The Drum Tower Page 11

  On May ninth, the mason and his workers finally collapsed the major part of the brick wall that had separated the courtyard from the garden. For the first time, I had a view of the whole garden and the tall, dark, brick tower from my basement window. The gardener had only a day and a half left to do something about the jungle of weeds and bushes. The speed of the work was dizzying and the three repaired clocks constantly chimed and clanked, announcing the passage of time.

  There was no sign that Assad had done anything to postpone the engagement party.

  Early on the morning of the tenth, Assad and his friends from the neighborhood mosque took twelve live turkeys to the fountain and chopped their heads off for the special dish he was planning to cook. All the men had bloody faces and hands and looked like criminals. Dark, red rivulets ran on the courtyard floor. Taara, who was running down to my room in her school uniform, stepped in a puddle of blood and stained her white socks. She screamed and sobbed hysterically.

  “Bad omen.” She dropped herself on my bed and wept. “Blood stained my white socks—it’s a bad sign! Assad hasn’t done anything to cancel this crazy party. Why did I trust this man in the first place? He always resented us, didn’t he? Now he has brought these vagabonds to our house to kill the poor turkeys! It’s like a nightmare, Talkhoon, everything is happening in a nightmare. All these clocks ticking, people working day and night, and now these poor, dead birds. They want to throw an engagement party for me and I don’t even want to be engaged! I’m going to give a letter to Vahid today. It’s everything that I need to tell him. But I’m not sure how he will respond. Pray for me, Talkhoon. Pray for your poor sister!”

  The Ghost Did it!

  When I woke up on the morning of May eleventh, a short note was next to my pillow: “I’m going to school to take my last exam. Most probably I won’t come back. Let Grandmother engage herself to the General, or the General’s son! T.”

  I felt a wild pulse in my throat and wind whirled in my head. Didn’t you think about me, Taara? How could you leave me behind?

  But the whole thing was my own fault! Assad didn’t cancel the party because I failed to provide the fifth stack of the letters. It was I who caused Taara’s flight.

  An ear-piercing shriek shook the house—a shriek one heard on seeing corpses in the ruins of a city after an earthquake or a bombing.

  “Lost! Lost! Everything is lost!” And then the bang, bang of footsteps, and more cries. Sensing that something had happened that might bring Taara back, I ran upstairs.

  Khanum-Jaan, her sisters who had stayed overnight, Daaye, Madame Abulian and her seamstress girls who had also stayed to finish the dresses, were all either crying or covering their mouths to keep from screaming. They were in their long sleeping gowns. Assad, in his sleeveless undershirt, pulling his pants up, limped barefoot from room to room, investigating. Khanum fainted. They sat her on a recliner and Daaye held a camphored kerchief under her nose. The aunties sobbed and murmured broken sentences. The festivity had turned into calamity overnight.

  “All is lost. Ruined beyond repair,” Aunty Puran lamented. “The silk carpets, the carvings on the ceilings, the paintings, the curtains, all—”

  I tiptoed to the guestroom where the ceremony was supposed to take place tonight and saw black spots the size of small coins all over the place—on the carpets, the freshly painted walls, the panels of antique paintings, the couches, the lace and velvet curtains, freshly washed after half a century, even on the ceiling around the chandelier, where the artists of hundreds of years ago had carved fat angels and cupids in the European Renaissance style.

  Assad knelt on the floor, touched one of the black circles, sniffed his fingers, touched it again, even tasted it, then smelled it again. Now he stood up and shook his head.

  “Tar!” he announced.

  Everybody repeated in wonder and disbelief, “Tar?”

  “Someone has left tar stains all over the place,” Assad said.

  “But how?” Aunty Puran asked. In her white gown and black robe, wide open in front, she looked like a pregnant penguin. She was panting. Her small heart buried under layers of fat couldn’t take it anymore. “How could anyone reach the ceiling?”

  “No one without a very tall ladder can reach the carvings,” Aunty Turan, who was gray in the face and shaking, said. The bangs of her Cleopatra wig had slid to the side of her head, covering her ear.

  Assad inspected the little circles, measured them and compared them. Daaye massaged Khanum’s neck. She came too, sat motionless, and waited for Assad to say something. The gardener, the mason, the carpet cleaners who had come to clean the last carpet and get their money were all standing by the oaken double doors, looking at the tar spots.

  “We cleaned these carpets yesterday,” the carpet cleaner said with deep regret.

  “They’re ruined. Millions!” Aunty Puran said.

  “All of Khanum’s inheritance,” Aunty Turan said, and wept for her sister.

  “It’s a cane,” Assad announced. “The tip of it. If you don’t believe me, get a cane and look at its tip. These stains are made by a cane dipped in tar.”

  “Who uses a cane around here?” Aunty Puran asked.

  A deep silence fell and then Khanum’s voice rose, cold and remote. “Papa uses a cane!” Silence fell again, and she added, “He is upset.”

  “But why?” her sisters asked at the same time. “Because you were trying to restore the house?”

  “No. The match. Papa is upset about the match,” Khanum said, unable to make long sentences. “He came to cancel the engagement.”

  “But couldn’t he send his message without ruining your inheritance?” Aunty Puran asked.

  “Spirits live in a realm beyond matter, sister. In a realm that has nothing to do with the things that are important to us. Spirits do not care about carpets and curtains.”

  “But why is the match wrong?” Aunty Turan asked. “The family is from the old dynasty, our own blood. They’re even related to us. The boy’s grandmother on the mother’s side is the third cousin of our grandfather on the father’s side.”

  “The match is wrong because the girl is being forced to marry,” Daaye said between her tears.

  “Is she?” the sisters asked at the same time.

  “Let’s not waste time,” Assad said impatiently. “Let me see if we can remove the stains.”

  “If these are tar stains, as you’re saying,” the carpet cleaner said, “nothing can remove them. Maybe benzene will make them paler, but forget about removing them.”

  So they brought a bucket of benzene and, with a rag, smeared it on one spot on the silk carpet; the stain spread like ink and looked even worse. They tried one of the stains on the wall. It grew larger and darker, like a black cloud. Khanum stood up and ordered her sisters to call the General and then the guests, and apologize for the cancellation of the engagement party.

  “Tell them I’m severely ill. Hospitalized. Dying!” Then she retired to her room and we all heard the lock and bolt and realized that she was not going to come out again soon.

  The workers gradually left the house, some of their work undone or half done. No one could pay them and they didn’t dare to knock on Khanum’s door. They’d rather wait until she recovered. One meter of the brick wall remained in the courtyard, like an ugly fence separating the present from the past. Madame Abulian and her girls left, all in tears, taking our half-sewn dresses with them, knowing they would never get paid. The aunties sat at the phone to call the guests. They had to make at least a hundred phone calls. Daaye and Assad went to the kitchen to find a way to do something about the two dozen turkeys that lay on the counters, legs up, bellies open, waiting to be stuffed. And they had to think about all the other dishes and snacks they had spent so much time preparing. I heard Daaye asking Assad, “But who could have done this?” And Assad telling her, “Khanum’s papa. Didn’t you hear what she said? Papa Vazir’s ghost!”

  So, why should Taara flee? Now that either Ass
ad or Grandpa Vazir, or some other apparition, in the cruelest way (cruel to Khanum-Jaan), had cancelled the party, why should Taara run away? She could stay and continue seeing her friend on the sly as long as she wished, until they were ready for marriage. I rushed down to change. I was going to leave the house. I had to run to school and see Taara before she finished her exam and left with Vahid. If I missed her, there would be no way to find her again.

  At the Intersection

  I tucked my bangs into a cap and put on Uncle Vafa’s shirt and pants. I had to walk by Jangi’s cage and I didn’t have any food to bribe him, so he followed me to the gate. As I stepped out, a white truck parked and two men took out large baskets of flowers. They asked me if the party was here. I said it was and let them take the baskets and buckets of freshly cut lilies and gladiolas inside. They asked if it was all right to leave them on the front steps behind the oak door. I said it was all right. The driver handed me a card with General Nezam El Deen’s name on it.

  I walked and Jangi followed me like a shadow. I ordered him to go back, but he didn’t obey. After a few blocks I didn’t mind his company and he felt it, sped up and walked at my side, looking up once in a while to see if everything was all right. His large almond eyes were full of wet gratitude. No one had ever taken him for a walk.

  In Vafa’s cotton shirt and khaki pants and a pair of thick-soled tennis shoes I felt comfortable and free. Taking long steps, the way boys did, I felt the urge to whistle or hum a tune. When I reached my old school, Mariam Catholic Institute, a flood of black-and-white-uniformed girls suddenly rushed out of the open gate. I moved back and stood behind a tree. I knew that soon the old security nun, Soeur Maria-Theresa, with her long stick would chase the strangers away from the entrance. Jangi sat next to me and we waited. It was hard to find Taara among hundreds of identical girls. I looked around and saw a man across the street, standing under the eaves of a shop. On a mild sunny day, he had on a long, white raincoat.

  No doubt this was Vahid. Instead of searching for Taara, I observed him, trying to read him, to figure him out. Let me just take a look at him, I’ll tell you who he is. Khanum’s voice echoed in my head.

  Vahid had a bony, cat-like face. His sea-blue eyes were wet and large, like marbles. His cheeks protruded, his hair was light and thin like a baby’s. When the breeze played with its soft strands, I noticed his bald spot. He combed his hair back to cover his bare scalp. His fingers were yellow, knotty and long. He was older than I’d imagined, much older than Taara. Now he took out a cigarette and held a match under it. His yellow fingers trembled.

  Taara crossed the street and approached him. She had her setar case in one hand and a black attaché in the other. A few years ago, when she began high school, Baba-Ji gave her his own attaché, the one he’d bought in London and had used for years in his teaching job. So Taara had Baba’s attaché which was too big for a schoolgirl and odd to carry around. But she loved it and kept her most important papers in it.

  Taara and Vahid embraced briefly, friendly but without passion. Vahid took the setar case and they walked down the street toward the intersection. I followed them and Jangi followed me like a crooked shadow. I tried not to get close to them. They slowed down sometimes, looking at the shop windows and then walked faster again. Now they were holding hands. They reached a café, “The Four Season’s Ice-cream and Pastry.”

  Downstairs there were tables and chairs, but a narrow stairway took the customers up to a better seating area. A sign on top of the stairs said, “For families only.” Taara and Vahid went up to the family section and I sat downstairs by the window. Jangi stayed outside on the sidewalk, looking at me from behind the glass. What if he started to bark? What if everyone noticed me? All the way to the cafe I’d felt invisible, and now, for the first time, I was afraid I’d be noticed.

  I pulled my cap over my eyebrows and sat, waiting. The cafe was famous for its rich, oversized ice cream dishes, and my mouth watered. But I didn’t have money to buy anything. People held trays full of tall deserts and took them to their tables. Soon Vahid came down, went to the counter, bought two small dishes and carried them upstairs. Taara looked calm and serene, but unhappy. I could see them holding hands and eating. Vahid murmured something and Taara nodded. I waited. I didn’t go up to talk to her. I didn’t tell her that her engagement had been cancelled and that she could go home now.

  Finally, they descended the stairs. But Taara had forgotten her attaché, climbed the stairs again and picked it up. I watched them leave the store and then followed them. Jangi, who lay spread out on the sidewalk, woke up. On the crowded sidewalk we followed Taara and Vahid who continued to hold hands. Taara sighed now and then and nodded. She gave a pendulum movement to the attaché and adjusted her steps to the movement of her hand. At one point Vahid brought the setar case up to his chest and hugged it like a baby. As if this were my cue, I stopped following them.

  “Let’s go back, Jangi. Let’s go home.”

  The dog turned and we walked back home. I hadn’t told Taara that she didn’t need to elope. I let her go.

  At that moment I had a strange feeling that wasn’t quite clear. It was freedom and despair at the same time. I hadn’t played any part in my mother’s leaving—she’d gone and left me behind. I hadn’t played any part in my father’s leaving—he’d gone without thinking about me. It wasn’t I who had let Baba-Ji go—he had gone without even himself knowing. But now I had the choice of stopping my sister from leaving or letting her go, and I let her go. It was I who marked her destiny, and mine. I felt freedom and despair.

  I entered Drum Tower with my friend Jangi. No one even noticed we had been out. The red and pink gladioli in the baskets and the white lilies in the buckets were waiting on the steps between the two bronze lions. These animals had been sitting here for centuries, growling and threatening the world. They had just been polished for Taara’s engagement party, but no one was about to enter Drum Tower today. Their golden glow and fearsome majesty would go unappreciated.

  The house was calm and I knew that the aunties were still sitting at the dining table with the endless list of guests in front of them, whispering apologies into the phone. I knew that they’d finally decided that the stars were not lined up the way they should have been, or the shape of the coffee grounds indicated gloom, and the whole thing was not meant to happen.

  And I knew that Khanum-Jaan was up in her nun’s room, not writing to her dead father, but lying on her soldier’s bed with a camphored handkerchief on her forehead. Assad and Daaye were packing, preserving, and freezing tons of food and putting the rest in containers for the aunties to take home.

  All of a sudden I missed Baba-Ji who was absent from all this commotion, forgotten by everyone. I wanted to rush up to his room, put my head on his chest and tell him that Taara was gone. But I couldn’t. Instead, I went down to my room and sat on my bed, looking at the dirty courtyard and the half-ruined wall. A gust of wind blew, brick dust rose and balloons floated in the red air—some were trapped in the top branches of the trees and some gathered behind my window, sticking to the panes. It was a strange sight, balloons in the ruins and a broken brick wall—remains of a few happy days in my grandmother’s joyless life.

  Learning From the Spider

  “It’s your sister’s engagement party, come out of the closet, girl! Come and look out! A ruined wall, a pile of bricks, and the stupid tower winking with red bulbs like an old whore! Come out, Talkhoon, its party time! Red and blue and yellow balloons. Look! They’re all over the place. They’re floating over the tower.

  “You don’t even wonder what happened? Huh? Or you pretend you don’t? Do you wonder about anything at all? Are you really crazy? Or are you acting all the time? I know you dived from the top of the tower and then stopped talking—but haven’t I heard you chatting with Daaye and Taara? So who is it you’re not talking to? Me? Khanum? You put me and the old hen in one bag, huh?

  “But aren’t you even a bit sorry for the bitch? D
on’t you know what happened to her? I saw you sneak like a mouse upstairs early this morning. So you saw it. You saw how she was ruined. Finished. Do you think I did this to her? I was the one who finished her? I know that your sister told you what I promised her, so probably you think I did it. But I swear to God and all the twelve Imams that I didn’t do this. You know why? Because these carpets, curtains, and paintings, and all the rest of the shit in this old, fucking fort of a house, belong to me! You laugh in your dark closet, huh? Are you laughing at me? But answer this simple question: Who has worked in this damned house for forty years? Who has kept it from falling apart? Come on, answer me! Who? Your father? Your Uncle Kia? Or your Uncle Vafa? Who?

  “So, you see that the answer is as simple as the question. Why would I destroy things that belong to me? But your aunts have another theory. They say Taara has done this. You’re surprised, huh? Didn’t you know your sister is gone? Eloped, so to speak? Yes sir, she e-l-o-p-e-d! With that junky guy—the man with a white raincoat and nothing else. The vagabond, as your grandmother would call him. But Khanum doesn’t know this. She hasn’t come out of her room to know that her little Taara has not come back from school. No sir, she never returned. Stupid, blockheaded idiot! Didn’t I promise her I would postpone her engagement? Didn’t I? But she didn’t trust me. I had a plan for tonight. Not to ruin the house, but to postpone the whole thing for six months in a quiet, respectable way, and who knows what would happen in six months? But she went and got herself ruined. She’s ruined, Talkhoon. Finished! I know these guys who stand in front of the girls’ high schools with a cigarette between their lips and love notes in their pockets. I know them. I’ve been in the streets myself. They’re tramps. That’s what they are. Vagabonds!