Sky of Red Poppies Page 3

When Auntie opened the door, she let in a whiff of cinnamon and stewed tomatoes from the dining room. She studied us for a few seconds and then walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder as if to make sure I was okay.

  "I thought I heard the two of you," she said to Mitra and me. Then she asked Pedar, "Are they having another one of their silly quarrels?"

  Pedar shook his head.

  My aunt must have heard more than she'd admit, but I figured she was trying to diffuse the situation.

  "Lunch is served," she said.

  Pedar left his chair and we followed him.

  Sitting across the table from my father, I played with my food and took a few bites, but I could not bear the heavy silence and, halfway through, I excused myself and went to the garden.

  The yellow Dodge was parked in the driveway, where Akbar seemed to be drying it after a wash. The chrome sparkled in the sun. "A bride for the street," he pronounced, pointing to the car. When I didn't share his enthusiasm, he said, "That was a quick lunch, Miss Roya. Is something the matter?"

  Akbar had been with us since before my birth and we considered him a member of the family. I nodded to the building. "Mitra and Pedar had one of their squabbles."

  He sighed. "Ah, that Miss Mitra!"

  "No," I objected. "This time it was me who started it."

  "You?" Akbar shook his head and laughed. "You couldn't start a fight if your life depended on it! Miss Mitra needs no help to make your father angry."

  I forced a smile and went to sit in the shade of an old mulberry tree. If I had not made such a mess of things, Mitra might have even let me read the forbidden book. I dreaded Pedar's anger and couldn't bear the sorrow that came into his eyes after such outbursts. I knew that for the following days he'd be extra nice, as if trying to mend a broken link.

  Unlike my uncle, who thought beating my cousins was the best way to discipline, Pedar had so far saved the whippings for poor Reza. Still, each time he punished Reza, I could not rule out the possibility that I might be next. That little book with a fish on its cover had been like a raindrop plopped from a gathering cloud. Though I read many books, their full power was unknown to me and it had never crossed my mind to look for answers in forbidden books. My father ruled over his family with one eye on how the king ran our country: One man, one law. Not only was there a large portrait of the Shah in Pedar's office, but also he talked about "His Majesty" with pride, as if he idolized the man.

  I had seen the Shah close up. It had been during one of the royal couple's visits to Mashad when I, as the top student in second grade, had the honor of representing my school. The following week, a picture of me in my ruffled dress, offering a bouquet of white gladiolas to ex Queen Soraya, appeared on Pedar's desk. When the Shah divorced her, that picture remained, but as he remarried, Pedar added a picture of him with his new bride, Queen Farah. However, my father's patriotism went beyond displaying pictures or naming his only son Reza, after the late king. Every time the radio played the national anthem, he made us stand to hear its praises to the Shah.

  "May our King of Kings live forever. Pahlavis made the land of Iran a hundred times better than the ancient times..."

  But were things really better? Oh, thankfully SAVAK couldn't hear my thoughts! Deprived of open discussions, my mind returned to the scene in the hallway, with a girl named Alieh. Like the impending blackness of a moonless night, my horror grew and grew.

  If the mention of police brought to mind a sense of security, the addition of the word, "secret," gave it an ominous resonance. When the Shah appeared in public, several men in dark sunglasses followed him closely. Nobody spoke about them, but most people knew exactly who they were. For years I had assumed them to be bodyguards, but one day, while my friend Nelly and I watched a newsflash, she presented the details.

  "They sure act like bodyguards, but those are the SAVAK agents, and they're not just looking out for possible assassins. They watch everybody and wear those obnoxious glasses so no one has a clue where they're looking." Then, as if discussing a horror movie, she described SAVAK'S treatment of political prisoners. "They burn their bodies with cigarettes. It's the worst burn because tobacco holds a high temperature," she explained. "I've even heard they rape them," she whispered.

  At the time, I had dismissed Nelly's exaggerated report, but now wondered if there might be some truth to her stories. After all, her father worked in the city and he came home every day with such accounts. Not my father. Cooped up on his sugar beet plantation, he only encountered such information during his brief stays in town, when he socialized with other big shots. Then again, if he did hear anything newsworthy, we would be the last he might share it with.

  I had to push away such dark thoughts. Whatever Alieh did to concern the SAVAK must have been serious. I had done nothing wrong and there was no reason for this fear to run through me. I dusted myself off before heading back inside. Maybe Alieh didn't have the kind of father who watched over her the way mine did. As long as I stayed away from matters that Pedar considered none of my business, no one would come after me.

  Not exactly free, but perhaps it was enough to feel safe.

  Two

  LOOKING BACK, I can't understand what I liked about my school. With no fun included in its rigid curriculum, our school didn't even have a gathering place for the more than five hundred attending students: no gym, no lunchroom, not even a library. As an improvisation, I had created a private sanctuary at an isolated window. We passed by it on our way up to class, but no one seemed to notice it other than me. The old window on the staircase landing overlooked the mud roof of the greenhouse. Its pane was cracked and paint had started to peel off the sill. When the old custodian clumsily applied duct tape to the broken glass, I knew it wouldn't be replaced any time soon. But, as neglected as it was, in spring my window transformed into the frame for a magic garden.

  Every year in March, gentle rains drenched the roof of the greenhouse. In a matter of weeks, awakened by the soft drizzle, hundreds of red poppies magically appeared on the mud roof below. I could even smell their toxic scent through the broken glass.

  A week after they took Alieh, I realized I was still looking for her. Every morning I stood by my window and checked students as they climbed the stairs. When she never showed up, most of us began to believe the rumors of her transfer.

  "Transferred?" Nelly had said. "That's nonsense. Nobody has seen her since that day, not even the girls who live in her neighborhood."

  When the last of the students came up the stairs, I decided it was time to stop searching. After all, I didn't even know the girl. Facing my window, I rested my forehead on the cold glass and stared at the now green roof, where a few poppies had already opened. Soon, hundreds of buds would transform that ordinary roof into a fairyland. Persian New Year was approaching, and the poppies had come to celebrate Norooz. Year after year, at the moment of vernal equinox, nature promised a fresh start - but now I could only think about the end: end of a year, the end of feeling safe at my school.

  The poppies and I had a connection. Of all the flowers, regardless of the variety and array of colors that made our garden so spectacular, this fragile bloom came the closest to my heart. Each day, the poppies seemed to reflect my own feelings of joy, sorrow, even fear. They spoke of hope, yet the danger hidden in their essence, that mysterious scent of opium, frightened me. With no gardener to care for them, they rose from that mud with pride, yet bent their heads in modesty. And, although I didn't know a happier shade of red, they reminded me of sorrow.

  Sensing someone's presence, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Shireen Payan standing a few steps away. I turned back to my window, hoping she would leave.

  "I see you like my flowers," she said and took a step closer. "From one poppy lover to another, I'd like to share a poem with you. Want to hear it?"

  Taking my silence for a 'yes,' she unfolded a piece of paper and began to recite, waving her free hand in the air as if to conduct the words into their best perfo
rmance.

  You are gone, yet so many flowers come with spring

  I am not the only one serenading you; thousands sing

  I scatter on your path one sky of red poppies

  Red poppies, the mirthful gems of the evening brimming.

  What a bitter contrast those words carried, a mixture of hope anddeep loss. I had no idea what Shireen was trying to say, or to whom the word 'you' referred.

  That poem had the sound of a serenade written for a love lost, and from the first verse, my mother's image came to my mind. I listened to each word as if it were meant for her. Maman had left a big hole in our lives and although we lived our days outwardly in a normal fashion, none of us were the same. My family avoided talking about her, but like a cloud, her absence cast a shadow over our home. Shireen's poem had touched a deep chord, too deep for words, too private to share.

  "That poem is pure nonsense," I said.

  "Nonsense?" She looked at me, wide eyed. "Of all the things to say!"

  "Modern poetry," I chuckled. "One sky? Exactly how many poppies is that?"

  "Gaaaa!" She threw her hands up in the air. "You're no different from the rest ofJenab's class."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I bet if he read this out as his own, everyone would want a copy, and you'd be no different."

  I stuck to silence. She'd never know what went on inside me.

  "Imagine," Shireen spread her arms wide. "One sky! That means beyond measurement, more than one can imagine. One sky, damn it!"

  After a long pause, I said, "I'm sorry. I did not mean to be rude."

  "There's no need to apologize. I shouldn't have presumed you'd let me inside your thick shell."

  "Oh," I said and was not going to say more. But when she stood there without another word, I added, "There's no shell. I just don't have anything to talk about."

  "Everyone has something to talk about. I know what it's like to feel lonely."

  "I have lots of friends," I said and sounded defensive.

  "Friends?" She said with a sneer, but then dropped her sarcasm. "It's all right, Roya. You don't have to say a word if you don't want to." She patted my back and left.

  I looked at my flowers one last time before going to class. A breeze fluttered their soft petals, revealing their black hearts.

  Shireen's strong perception had impressed me. She had seen right through the jolly demeanor I displayed. Although neither of us mentioned our conversation, from that day on we had a connection.

  In a society where poems seemed to be woven into the fabric of our lives, a major segment of literature studies focused on classic Persian poetry. We had to memorize the works of masters such as Saadi, Hafez, and Rumi. Teachers encouraged us to share our favorite poems, and those of us who experimented with poetry, read samples of our verses in class. Of these, Shireen's were the best and Jenab made no secret that she was his favorite. As time went by, I also noticed a peculiar relationship between the two, a combination of antagonism and mutual respect.

  Jenab praised her poetry, but sometimes his critique came across as harsh.

  "You have a talent for stringing your words, Miss Payan," he said after she had read a poem about a child found frozen under a bridge. "But I'd strongly suggest a revision on the part about people's indifference. Isn't it possible that others may share some of your concerns for the poor?"

  Looking back, it's now clear that Jenab had known the difference between Shireen and the rest of us. He must have seen her potential, perhaps wagered that she would be the one to leave her mark. However, at the time, I thought he pushed her too much.

  A few weeks later, I was again at my window when Shireen joined me.

  "Something about our school is changing," she said while watching the students rush to class. "Or could it be me who sees things differently?"

  For an instant, I had the urge to tell her about Alieh's arrest. But I didn't know Shireen enough to trust her with such a dreadful secret.

  "Maybe it's a little of both," I said.

  Pedar announced that his work wouldn't allow him to be in town for Persian New Year and suggested we join him at our summer home at the farm during the spring break.

  So far, we had only spent our summers at the village, so this would be my first Norooz there.

  "What kind of a family would celebrate Norooz in a remote village?" Mitra had protested. But Pedar, disregarding our objections, had the last word. "I want my entire family around me to ring in the New Year."

  On the three-hour ride to our farm, Reza, Mitra, and I were packed in the back of the Land Rover among suitcases and boxes of food. Auntie sat in front so she could stretch her bad leg. Akbar swerved around the potholes with ease, as if he had memorized every one.

  "I hate going to that damn village," Mitra said. "It makes me sick to think of all the fun I'll have to miss."

  "Oh, stop whining," Reza said. "We do what we have to."

  "That's just it. Why do we have to?"

  "So Pedar can continue his work and still have a bit of a celebration." Then, as if finding his own reasoning inadequate, Reza added, "Besides, I'd rather be with Pedar at Norooz, wouldn't you?"

  "With all the new films during Norooz?" Mitra said. "You must be joking. With or without Pedar, for once staying in miserable Mashad could have been fun."

  I agreed with Mitra. I loved the cinema, and even enjoyed the visitors who called by on New Year, not to mention receiving crisp new money from the elder relatives.

  "City folks would give anything to switch places with you," Akbar offered.

  "You're a fine one to talk," Mitra said. "You go on rounds with Pedar all the time, but we are prisoners."

  Reza chuckled. "Some prisoner. Fussing with your hair, reading magazines..."

  Mitra hit his chest with the back of her hand. "Shut up!"

  Auntie turned around and glared at her. "That's quite enough, young lady."

  That put an abrupt end to their quibbling, and for a time we rode in silence.

  When I recall those road trips, I can still see the back of my aunt's head, her graceful neck, and wavy brown hair. The image has remained so vivid that even now on road trips her fine silhouette almost remains a fixed part of the view ahead.

  I turned to the side window and gave my attention to the vast desert.

  The next day, I woke up to the sound of birds in the orchard. After taking some tea and a small breakfast of lavash bread and quince jam, I selected an old book from Pedar's bookshelf and went outside. Spring had barely begun in this cold mountainside village and only a few trees showed early signs of a pale green. I found a clean rock by a tree and sat down to read. I don't know how much time had passed before I heard rustling and looked up to find my childhood friend, Zahra, approaching. "God bless you, Miss Roya, what are you doing out here?"

  "Hey!" I screamed before getting up to embrace her.

  She smelled of dust and burnt wood. Her cotton shirt felt warm against my cheek. She stroked my face with calloused fingertips and flashed her white teeth. "It's a blessing to see you, Miss Roya." Her deep blue eyes blazed from her dark skinned face. "But I can't stay," she said. "I'm expected back to work at the loom."

  "Can I come? I promise I won't try to help."

  The memory of the previous year's disastrous experience made us both laugh. One day, I had tried to give her some help and ended up ruining her day's work. The effortless moves of her hands had led me to believe anyone could do it. When she left the loom for a few minutes, I gave it a try. But the heavy bobbin slipped and dove to the floor and, as I tried to retrieve it, I broke more lines. By the time Zahra returned, her fine arrangement had tangled into a mess and I was in tears. Hours later, the damage had been repaired before her grandmother discovered it.

  "Please take me with you," I insisted.

  "You'll be bored, Miss Roya."

  I felt uncomfortable with the formal way she addressed me, but Auntie had said I must get used to that. "Bored around my Zahra?
" I laughed. "Never."

  The villagers worked for my father and they acted as if he owned them. As a child, I had enjoyed the fuss, but now the undeserved attention made me anxious. I imagined how Shireen would frown at me for being treated like a little princess.

  Outside the orchard, Zahra walked with confidence and led the way through the field. Barefoot, she found the best path, avoiding pebbles and tumbleweeds. The ruffles of her long cotton skirt swayed with each step. She seemed carefree.

  From the distance, a cluster of mud huts came into view. Beyond the pale green willow trees, a dilapidated stone wall separated the houses from the field. As we neared, curious children came and watched. A baby left under a tree fussed as flies stormed her face. I wondered if Shireen had ever seen such a village. Nearby, someone burned cow manure and the smoke made me cough.

  "Oh, may death strike me!" Zahra said. "I brought you through this smoke. Come, khanoom. Come inside and I'll make you some tea." She shooed a rooster away and pushed open the cracked, wooden door.

  Zahra and her grandmother, Bibi, lived in the center of the village. Her mother had died from tuberculosis before she turned one. Her father - a shepherd - spent most of his days in the mountains. Maybe what made Zahra so special, indeed why I had singled her out in a crowd of native children, was our shared miseries. But I never mentioned it to her because I had a feeling that in her mind, the rich had no cause to feel miserable.

  We ducked to enter and stepped into the cool semidarkness that smelled of old clothes. When my eyes had adjusted, I looked around the familiar room. A column of light shone through the round opening in the mud dome and dust particles danced in it. With no furniture, the large loom took most of their living space. A bedroll placed against one wall and a thick felt mat in front of it provided a place to sit, sleep, and live. The corner wall was blackened with soot from a wood-burning stove. An indentation in the wall served as shelf and there sat a ceramic dish of newly grown wheat grass, the one and only evidence of a Norooz.

  I thought of all the food my aunt had packed, all those cookies, candles, and frills. I imagined Zahra and Bibi, eating what was left of their cumin candies, admiring their bowl of wheat grass, and saying prayers to thank God for their blessings.