Persian Brides

Nazie’s whispers, farhiz, farhiz, before falling asleep had availed nothing—the laughing demons sneaked into Flora’s belly, pinched the baby’s bottom and pulled his ears. The sharp edge of the knife which Miriam Hanoum had slipped under Flora’s pillow when she found that her daughter was pregnant failed to keep the evil spirits away. Nor did the broom of paradise help. The foetus woke its mother from her slumber, and she lay on her back, her eyes open, to watch over it until it settled down and allowed her to sleep.

Little yawns fluttered between her lips, and she pressed her cheek to the pillow and gazed at the brazier through the open door of the room. A few embers still glowed amid the black cinders, and now and then a red tremor ran over them. The scent of rosemary blended with the sour smell of the watermelon vomit. Flora had not taken off her dress, but the ugly juice stains had already dried.

Beside her bed stood the pine cradle which Zuleikha’s husband had made for the awaited baby. Flora rocked it, and the new cradle squeaked softly, like a sleeping baby. The balls of socks, the folded diapers and the tiny woollen shirt slid from side to side. Through the darkness Flora observed the small mound made by Nazie’s body under the woollen blanket, rising and falling as she breathed. Flora thought that if Nazie curled up a little more she could fit into the cradle as Manijoun fitted into her basket, like an egg in a nest, and Flora could rock her and sing her rude lullabies until she slept.

“Nazie,” Flora whispered, rising on her elbows. “Nazie?”

She wanted to say funny things to her until morning, making Nazie stifle her giggles with her hand. Flora could make Nazie laugh till she cried, even without tickling her belly, armpits or the base of the throat. Once they had both walked barefoot from the market-place to the Jews’ quarter, like a pair of beggar girls, Nazie walking in front with her eyes down, Flora dawdling behind, her eyes raised to the birds. When they reached the synagogue Nazie stopped, turned around and shouted at Flora to stop looking at the clouds, because on the ground one can find silver coins which people dropped, or even rings with precious stones, or gold chains which had slipped from their necks.

Something flashed through Flora’s eyes. She looked down at the ground, picked up a small stone and without a thought threw it at one of the synagogue’s stained glass windows. A black hole opened in the colourful pane.

“Flora, what have you done?” Nazie squealed. “Let’s go.”

But Flora tiptoed carefully to the wall of the synagogue and cautiously picked up some pieces of glass, red, blue and yellow, which twinkled in the sun. Nazie giggled and looked around in terror, then followed in Flora’s bare footsteps, which turned back to the market-place and walked confidently to the house of Mamou the whore. Inside the yard, which reeked of urine, Mamou’s pampered orphans played at catching carrier pigeons in wicker baskets.

“Don’t worry, dopey,” whispered Flora, her hands full of shards of glass, to Nazie, who was clinging to her back. “Mamou’s orphans open their legs to anyone who passes and they even say ‘please.’ ” She knew that Mamou made a lot of money from the men who visited her whores, and that she indulged all her orphans’ wishes, so long as they did not bother her and did what she told them.

Flora pushed her nose between the palings of the whorehouse fence, stuck her tongue out at the girls playing in the yard and boasted in a childish tone about her treasure. The foundlings pressed against the fence and gazed in wonder at the world through the pieces of coloured glass. They saw the crowded market-place glowing red, blue and yellow, and Flora sang: “What a beauty, what a colour, a lovely city just like abroad!”

They walked home clutching a small coin each, splitting their sides with laughter, Nazie pleading with Flora to stop laughing. She crouched and pressed her hand between her legs, to stop the pee from escaping, but Flora’s laughter grew wilder, and she bent down to Nazie’s fish earrings and whispered between snorts: “Psss…psss…”

Nazie landed on the path with a bump, and the urine flowed from her laughter, spurting with a hissing sound, wetting her hand and her bare feet. She looked wordlessly at the stain which spread like flowering shame on her dress, and Flora laughed and laughed.

Flora whispered: “Psss…” and smiled to herself. If Nazie were awake, they would embrace, loosen their hair and whisper until sleep descended on them from the ceiling. Nazie’s triangular face peeped above the blanket, opened like a little fan, her hair tightly braided. Sleep had rolled out the lines in her forehead, the way she rolled out pastry dough. Her lips were open, and the minute coins in the tails of the gold fishes winked at Flora in the dark. She tucked the quilt between her legs and thought about Nazie, her lips which were always open, day or night, the look in her eyes, which trailed after her thoughts, her fingers which were forever toying with the fish earrings, sometimes clutching them suddenly, as if someone was after them and wanted to tear them from her ears. She wondered what would have happened if one night her mother pushed her fingers not between her legs, but between little Nazie’s legs. What would she have found there? Perhaps Fathaneh was right, and there was nothing there? Or perhaps the opening was too small, and her mother wouldn’t have been able to insert a finger?

She heard a distant cry of a strange bird and touched her belly in alarm. In the last few weeks the belly had risen like Nazie’s yeast cakes. She thought about their good smell when they rose, plump and brown, when Nazie slid them out of the oven with the flat iron shovel and sprinkled them with melted sugar. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could turn the rising baby in her belly into flour and oil, yeast and sugar. What a pity that it was not possible to pour the time and Shahin and the baby into the sacks and casks in the larder.

The peculiar idea amused Flora. She grinned in the dark, turned from side to side and again looked at the brazier, which had turned quite black. She gave up trying to capture evasive sleep, and let go its squirming tail.

Rain beat down angrily on the village roofs, and the wind rattled the windows, loosening the dust in their cracks. Flora got off the bed and her plump feet sank in the layers of carpets. They only felt the night’s chill when she stood in the courtyard beside the water-butt, which was full of water and floating feathers, and washed her face. The sound of the door opening and shutting did not interrupt the snores of the family and Manijoun’s restless mutterings. When she returned to her room she folded her bedclothes neatly, took off her stained dress and rubbed her arms and neck with fragrant rose oil. Then she put on thick stockings and another pair over them, a quilted blue dress with ample sleeves fitted at the wrist, over which she slipped on a pleated gown made of the orange wool of she-camels, then drew on a pair of pantaloons belted with coloured ribbons. The mirror showed her how big she was. She looked at her puffy face above the broad shoulders and wrapped it in a white kerchief folded into a triangle. One end hung down on her back, and the other two she knotted under the fat folds of her chin. The hanging ends rose and fell on her breasts. Finally she encased herself in the great chador, which fell down to her legs, pulled it tight around her ears and went out into the street to look for her lost sleep.

“Where are you going in your dreams, bad girl?” Manijoun rose from her basket. Her ancient eyes closed again, but her mouth remained open.

“Shhh…” whispered Flora with a finger to her lips, her head inside the house and her body already out of it. “Sleep, grandma, sleep.”

“Mustn’t go out now, bad girl, go back to your dreams. You mustn’t.” Flora heard the old woman muttering as she softly closed the door.