FICTION

CHAPTERS: (1,2,3) (4,5) (6,7) (8,9,10) (11,12) (13,14,) (15)

13

Diaries of a Shirazi girl
First Notebook
(pencil sketch of clouds)
CENSOR NOTHING. BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF

In the Name of God, be nam-e khoda

A big thank you to aunt Maryam for sending me this precious journal as a new year gift, eidee. She wants me to make a daily entry, long or short, even if it means only a sentence. She is confident I am going to thank her one day for encouraging me to do this.

I should have begun with a self-introduction. My name is Zohreh. no Zahra. Actually it is both, not at the same time of course. I guess it depends on which school I happen to be going to. As long as I was at Mehrain, where religion is taken very seriously, I was Zahra my birth certificate name. But over the past two years, ever since I transferred first to Reza Shah and then to Shahdokht, where most girls have shed their veils, I have adopted Zohreh, And if by destiny I transfer back to Mehrain or a similar school next year (I may have to because this is such a difficult school) I might go back to Zahra, That would be a pity because I love my new friends and hate the thought of losing them and, besides, I prefer Zohreh, so does my father. It is more chic than Zahra no doubt.

It is not easy having two names. Just a month ago, I was so embarrassed when we went to a party and I introduced myself as Zohreh, only to be contradicted by mother, Maman, a minute later. She felt real sorry for making me look like a liar in front of every one. Today is 18 Ordibehesh, 1351 (1972), a Thursday. Woke up at seven. Took a shower and spent a few minutes fixing my hair before breakfast. I ‘ye got lines on my face from the lines on the blanket I slept on last night.

The sky is filled with strange characters who mingle with each other without an iota of attention to the creatures below. In one of the clouds I see a boat pulled by a golden-horned cow capsized and the crew struggling to keep it from falling on our head. An old white-bearded man with a spear in his hand is laughing at them; he knows their struggle is futile and that it is just a matter of time before the disaster happens. I wonder if the old man is my uncle? God bless his soul, Uncle Manoochehr was a very nice man. I miss his generous eidee. What a pity he had to die of a heart attack two years ago right before the new year and deny us a happy celebration. Once in a while I remember his kind voice, how he said to my Baba one day, death is a camel that stops at the gate of every caravanserai. And how silly of me to be scared of going near any building mildly resembling a caravanserai. Just recently I discovered that this word is used as a symbol for man's dwelling on earth.

I hate the thought of riding one of those nasty creatures, who never let go of their grudges, to the other world. I hope the death angel, Ezraeel, uses other animals, a black horse, or, if it has access to automobiles, a Rolls Royce. In that case, I am sure some people will kill themselves just for the death ride. That may not be such a bad thing for our town's growing population problem.

I see a new batch of visitors carried by the winds, they look like pilgrims on their way to Mecca, all dressed in white shrouds and each carrying a small rug, jajim. I wish them a safe and fulfilling journey. We will pray for you, they just assured me. What a privilege to be able to speak with the people in the clouds. Maybe I am a descendent of the prophet, a sayedeh, and I don't know it. I have to keep my eyes open when they return. Who knows, they might share with me the essence of their journey.

Move on. Proceed toward your journey you believers, mo‘menin. God will compensate you for your hardship of undertaking the difficult journey. One day, God willing, I will be traveling the same route and learn all about the spiritual high of... Ah. Stop pretending Zohreh. Why don't you write the truth, that your real dream is to go visit aunt Maryam in Paris and spend a whole day on top of Eiffel Tower studying the sky over the bride of the world's cities.

Should I be ashamed of confessing that? God forbid if my mother ever reads this. 1 am sure she will curse me and say, "in the day of judgment, ghiyamat, your hand will testify against you. Go wash your mouth and repent before it is too late." God I repent, but please let me keep these lines instead of crossing them.

I wonder: Does God have hands, and if so, does he ever use them for anything, like writing? Quran says He is all-knowing. That probably means that He always relies on His memory. I hope He has a flawless memory. Imagine, if God has a memory lapse and does not really remember how it all began!

How dare I think these sinful thoughts. Khanoom-e Mahin was right when she told Maman that my faith is shaky and I need better religious upbringing. Thanks God Maman does not share the nosy neighbor's diagnosis of my shortcomings. "My daughter! How dare you say such a thing. My Zahra can read Quran ten times better than your daughter. Why don't you keep to your own hat khanoom?" Maman gave it to her. I remember we were at a gathering, rowzeh, and Maman was so disturbed that she couldn't bear the thought of staying there for another minute; we left without saying good bye. I was taking care of my nephew in the children's section a couple of rows behind Maman and could not hear most of their conversation. I hate Khanoom-e Mahin and her ugly and loose daughter Mahin. That was six seven months ago and we have not been to any religious gathering since. I feel bad for Maman. I know it is a relief for her to go to these gatherings once in a while. It is all my fault. If I hadn't acted like a loose girl that night in Mahin's room, none of this would have happened. What I hate most about it is that Mahin's mother probably thinks that her daughter is blameless and I was the instigator of that sinful act. I hope that after all this praying I will be forgiven. It ‘s time to switch to my mathematics homework. (pencil sketches of a soldier)

23 Ordibehesh:

Past nine O'clock. My brother Jaafar is coming home soon And there is not an hour that goes by without Maman shedding some tears of anticipation. It is over a year since we all went to the bus terminal and saw my brother off to the army in Ahwaz. We did not think much of it at that time, until a couple of months later when we received news that Jaafar had volunteered to go and fight in Oman. My Baba curses himself to this day for making the terrible mistake of letting Maman know about this. Poor mother. Her life was turned upside down until Jaafar sent a telegram a week ago saying be is coming home. Yesterday, Jaafar had called Baba at his office and left a message that he was coming with company. I wonder why he did n't call home! My prayer debts are accumulating. I skipped prayer all day yesterday and most of the day before that.

I am now resuming this after doing my make-up prayer, which I finished in a record time! A light-speed prayer, nemz-e barghi. I feel happy about my religious resolve. Prayer can do a lot to build a person's character as our ethics teacher keeps saying. My prayer was however not a very decent one by religious standards. In the middle of it, I got distracted, started thinking of tomorrow night's episode of Peyton Place. I really can't wait to see if Ryan O'Neill will reunite with Mia before it is too late. I am now fixed on the question of who Jaafar's friend is and what he looks like? Is he handsome and Iranian or an Arab? I bet he is an Arab.

24 Ordibehesht: Wednesday

I am writing this in the calligraphy class. I have finished my homework and having nothing to do for the next twenty minutes, I want to fill this page. But about what should I write that is meaningful? Our teacher Mr. Abedi. He is immersed in a book, our noise does not bother him a bit, as if he is sitting in a quiet library. I don't like him because he has never given me more than fifteen. Pethaps today will be different. I did not rush my assignment and took time with it. Shirin and Goly who sit on my two sides are now giggling about what I am doing. They are sarcastic: "Oh, you must have fallen in love," and "watch out, don't reveal what you shouldn't."

The sky. It is part blue, part gray, and through a thick parcel of cloud Mr. Sun is guarding above us. Hello, Mr. Sun. I have read that Zoroastrians worship you as their God. Are they fools or do they know something we don't? Where are you going Mr. Sun? Why don't you start a bakery in the cosmos with your hot oven? Jaafar's companion. Who is he? A soldier? Or a slave? My Baba thinks there are slave markets in Oman. How awful. I am so glad Jaafar has left that place.

Shirin wants to write a line. (some one else's handwriting) Zohreh's folly: She likes the Jews. And doesn't know how to spike the ball.

26 Ordibehesht:

Everything is ready for Jaafar's arrival. Dokhi, my aunt's Darabi servant lent to us since Monday, has been cooking for three straight days. Fresh flowers in every room. The scent of ood has filled the entire neighborhood. Our immediate neighbors and Jaafar' s friends have been alerted about his arrival. My Baba has purchased a chubby lamb that he intends to sacrifice at Jaafar's foot outside the door, but I learnt tonight that he has changed his mind for some reason; he is not happy about that. "The hell with the government," I just heard my Baba yell at his friends in the other room. He came home with two bottles of vodka, aragh, and by their sound it looks like they have consumed every drop of it. I wonder: Isn't my Baba a Muslim? He always drinks and rarely prays. Once in a while he gets on my case for not doing my prayers, not going to mosques, and not being a good Muslim. He blames his rheumatism for avoiding the mosques, thinks that it is about time they put chairs there. But I really think that my Baba is just lazy and prefers to lie than to tell me the truth. In illness he has found a perfect alibi for behaving non-religiously. When I questioned his drinking habit one day, he got angry: "None of your business nosy girl. But if you really want to know, the doctor says it is good for my condition. I am just following his orders. You know, there is a hadith that says prophet Muhammad made allowance for drinking alcohol if it saved a man's life." My Baba is a moving library of prophetic stories. There is not one day that he does not relay to us a new story about what the prophet said or did. But I am not that dumb.

27 Ordibehest:

I am sad today. Jaafar has postponed his return for another few days, for whatever reason. I consulted Hafez and this is what my finger landed on:

What is this anarchy that I see in the lunatic sphere? I see all horizons overbrimming with strife and sedition. I hope not I will never take to stupid divination again It is all garbage. I am dying to see Peyton Place tonight. It is my favorite show. And I really like Mia Farrow. I think she deserves an Oscar. None of my friends like her though. Shirin thinks she is ugly, and Mehri's opinion is that she overplays her role. I must be the only one in the entire school who likes Mia. I have been told by a few people that I look like her Maybe that ‘s why.

28 Ordibehest:

This is definitely the worst day of my life. I have been crying all night. My eyes are so red that I can barely see these lines. My poor brother has lost his legs. I cannot believe it.

This is how we found out. In the middle of Peyton Place, my Baba ordered me to shut the television and listen because he had something very important to tell us. At first he did n't say that Jaafar's legs had been amputated. He has been hurt, he said and then, after Maman and I broke into tears and insisted to know more, let out the truth. I had never seen my Baba cry like this, not even when his brother passed away two years ago. As I write these lines, tears are dropping from my eyes, and I hear every one else still crying.

I am worried about Maman. My aunt and a neighbor are here now, supposedly to calm Maman down, but my aunt's condition is just as aggravated as mother's, which is making my Baba a little bit angry. He has forced me and my two little cousins inside my room. They are sound sleep. Speaking of my room, they now want me to forfeit it and use Jaafar's room on the top floor. I wish they would just convert the dining room to his room and let me stay here. It gives me the creeps up there.

My poor mother keeps passing out, and every time she regains consciousness, she beats herself in the chest and sighs, "Jaafar, my baby what have they done to you? God kills them who harmed my son." And then, a few minutes later, she passes out again. A couple of hours later. Things have quieted down somewhat. I feel a strange pain in my stomach. I don't know if I can ever bring myself to look at Jaafar on a wheelchair. From the living room, I hear my Baba's voice directed at Maman, He just said earnestly, "khanoom. We should be thankful that he is still alive. He is the sole survivor of a large company, dasteh. They were ambushed at night. Your son is a decorated soldier, single- handedly defended his position against an army of enemies. He has served his country like a true patriot, vatanparast, and we must be happy for him. I for one am proud of being the father of such a son." I feel so sorry for Baba. For years, he had boasted to other people about how Jaafar excelled in football, volleyball, swimming, and what an attractive groom he was going to turn into. Now all his dreams of him, getting a good job, marrying the right girl, and starting a family on a good footing, have suddenly disappeared.

My Baba is finally doing a good job calming mother. He is coming here.

He just left. He wants to make sure that we have got our story straight, that I tell every one that my brother's misfortune is due to an accidental explosion at his base in Ahwaz. I doubt any one will believe me. I wish I hadn't already told my friends about Oman.

29 Ordibehesht:

In my new room. I skipped school today and spent the whole day going up and down the stairs moving stuff. It was so tiring. Thank God my cousins showed up this afternoon and gave us a hand. I wish Ali had come too, but he had an exam and couldn't be here until much later. We are almost the same age. He is three months younger than me but acts, especially since Jaafar left, as if he is three years older. Anyway. I don't like it here. It is certainly bigger than my tiny room downstairs, and has more closet space, which is nice, but the closets are very dirty and require a whole day cleaning. One thing: I found a Playboy magazine among his books; the pictures are so disgusting and I am thinking of throwing it out tomorrow. Should I sell it to a classmate instead? I bet Shirin would pay five Tuman for this. My mother has aged ten years since last night. There is a smell of death all around the house. No one has anything to say. I must do my math homework due tomorrow but lack focus. Who can blame me jf I show up in class without it?

I am certain Mr. Javaheri will make an exception.

I wonder if I should let my classmates know about this? They don't even know where Oman is, let alone Dhofar. Neither did I until Jaafar went there. All I know is that the people of Dhofar, a province of Oman, are against the government of Oman and that we are secretly helping the Omanis to crush the Dhofaris. But why? What is it to us who is fighting who thousands of kilometers away on the other side of the Persian Gulf? My mother has asked this question repeatedly. I have never heard a convincing answer from my Baba; all he says is that he doesn't want any one to know that Jaafar has served in Oman. Thinks that some people may use it against us. Why? What is going on there? I remember a few weeks ago I asked this question from Mr. Rostami, our history teacher. He gave me a suspicious look and asked me a series of questions about the origin of my question. After his inquisition was over and I hesitantly confided to him, Mr. Rostami hinted that in some people's opinion we were not backing the right side.

I am very upset about what he said. How dare he imply that my brother and his friends risk their lives for a bad cause? I should report him to SAVAK. I am sure they would love to torture a little bit a man insinuating that the White Revolution is not good for the country.

The only good thing today happened in my composition class. I got a perfect score, 20, for my essay on Hedayat's dark novel, Blind Owl, Boof-e Koor. My only annoyance came when one someone insinuated that I bad copied an article.

One last thing for today: I hate being so far away from the telephone.

2 Khordad:

Late night. A couple of hours ago they brought Jaafar home in an army van. It is really really horrifying. We all tried to pretend we were happy. My mother controlled herself at first, but once the strangers were gone and we were left alone all the pretense collapsed. All of us, including my aunts and uncles and their children, my Baba and Jaafar himself, cried pitifully.

My head is heavy and full of dizzying pain right now. Poor Jaafar's life has been ruined forever. My ears are echoing Jaafar's heart-jerking voice: "Look Baba, see what those god unbelieving communists did to your son." For a thousand times, Maman raised her hands toward the sky and wished that God would wipe out the communists from the face of the planet.

Jaafar has been given a servant, a Turkish soldier who speaks Farsi with difficulty. I suppose he will remain with us for some time. His name is Samad. He will stay in the room near the entrance door.

3 Khordad:

Tonight we all felt a little better. Jaafar was in better spirits. He was full of praise when I showed him my essay on Hedayat, just to lift the gloom from his heart. He patted me on the back and said, maybe you can become our Emily Bronte. I took it as a great compliment. Maybe I should have asked him who she is; am determined to find out soon.

I hate this room. It is so windy up here. I have to ask my Baba to cut the branches that keep scratching against the window and interrupt my sleep.

4 Khordad:

In the calligraphy class. Our teacher is as usual reading a book and kids are playing. Every one feels sorry for me and my brother. I couldn't keep it in. I hope my Baba never finds out. It is good to know that I have so many friends who care about me, even Simin the Jew who sits in the back row. This morning I had to teach her, when she extended her condolence, that this was inappropriate because my brother is, God bless, still alive.

I wonder if I should let my teacher know about this? He might feel sorry for me and give me a good grade for once. I want Goly or Shirin to tell him — if I do it he may think I am fabricating it It worked. Thanks to Shirin, I cannot believe it. I can now brag to my parents about my 19 in calligraphy, although I feel like a hypocrite who is exploiting her brother's ill-fortune to her advantage.

5 Khordad:

Tonight we had an important guest, a military officer, who spent several hours talking with Jaafar and my Baba in the reception room. I only got a glimpse of him through the window. He wore a distinguished army hat and walked in measured steps that alone indicated his rank and power. His driver stood guard at the door the whole time generating some attention. After they left, I skulked downstairs and eavesdropped on my parents. Apparently the officer was here to make sure that Jaafar keeps quiet about what is happening in Oman.

My mother helped me arrange my messy room tonight. For the first time in a week or so she asked about school. Immediately I showed her my calligraphy. What she really likes to see is a similar grade in geometry or math. I didn't show her my latest grade in geometry. She went through my stuff and discovered it herself, was very upset. Thank God we had guests, otherwise she would have deafened me with her yelling admonitions. She felt very guilty after mentioning Khanoom-Mahin's insinuations, which made me cry instantly. I have to put her curiosity to rest and tell her what happened one day. Definitely not now.

8 Khordad:

Today was the first Friday with Jaafar and Samad in the house. It was a wonderful, sunny day without a dart of cloud sketched on the sky. We had a party for Jaafar's return. All day long, our house resembled a busy mosque, with an endless stream of people coming and going. Among the guests was a religious dignitary who wore a bright green frock and a silk brown hat, ainameh. Every one flocked to hear him, except me I am ashamed to say, since his importance escaped me and I thought he was just another preacher, vaez. But when Maman ordered me to kiss agha's wrinkled hand on his way out, I knew right away that I had been mistaken.

Tonight Jaafar and my cousin Babram are sleeping on the roof right above me. I was amazed at the ease with which lifted himself up the tall ladder with only minor help from Samad who followed him closely. I am so proud of him. Tomorrow I am going to climb up the shaky ladder and clean the bird cage for him before his pigeons, which are with Bahram since last year, return. It will be interesting to see how my mother will react to this. She was so thankful when Babram and his brothers took them away. From her point of view, the pigeons leave a bad impression of our house and especially of Jaafar by making him look like a lewd person, alvat. When I was two or three years old, she had collected the pigeons inside a big pillow and given them to a taxi driver. I have a feeling Jaafar has not forgiven her after all these years.

In an hour or so we are heading toward my uncle's house in Qasr od-Das/it for dinner. I hate going there. What excuse should I manufacture?

I am back upstairs after failing to persuade Maman to go without me. This is the first time in four years we are visiting them. If it was not for Jaafar, we would never go. My snobbish cousins and their mother are probably in celebration of the misfortune that has happened to us. I hate them all, even my uncle Ezatollah Khan who has banded with my other uncle, Chengiz Khan, against my Baba and my favorite uncle Hassan Ali Khan. Late at night: We just returned from the party. I am glad we went. I guess I shouldn't hate my uncle and his family so much just because they are so much richer than us.

9 Khordad:

During the break. Our classes have been cancelled for the afternoon. The queen is visiting our city with a foreign dignitary and we are going to Zand Street to welcome her. We are all excited about this unexpected news. My only regret is that she didn't come in the morning so that we could skip the geometry class. I hate the teacher, and more than that, I hate the subject.

Past nine thirty at night. I had a great afternoon. There were lines of people on both sides of the sidewalk, flags posted on every tree, every lamppost. All that commotion of the coming and going - of police cars and motorcycles, the waiting and the building anticipation. What else can I add? Oh yes, the chants, dorood bar shahbanoo, zendeh bad Shah, etc. It was so hot though and a couple of girls were overcome by the heat, and were taken away to a shaded corner and treated with ice on their heads. Goly, Shirin and I fled as soon as the queen‘s motorcade arrived and the feverish chants and flag waving reached their climax. We went to the Mah Creamery and treated ourselves with ice cream and buns, and after browsing at the international bookstore, we did something I am not sure it is a good idea to write about: We went to Cinema Pasargad and watched a very exciting movie called the Women of Amazon.

It is late in the night. Can't sleep, am afraid of darkness up here, have been leaving the light on all night. A warm interstellar breeze is coming through the window. I love the snore of my cat, peeshee. I just wish she wasn't so lazy and would come upstairs by herself instead of cozying up to Jaafar all the time in my old room. What a life, doing nothing except eating, playing and sleeping. I just hope she never disappears on us as she did a couple of months ago. My Baba never doubted she would come back. He thinks that she, being a smart Persian cat, did it so that we would appreciate her even more when she reappeared after four days. Well, you succeeded Miss Comfort.

I can't stop thinking about the movie. My head is filled with the images of those scenes of love-making, eshghbazi, and, God bite my tongue, not just between opposite sexes either! Those scenes swiftly parade before my eyes one after another, each one remaining an instant. I feel so sinful, so low and yet, at the same time, with utmost earnestness I must confess, so agitated. If I was not so tired, I would get up and pray five rokaats or even ten rokaats to compensate for my degenerate behavior. I will do this after I see the movie a second time.

11 Khordad:

I could not believe what I heard from the roof when entering my room this afternoon: My mother's voice, rallying the pigeons. At first, I was afraid that she might be trying to chase them away or something. So I ran up the ladder forgetting all my fear of falling.

Never thought I would see this in my wildest dream: My~ mother, with her chador wrapped around her waist and a white pillow cover in her hands, was rallying the pigeons; no doubt she was doing this to please Jaafar who seemed to cherish every minute of his new role as my mother's instructor in the art of pigeon game, honar-e kaftar bazi.

I heard tonight that Samad will leave us soon. My Baba is not happy about that, thinks the government should do a lot more for Jaafar, such as sending him to Tehran or to a hospital abroad to receive regular physical therapy. Jaafar thinks so too, was cursing the government tonight until my parents calmed him down and beseeched him not to cause any problems. I think they are afraid that Samad might report these things to his superiors. For that reason alone, I am glad he is leaving, even though I will miss his cooking.

I should be thinking of my upcoming exams but the only thing I can think of are the scenes of the movie, especially of that cruel scene when the women stabbed to death the men they were sleeping with in their tents. I wonder if it is just a film or based on a true story, as Shirin claims? If by chance there is such a clan, I would love to join them for a few days.

A thought just occurred to me: How about if I write a sequel to the movie for my next composition assignment? In my story, I would push the story a few centuries forward to the present time, and would create an all women's colony in a big city like Paris. Or better yet Qom! Oh God, this is such a great story. And why not? After all, Qom is famous because of the lady saint, Hadhrat-e Maasoumeh, who is buried there. So it is only logical that women should run that city, and all its mullahs and its religious seminaries. Everything would be in reverse order then. Instead of male mullahs, female mullahs. And instead of temporary wives, temporary husbands, mard-e sigheh. I am sure I will fail the ethics class if I ever share this crazy idea with the ever so serious Mr. Seif.

On a second thought, Shiraz is not such a bad setting for this story either. Don't we have Bibi Khatun? I remember all that we read about her in one of Jaafar's history books: She was a beautiful princess, the daughter of Sa ‘d ben Abu Bakr Sa ‘d Zangi, the last king of the Atabaks who ruled Fars around the seventh century. She was so beautiful that the son of great Mongol khan, Hulagu, whose name was Mangu Qa ‘an, threatened to attack and destroy the city if her father refused to marry them. He treated her with so much respect, made her into the governor of our province and she constructed a lot of famous buildings in Shiraz including Masjid-e Atiq. I wonder why we don't have a woman governor anywhere in Iran nowadays?

14 khordad:

For the first time, Jaafar ventured outside the house today. I wasn't with him, just Samad and Maman. I think it is a very good thing for him to get out. It can get very suffocating inside the house all day, especially in this torrid heat and when we don't have a decent fan. Baba has ordered an air conditioner for Jaafar's room, but it has not arrived yet. Our biggest worry right now is to get a replacement for Samad. I don't how we are going to do it without him. Not that I am going to miss him one bit. I don't like how he looks at me, gives me the creeps. The other day, when I was taking a shower, I felt his presence, his cold gaze, behind the door, am almost sure he was checking me out through the key hole.

Or maybe that was my imagination. I shouldn't be prejudiced against him just because he is a Turkish ass, Turk-e khar. One thing is for sure: this Samad has none of the wits of the television Samad.

I think this deserves to be jotted here. Jaafar was delighted when I got him a good consultation, fal, from Hafez. He is so proud of my ability to read and explain opaque poems. I only remember the first two lines:

Then let us talk of wine and song

Nor seek to talk of life ‘s mystery

I have to remember to get a good novel, roman, for Jaafar this week. He is rereading the Razor's Edge and the Love Story right now. I want to get him a spy novel, something different, to keep his mind off things sensual. I am so sad for him. He is probably better off dead than alive, living like this the rest of his life. I wonder: Is he impotent? Should I sneak into his room and put the Playboy in one of the drawers?

17 Khordad:

The final exams are just a few days away I am m serious trouble. It is all Maryam's fault. If I had devoted to geometry and~ math half the time I have been devoting to this nonsense, as I am right now, I would have nothing to worry about. But I can't help it. Looks like I am addicted to making a daily entry, and more so as days go by. Clearly it is helping my composition. Mr. Hosseini wants me to try a piece for Akhtar weekly, which is managed by his relative, asked me to pick a theme about the school system, like the reasons for the lack of adequate sports facilities for girls. Funny thing. The moment he raised the issue I thought of a piece titled Amazon Women Invade Shiraz.

Jaafar was seen by a family doctor today. His left leg is paining him. The simplest things in life, like going to bathroom, are immensely difficult for my unfortunate brother. Just preparing the make-shift basin in the toilet every time he needs to go there takes a good half an hour. To keep his muscles strong, my Baba has bough't a damble and has attached a rope to the staircase so Jaafar can pull himself up and down every time he feels like it. Jaafar smoked opium with my cousin tonight. I love the smell of it, which comes all the way up to my room. My mother hates it though. This is one more thing she has to get used to I suppose — besides Jaafar's bad temper.

There is no doubt about it. The injury has ravaged Jaafar's mood. He mistreats me, my mother and, above all Samad, for the smallest things. He probably can't help it and hates himself every time he loses his coolness. Tonight, he kept swearing at the government and the army for ruining his life. I am afraid he may create more troubles for himself if he does not put a rein on his mouth. Why do I think he is going to get worse as time goes on? I hope I am wrong.

19 Khorad:

Tonight Jaafar's friends took him for an outing. He came back smelling of hasheesh from a hundred meter away. We went out too. My Baba took us to the television hill, tapeh-e tilivision, for a kebab treat. We were hoping to see Jaafar and his friends there but didn't. But we ran into Shirin and her family riding in her cousin's beautiful Buick, which he had shipped all the way from Amerika. We moved our car so they could park theirs in the space behind us. It was so crowded. Shirin and I walked up the hill to get a better view of the city but didn't last very long because of a few wisecracking, matalakgoo, boys who chased us. One of them repeated his telephone number to me and said he will not move from his phone until I call him. Let him rot. I liked his friend though. Wish he had given me his number.

On the way home, my Baba asked me about my upcoming exams and wondered how I was doing. I lied by saying all was going well. That was not nice. God, what am I going to do if I fail? I swear to Mamari's death that I would send one thousand, no make it ten thousand prayers, salavat, if I pass geometry and math.

Another thing: My Baba's fabric rug business, mooket forooshi, is not doing well and he is having more problems with Mr. Arjomand his partner. Knowing my Baba, I have a feeling that the situation is worse than he sounded it to be tonight. He just doesn't want to upset Maman more than she already is. He has such great qualities, probably tells himself si~ my wife can't do any thing about it any ways, why disturb k~ith bad news?

23 Khordad:

I heard a rumor at school today: That some bazaaris are planning to demonstrate the day after tomorrow in commemoration of the events of ten years ago when some people were killed in Qom after they rose against the White Revolution. Chances are we will have a half day school tomorrow. That would mean one less quiz this week. I just hope the demonstration is large enough to cause this.

Today Jaafar was in the best mood I have seen him since he returned home. I went home for lunch and guess what I saw: Jaafar, wearing a swim suit, was playing volleyball with his buddy Mohammad, using the laundry rope as their net. I was so impressed by Jaafar's swiftness, his ability to coordinate his moves on the wheelchair. He wanted me to join them but I couldn't. Not that I did n't want to. I love volleyball. I play it at school every chance I get. But I could not bear to look at his naked amputated legs. I went to my room and cried in the pillow, disregarding his yelling insistence to come down. My tears turned to smile, however, when I peeked out the window a few minutes later and saw my brother sitting content in the middle of our small pool, howz, and getting a back rub from his friend. I didn't like it a bit when he emptied a pan of water on my poor, unsuspecting cat. It made me so angry, I ran downstairs to attack him verbally but controlled myself by the time I reached the first floor, instead listened to their conversation about girls. Happily, I now know that Jaafar's manly prowess is very much intact. Samad is due to leave in three days and, unlike my parents who are depressed about it, I am celebrating. Through the attendant at Zomordian public bath, hammam, Maman has found a substitute from Fassa, but he can't come until early next week. I pray the next servant, nokar, is not half as effeminate, heez, as this one.

25 Khordad:

Last night I had a very weird dream, about the slave market in Oman: There was this Arab girl wearing no veil at all, casually strolling and shopping around in a busy fruit bazaar when suddenly she was snatched away by two masked Arabs who subdued and blindfolded her and took her to a city square filled with merchants and beautiful slave girls auctioned from all over the world. At one point, I was observing the whole thing from the prism of a flying bird and, almost at the same time, from the eyes of one of the captors. There was a big clamor when the bidding for that girl started. The chief captor was not content with an average price and, to prove that the poor girl was worth it, tore down her dress and let a couple of prospective buyers check her breasts' hardness. She was so scared and yet so fearless, reminded me of Imam Hussein's courageous wife Zeinab who made the usurper caliph tremble by her exemplary defiance — or Umm Wahab, the courageous heroine of early Islam who, according to our ethics teacher, remained steadfast and gladly accepted her son's head sent to her by enemies of Islam in an act of gruesome vengeance. Any way, it was such a horrible but interesting dream. One of these dirty sheikhs who touched her skin wanted to know if she was really a virgin. The chief captor then jumped on the platform and stood in front of her face to face. With his mean, rapacious eyes he asked if she had sinned? His hand reached down and pulled her pubic hair when she failed to respond. I remember my whole body was twitching in fear and yet I was calmly observing the whole thing from a safe distance, until I suddenly felt a hand on my thighs and realized that I was the slave girl.

I am shaking as I write these lines. I remember feeling the scratch of the wooden pole on my back, it was that real. An ugly sheikh shouted a price of one thousand dinar just to find out about my virginity. To the laughter of all present, he turned to his eighteen or nineteen year old son, who looked very much like the janitor's son at Mehrain, and ordered him to test me. The boy refused at first and only after receiving a slap in the face came forward, took off his shirt, leaned on top of me, and whispered with a voice, sweet and sustained, "just close your eyes." I did. Suddenly, before he could violate me, there was a huge commotion of horses, chariots and then sword fighting. I had been saved by the mostly blonde Amazon women. They put me on one of their vessels and we drove away from the walled market triumphantly.

I wonder how I should interpret this dream? The more I think of it the more I am convinced that the chief captor's eyes were Samad's. I wish he would leave tomorrow and not a day later.

27 Khordad:

I am so upset. My stupid mother has managed to persuade Samad to stick around for an indefinite period. I don't know how to convince them they are making a terrible mistake. A confession: I can't stop thinking of the Arab boy in my dream. I am sure that was him. I wonder if he and Mahin are still in love? Why should I care? He is nothing more than a peasant, raiyat. Stop it Zahrah.

I can't. I can't forget about him. I don't know why. Maybe it is because I listen to Googoosh and Dariush, too much as Maman says. I am glad Jaafar has made a complete turnaround and likes Googoosh now. Any ways. I am so tired and sleepy, yet I have this incredible urge to see him again. He is so beautiful. I should be more careful from now on. My mother is beginning to suspect that this is not part of my homework. The other day she saw me writing in this journal and asked what I was up to. I immediately thought of my composition teacher and answered that I was working on a report to be published in Akhtar. That was a mistake. It ignited her interest and she wanted to know more. I told her the first thing that came to my mind: the role of religious charities in helping the city's poor. She liked the subject. Only if she knew that I had lied and that was just the title of a pamphlet that our ethics teacher had distributed in the class that morning.

It just dawned on me that this may not be a bad topic after all. I must put my name on the list of volunteers that Mr. Seif is recruiting to help the Society of Islamic Charity, Anjoman-e Kheyrieh-e Eslami. I hope I don't forget to ask Mahjubeheh, the head volunteer, tomorrow. They are planning to distribute food and clothes to the needy this coming Friday.

Should I tell my Baba about this? He is just like the author Hedayat, doesn't like the religious folks, adamhay-e mazhabi, thinks they trick us into giving donations for their own enrichment, but I don't think so. I have seen how they help the needy when no one else is.

29 Khordad:

During the afternoon break. Shirin's cousin, Kemal, has been arrested for taking part in the demonstrations. She is a sea of tears. I never thought he was religious or political. Shirin is trying to make him look good by saying that Kemal had innocently stumbled into the rally on his way back from the library next to the bazaar. His father and my father's uncle Cyrus Khan, who happen to live in the same neighborhood, have talked about this and our relative is going to help them through his powerful connections. I hope it works.

30 Khordad: Afternoon. A lot of studying. Nothing to report. Oh yes. Great news: I did an excellent job in my math exam (with a little help from Shirin).

1 Tir:

How stupid of me I flunked the math It is all Shirin's fault What am I going to do now?

Jaafar and Maman finally had their first argument tonight She accused him of turning this into an opium-house I am glad she did it. Baba thinks so too but save a "don't be too hard on him" to Maman stayed out of it.

5 Tir:

A total, complete disaster in the geometry exam. I have no doubt I failed it. Now I have to deal with the prospect of two failed, tajdidi, classes and a whole Summer of studying and taking exams. I hate to break the news to my parents. The later they find out about it the better.

I wish I did n't have to go to the Islamic society tonight. I am too upset to do anything, especially wearing a chador.

Around midnight: I take back what I said in the previous line. I am so lucky and I didn't know it until tonight. I cry when I think of all that I saw tonight, all that misery and sickness. Our group visited half a dozen families, one poorer than another. It was so depressing, especially the third family Cramped in a cold and wet basement smaller than my room covered with newspapers and dirty cartons, they were all sick, parents and children; one of them, a little one year old girl, sicker than the rest, was crying constantly. They had been refused at the hospital. How cruel. Mahjubeh promised to come back tomorrow and take her to a hospital.

The other families were not much better off either. We gave each family a bundle of clothes and some money. Some of them asked for food. Why doesn't the government help these people? Why?

16 Mordad:

Two days ago Maman returned this journal to me. She took it away from me a couple of months ago, as soon as she found out about my miserable performance at school. I am glad she did not destroy it as she had said she had. Maybe I shouldn't be so glad. Maman feels guilty now and is even encouraging me to keep writing in it. But I have lost interest. For one thing, I don't trust her when she says she has not read it.

I have just reread everything I have written so far. I am now sure Maman is telling the truth, for there is no doubt in my mind that she would have expressed outrage at some of the things I have jotted down here, especially my dreams and the story behind Khanoom-e Mahin's accusations. I feel relieved beyond imagination. This has been a hellish Summer so far. The everlasting heat wave has caused a few casualties, I just heard on radio. I am now watching TV as I write these lines, a talk show hosted by Ghareeb Afshar. He is so clumsy with words; likes to show off his ability in English, but I still like him more than others. 3 Shahrivar:

My tutor is doing an excellent job of preparing me for my end of Summer exams. She is a university student and a very bright lady. My father thinks she is too expensive and I could do with only once a week tutoring. But I really think that would be too little.

7 Shahrivar:

It was a sweltering hot day today. Something happened. I took advantage of every one's absence from the house and wetted my body in the pool. That was really stupid because I forgot all about our new neighbor to the left of us and their effeminate two boys. They were checking me out from the rooftop, whistled suggestively when I was getting out.

It is now a couple of hours after that incident. I am ashamed of going out and being seen by them~ It has reminded me of what happened in Mahin's room that night, when we skipped the religious gathering in the yard and went to her room.

I remember everything so vividly. It all started when Maman out of the blue suggested that we spend the night of repentance, at Khanoom-e Mahjn's house, insisting that I should go with her. I suspect that her real intention was to show-case me to a few friends who are shopping around for a future bride. It was a very crowded gathering and the woman preacher who recited Quran had such a profound voice that captivated all the (thirty or forty) women. After a while I was getting tired and sleepy, tried to stay awake by sipping tea after tea. All of a sudden, I saw Mahin at the foot of the stairs inviting me with the gesture of her hands and her eye brows to follow her upstairs She had a devilish smile on her face as we entered her room Immediately I saw the refractions of a flashlight piercing through the window. It came from the bushes of the adjacent school yard. With a large devilish grin on her face, Mahin turned the lights on and off three times and off again, stepped by the window and half opened the panes and then, to my total astonishment, started undressing her blouse. Initially I stood in the back, wanted to run downstairs but didn't solely due to my curiosity. Mahin giggled as the eye of the circular light kept moving around her upper parts, as if the hands controlling it were touching her. I tried to stop her at first but she would n't listen. Not only that, she invited me to do it.

I did. Just like Mahin, most likely because I was so sleepless and delirious, or maybe because the devil had penetrated into my skin.

What thoughts that occurred to me when I stood next to Mahin and displayed my naked body to the view of a complete stranger in the dark — shame, fear, curiosity, and ecstasy — until the door opened and we were caught off guard by Mahin's mother.

She could not believe her eyes, yelled at us, "you devils, zalil mordeha, what are you doing?" Nothing, we said, just trying each other's clothes. Khanoom-e Mahin might have believed us had she not detected the intrusive light. Angrily, and with her accusatory looks directed toward me rather than at her daughter, she ordered us to shut the window and come down. Without bothering to ask Mahin, I am convinced that it was the school janitor's handsome boy, Ahmad. This has been the most shameful episode of my entire life, sometimes making me feel like a prostitute, or some one who had been raped.

A confession: sometimes when I think of that incident, I can't help feeling a little envy toward Mahin. The truth is that I am infatuated with Ahmad, and have gone back to my old school a few times with various excuses Just to get a glimpse at him — with chador of course, not the least because I don't want to be ever recognized by him. But, he is not around any more and I am totally in the dark about his whereabouts. Maybe he has gone back to his hometown in Abadeh and, who knows, maybe is happily married. Or maybe he lives somewhere in town and still keeps a~ secret affair with Mahin, if he ever had one beyond the hide and seek with the flashlight. I am dying to see him again.

9 Shahrivar:

Shirin called today to say that thanks to Cyrus Khan's effort Kemal has been freed. She really likes that boy. I wish she didn't. He is definitely not her type. I think she should start seeing my cousin Au. Should I introduce them to each other? Maybe Au would then get the message that I am not interested in him. There is only one person I like, Ahmad, and he is not even around. What a pity.

l0 Shahrivar:

From today onward, I am going to limit my entries to once a week. That's all.

I should borrow money from Baba to get a scarf or something for Maman's upcoming birthday.

12:30 in the morning. I had a dream about Ahmad. I dreamt he was below my window, just like the movie Romeo and Juliet we saw last week, and he was singing one of Googoosh ‘s songs to me, the one that begins with "you and I are together but our hearts are very cold." How silly of me to have dreams like this.

12 Shahrivar:

I am very sad that Mia has left Peyton Place. They don't even bother to tell you what has happened to her. Did she have the baby or had an abortion? I really want to know. The good news is that they are bringing a new movie with her playing the role of a blind girl. Goly who saw it in Tehran last week says that it is a very scary movie. I don't care as long as Mia plays in it.

13 Shahrivar:

So much for trying to limit myself to once a week. But I have to write today because I am exploding with anger at stupid Jaafar. Maryam has arranged for him to go to London, where she has just moved with her family, but he refuses, keeps saying "What can they do there that they can't here? Are they going to get me my legs back?" If I had this opportunity instead of him, I would not hesitate a minute. I really think my Baba should put his foot down on this. This is what he said word for word when I let him know my opinion tonight: "I can't talk to him anymore. We are not father and son anymore, but two strangers. This is torturing me." Another thing: I have been helping the Islamic society periodically, contrary to the advice of my family and friends. I am confident this is the best thing I have done all my life by taking a small step in helping the people who absolutely need such help. I have stopped talking about what I see and do to my parents, but share them with Jaafar who is the only one not discouraging me. He wishes he was healthy and could go with us. I have a feeling he likes Mahjubeh.

About Mahjubeh: She is a mirror-image of her name, a chaste one, a very decent girl from a devout family as can be deduced from her last name, Ithna Ashari (the Twelver ones). She has been giving me some religious books to read, one is by Ali Shariati on Hadhrat Fatima and Mahjubeh can't stop praising it.

But I haven't had a chance to read them yet, not with any deep attention any way. I ‘m looking for a lighter reading this Summer. I still have Jaafar's Playboy and look at that once in a while just for the hell of it. I have passed those books to Jaafar and he devours them, actually wants to read more and more of them.

The day after tomorrow, Jaafar's friends are taking him out of town to Ramjerd and Kalar for a couple of days. Mohammad's brother-in-law has a relative who owns a garden in Kalar, and I am sure there are plenty of opium instruments there. I am afraid my poor brother is a full-fledged addict by now. He has lost interest in his pigeons and doesn't have the energy to go up to the roof any more, except once or twice a week. Poor pigeons. They are so neglected. I wish he would let them go or give them to someone. But he is too selfish to do either. And I am simply so scared of the unreliable ladder that, until it is fixed or replaced with a new one, refuse to climb it, not even to get my cat which chases after those pigeons once in a while. I am beginning to wonder if my mother has damaged it so she would have an excuse not to go up there (as she hasn't been all Summer).

14 Shahrivar:

This morning Shirin called me and told me about her coming engagement with Kemal. She is so excited. I really hope she knows what she is doing In my heart of hearts, I am sorry for her Not that I hate Kemal. He just doesn't have anything appealing about him, everything about him is so below average, his height, his look, his manners and, worst of all, he is a little bit cuckoo, has no skills whatsoever and, mstead of working and doing something useful with his life wastes time writing and reciting poetry She would be better off with a Jew than marrying him if you ask me.

15 Shahrivar:

What a relief My exams are over I am dead sure I passed them both. Actually, I am somewhat worried about the geometry exam I have sent one thousand prayer, salavats already to make sure that I pass I am going to Shah-e Cheragh tomorrow to donate some money A big news today Jaafar has been accepted in the university as part of the affirmative action program for people like him and we are all celebrating He joked tonight that he knew all along that it would take a big piece of him to get into college!

18 Shahrivar:

I am better dead. I failed math.

A totally disastrous day My cat, peeshee, almost died when a neighbor's dog attacked her today. She is bruised all over. I can't thank Samad enough for running out and rescuing my cat from what would have been a massacre. I take back everything I have written about him.

19 Shahrivar:

Two in the afternoon. What a relief. This morning around eleven I got the good news from my Baba. He has finally persuaded Ostad Javadi to pass me. I am happy beyond description. The thought has occurred to me that my math teacher may have taken a big bribe for this. I don't care. My Baba's business has picked up and he can afford it — I hope. My only regret is that because of all the medical expenses for Jaafar we can't go to Caspian Sea this month, like we did last year. I am so bored.

20 Shahrivar:

Eleven at night. We just saw Lonely in the Dark with Mia Farrow. It was such a scary movie, I wish I hadn't seen it. I am going have to leave the light on all night. My Baba and Jaafar both liked the movie, but Maman didn't at all. It was nice though, going to a movie all of us together, like the old days.

I just hung up the phone on Shirin. She has postponed her engagement party for another year because of a death in the family. She cursed the poor deceased for his untimely departure. I almost told her that he may have done her a great service and that she should take this is as a good omen, fal-e khoob.

22 Shahrivar:

News from Maryam. She has just given birth to a baby boy. My Baba tried to dial her number in the hospital all night but couldn't.

Jaafar is really getting addicted to religious books, especially by Shariati. I am ashamed to say, I have mt found it in me to read any of his works I don't need to ~Jaafar has told me all there is to know. Just the other day, I impressed Mahjubeh and her friends when I intervened in their discussion at the Islamic Society and corrected them about their interpretation of Hadhrat-e Fatima. They can't figure me out, can't understand why 1 still refuse to act Islamically and wear a chador to school. That would mean the end of my friendship with Shirin, Goly, Akhtar and the rest. They are already calling me names for befriending Mahjubeh and her small circle of friends who stand out like sore thumbs at school; they are nicknamed BLACK CROWS, and DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS. How cruel. The secularists are such terrorists!!

23 Shahrivar:

Late night. It is so hot. I just woke up from a weird dream, and want to write down my memory of it before I forget. It was a very short and yet very unsettling dream about Ahmad. I dreamt that he was a famous movie actor playing in a gangster movie with Behrooz Vosooghi. After robbing a bank together, they were taking turns cheating each other and, then, they were in the middle of a wild car chase when, suddenly, I dreamt Ahmad was parking his car outside my school and waiting for me and calling me telepathically. Like a bewitched person, I got up and left the classroom, and I was walking toward his car when I stopped after hearing a deep voice from behind, turned around and saw a mullah that looked very familiar but I couldn't place him, only knew that he was an ayatollah or something who strongly disapproved of my action; with a fatherly look he was waving me back, and meanwhile Ahmad was getting apprehensive and by now had stepped out of his car and with a desperate look on his face was begging me to come to him — and I didn't know which direction to go.

I just remembered who that mullah was: Agha Ashtiani, the same one who came to visit Jaafar after he returned home. Another thing: Mohsen, our neighbor, has been giving me a lot of hints every time I see him in the street. The other day he offered to help Maman with the watermelon she was carrying home and cameinside for a second. I kind of like him.

25 Shahrivar:

After dinner. We were finally able to call Maryam tonight. She sounds so happy. Maman and I are going to buy and send Nader, our new addition, some clothes tomorrow.

I am dying with anticipation of school opening in a few days. Baba is going to Bandar Bushehr to trace the missing shipment of his rugs and is taking Jaafar with him. Samad has left in anger over a salary disagreement and my mother and I have been doing all Jaafar's chores by ourselves for three days now. The only good part of this whole thing has to do with holding the charcoal near the opium pipe when Jáafar smokes. Jaafar is already suspicious that I like to try it some time. But just being near it is enough to get me intoxicated.

A confession: I have stolen a small piece of opium from my brother. One of these days, I will try it. Maybe I should have taken all of it so that he would study more. It is a sure bet to me that he is not going to make it in college He just doesn't have the discipline for at I wish he would listen to me and switch to humanities instead of studying biology, not just because it is easier but also because he loves reading literature.

1 Mehr:

School opened today. It is so exciting to see every one again.

8 Mehr:

I don't like my new composition teacher one bit. She is a vaporous, flutter-prone lady with very little tolerance for the new poetry and its apostles — Nima, Shamloo and Farokhzad — and none for any lapses in discipline. Just today, when I turned around to ask Nooshin a question, she yelled at me: "Zohreh kanoom I did not expect this from you. All the while I thought that you, who has published in a newspaper, are the best student in this class." I have a mild suspicion someone has exaggerated to her about my single contribution to Akhtar.

(pencil sketch of a bug)

5 Aban:

Early morning, sahar, on the fourth day of Ramidhan. I am fasting today for the first time. My Baba is not. He is not feeling very good, has a cold and a bad -back from the trip that has forced him to take medicine every few hours and to use a cane. I am getting worried about his condition. I wish he worked and traveled less.

I can't go to sleep. The starry sky is ornamented with a colorful rainbow on the horizon. I shouldn't have filled myself with all that rice and stew of the dawn meal, sahari, but am sure I will not regret this eight ten hours later when I start to get hungry again.

Samad returned today. What a relief.

8 Aban:

Today has been an eventful Friday: after a shopping spree to buy a birthday gift for my cousin Shahnaz, I accompanied Maman and one of her friends to a public bath in a southy neighborhood ostensibly to check out a girl this woman's son was going to propose It was my first such experience We went to a very old bath by the name of Abdullahbak. Just getting there was an adventure. We had to pass through several smelly narrow alleys to get to it. From the outside it looks like a ruin, no sign, nothing. We went through the old wooden entrance which opened to a narrow passage leading to the domed sun-dried brick building. Once inside the large hexagonal room, we undressed on a carpeted platform, wrapped a loincloth around our bodies, deposited our clothes with the attendant and then, after passing through the steamy public section, which was filled with children and women of all ages and the sound echoed at least five times, we went to our private cubicle which was equipped with a shower By then I was already regretting my unsuspecting decision to tag along; cockroaches crawled about and I screamed when one of them latched onto my hand, wanted to leave right then but Mrs. Zamani laughed and said "oh why be so scared of a cockroach? Just splash some water on them and they all disappear" She was absolutely wrong. Those ugly cockroaches would not care even if I attacked them with firefighting hoses.

We were massaged by a dallak who knew Mrs. Zamani intimately and was nothing but a well of gossip. She took her blessed time with me and kept praising my hair when shampooing it. But it was definitely mote than that. I knew right then and there that it had all been a clever set-up and the girl Mrs. Zamani had come to inspect was none other than me. Of course, I did not show a bit of my annoyance until after we got off the taxi at the door. I can't figure Maman out these days. One moment she is modern and intellectual, another moment she is a carbon copy of her God blessed grandmother, who was married to a mullah. One thing is for sure: This is the last time she will ever get me to go to those dirty, smelly public baths. I know. It must be the air of holy Ramadhan that is turning her religious switch on.

11 Aban:

I am cheating my fast. Yesterday I had a chocolate bar and today a few biscuits and an orange during the day, not to mention all the water I have been drinking secretly I can't help it, I get dizzy right after lunch time and can't concentrate in class Besides, most of my close friends are not fasting and, as a result, it is doubly difficult to maintain a pure fast when one hangs around people who eat and chew gum during the fast hours. I am keeping my fast-breaking a secret of course, not the least because I don't want to miss the cheery fun of break-time meal, Iftari. Today, I ‘m having Mahjubeh over for a meal, much to the delight of my brother.

Right after the dawn meal. Today I am going to keep my fast regardless of everything. Mind over matter.

12 Aban:

After Eftari: I did it. I am proud of myself. Samad just took Jaafar to a gathering, rowzeh. Jaafar came back in awe of a preacher Who had said the essence of Islam is socialism.

13 Aban:

Goly is staying over tonight. She is supposed to be helping me finish my follow-up piece for Akhtar (about private libraries in Shiraz) but we did nothing but gossip, exchange clothes and talk about her time at the Summer camp in Ramsar. She has had such a fabulous Summer, swimming, hiking, dancing tango in open air concerts, and so on I am so jealous, definitely want to go to that camp next year, Definitely...

Right now, she is on the phone with ~a boy she wants to pick up, toor bezaneh, just because of his car. She has called him twenty times in the span of the past two hours.

After dawn meal: Goly and I raced to finish our prayer while sharing my grandmother's prayer rug, janimaz, and then spent some time talking about her new boyfriend. I wish I had her guts. Her parents are ten times more restrictive than mine. They would kill h~r if they fmd out that just about every time she comes here or goes to Shirin's house to "study" within half an hour she is out with a date. Mahjubeh thinks I shouldn't hang around a free girl, dokhtar-e azad, like her. She has invited me to go to mosque with her on Friday evening to listen to a fiery preacher from Meshed, wants me to bring Jaafar along.

22 Aban:

Right after Iftari. Jaafar surprised me. Instead of showing an interest to see Mahjubeh, he seized the opportunity to attack me instead, accused me of being ashamed of showing up in public places with him.

What a preposterous accusation! Just because it doesn't happen that often, he shouldn't create false reasons in his head. I know that was just an excuse and it is ingrained in him to fight someone at least once a day. Today was my turn I suppose. He has no patience for anything anymore. A few days ago was a ~woof of it. He lasted ten minutes at a gathering, rowzeh, and has ~ far spent ten hours criticizing it. He wants me and Mahjubeh to skip the mosque and go with him to see a new movie called The Postman, postchi, which he has seen twice already and can't stop admiring it. But unfortunately, Mahjubeh doesn't have a telephone and I am supposed to meet her at the Khalili library, where she works part-time, to collect some more information about that place.

Nine at night. I just came back from Masjed-e Nau. The preacher was excellent. He is the first mullah who has made me laugh repeatedly instead of crying. No wonder it was so packed. I wish I coi:ild have got a look at him and seen what he looks like. Unfortunately, we had to sit on the sidewalk outside the mosque and be content with hearing his vibrant, emotional voice on the loudspeaker; afterward, we purchased his tape.

I wonder where Jaafar and Samad are? They are each other's closest friends now. Jaafar is so dependent on him, physically and even emotionally. I have heard him talk to Samad about things he ‘s never able to discuss with any family member.

25 Aban:

During the geography class. I have learnt so much in this class already. I just read that we have the third largest deposit of natural gas in the world. Pity we don't have the facilities to put the cap on those open wells where each day tons of cubic meters of precious gas get wasted.

During the literature class. I am so worried. SAVAK agents have just taken Shirin for questioning. I wish I knew why. I pray they don't torture her or anything like that. We were all so stunned when we learnt during the previous break that the two men in civilian clothes who took her away from the principal's office were from SAVAK.

Goly thinks that she has had it coming for a while. I disagree. If anything, I consider Goly more of a political show-off than Shirin. She is the one who carries Ferdowsi magazine under her arms all the time, and boasts of having read all of Al-e Ahmad and Behrangi's, as well as Camus' and Sartre's, works. After school on a bench on Zand street. Thank God they released Shirin. She is so shaken. Some students are even afraid of talking to her now. She says. they took her because of her last essay — on the movie Four Season. I am probably the only one who knows that that stupid Kemal wrote the essay for her. He has been doing that for almost two years now. I hope they go and arrest him and throw him in a dungeon forever. For someone whose motto is ‘all life is darkness' that shouldn't be such an inconvenient place.

The funny thing about all this is that I warned her about the adverse consequences the moment she showed it to me before reading it in front of that monster teacher. That is why I was not really surprised when they came after her this morning. She was ringing their bell when she read that lii~ about the "usurper, despotic king," regardless of the fact that She was referring to the king of England hundreds of years ago. It is getting late.

28 Aban:

After the dawn meal: I was happy to see Maman finally use the silk scarf I gave her for mother's day. I would have preferred that she use it without the chador that hides it, but it is her choice and I am just happy she wore it.

I can't wait for the Ramadhan to be over. Even though I have broken my fast and missed it so many days, still I feel the fatigue of it. I must have lost five kilograms so far. But that's nothing compared to those poor families I visit now and then. I wish they would skip this whole business of fasting. When they are fasting the other eleven months of the year, what need is there in fasting during the Ramadhan?

Every month is Ramadhan for them.

Don't be so cynical Zahra!

6 Azar:

I hated the weather today, rained all day. I went to Cinema Aryana with Au this afternoon! We entered late and exited early and therefore missed most of the movie. But we had to take the precaution and avoid the risk of being seen by someone. I loved watching Clint Eastwood even though the movie, Where the Eagles Land, was very boring. Au loved it though. He has kindly given me a nice picture of Mia that is staring at me on the wall right now. His favorite movie star is Yul Brynner, the bald actor who came to Iran a few years ago to make the movie, The Cactus Flower. I have only read about that movie and haven't seen it yet. According to reports, Yul has fallen in love with Persian onion and rates it the most delicious onion he has eaten in all his life.

5 Azar:

Goly is pregnant. I knew it. I knew she would goof up sooner or later. She confided in me this morning, doesn't know what to do. Neither do I. I wish she would let me tell Shirin about this. But Shirin has n't talked to her for weeks now, ever since Goly bad-mouthed her about the questioning.

I wish Goly did not consider me such a good friend. I am not even sure I want to be her friend any more and yet, I have to deal with this problem now, as if Jaafar's problem is not bad enough.

6 Azar:

Goly wants me to go with her to a Jewish woman who performs abortions. How ironic! I should show her the comment she has written in this journal criticizing me for talking to Jews, and now she is seeking their help. She also needs money. I wish I had some to give her, but unfortunately things are at the moment getting to be very tight financially at home.

7 Azar:

Today Goly finally conceded to tell Shirin, mainly to get some money out of her. Shirin has generously given three hundred tumnans. Tomorrow night, the three of us are going to the Jewish quarter to see a delivery nurse, ghabeleh, whose name has been referred to Goly from a confidential source. Jaafar is getting on my case these days about his room. He wants to leave a lot of his books there but I refuse to let him. He keeps saying that is my room when he knows that is childish and isn't going to influence my decision one bit.

8 Azar:

Late night. My room is freezing cold. I should have remembered to refill the heater, bokhari. Thank God my peeshee is keeping me warm.

What a night! A brief report: We had been given thoroughly lousy direction and wasted a whole hour looking for Moluk Khanoom's house, which ended up to be, of all places, in Kemal's neighborhood. We asked for direction from a group of boys who were playing football in front of the house and that was our biggest mistake because one of them instantly knew what we were up to and threw at us a couple of dirty wisecracks. Any way. Shirin and I had to wait a good hour in the shabby external hall, birooni, of that Zoroastrian woman's house. My toes still hurt. After all that, Moluk Khanoom emerged and gave us the good news that Goly had been falsely alarmed. She was not pregnant and her vomiting must have been due to food poisoning, tension, or something. We got a glimpse at the small fire temple the Zoroastrian kept in her (rather creepy) house; she boasted to be the only priestess in the entire country.

I hope Goly has learnt her lesson by now. Now that I have gone out of my way and proven my friendship I don't want to be her friend any more. She is too loose for my taste and I prefer to spend my whole time with the likes of Mahjubeh and Fatemeh, who have integrity of character and a flawless dignity, nejabat. I am lethargic but still like to add this for tonight. I was so afraid tomght that we may become the victims of a Jewish ritual killing when passing through their quarter. The only thing keeping my cool then was the knowledge that those killings are done against little Muslim girls. For once it was comforting to know that I have passed the childhood stage of life.

Jaafar and Baba were very suspicious of me tonight. They cross-examined me about who I was with and what I was doing. Apparently one of my brother's friends has reported to him about my presence in Cinema Aryana with male company. Somehow Jaafar knows it was Au. He took it upon himself to dial my uncle's number and tell Au in so many harsh words to stay away from me. Then he lectured me about our age proximity, his immaturity, and why I would have to settle down with a much older husband. That was fine, I could put up with such nonsense, but then I really hit the roof when Jaafar made that stupid remark about the need to get me married before I had a chance to ruin the family's reputation, aberoo. I am grateful Baba immediately put him in his place by telling him, "you don't need to make decision about any one in this household as long as I am present." A thought What would our life be like if we were born Jews, or Zoroastrian instead? What is the difference, doesn't Saadi say we are all each other's limbs? I don't know why I have been thinking of that Zoroastrian woman all day. She had such sad eyes, pale, firm, and prudent.

9 Azar

I am ill All that waiting outside yesterday has done its damage I feel awful — vomiting, spasms, fever, sneezing, sore throat I ‘ve got them all.

Earlier I woke damp with sweat Sitting in the darkness I have been focusing on a dream I had and am very frustrated to have a complete blackout. Whatever it was, it has filled me with a sense of meaning and purpose. It was so real that was frightening I feel so powerless when my memory fails me, feel so dark inside me, as if bathing in a halo of lunar recession I miss the noisy branch that my cousm finally cut down the other day I had no idea I had gotten so used to it.

Now I remember I dreamt I was sound sleep right here when a strange noise woke me It came from the end of the hallway where the ladder to the roof is located I had a premonition that something awful had Just happened or was about to happen. Chills crept up my spine and I involuntarily stood and headed in that direction, reached the ladder and saw that the lid on the ceiling had been pushed to the side A howling wind was lifting it and dropping it. Slowly I skulked up the ladder, each step a bit slower as I was hearing a female voice muttering more audibly with each step. I was so scared, my whole body was shivering. My head finally emerged from the dark into the glare of the late night moon. But that's as far as I could go, for I was frozen in my position by what I saw: A woman, tall and slender, dressed in a royal robe, her long hair dancing in the air like the mane of a Mongol mare from the pages of our history book, and she was glaring at the horizon while reciting a poem — by Forough Farokhzad; a moment later, as she turned her serene, heavenly face calmly in my direction after I slipped a little and made a jerking noise, I saw that it was my queen, Abesh Khatun, uttering with her distinct queenly voice, "I will plant my hands in the garden/I know, I know, they will yield..." Spontaneously, I started reciting with her, hoping that my queen would come closer to me and let me kiss her hand, that she might even give me one of her diamond ear rings which shined in my eyes, but I woke up by the imaginary noise of the orphaned branch against the window.

10 Azar:

Today I am feeling a little better, but am too weak to write anything. Just watched The Fugitive, farari, starring David Johnson, and cried a little when they were about to arrest that innocent doctor.

Hours later: I just listened to the taped sermon of the Meshhedi preacher, who has apparently outraged the city's mullahs with his blunt language. My guess is they are jealous of his popularity and can't wait to see him off the Quran gate. Here's excerpts of what he said:

"In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate! Praise be to God the Exalted for His favors outspread in His earth and Heaven. Blessed be Muhammad — the Seal of His Prophets — and peace be upon His Family. A noble subject has been suggested to me from some wise and concerned Muslims in your midst: The question of our youth, and what they need. Questions of this sort disturb me because to do justice to them requires that we break some barriers and open ourselves to difficult inquires. God it is who gives aid in seeking truth and attiining of one's heart's desire!

Listen up young people. You are the treasures of this land. Don't let them spoil your garden of truth by implanting the false seeds of materialism and western-worshipping in. its soil. Clean is the soul that is anchored in its authenticity. You are our lion hearts, our pupils. The poet says, Give, 0 give love's sporty joys/Youth and all that youth employs.

And what a sad, sorry state you exist in nowadays. They have polluted you, fogged your vision with superficiality and tamed your heart by deceit, making it a place of guilty secrets, a place of darkness instead of light. But that is not the way of a true Muslim, for to be a Muslim is to know that you have never been slaves in your homeland, inner land and outer land, that you should never be in bondage to any one or anything, except the grace of God, to His truth.

And what is God's truth. It's the kind of truth that is the vessel of salvation in both worlds, that helps you cease falsehoods, to lead away from the way of smugness and deceit, and toward honesty, understanding, and humility. How do you get to this divine truth? Can it indeed be that we need no longer be ashamed of looking inward, at ourselves, our dreams, fantasies, and so on, when thinking of this truth? Is it naive to say that we must first talk about our own needs when discoursing about God's commands? I think not. Let me prove, illustrate this by invoking a dreaded word that is absolutely taboo in a place like this: sex. I mention the word sex and you wake up, as if you have heard a volcano erupting. What is it about sex that has such a magical impact? I want to tell you something very important tonight, something that may surprise you: Islam respects sex and promotes it. Whoever says don't mention sex, it is against religion, ignore them. Sex is the act of reproduction and a duty for man. We must never say that religion and sex don't mix. That ‘s a lie and anti- Islamic. Those who say this gingerly leap into forgetfulness as to what Islam really teaches. They forget that Islam is an avid player in the sport of life, that it guides you to sex, to know and experience it, not as something dirty or ugly — no, that is the way of monks and Catholics — but as something beautiful. That is why Islam is the ultimate religion because it touches every facet of life and respects and nurtures all aspects of existence, and promotes not just an idle being, but an active, dynamic becoming, and not just ~a-sexually, but fully sexually, within the correct parameters spelled out by Hadhrat Muhammad, God's praise be to him and his family... The measure of chastity set for sex is faith. Don't listen to them when they teach you that faith kills youth, faith kills the desire in sex. Faith is in close proximity to sex, like a basket of carrot next to a den of rabbits... Now, you rabbits are running away from this basket, thinking all the time that it is empty, that is going to serve as a cage for you and has nothing good to offer you. No such thing. I dare you to have the courage to shed your coldness, cynicism, and your indifference toward it for a moment and approach it, touch it, feel it inside out and acquaint yourself with its content and see for yourself what I am talking about. See if I indeed lie and misdirect you when I say that our Islam cooks a delicious meal for your appetites, that it caresses your breasts, massages your hearts' full of emotions, expunges your coldness and instills a new devotion to life and every thing human, including intercourse.

14 Azar:

Baba took me to school this morning — with my chador on! He kept quiet about it on the way but before dropping me off couldn't help muttering, "I can't understand why the youth are jin- gripped by religion?!" Every one was so surprised to see me like that, but I didn't care. I looked and felt awful and the chador was so helpful in giving me a peace of mind free of all superficial issues. After school when I was waiting for Baba to pick me up at the Khayam intersection a few boys passed by me and, unlike the usual, didn't throw a comment and did n't even notice me. My temperature has been rising the last few hours. I knew I should have listened to my mother and rested another day or so before going back to school.

14 Azar:

Mid morning: Just resting today. No school. Jaafar's doctor checked my condition a little while ago and wrote a prescription which Maman went to get at the pharmacy. She blames it all on my charity work.

8 at night. Shirjn and Mahjubeh came to visit me tonight, separately but at the same time. It was awkward. They can't stand each other and perhaps ask themselves how in the world they have ended with a mutual friend. Mahjubeh feels a bit run down as well. It must be the accumulated fatigue of all those endless hours she devotes to the noble cause. I really admire her untiring selflessness. She and I are about to do our first joint writing project for the next wall newspaper. Our topic: Heroic women of Islam.

Shirin. Why do I like her? I suppose beause she is avant garde, as well as a joy to be with who isn't always as serious as Mahjubeh. It is too bad they can never be friends. The chasm between Religious and secularists factions is simply too wide, but should it?! Fortunately, I can't say the same thing about Jaafar and Mahjubeh. After Shirin was gone, I left the two alone for a long time. Before returning to the room, I set my ears to the door and heard the muttering sound of their prayer. No doubt, their spiritual dimension matches, if nothing else.

Shirjn has lend me Kemal's little book on love and poetry which he has dedicated to her. I am almost done with it. The purpose of poetty is to lift our soul for a while and then leave us on the ground. I like that, and the line where he says: if the grass of love grows into your dust, keep no scissor of suspicion around the house.

What a hopeless cause he is. Maybe I have been mistaken about him. If he knows that Shirin does n't even drink water without consulting with me first, maybe he would dedicate his next work to me. One last thing: I proposed to Shirin yesterday to read each other's diaries, just for the hell of it. We agreed to do it as soon as we ‘re finished with our notebook, which reminds me I have to ask some money from Maman tomorrow morning to purchase the beautiful blue-cover notebook I saw in Mr. Sahabi's store the other day.

14

SECOND NOTEBOOK
(pen sketch of clouds)

Karachi. 15 November, 1982:

At the one star Hotel Amin near Drigh Road.

This is my eleventh day here. No word yet from our guide, Asghar, about the passport. He sounds reassuring, wants me to sit tight and wait patiently, as if I have any other choice. Two days ago, Farzad and Soheyla, the couple who escaped in the same jeep with me, got their visa to Australia and are leaving tomorrow. Soheyla does n't want to leave me all by myself, just left my room half an hour ago with teary eyes. I am glad she liked the camel skin lamp shade that I bought for them at the Empress Market today. I wish they could postpone their flight for at least a few more days. Not that there is any dearth of Iranians in this city. Far from it. In this hotel alone, there must be a good ten to fifteen other Iranians besides us. They are mostly young men who have either dodged the draft or are opposed to the system, most of them without really knowing why, so pitiful.

My friends' case is different. They have forsaken their professional jobs and all their belongings because of a screwed up law that does not allow women to travel abroad without the permission of their spouses. Soheyla is an Armenian surgical nurse with family members in the resort city of Perth in Australia. She was innocently planning a two week visit a month ago, but was kept at the airport, right before boarding the air plane by these stupid guards who wanted to see the notarized permission of her husband, who had by then left and had to be called back in and take all kil)ds of verbal abuses from those idiots, who now demanded a substantial sum as bail before they would let her out of their custody. They keep Farzad as collateral and let Soheyla go so she could withdraw money from her savings account. Meanwhile, Farzad takes advantage of lax airport security and escapes through the bathroom window, goes into hiding with his wife for two weeks, and withdraws a substantial sum from the account of a government agency he worked for, partly to pay for the illegal exit through desert's dangerous trek.

It was a close call. The last thirty kilometers before crossing Pakistan's border we were in a death race with a border patrol car that fired on us relentlessly and killed one of our passengers sitting to my left. His name was Abbas, a shy young man from Veramin who was the sole child of parents who had sold their home to cover his expenses. We took him inside the katchi mat tent of some nomads and, as Soheyla was trying hopelessly to stop the bleeding, Abbas gave me his wallet full of large bills and beseeched us not to say a word about his death to his parents.

A few days ago, after a lengthy exchange of views while we were having lunch at a restaurant in the beautiful Jinnah Street, we decided that we had a moral duty to inform his relatives. Farzad has contacted his brother in Tehran and asked him to see to that. I am now debating what to do with the money? I wish I could simply mail it to them, but given the nature of our mailing system, I know the chances of it getting to them is one in a hundred. On the other hand, I need money badly and could use this sum as savings for my Farangis when she grows up and wants to join her mother one day, if my evil mother-in-law ever permits her. Or I could use it to hire a first-rate lawyer to pursue Ahmad's case and find out what they have done to him. Is he dead or still alive? I wish I could trust my own intuition that he is alive.

16 November

3 in the morning. My room is very cold. I have been coughing incessantly all night. Covered with the blanket, I am now sitting at the small desk next to the window facing the street that, during the day time, is filled with an unending stream of destitute, some of whom carry their moving beds, charpois, with them. The Street 1s quiet now, the only thing disrupting the silence are the rustling brooms of squads of sweepers, kundimen, and the infrequent squeaks of the public latrines opening and closing. I am writing under the refractions of the blue neon light of the hotel sign that pierces the shade and shines on the desk. I am so restless, haven't been able to sleep all night, am thinking of Soheyla's grieving face at the airport and how we hugged each other as if we were twins. They must still be in the air right now, so far away from this universe.

I just finished writing a postcard to my parents. The cover shows a famous fountain with its cast iron angels. I hope it gets to them as soon as possible. I am glad my neighbors have finally tired of love making and gone to sleep; their noise reached my ears through the paper thin wall as clearly as if I were sharing the bed with them. She was so loud and yet he was so inhibited — I couldn't hear a peep out of him, except a sigh of relief at the end of each of his repeated orgasmic climaxes.

On the way back from the airport, Asghar took me to Bunker Island, where we ate chapati and curry and watched a boat race, but all I could see was home. Afterwards, we went to the French consulate at the Administration Circle to get the application papers for the visa, which we filled with help from an Iranian in this hotel — who was a professor at Tehran University until he was purged a couple of months ago and is now planning to go to Switzerland for research. Funny thing. I still don't have a passport and yet I am applying for a visa!

I cry as I look at the picture of my Farangis. Will I ever see her, and my Maman and Baba, again? I wish I could talk to my parents but with the antiquated telephone system in Fassa it is a hope against hope. Besides, who knows if they are not under surveillance? I should probably take it as a good omen that I have not been able to reach the telephone directory of Fassa after trying so many times. The damned line is always busy.

It feels nice to be writing again, after so many years of not doing it, In fact, now that I think of it, this is the first time in two years since I last wrote an entry in my journal My old journal is falling into pieces, another casualty of our hazardous journey: After emptying my large suitcase into three small plastic bags (due to lack of space in the jeep), one of the bags containing my journal caved in to the heavy load and everything dropped in a muddy pothQle as we were pacing the unpaved, narrow alley toward the jeep that would take us out of Zahedan that early cold morning less than two weeks ago. My selfless cousin Mi, who had escorted me all the way from Shiraz and was responsible for all the detailed arrangements, would have left his wife and children behind and come with me if I hadn't persuaded him otherwise. I remember so vividly his kind and sad expressions when we hugged each other good bye — almost like lovers; his face turned flush red, his lips trembled and tears filled his eyes. No doubt he still tortures himself for the bad luck of entering the lanes of a one-way love affair with me since childhood. If only I could have swerved my heart in his direction and had loved him and married him, or if I had chosen a less troublesome career than journalist, most likely, none of the troubles that have befallen me would have ever materialized. Maybe. Who knows what destiny has in store for each one of us? Anyway. I need to copy my old journal before it becomes totally unreadable. Already some pages are beyond rescue. I am now resuming writing after spending several minutes reviewing my journal. My whole life paraded before my eyes as I was reading. I am so glad that I brought this with me, am now wondering if this is worth anything, and whether or not I should send itto that bald French reporter I met at a rally three years ago. I still have his business card: Michael Foucault.

17 November

Noon time. I am sitting in a quiet corner of the Mohejodaro museum. The voice of a muezzin from a nearby mosque comes in so loud and clear. I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to its harmony, lost myself in it. The familiar call to prayer is making me feel comfortable here, is reminding me that I am not too far from home. Maybe that is why some Iranians, including professor Ehsani, are in no rush to depart. But not me. It is so difficult for a single woman to survive in a big city like this. I am under the suspicious eyes of males everywhere, even inside the hotel by the effeminate employees, especially the night manager. He knocked on my door early this morning and came in with the excuse of checking the heater, and then used the opportunity to ask a lot of personal questions that were none of his business. After all that nonsense about biraderi and how he could accept me as a sister, zaat behen, he made a point of reminding me that he was taking a huge risk with the authorities for letting a single woman stay in his hotel. I shut him up by giving him one of Abbas's American express checks for the amount of one hundred dollars. I just hope he doesn't discover that I have forged the signature.

Somehow, I haven't fully recovered from the fatigue of the hard trek into Pakistan. Not having the energy to copy everything that I have written in my old journal, I want to be selective and discriminating by deleting those entries that seem relatively unimportant. On a second thought, I have decided to combine the ones I have selected and rewrite them in the form of a short autobiography. How should I start?

Half an hour later. I have been listening to the voices within me. They all reek of sadness and tragedy. One is telling me to start by confessing that I am a chameleon, as Mullah Ashtiani said one day. And this is overwhelmed by another voice that angrily reminds me not to be lured by the glamour of suffering, that even a stranded chameleon deserves human sympathy. With which voice should I narrate my story. I just uttered a few words randomly and tried to detect something through them sadness, hate, regret, bitterness, lovelessness, and hopelessness. My voice reeks of all these arid notes, reminds me of the desert's windless air that dominated the sand dunes we saw in the course of our painful journey. Is this really my voice? Am I dreaming all that has happened to me? So much has happened. Looking at the beginning parts of my old journal as I write these lines, my heart sickens at what I wrote on 26 Esfand, right after the fortieth day of mourning Jaafar's death:

"2 in the morning. It is snowing outside. This is the third time in my life time that mother nature has sent its snowy clouds above Shiraz The last time was eight or nine years ago I remember we were so excited by it A snowball Jaafar threw at me hit me in the face and I ran inside crying, making my unfortunate brother feel so guilty about it. Oh how I wish we could do it again, go to the Street like the last time and...

Yesterday we spent several hours in the cemetery and then, in the afternoon, we hosted the fifty or so guests who dropped by for the fortieth day ceremony. Maman has been to the hospital three times during these forty days due to the new ailment she has picked up since Jaafar's death: A chest pain. I was afraid that she might pass out on Jaafar's grave and need an ambulance to carry her to the hospital, as was the case on the burial day. Fortunately, she was unusually calm and collected, relatively speaking.

My cat is curled up by the window mesmerized by the falling snow. Once in a while, she looks at me and with her green eyes asks for explanation of the unusual sight Yes peeshee, I know what you are thinking. This is a strange world, full of surprises, and not all of the surprises are happy ones like this one. One day I will tell you the story of the great quake that razed our city to the ground over a hundred years ago. One day, I may even tell you what I saw that day when I found Jaafar's body. I write these lines with immense difficulty. I remember it was around eleven when I came home. I had been released for the day, around nine thirty, ther getting a sudden stomach pain that was accompanied with awful intuitions. I have no doubt that it coincided with the moment of Jaafar's death.

Our vice principal, nazem, kindly drove me home. When I entered the house, no one was there, or so it seemed. At first, I was not surprised. Baba was at work, Maman was supposed to be at my aunt's house using her sewing machine to fix some of Jaafar's pants, and Jaafar and Samad had gone out for an errand — I assumed. So I went to my room and rested on the bed for a few minutes until my stomach pain, which had subsided, became more intense and I left the room with the intention of taking an aspirin from the medicine shelf in the bathroom on the second floor when I noticed a pigeon — Jaafar's favorite one he called helicopter because of its aerial acrobatic — sitting on the top step of the ladder. For a mysterious reason unknown to myself, I decided to climb the ladder and go to the roof after yelling Jaafar's name without receiving any response. I nearly had a heart attack when I stepped on the roof and saw Jaafar's wheelchair parked at the far edge overlooking the yard of Mr. Vafai. For a few seconds I was simply frozen in my position incapable of stepping forward, so overwhelmed by the terror of what I would discover on the neighbor's yard that for a moment I even contemplated the foolhardy notion of descending the ladder and pretending that nothing had happened. Of course I couldn't. Instead, praying God to wake me from a terrible nightmare, I took hesitant steps toward the wheelchair and then, when I reached it, my whole body lacerated by fear and anxiety, I nervously looked down and saw.. .My poor brother lying motionless on the brick tiles of the neighbor's yard. I almost threw myself in his direction, but the voice of Samad from behind stopped me.

I don't know if we will ever know the truth of what happened. Samad swears to his father's grave that he had left Jaafar alone for half an hour at Jaafar's own insistence so that he could get some charcoal at the store down the street, and that Jaafar had not given him the slightest hint that he was contemplating suicide. A lot of people want us to believe that he fell accidentally, that he had simply lost control of his wheelchair when he had foolishly moved it so close to the edge, as he had done so on so many occasions. But if so, why didn't the wheelchair fall with him? I just don't buy the argument that he may have fallen off the wheelchair after making a sudden stop. I think these are all cover up stories to hide the fact that Jaafar was killed, either by Samad or someone else, by the order of the government just to keep his mouth shut. I am very convinced of this Murderers I hate the shah and all his murderous cronies. I hope the next assassination attempt on his life succeeds. We got rid of Samad two days after the incident I am so happy that he did not bother to show up yesterday. My innocent Baba has been duped by his crocodile cries and thinks that he is completely innocent and is telling the truth. But I don't. And am determined to find out the truth somehow.

What hurts me most is the extent of Jaafar's terrible luck, the fact that on that particular day the newly-wed Vafai couple had been out (the wife is usually at home), and that he died exactly two months pnor to his engagement with Mahjubeh, which was to happen right after the new year, although this was just a tentative plan that might not have occurred because of last minute objections by some members of her family. Is it possible that he committed suicide after becoming convinced that Mahjubeh will not be allowed to marry him?

I have rulled out this possibility on two accounts First, Jaafar was highly enamored of Mahjubeh but he was not so crazily in love with her as to do something so crazy due to some nagging possibility of losing her. Besides, Mahjubeh is in full agreement with me that Jaafar is a martyr killed by the lackey regime ruling over us. I am positive she is behind the graffitti on the walls in our neighborhood that read: Martyr Jaafar Salim. The other day, I felt so proud when a couple of veiled ladies approached me and my mother in the street and congratulated her for being the mother of a martyr. I wonder if they really believe what they said or simply said it to create a badly needed myth in the neighborhood. One thing is for sure: Maman has no stomach for all this martyr stuff, for a moment she surprised those ladies by retorting, "you are mistaken. My son died of an accident." But by their delayed reaction, I could see that those women were interpreting my mother's reaction as a logical denial in the face of complete strangers."

They are closing the museum. I must leave >>> Chapter 15

CHAPTERS: (1,2,3) (4,5) (6,7) (8,9,10) (11,12) (13,14,) (15)