My Bird Page 3

  Where was I the day Amir started thinking about a different kind of life?

  “Even Mahin who was your mother’s one and only darling, and dependent on her, cut loose and left. But you!”

  Amir knows well that I am not attached to Maman. It doesn’t bother me not to see her for days. But he doesn’t know that I always think about her. He doesn’t know that I can’t stop thinking about her. He doesn’t know that Maman is like a mystery to me.

  I ask her, “Tell me about Vitamin.”

  The orange that Maman is eating is perhaps sour enough to make her pucker. She says, surprised, “The vitamins in the orange?”

  “No, Father’s Vitamin.”

  I have caught her off guard. She knows well that I don’t want to hear about lice, dandruff, and a thousand other incurable diseases. About the water that was brought from far away, and cold nights, and the fire that was impossible to start in the wood stove. She knows that I have no interest in remembering dirty baths and unpaved dusty roads, or the few and far between cars in the streets of those days.

  “Bless your heart. I don’t even remember what I ate yesterday. You want me to open a grave?”

  I want to say that inside me the graves are still open. I haven’t covered them over with dirt yet. The dead are lying with their eyes open.

  Maman must talk. Otherwise, how can I find out why she didn’t go downstairs that night? Why did she lie down like a corpse with her eyes wide open and remained still for hours in the dark?

  Aunt Mahboub says, “I married Jafar only to be able to wear lipstick.”

  Jafar was her first husband.

  “They said you can’t wear lipstick before you get married.”

  Maman doesn’t know why she married Father.

  “One day they gave me to your Father. I thought maybe he is my second father and now I should be his daughter. Somebody punched me on the side and said, `He is not your father, he is your husband.’ From then on, any time I got punched I knew something important was about to happen.”

  Amir says, “When I married you I told you I wanted a life partner, not an obstacle on the road.”

  I don’t remember Amir saying anything about a road.

  “I need help, support, and encouragement. Partnership. Otherwise, the world is full of prophets of doom who know how to dash your hopes.”

  He holds my hand and pulls me up.

  “How come your belly doesn’t get any smaller? Ha? I want to see you there with a new look, a new you.”

  He puts his arms around me and dances to an imaginary song, moving me with him here and there. “Traveling is good for your soul. We will see new people. Find new friends. We ourselves will change.”

  While dancing you can’t ask how we are going to change or what we are going to change into. Amir turns me gently. How kind he has become. How soft his voice is. He closes his eyes. I can’t do that. Somebody’s eyes should remain open to keep away from the furniture, and Shahin’s craft project that I didn’t have time to pick up and is left on the floor. I envy Amir for being able to change his fate by closing his eyes and imagining himself in a better place.

  I say, “Oh, I am sorry.”

  I had stepped on his toes.

  13

  I have seen the big building where Amir spends half of his life, and the people in it. I know their habits. I know who has kids and who doesn’t, and whether the problem is with the man or the woman. I know who is a Turk and who is Isfahani, who is stingy and who is generous, who is complicated and who is naïve and simple.

  Amir quotes someone and I know whose mouth those words came out of. He tells a joke, and I can guess who told that joke and who laughed the hardest.

  Amir analyzes people’s lives and I quietly follow him. Today, Amir is talking about Hosseini and has a new story for me.

  “Hosseini’s wife is cheating on him.”

  “Manijeh?” I choke on a sugar cube. “No, I don’t believe it.”

  “When he believes it, who are you not to believe it?”

  “He is imagining things.”

  “I told him the same thing. You know what he said?”

  He turns off the lights.

  “Well, tell me.”

  “The big guy turned red. Got all choked up and said he wished he was imagining things.” Amir turns to me. “What do you think is the matter with Hosseini?”

  “How come?”

  “Well, you women must understand each other well, two beautiful daughters, a nice house, and poor Hosseini has dedicated all his life to his home and family. Then his stupid wife . . .”

  I am a little bit confused. I don’t say anything.

  He says, “Do you know what is the first thing he does every morning? He picks up the phone and starts dialing as soon as he gets to work. I kept thinking he is calling an office or something. He does this several times in a matter of a few minutes. Today I finally figured out why the poor guy lights up a cigarette each time after he dials.”

  “Well?”

  “Don’t you get it? Well, the poor guy calls home and it’s busy.”

  I say, “Is that all?”

  “Is that not enough?”

  “A busy phone does not mean anything.” And I think of Manijeh, usually quiet and depressed.

  “Hosseini is almost sure that the foolish woman is cheating on him.”

  Amir does not know that I cheat on him a hundred times a day; when his underwear is left in the middle of the room, just as he took it off. When, at a party, he is so involved that he does not notice me. When he is finished eating and realizes he didn’t wait for us, when he thinks of me as the reason for his failures, when he praises another woman in front of me, when he can enjoy everything all by himself. When he leaves me alone, I cheat on him. Sometimes I get discouraged, and I repent. I return from where I was going and put my fingers through his hair. He bends his head so my fingers fall to his neck. “What is going on?”

  I yell at him, “See, when I don’t show affection, you ask what is going on, and when I do, again you ask the same thing.”

  He doesn’t know that I cheat on him a hundred times a day. I leave this life a hundred times a day. Like a terrified woman who has never left home. Gently, slowly, and quietly, even though scared to death, I secretly go to places that Amir cannot even imagine. Then, in a dark night like tonight, I return home to Amir, as a regretful woman who has repented.

  14

  Shahin is sent to the backyard. He will come in only when he has understood that even if he does not like his sweats, he has to wear them and not run around the house naked.

  Two hours have passed and Shahin has not figured out yet that he is not a prince. He is the child of a family with many limitations.

  Amir leans his head against the window looking at the backyard and says, “Do I like to get up in the dark every morning and go to that dreadful place? Do I like to obey the person who is called my boss but doesn’t understand a thing?” Amir has remembered again all the things he doesn’t like in this life.

  If only Shahin nodded in agreement, he could come in and eat dinner. But instead he hollers from out there, “I will not wear those sweats.”

  Amir holds up the sweats.

  “Are they torn or old?”

  Shahin says, “I don’t like the color.”

  Shadi brings another pair.

  Shahin yells out, “I don’t like the style.”

  Amir holds his head. “Too bad!”

  Shahin has issues with his shoes, with his shirt, with his wristwatch, with his hair.

  Shadi screams, “Well, he doesn’t like it. You can’t force him, leave him alone.”

  Amir goes to the backyard, grabs Shahin by the shoulders, and picks him up.

  I gently say, “Let go of him.”

  Shadi yells, “Leave him alone.”

  Amir leaves him alone and sits down at the dinner table. By now the food is cold, and nobody wants to eat.

  15

  I am looking for Sh
adi. She is not in the parking lot. I go through the narrow walkways of the storage rooms. She is leaning against the door to the last storage room, and it is very hard to see her in the dark.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I shout.

  She puts her finger on her lips. “Shhh. Ida is going to find me!”

  I yell, “Come on, get out!”

  Her eyes widen. She steps further back. She is glued to the door. I point to the outside and tell her again to leave. My voice echoes in the hallway. Shadi is pouting and doesn’t take her eyes off me. I have forgotten that I am blocking the doorway like a giant, and she can’t get out.

  Shadi loves hiding. She has a habit of crawling under the couches, crouching behind the bed, hiding in the linen closet. The day we moved in, she got lost among the furniture. I called her.

  “Where are you hiding?”

  She did not yet know her way around the house. So she said, “I don’t know where I am either.”

  I told her to come out before she got used to those kinds of places. Before the smell of the basement gets in her head and stays there forever. I get closer to her, hold her shoulders. Why doesn’t she talk? Doesn’t she hear me?

  She has gone mute. A muffled sound comes out of her mouth. I see the fear in her eyes. I recognize silent crying very well. Silent crying means that she cannot leave. Squatting, I hold my head in my hands. I hate for my daughter to be like me. I don’t want her to be like Maman or Shahla. I don’t go looking for similar traits, but others find them and readily present them to you. I don’t want Shadi to take after me.

  I was afraid of the dark, the basement, and the shadows, afraid of Uncle Qadir, even Maman and Aunt Mahboub. That is why I kept silent. I would do anything to go unnoticed. Little by little, I got lost in my own world, and one day, I had to ask myself who I was. I grew up with the sense of being lost, a deep sense of bewilderment, with no hope of ever being found. But what is Shadi afraid of?

  She slides and passes by me very quietly. I can’t move. Later, when we go upstairs, Shadi draws me with two big horns on my head and big teeth like a boar. Whenever I yell at her, she draws this picture and quietly places it in my way. For a moment, I forget why I am sitting there at this time of the day.

  My bare feet tingle. I think maybe an insect has climbed in through the hole in my slippers. I jump. Shadi is close to me, touching my toes with her finger through the hole in my slippers. I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her fingers. She throws herself in my arms and cries. Ida is standing in front of our storage room and yells, “Miss Shadi! I finally found you.”

  16

  I don’t enjoy the cool air of the air conditioning because Amir has to work in the hot sun. After lunch, I don’t take a nap because Amir does not have the time to do that. I don’t socialize with my friends because Amir can’t do it. Amir is a slave, a slave who has pre-sold his productive energy for the next twenty years. Amir owes the bank for another twenty years. The bank has bought his labor from him. It is not fair to have his face burn under the sun while my face is gleaming because of eating and sleeping well. It is not fair. Amir is looking for justice, and he can’t find it anywhere. The kids are noisy. Amir says he is chained to us, to this kind of life. For how long? For the rest of his life.

  Amir brings in money and we spend it. We are consumers.

  I say, “I will get a job. I have worked before. I can do it.”

  “If you want to be useful, it is better to raise your kids well.”

  Shahin hits Shadi, and Shadi spits. Amir says, “See?”

  He claims, “Leaving is my only option.”

  “You will be a slave, even if you go there.”

  I have given the war signal.

  He sits up, “Can you please explain why?”

  “Because you were born a slave. Who do you think your father was?”

  He must have misinterpreted my question, because he screams, “My father was an honest, hard-working man. But your father . . . !”

  He wants to talk about my father. I jump in, “So, was he a slave or a hard-working man?”

  But he does not answer. He has found what he was looking for—my father.

  I know my blood will get to the boiling point. Amir is persistent, and will not let go until I lose it. I can’t hold it in any longer. I am forced to do it on my own.

  I say, “Whatever my father was, we weren’t ashamed of him.”

  I pause, so the next blow has a stronger impact. “Do you remember saying you would die of shame whenever your father came to your school?”

  He doesn’t believe that I can be so ruthless and take advantage of his heartfelt confessions. He doesn’t know that I would take my strong, well-dressed father a hundred times over his disheveled father. It is too late now. We can’t choose one over the other, now that they’re dead.

  He shakes his head. I know he is cursing himself for being so naïve. I have made his sincerity look like stupidity.

  He says, “Your father was only good at one thing: seducing other people’s wives.”

  He turns all red.

  I say, “That is the basic story of all the world’s exciting movies.”

  I realize that I am being very stupid. The fighting engine has started. Sometimes it is hopeless; the quarrel goes on and on no matter what you do. No amount of wisdom can stop it. He says one thing and I say something else. There is no joy in defending something you don’t believe in. Amir puts me in this position. I don’t like him. He makes me feel like an ugly witch. And why not get uglier? Amir is on a roll and does not stop. He gets excited about what he is saying. It is at a point when I have to yell.

  It took me years to realize that one scream is equal to three hours of begging and pleading. Like lightning, a scream will burn everything all at once. It took me years to figure out that people unknowingly need to be yelled at. They need a loud sound to make them listen at the appropriate time, and to drown out the unwanted noises around them, to remember that there is someone else sitting in front of them. I yell. Loud and clear. Without crying or moaning. That’s what Amir calls feminine deception. I know that the “Young Rooster” is behind the door, and that Mrs. Hashemi is bending halfway out of her window in the backyard.

  Amir says, “Keep your voice down.”

  I don’t. I stand up so that the sound carries better. I am glad that our house is so small that he can’t run away from my screaming.

  Quietly he says, “I will divorce you.”

  It’s like a deadly bullet that he has fired calmly.

  I must be dying. I lie down to die, but I don’t die.

  17

  The basement I see in my dreams has no windows. But the basement in my father’s house had windows; four small windows. The basement in Aunt Mahboub’s house had only one window that could be seen from the backyard. Our basement was big and full of old furniture, kerosene barrels, and pickle jars. Coming down the stairs, first you saw the small basin in the corner and the twin trunks with packages of lavash bread on top. The basement had a low ceiling. Whenever I start traveling to my past, I end up in this basement that, through its winding passages, was also connected to Aunt Mahboub’s basement.

  After Father’s truck accident, he bought a taxi with the rest of his money and retired. He did not know the house well, and when he became housebound, he could no longer run the house. The house became full of shadows that he brought in with him, the same shadows that came to life on the white walls when Uncle Qadir cut down the big rose bushes. The silent movements of those shadows mesmerized me.

  The pale fading shadow of a person seemed to be walking on the wall, and a different shadow would appear and disappear. Then they got bigger and stood closer to each other. The taller shadow did not have a head.

  The world was asleep. The shadows were dancing on the wall. I would confuse them with ghosts. Covering my head under the blanket, I would slowly peek out, sitting up halfway and watching them. The silence was intolerable. I was scared to scream.
I would bite the corner of the blanket and could not take my eyes off the wall.

  The big shadow covered the small one with its body, like a big clump of clouds that suddenly covers the sky. Then it went back, and the small shadow got closer. This time the shadow had a head, and in one instant the smaller one became like a person with a big belly and grew a head. The shadows were moving, and now an arm was separated from the entangled mass. The shadows got taller and half of them disappeared over the top of the wall, and, all of a sudden, they all fell to the ground like a black curtain. Like a little hill that disappeared in a second, resembling a passing hallucination.

  Whoever the shadows belonged to originally, now they are mine. The owners did not know that they had a shadow, and that I have taken their shadows from the wall, imprisoned them, and carry them with me wherever I go. Sometimes, regardless of time and place, I get drawn in to their act. This time without the fear and horror that obscures everything. In my mind, everything is clear and the silence of the night is deep and tranquil. The pull of the shadows toward each other is soft and whimsical, and has a natural freshness. Sometimes I get tired of them though and want to return the shadows to their owners, but that is not possible. I don’t know their real owners anymore.

  18

  Amir has fallen in love. In love with a blond woman. He introduces her to me as “my sister.” The woman is thin and slender, and probably from Canada. She extends her hand and smiles. I can’t tell if she is Iranian or Canadian, but she is a stranger. She can’t be his sister.

  I want to scream. But Amir isn’t looking at me. He has turned toward the woman. No one looks at his sister like that. I am almost certain.

  I squeeze my eyelids so hard that my face gets tied into knots.

  I tell myself it is all over between Amir and me. I feel a sadness different from any other. I hear myself weep. It sounds like Maman’s weeping.