER NEWBORN, she did exactly what she had done with her other two children—she reached for the tiny fist and gently peeled back the fingers and counted them. Finding all ten, she took a deep breath and exhaled. Despite the faint smell of kerosene from the corner heater, the bedroom felt cold. Rana decided she’d count the toes later when the baby’s feet were exposed.

  Like most Iranian women in the 1970’s, Rana had planned to deliver her baby in a hospital and with her doctor present. But the first contractions had come late at night while her husband was out. No taxis ran at such a late hour, but after the unforeseen snow had covered the streets of Shiraz, getting around town would have been difficult in any vehicle. Dayeh, the old nanny, had known a midwife who lived nearby and Rana was grateful they had found anyone at all.

  The middle-aged midwife acted frantic, as though she blamed her patient for the way things had turned out. Her plastic gloves felt cold on Rana’s skin. “Such a head on a baby,” the woman said, “let alone coming out of a woman with your small frame.” She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her uniform. Her plastic gloves glistened with some form of fluid, though it was hard to tell what it was. “Mrs. Moradi, I’m afraid your tear is too irregular to stitch.” And she hurried about, muttering more indistinct words in her frustrated tone.

  Rana closed her eyes and tried to mask her anxiety. After a moment of absolute silence, she felt a rolled towel being pushed between her thighs.

  “Hold that tight,” the midwife commanded. She took Rana’s hand and placed it on her abdomen over the area of the worst cramps. “Press hard here. That should help to stop the bleeding.” She pulled the bedcovers up to Rana’s chin and tucked them tight around her.

  Rana heard water splashing, followed by the infant’s cry, now softer than the previous loud wails. Before she had a chance to take a look, the cries turned to a soft murmur and then faded into the next room. She smelled burning wild rue and knew it to be her old nanny’s way of wishing good health for mother and child. The smoke mixed with the odor of fresh blood and iodine vapors, turning the air too heavy to breathe. Following hours of labor, Rana felt woozy, and the pain that shot through her made it hard to focus on the midwife’s instructions. She heard muffled voices in the hallway and felt the draft as someone opened the door, then came Dayeh’s cheerful voice.

  “Congratulations, Major Moradi. You have another little lady.”

  Rana perked her ears, unable to predict her husband’s reaction to the news of a third daughter. There was a long pause.

  “How surprising!” His sarcastic response sounded like a grunt.

  Dayeh chuckled as if it had been a joke. “God’s gift, and what a beauty at that.”

  Another silence.

  “Farhad,” Rana tried his name, but her dry lips were stuck together and her voice wouldn’t come out. W hat was there to say to him any way? She held the bedcovers in clenched fists, listened and hoped, but soon heard the hammer of his heavy boots fading down the marble hallway. Somewhere in the distance a door slammed. Nearby, women whispered.

  Rana wondered if the energy that drained from her and the emptiness it left behind could be what it felt like when the soul left a body. As her mind filled with images of her other two children, her grip loosened, allowing her hand to slip away. Weightless, she felt herself being pulled into shadows and sank deeper and deeper into a dark well.

  The warmth that caressed her face carried the promise of a bright sun. Circles of light moved inside Rana’s eyelids like fireflies. She kept her eyes closed but tried to move her body to a sitting position.

  “Oh, khanoom is up!” Young Banu had more ring to her voice than Rana’s headache could tolerate.

  “Please close the drapes,” Rana pleaded.

  The hooks jingled as they slid on the metal pole.

  Rana opened her eyes and squinted at the remaining light. “W here’s my baby?” she asked, conscious of the silence around her, wondering who had fed the infant.

  “She’s with Dayeh, ma’am.”

  Rana checked the clock on her nightstand. “Noon, already? I can’t believe I slept this late.”

  A wide-eyed Banu shook her head. “Oh, you slept for two days, ma’am. The doctor came and went several times. You were burning with fever.”

  Rana shook her head. “Two days?”

  Banu nodded frantically. “I’ll get you something to eat. You’ll need your nourishment.”

  Nourishment. What kind of milk had they given her newborn? Banu was gone before she had a chance to ask questions. And where were the girls? Marjan, now in third grade, could be at school, but little Vida should have returned from her half-day nursery school.

  Banu returned, pushing the door with an elbow and carrying a large tray.

  “How is the baby?” Rana asked.

  “Oh, beautiful as the moon she is,” Banu said while setting the tray on the nightstand. “Such thick eyelashes on a baby! MashAllah, I must burn more incense for her.”

  Rana touched her deflated tummy and felt as if all the weight missing from her middle had gone to her sore breasts.

  “Is the Major home?” Rana hoped her anxiety wouldn’t show.

  “No, ma’am,” Banu said, straightening the bedcovers to secure the tray. “He called last night. I heard Dayeh tell him you were resting.”

  So he had stayed out all night. Rana would not allow herself to admit where her husband had been. Or with whom.

  She surveyed the food: Hot bread, soft-boiled eggs, and a bowl of kachi—the saffron pudding her old nanny thought essential for a new mother’s strength. Rana took a spoonful, but the smell of rosewater made her feel sick again. She swallowed with difficulty and pushed the tray away. “Take this, dear, and just bring me some water.”

  Moments later, Dayeh strolled in without bothering to knock. She carried the baby wrapped in a blanket and presented her with pride, as if she herself had a part in her creation. She chanted in her shaky old voice, “I have a daughter, shah—the king—doesn’t have, she has a face mah—the moon—doesn’t have!”

  With new found energy, Rana stretched out both arms to receive the infant and placed her own cheek on the warmth of the tiny head. W hen the initial thrill had passed, she placed the baby on the bed and studied her features, now less swollen and more defined. It was time to absorb the details and familiarize herself with her newest daughter: soft cheeks, flared nostrils, and that tiny button on the upper lip. She leaned closer and inhaled. Oh, how she had missed that milky scent, how she adored her helpless little ones, that soft fuzz of hair, the wri
nkled neck. She kissed the top of the baby’s head and noticed Dayeh had decorated the baby’s gown with all sorts of trinkets: A silver prayer charm in the shape of the holy Koran, a blue glass eye, the word Allah engraved in a silver hand, all joined together with a safety pin and secured on the band that held the baby’s swaddling clothes together. W hen it came to keeping the evil eye away, Dayeh took no chances.

  The old nanny beamed a smile and said, “Praise be to Allah, your fever seems to have broken.” She touched Rana’s forehead who was staring at the infant. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” the nanny said and squinted. “I think she resembles you. Sure looks nothing like them.”

  Rana smiled. The woman made no secret of her hostilities toward Farhad and his entire family, and the only reason Rana tolerated such insults was that Dayeh had practically been a mother to her since she was a little girl.

  “I just hope she has a happy life written on her forehead,” Rana said with a deep sigh.

  “Oh, dear child, happiness is a garden, but one has to plant the seed and endure the cold winter.”

  Rana thought about that, but did not respond.

  “You have a name?” the nanny asked.

  Rana shook her head.

  “Well, you better come up with something, or she’ll grow to be an old woman called Baby.” She cackled at her own joke.

  “I’ll leave that choice to her father.”

  Dayeh turned her back. “As if he cares.”

  “Dayeh! Of course he cares. He just needs time to adjust.”

  The old nanny busied herself with the curtains, folding the pleats one by one and tied the stack with a silk cord. “Sounds like you’ve forgiven him already.”

  Rana lay back and closed her eyes. Forgive? Her old nanny’s words couldn’t be further from the truth. Which of his treacheries should she forgive? Women absolved their men for infidelity all the time, but how big would her heart need to be before she could forgive Farhad for practically moving in with his mistress? She felt a fire within, flames that no amount of sighs or tears could smother. She wasn’t ready to discuss this openly, not even with Dayeh. After all, the nanny was an employee, and Rana’s husband the head of this family. Besides, she didn’t wish to add more to a subject that had already become the talk around town.