In the Shadow of Tyranny E-Book

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 586

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The story is about love, lust, loss, hope, fear and fight for justice and freedom, and it takes place in Iran after 1945. Reza was nine when his father died, and he was sent to the desert to work as a shepherd. Ten years later, sex is the most important part of his life. In searching for pastures new he meets the godly girl from a conservative and pious family. It is love at first sight. In the small town, life is lived in a fatalistic fashion. Some are rich, many others are poor, some are born and others die. Most of the characters in the first part of the novel accept their fate and leave their destiny in the hands of religion, sex or alcohol. But when the new generation is born , the reader realizes that times are changing. Finally many political forces, both seculars and religious, stand together to overthrow the Shah, however the religious are victorious, and they take control of the country. The youth are happy when the Shah tyranny disappears, but they are shocked at seeing a new tyranny taking its place.

Leseprobe

They smell your breath, lest you had said “I love you”.

—Shamloo

To women in my birth country

*

The man poked the old and tired donkey with a wooden stick. He and his donkey had traveled for three days in a row with short breaks; their only long break was a stay at an inn. There they had managed to get a little sleep and something to eat, and he had delivered some letters. The inn served as the central post office in the Iran of the time—1945—when the country still didn’t yet possess a well-developed and centralized postal service. It was not often that someone came into town from the Kavir Desert, so all the shepherd boys and men would take the opportunity to send the traveler colleague letters and money for their families.

The trip to Mount-Town was usually an enjoyable one, because the long-awaited man not only visited his own friends and family but also spread joy to other families. He was regarded as a kind of honorary guest of the town. He would spend a few days in town, calling on families and being invited into different homes, so that he could deliver news from their distant family members. The families would try to make a good impression, and to hide their financial difficulties, for they were reluctant to worry their loved ones unnecessarily.

This time, however, the man’s journey was unlike his previous ones. He felt old and weary, and the closer to the town he got, the older he felt. The donkey sensed the traveler’s melancholic mood and adjusted its pace to his indolent and heavy rhythm.

They were now only a few kilometers from the town. He was eager to get home before the people of the town began to awaken. He would like to be with his family on the first day before he moved on to visit friends. But there was something he had to do first. He had to get the worst of it over with: what made this trip so sad and exhausting.

When he reached the top of the hill, he looked over the safe and sleeping Mount-Town. The howls of the jackals and wolves were the only noises to be heard. He looked up at the sky. The moon was hidden. This was strange, he thought; it had always seemed to him that the moon was permanent here, painted onto the sky above this town. But now someone had painted it over with black. The wind began to blow violently, and in a few minutes heavy black clouds gathered and covered the entire town. It was pitch dark, and it started to rain. It couldn’t be more suitable, he thought. A dark trip with dark news, and now rain.

There was nothing to gain by waiting for better weather when he was so close to town. He had to convey the sad news, and then he could go home and sleep. As he walked, all the small potholes in the road transformed into puddles, and by the time he reached the first house he was drenched. The donkey, oblivious to the rain, did not bother to hurry: there were no pleasantries awaiting it—it was not two hours since it had last ate, so it was full. The man found himself similarly in no hurry, and he no longer poked the donkey. His legs grew heavier and heavier, whether due to his sodden woolen clothes or his unwillingness to bring the news, he did not know. A few kilometers away a family lay asleep, peaceful and quiet—but not for long once he visited. He was full of dread and goosebumps had erupted all over his body. It was amazing how cold he felt. It had never been so cold in May.

He turned at the first corner on the right. The street was narrow and covered with small stones, and he kicked the stones at random, dirtying both himself and the donkey. Now he could see the door.

No, he thought, let me sleep tonight. I’ll tell them in the morning.

No, I have to, he argued. I have only two days in the town. If I do not say it now, I’ll have to tell them tomorrow, and then my whole day will be lost.

The door to the courtyard was located in the middle of a clay wall, approximately ten meters long and two meters high, topped with dried thorny plants to protect the house against the uninvited. He picked a small stone from the street and banged it on the door. He could still hear the jackals and wolves, but the first cockerels had begun to crow. It was still raining.

When there was no response, he walked to the right, to the end of the wall, stood on his tiptoes and knocked on a little dark and dirty window. Shortly afterwards a faint glow lit the window.

The traveler went back to the door and heard a female voice asking, “Who is it?”

“It’s me. Mashdi.”

The door opened and a frail old lady greeted him.

“Welcome, Mashdi. Come in and get something hot to drink before you get sick. Why is it raining so much the first time you’ve come to Mount-Town for several years?”

“Good question,” Mashdi replied as he went through the yard door.

To the left of the yard door a fence covered with grape vines created shade from the strong sun in the small courtyard. The man led the donkey in and tied it to the fence, close enough so that it was protected from the rain.

“I’ll go in and make tea. Just come in when you’re finished with the donkey,” the old woman said, and then called:

“Maleke. Wake up, my girl. We’ve got guests. Mashdi has come from Kavir. He probably has lots of news about Taleb.”

Mashdi took something from the donkey’s load and went into the only room in the house. Two boys were sleeping together in a corner, and farther along a girl was also still asleep. The two women lit the samovar and unfolded a small tablecloth, which they laid out on the floor.

“I’d like a glass of tea, but I can’t eat anything. It’s not that long since I’ve eaten,” said Mashdi.

“This is the first time you’ve visited us in many years, so of course you must have something to eat,” the old woman replied.

Mashdi conceded reluctantly, partly so as not to be rude, but mostly to buy himself time while he gathered the courage to reveal what he had to tell. He handed out the family’s various gifts of leather bags filled with milk products, including cheese and butter.

“How’s Taleb?” asked the young woman, Maleke. She was of medium height and slender, with dark-brown skin, a small nose, large black eyes and long hair.

There was a long pause. Mashdi looked down and said nothing. Then he pulled himself together and said, “Actually, not so good.”

The teaglass began to shake in Maleke’s hands. Her eyes grew dark. She knew what “actually, not so good” meant. She knew now that her husband, the father of her three children, a man she had not seen for the last two years, was dead. She handed Mashdi his tea and then fell backwards, unconscious.

“I’m sorry. I have to go now, but I’ll come by tomorrow,” Mashdi managed to say.

While the old woman busied herself attempting to revive her daughter, Mashdi returned to the courtyard, where he untied his donkey. He walked slowly out onto the road, feeling old and cursing himself for destroying an entire family’s life. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts and his compassion for his old friend’s family that he did not realize that it was not raining anymore and that the sun had risen. He was exhausted.

When he finally arrived home, he went straight to bed without saying a word to his wife, who had been eagerly awaiting his visit for more than two years.

The old woman made a glass of sugar water, lifted her daughter’s head and let her drink it all.

“Now listen, my girl. I know it’s hard to be widowed at twenty-five, but you must think of your children. You still have a responsibility to them. They won’t survive without you.

“Come on, my darling, make breakfast for your children and send Reza to school. We can cry again tonight when they’ve gone to bed. Mashdi will return tomorrow, and we’ll ask him for advice on what to do with your life now that we’ve lost our only income.

“For now, give the kids the butter and cheese, and let them taste the result of your husband’s hard work. Let them rejoice that they have something from their father. You don’t have to say anything about his death. Not yet.”

Maleke wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, covered the floor with the dining cloth and woke her three children. The children were delighted to hear that their father had sent them food, and they loved the fresh butter and cheese.

After breakfast, Reza was sent to school, the girl was sent to carpet weaving and the youngest boy was sent out to play with the other children.

The old woman called out to her daughter:

“In the small bag are Taleb’s savings. I’ve counted it all; there’s enough money for a memorial service and to help us manage for a while. God bless his soul. The godly man always thought of us. He had to do without so much to support us. Come on, girl, take some of this money and buy some rice and meat, so we can give the kids good food today. We must also remember that Mashdi is coming tomorrow.”

Maleke put on her chador and went out. The old woman washed herself outside with a pot of water and then returned to the room, opened her prayer mat and began to pray.

“Lord Almighty God, you know everything and everything happens according to your will. But as a confused servant, I would like ask: Why? Was it not enough that I should raise and provide for three orphans? Should my daughter go through the same thing? With all due respect, I don’t understand the higher meaning of this. But what’s done is done. Lord God, you are the Almighty, who has given life to everything from animals to humans. Help us get through this.”

Afterwards she cried intensely and inconsolably. She had exactly the time that her daughter was out buying groceries to ease her own heart. When Maleke returned, the crying had to be over. She had to be strong and conceal her emotions. She could not falter—she was the central pillar in the home. If she fell, they all fell with her.

She folded the bedclothes and placed them in the far corner, and then she took a broom and swept the room.

Maleke returned from shopping. The old woman served her tea and fresh cheese layered on a piece of warm bread.

“Eat, my girl, you need to be strong. I’ve thought things through. Remember the last time Taleb was at home? He said that the khan would want Reza as a shepherd boy when he turned ten. I think he’ll still want him, although Reza is only nine. Why don’t we talk to Mashdi about it?”

“Yes, I think he did mention that. Taleb was always a good worker for the khan. He was industrious and diligent and reliable, and his reputation among friends and enemies alike was good. Why should the khan be afraid to take Reza under his wing? Mother, do you think Reza will agree?”

“Yes. He’ll do anything to see his father.”

“But…” Maleke started to cry again.

“He’ll find out for himself. We won’t say anything,” the old woman said reassuringly.

When the children returned from a full day of work and play, Maleke helped them change their clothes and wash their hands, feet and faces. Afterwards she served tahchin—a meat dish with rice. The kids loved tahchin, which was usually reserved for festive occasions.

After dinner, the children went to bed. Maleke took the plates and cutlery outside to wash up with a little sand and water she had brought back earlier that day from the spring. When she came back into the room, the children were asleep. The old woman called to her daughter and Maleke put her head on her mother’s lap. They both started to cry. They wept for half an hour in silence. Afterwards they stood and went outside to wash their faces.

“Always trust in God, my girl,” said the old woman. “If I succeeded in caring for my children, you can as well. We are two—your mother is not dead yet. We’ll be fine.”

The following day in late afternoon Mashdi visited the khan, to whom he had to deliver half of his donkey’s load. A servant announced his arrival and the khan granted him permission to enter. Mashdi told him that he had given his farm manager two sacks of butter and four sacks of cheese. Then he gave his detailed report on the herd:

“Our herd has one thousand two hundred sheep and three camels. The camels are doing well, but we’ve lost some sheep from disease and wolf and leopard attacks—so we’re down to one thousand one hundred. But many ewes are pregnant, soon to give birth. So I figure the flock’ll be up to a thousand five hundred by the midsummer.”

Khan raised his head from his opium-pipe and smiled, apparently pleased by the report.

“But we’ve lost a man, so we need a new shepherd,’ Mashdi continued. “Taleb. He died of stomach flu.”

The khan exhaled a puff of smoke and played a little with his long moustache. Then, after another puff, he said, “It’s a shame. He was a good man. It’s hard to find someone to trust these days.”

“I’ve talked to the others about it. If you give your permission, we can take on his young son. He’s ten now, and reliable, so I hear.”

The khan frowned. “A great responsibility for such a boy.”

“He’s from a good family and no stranger to hard work.”

“All right. But only if you take responsibility for him.”

“I thank the khan for granting us this. May God preserve the khan.”

“Anything else? When are you going back?”

“Nothing else, my lord khan. I’m going back tomorrow.”

“Send my regards to the others and tell them I will come by in a month.”

“If the khan has no more orders then I apologize for the inconvenience and bid him farewell.”

Satisfied, Mashdi left the house, climbed onto the donkey and rode on. He had been concerned that the khan would reject his proposal about hiring Reza; thank goodness Mashdi’s word carried a lot of weight. Ten years ago, when Mashdi and Taleb started working for the khan, there had been only a hundred sheep in the herd. Now there were more than a thousand, and just as many animals had been sold. Mashdi and Taleb cared for the khan’s animals as they would their own, so the khan was pleased with their efforts.

Now Mashdi had to move on to his dead friend’s family to bring the good news, which he hoped would go some way to heal the wounds that the family had suffered.

He arrived at the house and knocked on the door. Maleke opened it and invited him in. He entered and sat down at the door, but the old woman insisted that he sit on the opposite side, where he could lean against the rest. It was only now he really noticed the room. In one corner, below the small window, linen was piled up. Opposite the door flames danced in a hole in the ground framed by bricks on which pots were placed for cooking. The wall against the courtyard had no window but a shelf bearing spices and utensils. The fourth wall was covered with a backrest. The kids ate there, close to the bed sheets in the corner, and the adults ate close to the fire.

After they had eaten, the children unleashed their curiosity. The little girl asked:

“Isn’t it right, Uncle Mashdi, that my father is the strongest?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

She continued: “My father can read and write, right,

Uncle Mashdi?”

“Yes, that’s right. He is the only one of us who can.”

Reza looked proudly at Mashdi and added: “Tell Father that I’m good at reading and arithmetic. I want him to be proud of me.”

“He already is.”

“OK, children, Mashdi is tired, and you must go to bed now.”

Maleke put the bedding on the floor, and the children said goodnight and went to bed.

The old woman took the floor after responding to Mashdi’s polite praise for the food.

“Mashdi, this is a difficult situation for us. Without a breadwinner, we’re as good as dead. What do you suggest we do?”

“Mother, Taleb has been like my brother. We’ve been together since we were kids, and I will not fail him now. The khan has given me permission to hire Reza in his place, if that’s with you. Obviously he won’t get the same pay as his father, but a little is better than nothing. He’ll get room and board and clothes and shoes and a little pay. I’ve agreed with the khan that you’ll get money from his manager every month.”

The old mother and the young daughter began to cry, tears of gratitude mingled with just a little joy in this sad situation. Now they knew that it would be OK. Reza and the little daughter would work and Maleke would weave carpets at home.

“Mashdi, my son, we’re very grateful for your support.”

“Taleb would have done the same for my family. I’ll travel in the morning, early. Please get Reza ready for the journey. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

*

Reza was devastated when he on his first night in the shepherd tent realised his father had passed away. But there wasn’t any time for mourning, he was aware of his great responsibility towards his family. He had to transform into a man overnight. Not everyone has the luxury of eighteen to twenty years to make this transformation. For many, like Reza, it happens in the course of one night. Who says that time machines have not yet been invented? If you ask a poor boy who has become orphaned, he will tell you differently. It’s easy enough—you go to bed as a playful boy and wake up the next day as a responsible young man.

Mashdi did not need more shepherds, and so he delivered Reza to another, who led a different herd of sheep. Reza’s father, Taleb, had been the head of this herd, but after his death Agha had taken over. His unreliable and selfish manner, coupled with his disaffected actions, had made him unpopular among the other shepherds. While Taleb was alive, he had managed this unsympathetic man with an iron fist. But now Agha was in charge.

When he saw Reza, he smiled insidiously, as though already plotting his revenge. The last remnants of any rational thinking are pushed aside when vengeance is the driving force. As soon as Mashdi left, Agha went over to Reza and, with pointed finger and hateful eyes, said:

“I’m the one who decides here. You obey my orders, only mine, no questions asked.”

Then he shouted loudly, “Do you understand?”

Reza, who was hungry and still tired from the long trip, nodded. He did not understand the source of Agha’s hostility, but he knew instinctively that he would have a hard time with this man.

Agha sent Reza to bed without offering him so much as a glass of water. Reza followed the other shepherd boys into a tent made of goat hair. He was affected by Agha’s rough treatment, but he was not defeated. He can’t be worse than my teacher, he thought as he lay down on the sandy ground. It was not long before physical exhaustion won out over his mind’s spinning, and he fell asleep.

In the morning he awoke fully rested: relaxed in every muscle and recharged. He smiled; he was looking forward to getting started the day.

Reza discovered that he was alone in the tent. They’re probably making breakfast, he thought. But outside he was just as alone. It was as if no one had ever been there. Surely they’re hiding somewhere to surprise me, he thought. He looked around. The land was deserted and there were no places to hide. Even his boots, which he had left outside the tent, were gone. The only evidence that he was not dreaming and that anyone else had been there was the remains of the shepherds’ fire, still hot, though now covered with ash.

Hungry, thirsty, frightened and alone, he sat down and cried. Then, after he had cried himself dry, he got up and walked resolutely towards the sun. He had once heard his father say that the shepherds always walked towards the sun. Without his boots, his bare feet stung against the sun-warmed sand and small thorny plants pricked him. But Reza did not cry: he kept his pain inside. All he could think was that an entire family was dependent on his patience and that he would overcome all the challenges along the way.

He walked for three hours before he met the first team. By then grit had stuck to his hot and sticky soles, so it was as though he wore sandals of sand and blood. He asked the shepherds, accusingly, why they did not wake him.

“Agha said that we couldn’t,” a boy responded. “He said you must learn to survive in the desert alone.”

After a long day of wandering in the inhospitable desert with their herds in search of grazing spots the shepherds returned and followed the mixed herd of sheep and goats to their pens.

Agha told Reza that he must take the lambs and kids to their mothers, as it was now time for them to be fed.

“Do not mix them together,” he instructed. “You must lead every young animal to its mother.”

Reza walked over to the lambs, but to his great surprise he saw that there were at least two hundred animals in the flock. He felt tears pricking. How could he match sheep and young? He kicked the sand in resignation and felt stabs in his feet. The pain distracted him, but the respite was short-lived. Agha walked past and shouted at him:

“Why are you standing there like an idiot? This is not a rest home!”

Reza was still desperately searching for a solution in his mind when Mamad, a friendly shepherd boy, asked him why he looked so unhappy.

“I need to make sure that the lambs are fed with milk. But how can I find out which lambs belong to which sheep?”

Mamad burst into laughter so strong he had to hold his stomach while tears rolled down his face.

“You stupid boy, there isn’t anything for you to do. They find each other themselves.”

“But Agha said…”

“Go ahead,” Mamad interrupted.

Reza led the lambs and kids to the sheep and goats. The small animals immediately ran around, and within a few seconds they found their mothers and began to suckle. Reza looked on and smiled. Then he saw a little kid stumbling around and bleating. Reza was afraid of Agha’s response, so he found Mamad. Mamad explained that the kid had lost its mother, and needed a surrogate. He found a sheep that had a lot of milk, and asked Reza to hold its head. Mamad went behind the animal, lifted its little tail, breathed heavily into its vagina and then lubricated the kid’s buttocks with the liquid that came out of the sheep. Then he placed the kid’s mouth on the sheep’s udder. The sheep was a little uneasy, but once it had sniffed the kid’s buttocks it allowed it to feed.

“You’re lucky; this trick doesn’t always work. Now you don’t have to feed it with a bottle,” said Mamad.

Reza was entranced by the vision of one udder suckled by a lamb and the other by a kid.

When the lambs and kids had had their fill of warm milk, they began to run around and kick and butt heads. Reza led them back to their pen and left them. He met Agha again.

“Why are you just standing there? Take your fingers outta your ass! Go out and gather dry plants for our fire.”

“Dry plants?” Reza asked hesitantly.

“Are you answering me back now? Yes, dry plants. D’you expect your mother to come here and cook for you? Why are you standing there? Run. Run!”

Reza ran. In his haste, he took nothing to tie the plants together or a rake to pull them out of the ground. He quickly found that it was difficult to tear the plants out with his bare hands. But he dared not go back, so he took off his shirt and used it as a glove. He managed to pull up some plants, which he then tied together with his belt.

When he returned to the camp, his hands were bleeding, but he was proud of his harvest. But Agha told him that a little girl could have picked more.

“Go and start making the fire. Go!” he shouted.

Before Reza could respond, the shepherd boy, Mamad, stepped in. He took the plants from Reza and told Agha that he should let Reza be.

When they went to bed that night, to Reza’s relief Mamad said that he would take care of Agha, and that all the others would protect him and, if necessary, beat Agha. Smiling, he fell asleep.

 

*

Just some kilometers away from Reza’s family, Fateme lived alone in a big house with her children, nine-year-old Mina and her little sister, Mehri.

Although Fateme was not the prettiest girl in Mount-Town, she had, because of her father’s wealth and prestige, the opportunity for a life of luxury with servants. Despite this privileged background, she had always shown great character in managing her household during her husband’s absence, now in its third year.

The house had a bedroom, a guest room and a room that was used as a kitchen and pantry. All the rooms had walls of clay and straw and big, thick beams crossed the ceilings. The roof, flat and made of clay, was used to dry the summer’s fruit for the winter.

Outside, the house had a large garden of some two thousand square meters, which was surrounded by high brick walls on all four sides. The wall facing the street contained a large, thick door. In the center of the garden ran a one-meter wide and one-meter-deep spring that supplied the family with drinking and washing water. In the lower corner of the garden there was a toilet. At night, Fateme and her children had to walk the fifty meters from the bedroom to the toilet with an oil lamp.

The two girls were not allowed to go out to play, since there was no man of the house. Fateme used to say that people’s tongues were sharper than swords and so she was careful about her reputation. In the streets, the women often talked about “loose” women, those unfortunate to live in a house with no man. There were men who did nothing but chase “loose” women. But Fateme was from a good family and would under no circumstances shame her family. It was not her fault that she had ended up in this hopeless situation.

Once Fateme’s husband’s family had taken care of her rich father’s estate, which consisted of a large orchard of trees bearing plums, pears, apples, walnuts, apricots, cherries and almonds, and the house she now lived in with the garden. Her family came to the estate two or three times a year to do the accounting and relax, and the caretaker waited on them.

The caretaker had three sons, all of whom had their eyes on Fateme. On one of the visits, while her family sat on the terrace and was waited upon, the youngest boy, then eighteen years old, came up to Fateme and, in plain sight of everyone, kissed her on the forehead. Her mother, who was a very pious woman, considered the incident a scandal and demanded immediately that the two should be engaged, even though Fateme was no more than eleven years old. Was the boy in love with this little girl, or was it a cunning conspiracy, with the support of his family, to get out of poverty? Fateme never did find out. Four years later, they married. At age of sixteen, she gave birth to her first child, Mina.

After the husband's disappearance Fateme had shown great skill in the management of the orchards, which was their only source of income. Fateme’s mother kept a close eye on her and the little girls.

She was proud and so her mother did not mix directly in their lives, but cleverly ensured that they did not starve. When Fateme got a good price for their fruits in town, when she paid less for her garden tools, when she hired people to pick fruit at a lower wage, she attributed it all to her negotiating skills and people’s respect for her. She did not suspect that her mother had a hand in the negotiations, every single time.

There were various rumors in Mount-Town about the whereabouts of her husband. Some believed that he was hiding at home; others that he was in prison because of opium trading; still others that he had fled an opium gang because he cheated them; and a few whispered that his mother-in-law, who could never forget his vile and disgusting act in kissing her daughter, had arranged his murder. Fateme knew that the first and last rumors were untrue, but otherwise she was just as ignorant as the rest of the town as to her husband’s fate.

Over the years many men had unsuccessfully attempted to fill the empty space. Even a nun eventually softens, the men would say, to comfort each other every time they were rejected. But since the day she refused the local community chairman with the brutal words “You’re not even worth using my husband’s shit as henna for your gray beard,” no one ever dared to harass Fateme again. On the contrary, people developed a certain respect for her.

Mina and Mehri received private lessons in reading, writing, arithmetic and studying the Quran. Every day, an older, very strict woman came to teach the two. In return for her efforts, Fateme gave her fruit, bread, eggs, milk, meat and, occasionally, money. The teacher was very committed to her role.

“You are lucky that you have a modern mother who values your education,” the teacher told the children. “Remember that to be educated is not only to be able to read and write, but to also be respectable and decent girls. You do not play with boys, and you should not laugh when men are present.”

The girls learned to read and write, but they did not understand all the talk about men and boys. What they liked most about the teacher’s visits was the news she brought about the outside world.

Every day Fateme showed herself to be a strong woman who took care of everything without complaint. But at night the cracks were visible. She frequently woke up and took her prayer rug out onto the terrace, where she would kneel and talk tearfully to her God. She was angry with her husband because he had left her and their little children without saying a word. She was also angry with God because she could not fathom his intentions or wear they would lead her.

One night, for the first time in all the years her husband had been gone, she expressed a cruel desire to God. She had never allowed herself to think this thought before, had never had the time to think such a thought. But when she knelt in the moonlight in the silence of the night, it slipped out of her mouth:

“I wish I was a widow. So I knew, at the very least, it was all over.”

The words surprised her. Had she said that? She repeated the words, and got chills. Is it really possible to say something without knowing where it comes from? Do words have their own free will, and so come forth as they please? Hardly; but we sometimes need to first reflect on things when they’ve already been spoken and heard. That was at least how Fateme experienced it now. The words revealed the fact that she wanted her husband’s dead for her own convenience. She felt terrible and immediately asked God for forgiveness. She looked up at the sky, though she never could figure out why one looks up when one needs to talk to God—they say that God is everywhere.

“Dear God, give me a sign. I have earned it as your humble servant,” she whispered.

Her nocturnal and solitary prayer was her only outlet for her frustration and despair. When you are too proud to ask family for help, or to admit to acquaintances and neighbors that it is hard to get by, there is nothing else to do than talk to someone who keeps secrets, one who listens but does not answer, at least not directly.

It is not possible to know for sure whether it was due to this prayer, or perhaps due to the fact that it was time for a change in her life, but something happened.

It was exactly three months to the day since Fateme asked God for a sign of some sort. It was a little past midnight and, as on most summer nights, the moon was shining. Fateme was sitting on the terrace with her only friend, the same intimate friend she was with on all the lonely nights: God. She admired his patience and his kindness; the door was always open for a talk, regardless of the time. She was in the middle of a conversation when she heard someone knock on the front door. First the knocks came slowly and almost inaudibly, but gradually they grew faster, louder and bolder. She closed her eyes and listened carefully to be sure she heard correctly, that it was not just her imagination. Yes, it was true enough that someone was knocking on her door.

She had known that this day, or rather night, would come. It had been on her mind since the first night she spent alone with her girls in the large and spooky house. She knew that the men at some point would stop trying to “conquer” her with polite words and methods. She knew that the worst of them would visit her at night with a conscience as black as the evening sky. But although she had toyed with the idea, she was surprised now to hear the knocking. Perhaps we humans are born optimists and hope always for a happy outcome. But now disaster had literally come knocking on her door.

She had gone through her security procedure many times: into the pantry, take the axe and be ready for the deadly blow. She knew that she would no doubt be convicted in this male-dominated society. Who would respect her honor and her right to self-defense? No, people would even say that she had invited the rapist in. But she could not give in for fear. She had to fight, regardless of the consequences. In any event, she would not be considered a decent woman anymore: the damage was already been done. The nosy neighbors had probably already heard the knocking, and their sick imaginations were already at work. The sickest of the women had already been in to check that their men, brothers and sons, were where they should be. Fateme also knew that when the horny goat had gone so far and was so desperate, keeping the door closed could not deter it: it would find some other way in.

She went out into the pantry and took the axe. On the way back, she pulled the covers up over her two small, unsuspecting girls and kissed them gently. Then she read a verse from the Quran to give herself courage and walked over to the door. The knocking on the door ceased. She walked closer and, in a trembling voice, asked:

“Who is it who disturbs people in the darkness of night? Don’t you have a woman in your own house?”

“Dear sister, we’re not coming to disturb you. We come from your husband, Mr. Safa, on a peaceful and joyful errand.”

Hearing the name of her husband uttered in such a respectful tone made her more suspicious. She was also worried about the word “we.” Her brain had already begun to compare the voice with the roster of men she knew, but the voice did not immediately seem familiar.

“What do you know about Mr. Safa, and what do you want?” She emphasized the “you,” hoping the man would clarify whether he was alone or with someone.

“It’s your husband, Mr. Safa, who has sent us. He knew that you’d probably react like this, so he said that we must tell you that he planted a cherry tree in the outer corner of your orchard on the day he had to say goodbye to you.”

Oh, the tree. For the past two or three years it had been the only symbol that although Fateme and Safa did not have a happy marriage, they at least had shared a period of their lives. The girls had cared for the tree, watering and pruning it, and last year they had plucked its small red berries. One day she had even caught the girls in an intense game in which the tree was playing the role of their father.

She placed the axe on the ground and gently opened the door. Outside were two men: a presentable man looming large in the doorway, and a scruffy man a little farther away, holding the reins of three beautiful horses. The presentable man asked for permission to enter and asked whether his friend could lead the horses to the barn and give them something to eat. Fateme agreed.

She was not thinking about scandal anymore. She knew that at least the waterman—the man who, with carefully planned scheduling, ensured that everyone’s gardens got water—would have seen the two men, and rumors would be spread throughout Mount-Town by morning. But she did not care now. The men had come from her husband, her long-awaited and missed husband. They were proof that Safa lived, and they could answer her many questions. Besides, perhaps they also had some money from him, though no goods; she had quickly noticed that there were no bags with the men or on the horses.

Fateme lit the oil lamp and led the men to the guest room, so as not to wake the little ones. She made tea and covered the floor with the food mat, and placed jam, bread, honey and cheese on the mat. The scruffy man ate quickly without saying anything. It was difficult to known whether he ate quickly because he had nothing to say, or he said nothing because he ate too quickly. He was quiet anyway. The presentable man expressed appreciation for Fateme’s hospitality, but would not eat anything.

“Mrs. Safa, please wake your girls and get ready. We’re going on a long trip, and we don’t have much time.”

The scruffy man shoved food into his mouth even faster when he heard that time was short.

“But where are we going? It will take me several days to pack,” said Fateme, confused.

“I can’t tell you the destination, and you don’t need time to pack anything other than your personal papers. Just bring your girls and lock up your house. We want to be out of the valley before dawn.”

“I can’t just leave like that!” said Fateme, desperately. “I must say goodbye to my family. And I need to know where we’re going.”

“Sorry, ma’am, it’s Mr. Safa’s orders that we tell you no more. You can get answers to all your questions when you meet him. It won’t be long, I promise. We must leave shortly.”

Fateme woke the two girls, gave them something to eat and dressed them. Both girls were so sleepy and confused that they swallowed their food with closed eyes and let their mother dress them as they lay like two loose-jointed dolls.

Fateme could see that the truth behind her husband’s disappearance was far from in the open yet; otherwise all this secrecy would hardly be necessary. It was not what she had dreamed of in her most optimistic moments: escaping in the dark of night as quietly as a thief. Even in her dreams she had realized that her husband would not show up in town. But he would send a caravan of camels, horses and sheep with exotic servants, who would hold a giant party for the entire town, before she and the girls went on a long trip abroad. But instead Safa was having her whisked out of town in the middle of the night.

She locked all the doors and closed all of the windows before finally locking the front door. The horses were already out and waiting for them.

The presentable man wrapped a woven rug tightly around Mina and lifted her up onto his own horse. Bending beside the horse, he then placed a chair on the ground and asked Fateme to step up unto the second horse. The scruffy man placed Mehri in front of him. Fateme rode alone in the middle with her horse tethered to both men’s horses. They rode very slowly for a few kilometers and then a little faster.

For two days they rode, taking only short breaks. At last the presentable man said to Mina:

“Well, little lady, in a few hours you’ll see your father. He’s missed you most of all.”

Fateme and the girls looked at the landscape, full of wonder that eclipsed their fatigue. So many green forests, so many rivers, so many green fields—they had never seen anything like it before.

Safa had been waiting anxiously in the Two-Rivers-Town’s outskirts to receive his family. When the presentable man saw Safa he put Mina on the ground. Mina walked towards the stranger.

“Uncle, Uncle, have you seen my father?”

Safa lifted her up and kissed her on the cheek.

“You stupid girl, I am your father.”

Safa led his family home, to a two-bedroom house with a large garden filled with fruit trees: orange, pomegranates, figs and many other kinds the girls had not seen before. Afterwards, Safa took the girls to his shop and filled them with sweets.

Fateme, clever wife that she was, did not ask Safa for any explanations about his absence. She simply enjoyed her newly reunited family and wealth.

 

*

Life was not easy in the desert’s extremely hot and dry climate. Only poor shepherds and few hard working families lived in these hostile environments.

As a town boy Reza had to adapt himself to the surrounding conditions by getting stronger both mentally and physically.

In the past years he had gradually grown into the true leader of the shepherd boys. Physically, he was the nature choice for the role: the tallest and the strongest, with a slim but athletic frame. But it was not only his physical body that had grown—so too had his interest in the opposite sex.

Reza spent hours every day fantasizing about girls’ bodies—their round shapes, their firm, perky breasts and their large, curved buttocks. He and the other young shepherds frequently went on longer hikes than necessary, just so they could see girls and young women as they washed clothes or dishes and filled up their water containers. The young men followed every one of the girls’ movements closely. They were like a pack of lions watching their prey. They sat in secret, mouths watering, pounding blood turning their temples red, and in their pants the visual feast awakened their beasts.

Yet despite the fact that their bodies were burning with desire, the young men could only look. Some had made awkward attempts to express their desires in sweet, enticing words, but unfortunately they had come out as vulgar and repelled the girl, as when the lion attacks directly instead of favoring the patient, restrained ambush.

At times the young shepherd’s frustration was so unbearable that they could not concentrate on anything other than how they could put an end to the constant pain. When self-gratification ceased to suffice, the most instinct-driven of them started on the animals. It was much easier, because there were many of them and they were available around the clock. It didn’t require a poet to lure them. One could go a long way with a sheep without a word.

The young men were jealous of a much older shepherd who conquered women again and again. Everybody who knew him well referred to him as Hasan the skirt-chaser because of his great success with women. He played the flute, could recite many poems by heart and knew exactly how to entice his prey. The old lion used his experience, not his speed. He would effortlessly find easy prey in the crowd, and wait patiently before making his final, crucial move. Some of the young shepherds were so envious of him that they threatened to kill him if he did not tell them about his hunting methods. Hasan’s answer was always the same: “It is a God-given talent that cannot be taught.”

But Reza had a special relationship with this man, whom he had helped many times with heavy work, such as milking the sheep and separating the sheep from the lambs, and he believed that the time had come for these favors to be returned.

“I’m dying from desire,” he told Hasan the skirt-chaser. “You have so many. Can’t you just give me one, the ugliest?”

“I’m sorry,” said the man, “that’s not how it works.”

But Reza would not give up. He was like a young lion that cannot hunt without scaring the animals and must rely on what the more experienced lion discards. Finally his patience and persistence were rewarded. The older skirt-chaser gave in.

“OK, I can help. But you can’t be a chicken. I have an idea, and you have to grit your teeth and keep going. I’ll help you only because you don’t have the gift of the gab in your favor. You don’t know the game’s unwritten rules, and you can’t send and read signs.”

“I’ll do anything. The situation can’t get any worse than it is now, no matter what,” said Reza.

“When it comes to women, rumor and reputation mean a lot. Half of them come voluntarily to me because they’ve already heard good stories about me. We must let them know what you can do with women, and that you get it right. Do you trust me?”

Reza was already so excited that he almost could not breathe. He was so focused that there were deep furrows in his young brow.

“Yes, I trust you.”

“Come in the morning, a little before the others, to the spring at water time.”

Reza gathered the animals, and then took his flute from his pocket and began to play—not the usual sad tune, but a cheerful one.

That night, unable to sleep, he tossed and turned in his tent. He stepped outside to look at the moon; then he smiled and went back to bed. He pulled the blanket over his body, bent his knees up towards his chest, lifted one leg up again, kicked the blanket off and went out to urinate. He sat by a bush, rolled a cigarette, lit it, took a few puffs and returned to the tent.

“You’d better sleep, or I’ll kick you out of the tent,” warned one of the older shepherds, who was trying to sleep, well knowing he could not beat Reza.

Reza closed his eyes and lay as quietly as possible. Eventually he gave in to his many emotions—anxiety, excitement, joy—and fell asleep.

He arrived earlier than usual at the spring. He did not know what would happen, but he knew that whatever it was, it would benefit him in the future.

It may well be that Hasan the skirt-chaser will take me to the women and put in a good word for me, he thought naively. Or perhaps he will teach me some poems. But why at the spring?

He continued to argue and counter-argue all the different options. But now the excruciatingly slow, nerve-racking moments were over. He could see Hasan on the horizon. The closer he got, the bigger the figure became, and the smaller Reza felt. For a moment he doubted the project, especially when he saw that Hasan had a long, thin wooden stick in his hand and a look of sadism in his eyes.

“Remember, you must trust me,” the skirt-chaser said, and then he stressed what he had said the day before.

He pulled off Reza’s dirty, worn shirt and tied his hands and his feet.

“We’ll begin when the girls and women come. Do not say anything, no matter what I say.”

When Hasan could see the women approaching, he took the stick and started beating Reza, as though he was a torturer attempting to extract secrets from his victim. As he hit, harder and harder, he shouted:

“I told you that we’re in a respectable small village here. That you do not go after people’s wives and fiancées. That it’s not decent. But did you listen? No, you have the instincts of a bastard. You don’t care about honor.”

The girls and women stopped a little before the spring, astonished, and looked on with eyes and ears wide open as Hasan threw blows and Reza moaned.

“You do not need to go after people’s wives,” Hasan said.

One of the young women who was a little older than the others approached and said, “You’ve almost beaten the boy to death! What has he done to be punished like this?”

Hasan the skirt-chaser paused, looking angrily at Reza, and said, “You stay there, young man.” Then he turned to the woman. “What has he done? He’s ruined our reputation. A poor man comes home tired after a hard week in the desert, and what does he hear? He hears screaming and moaning coming from his home. He thinks someone’s beating his wife to death, but what does he see? This bastard lying on top of his wife!”

The woman went back to the others and relayed the story. But of course she exaggerated and made the story even more exciting.

“Let it be a lesson to you,” the skirt-chaser said, and he continued to beat Reza until his stick broke in two.

Reza’s fellow shepherds, having heard the ruckus, came running up. They picked him up and carried his bloody, exhausted body back to the tent. They questioned him regularly about the whole affair, but when Reza could not or would not utter a single word, they concluded that he must have violated one of the skirt-chaser’s many women. They felt sorry for him, but were also jealous. He has tasted the real thing, so he must pay the price, they thought. But at the same time they were impressed by the older skirt-chaser’s strength.

Rumors soon spread among all the women and girls in the village, and from the village through the monthly flea market to neighboring villages. Reza quickly became the object of the men’s envy, and the subject of the women’s and girls’ wild, imaginative, erotic dreams. Reza’s courage and determination had been rewarded, and soon his wounds were healed, both on his back and in his soul. He had grown tired of seeing lovely women yet being able to do nothing but look. It made him depressed, and it gave him a feeling of powerlessness. But no more.

A week after the incident he made his way to the spring, slowly and thoughtfully. He was pondering the how, when, where and who of finding happiness after all he had been through. He was lost in his thoughts when he heard the sound of bare feet on the soft, warm sand.

The sound got louder and louder. He dared not turn around, but he knew already that it was a woman. He could tell the speed by the footfall, and if it were a man, he would already have passed. No, it was a woman, but Reza did not know how old she was. His ears were not so trained yet.

Now the female was right behind him. He could almost feel her breath on his neck.

“Hello,” she said.

Despite his knowledge of her presence, Reza gave a start.

“Hello,” he replied.

“Are you feeling better? I mean, how’s the back?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

They stopped walking and he turned around to see her better. But he felt too shy to look her in the eyes so he looked down at the ground. He could only hear her gentle, soft voice and see her small, well-proportioned, tanned feet.

The woman was surprised by Reza’s demeanor, but she interpreted it as his embarrassment over what had happened.

“The first rule is that the woman you want to be with must have her life in order. It doesn’t help anything if she doesn’t even know when her husband’s going to come home,” said the woman confidently.

Reza understood to what she was referring, and he also knew that she had taken the first and hardest step for him. Now it was important to follow up and take advantage of this opportunity. Her directness gave him courage. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes.

“It happens sometimes, no matter how careful you are. At the end of the day, you have to take it like a man,” he said boastfully, as he looked searchingly at her.

Not bad, he thought. She was tall and slim, with very dark, long hair, a thick lower lip with a slightly narrower upper one, and a nose that fit her face’s shape. And she was married; he could tell by her slightly larger stomach and the ring she wore. It couldn’t be better, he thought.

He remembered what his mentor had told him:

“Stay far away from young girls and unmarried women; they’re trouble. Imagine that you want to get into a castle without anyone noticing you. If you choose a castle with a big, thick door lock, you have to break the door down, and you give yourself away. But when you choose a castle with an open door, you can go in and out as you like. You just need to make sure that no one sees or hears you.”

“I like that you didn’t apologize, no matter how many lashes you received. Who’s this woman who’s worth so much pain?”

“Discretion is the most important thing for me,” Reza replied with a smug smile.

He was amazed at his ability to keep the conversation going. It’s not that hard once you get started, he thought. He wondered why he had ever been so scared and felt the need to prepare so much with imaginary conversations.

“Have you stopped chasing after women then? Or are they worth it?” taunted the woman.

“Anyone who goes into the sea mustn’t be afraid of the big waves.”

“Discretion is essential to me too. You can visit me if you like,” she said.

He was so busy focusing on the interaction and preparing what he would say next that he failed to register her invitation.

“What?” he asked clumsily.

“Don’t act surprised. You can visit me,” she said. Then she turned quickly and went directly to the spring.

He saw only her big, soft, bouncing buttocks and her long hair.

“I don’t know where you live—and when?” asked Reza.

“It will not be easy. Keep an eye out for me. You’ll find out when the time comes,” she said coquettishly.

The next days were consumed by constant monitoring and vigilance. Reza monitored the path to the spring almost around the clock: although he knew that the girls and women had fixed water times, he would not take any chances.

When he finally met the woman, he struggled to decipher the signals she sent. Sometimes she swung her head to flick her long hair when she walked past. Other times she looked straight into his eyes with her head cocked. Sometimes she walked past him without so much as a glance. It was confusing.

He wanted to be as good as his reputation. I’d give my right hand to have had experience, he thought. OK, maybe not my right hand, because then I wouldn’t be able to play the flute, but at least the little finger of my left hand.

Some weeks later, Reza decided to find out where the woman lived. He followed the women and girls when they returned from the spring. In such a deserted area, it was difficult, if not impossible, to hide. He used his ingenuity. When one cannot hide, one has to disguise his intentions. He led a herd of sheep with a little goat at the head and pretended that he could not control his animals, though in reality, skillful shepherd that he was, he directed them with playful ease. Each time the group of women and girls divided, he led the flock along the path that the woman took, while cursing so as to appear as authentic as possible. He noted: The third house on the right after the small hill. Then he proceeded to lead the small breakaway herd back to the original.

That night, as on many other nights, the moon shone alongside many stars and Reza could not sleep. He sat outside on the soft sand, smoked a cigarette and looked at the sky. Every time he saw a shooting star, he made a wish, the same one every time.

“God, help me to get that woman. Why have you given me so much desire and passion, if you won’t help me? Camels suffer only when they’re in heat, but I suffer around the clock. I can’t stand it anymore. I think I’ll die if I don’t get that woman,” he said threateningly as he looked up at the sky.

At length he walked into the tent and lay down for another hellish night in which a certain part of his body ached. He rolled around hundreds of times, sweaty and feeling palpitations. Eventually he rolled onto his stomach, enjoying the feeling of the soft and sandy surface against his body. He thought of the woman and smiled.

Should I visit her tomorrow night? Yes. But what if her husband is at home? Then I’ll say that I’m looking for some lost sheep. No, with my reputation he won’t believe me. How do I know whether she’s sending a sign? What if she’s already sent me one, but I’ve missed it? Why am I so stupid?

He kept thinking in circles without beginning or end, but with only one constant in the center—her—until he fell asleep, not from pleasure or physical fatigue, but from mental exhaustion.

Another day began with the same routine. Reza woke up, put bread in his pocket and went on a long hike in the desert. He traveled the usual way, arriving at the spring in the midday heat.

The woman was there, along with the other women. They were laughing, screaming with laughter. Reza thought that they were laughing at him, but he was not sure. It annoyed him that he may be the butt of their joke. It was not exactly what he wanted to achieve when he had gone through hell to get a woman. He lifted his head up and gave the group of women an offended look.

But then: the sign. The woman kept her head down, slightly turned to him, and gave him two quick winks. His heart began to beat faster and faster. He had difficulty breathing. Everything was spinning around him. Again, she sent him two fast, discreet winks. Dizzily Reza sat down.

Shortly thereafter, the women packed up and made their way back to the village. Reza, who had regained his strength, pulled himself together, stood up and followed the flock of women. The woman got slower and slower, lagging behind. She shouted to her friends that they should go on ahead, because she had to sit down to pull a thorn out of her foot.