The Girl from the Garden Read online

  “Khorsheed?”

  He hears a pounding at the door. It might have been his own chest, or the natural sound of the room, itself, the heartbeat of the sun-baked bricks beneath the skin of white plaster and the wooden-beam bones. He hears his mother and Fatimeh behind him, then feels his mother’s hand on his back.

  “Ibrahim, stand up, son,” Zolekhah says. “Stand up, let me see the girl.” He stands, his head spinning. He holds on to his mother’s shoulders with both hands.

  “Mother?”

  “Come, come, agha Ibrahim,” Fatimeh says as she ushers him out. “We need a man to fetch Naneh Adeh at this hour.” She gives him a gentle push and closes the door abruptly behind him.

  The night air feels cold against Ibrahim’s face. In the darkness, he notices the black of the fountain and swaying shadows that might be trees. From behind the door, he hears Khorsheed scream again, and his knees give out beneath him.

  “Brother, what are you doing sitting on the cold earth at this hour?”

  Ibrahim looks up to see Asher standing over him. “I need to go get the midwife,” Ibrahim says. “The child is coming.”

  “You need to stand up, first. Come to the pool and splash some water on your face so that you return to your senses.”

  Ibrahim stands with effort and follows Asher to the fountain. The fish are still. He sees the reflection of the round, white moon, black clouds, the thousand stars on the surface of the water. He cups the cool water in his hands and splashes his face, over and over. He blinks his eyes several times and looks about the courtyard. The trees stretch their naked limbs in supplication to the night sky.

  “Sit down and wait here, in case the women need you,” Asher says. “Though I don’t know of what use you can be in your state. I’ll go fetch the midwife. Nothing to fear, brother, fortune smiles upon you tonight.” Asher then turns to walk to the stables.

  Ibrahim watches him leave. He listens to the click of the heavy metal lock of the stable door, the latch, the creak of the hinges, the scrape of the door against the ground, the clackclack of the horse’s hooves across the courtyard, into the cobblestoned streets, and he imagines Asher alone, riding atop that horse, full of longing for a son. Ibrahim’s heart floods with a tremendous sorrow and he turns his face to the night sky and says, “How do You choose whom to bless and whom to keep bereft of Your blessings?”

  Fatimeh emerges from the room wringing her hands and runs to the kitchen. “Ya Abolfazl, ya Allah,” she says. Ibrahim listens to her remove the iron grille of the stove. He hears the crackle of twigs broken by the old woman’s hands. After a few moments, the faint glow of the fire in the stove illuminates the doorway of the kitchen. Fatimeh bustles out of the kitchen with a heavy copper pot. “Agha Asher, is that you sitting in the shadows?” She asks.

  “Asher left to fetch the midwife.”

  “Agha Ibrahim, you don’t mind filling this pot with water from the well and bringing it back to the kitchen for old Fatimeh? I’m afraid age will slow the process.” Ibrahim takes the pot from her wordlessly and walks toward the well. The ground, though not covered in snow any longer, still feels frozen against his bare heels. He stops at the low stone wall of the well beneath the hanging branches of the willow tree. The branches sway in the gentle night breeze. They move in a unity of motion, each branch curving in the same supple angle, dancing to the left, bending to the right. He lowers the bucket into the well, listens to the squeak of the pulley, the handle a burning cold to his touch. The bucket hits the surface of the water and there is the lag in the rope. He pulls the lever, the weight of the water awakening the muscles of his arms. He inhales the crisp night air, the scent of smoke in it, and perhaps a faint promise of blossoms. He pulls the rope until the bucket is within his reach. He tips the bucket and fills the copper pot. He bends to pick it up and walks back to the kitchen where Fatimeh waits nervously in the doorway.

  Fatimeh takes the pot hurriedly from him and puts it on the stove. She rushes past him back toward the room where Khorsheed lays. Ibrahim stands in the kitchen and stares at the round belly of the stove, the fire blazing inside, the orange of it visible through the grille. He hears Khorsheed scream again and steadies himself against the wall. To take his mind off of her, he imagines Asher in the tangle of the passageways, making this journey to the midwife’s home in the cold of the night.

  The sun rises to find Ibrahim still sitting beside the pool. Khorsheed’s screams fill the courtyard, drown the tiny passages of the mahalleh, echo through the halls of the synagogue to unsettle the rabbis, carry to the merchants in the bazaars, reach barbers in their shops and schoolboys hurrying along. Ibrahim tries to remember if he heard the roosters crow at all. He is certain that Khorsheed’s hollering reaches the caravansary on the outskirts of the town, that camels, in their stride across landscape, turn their heads in the direction of her cries, that men, amidst their business, shudder to feel the ripple of the air that carries the waves of her pain. In between, in the periods of her heavy breathing, the horses in the stalls keep still, the birds keep still, the chickens in the yard cock their heads, blink, their claws motionless in the dirt, and when the ripping begins in her body again, she wails so loud, the skies seem to rend open.

  In the room, Rakhel sits pensively on the edge of the bed and watches Fatimeh and Naneh Adeh hold Khorsheed’s arms as she squats in the middle of a blanket spread out on the floor. Zolekhah presses wet rags against Khorsheed’s back, her neck, the back of her knees. Sadiqeh and Zahra wait by the wall.

  “You have to push, daughter, with all your strength,” Naneh Adeh says.

  “Khorsheed Khanum, listen to Adeh Khanum. A woman in the village I grew up in took so long to push out her baby, the girl was born with a head shaped like a honeydew melon, and not much smarter than one, either,” Sadiqeh says.

  “G-d forbid, girl. What a time to talk like this,” Fatimeh says.

  “The All-Merciful as my witness, I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. That was her nickname. We called her Honeydew.” Zahra nudges Sadiqeh, and the girl stops talking.

  Khorsheed moans. She is drenched in sweat. Her long hair sticks to her skin, her stomach descends between her thighs, the skin of it tight like a drum. She clenches her fists. The veins in her forearms and calves rise blue and bulge. Her face reddens. She shuts her eyes tightly and screams.

  “I can’t . . . I can’t anymore . . .”

  “Do you want to keep this one, child?” Naneh Adeh says.

  “Khorsheed joon, child, you’re not the first woman to do this,” Zolekhah says.

  “I’ve seen the poor soul’s head twenty times already and all he needs is one good zoor to slide out,” Naneh Adeh says. “Lord knows, the Bakhtiari women just stop behind their tribe, squat, and not a sound they make. Alone in the middle of some wilderness. Clean the babe up and run to catch up with the group.” Naneh Adeh turns to Zahra and Sadiqeh. “One of you girls go fetch more boiling water from the kitchen hearth. She’s taken so long, the last pot’s cooled again.”

  “I’ll go,” Rakhel says. The women turn to look at her.

  “I almost forgot you were here, child,” Naneh Adeh says. “So quiet you’ve been.”

  Rakhel looks away from the old woman and rises to leave. She steps out of the dim room and into the blinding sunlight. She sees a blurred figure stop and turn expectantly toward her. She squints her eyes until she makes out Ibrahim’s face, his eyebrow raised, his eyes wide open, his hands clutched behind his back. She steps out and shuts the door behind her and stands before him. He waits for her to speak, to explain something about what happens in that secret place, what meaning there might be in the mystery of his wife’s screams, if the suffering is much too much to endure. Rakhel says, “She’s fine. I have to get the water,” and walks quickly away from the inquisition of his eyes. She rushes back past him as fast as the boiling pot of water allows her to move without scalding her own hands and feet. With her back to him, she places the pot on the floor, cracks the
door open, pushes the pot through, and slides in herself.

  Ibrahim waits as the afternoon drags its weight, each minute going so slowly that it seems to forget nightfall. Sometimes, it appears to him that time does not move at all. That time notices the insistence of his own path and, tired of the drudgery, sits down in the shade of the willow tree by the well, so that the shadows remain changeless, the butterflies cease their panic of encroaching death and settle on honeysuckles, unhurriedly extending the curl of their nectar-seeking tongues and dip their heads into the sanctum of the flower to drown in the possibility of infinite being. Time ceases for Ibrahim and his wife’s screams orchestrate the motion of all things, the sound of the other women in the room, the birds in the courtyard, the footsteps of strangers passing in the streets.

  In the room, Rakhel stands beside the servant girls. She holds the pot of water in her hands, uncertain of what to do with it. Finally, she places the pot on the floor and crouches on her heels beside it. She clears her throat a couple times, but Naneh Adeh does not notice her. In fact, no one notices her return. As though I am invisible, Rakhel thinks. The servants more necessary than I.

  Naneh Adeh tells Khorsheed to rest a moment. The girl’s chin settles on her chest, drops of beaded sweat dripping from her nose. “Just let me be,” she pleads. “Please, let me be. Just let me be.” Her legs give way and the women release her arms so that she can steady herself on her hands and knees. Zolekhah dips a rag into the bowl of rosewater, twists the excess water from the fabric, and places the cool cloth on Khorsheed’s back and neck. “Let me be,” Khorsheed screams.

  “Child,” Naneh Adeh says, “it isn’t good for the baby to be taken back so many times. This time, give him up into the world. I promise, no harm will come to him.”

  Khorsheed throws her head back and clenches her teeth. She strains, her breath whistling. She attempts to squat again and all the women rush to lift her. The old midwife turns to Rakhel and says, “Come, child, this is no time to stand idle, bring over that pot of water, my hands must finally welcome our guest.” Rakhel lifts the pot of hot water and walks slowly, hesitantly toward Khorsheed.

  Then, suddenly

  a head, soft hair covered in film, a face, eyes clenched, nose crinkled, shoulders, the fold of the flesh of arms, clenched fists, tiny fingers, the chest, buttocks, the two legs, bent, tiny toes, a long black dripping cord, the whole body wet, shaking in the wrinkled hands of the old midwife, whose expert fingers dip into the toothless mouth, then turn the baby, and

  Then, suddenly

  a piercing cry. And everything falls into motion. The specks of dust that paused momentarily in the stream of sunlight resume their dance again. The birds in the trees, the women’s voices, the animation of the streets, begin again.

  “A son,” the old midwife says.

  “A son?” Zolekhah asks.

  “If memory serves me.” Naneh Adeh takes a knife from her belt and cuts the cord. She holds the trembling, screaming baby and rubs his body vigorously with a dry cloth. “Ten fingers, ten toes. Fine arms and legs.” Zolekhah rushes to the window and pulls the curtains aside. She pushes the window open.

  “Ibrahim? It is a boy! A son for my son!” Zolekhah shades her eyes with her hand and searches the courtyard for Ibrahim. He rises from beside the pool and runs to the window.

  “Really? Mother, really?”

  “Yes, Ibrahim. A son, you have a son. May G-d bless him. May He see my Asher also fit for such joy!”

  Ibrahim covers his face with his hands. For several moments, he remains silent, then looks up, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and says, “May I see him?”

  “Not yet. Let us clean the room. Wait a few moments here.” Zolekhah closes the window.

  Rakhel watches as the rest of the women gather the soaked blanket beneath Khorsheed and wash her arms and legs, between her thighs, her face, beneath her breasts, her back. Naneh Adeh picks up the afterbirth and wraps it in a cloth, all the while muttering to herself. “It is best for the husband to wait,” Naneh Adeh says. “Allow time for the power of the birth to dissipate. Men frighten easily.” She takes the baby from Zolekhah and places him on Khorsheed’s chest. The child, blindly, with the hunger of his lips, finds the nipple and clasps with such force to the young mother that she gasps and moans while the baby suckles. “It will hurt less once your nipples toughen up,” Naneh Adeh says as she pinches the swelling pink of Khorsheed’s other nipple between her fingers and chuckles. “A little olive oil, though, will help. Rub it in good, after he feeds.”

  “I’ll bring in Ibrahim, now,” Zolekhah says. She walks by Rakhel without even seeing her, to the door and opens it wide into the courtyard. Ibrahim walks in hurriedly, almost knocking Rakhel over in his haste. He stops a moment, mumbles an apology without looking at her, then rushes to the side of the bed.

  “Is this him, this mewing creature, this miracle?” Khorsheed nods wearily and smiles. The baby struggles to find her breast again. “You have done well, Khorsheed,” he says. “You have done well.”

  Naneh Adeh walks about the room as if looking for misplaced objects. “Forty days, child, you are impure to your husband’s touch. And see that someone is with you during those forty days, at all times. Keep a lamp burning throughout the night.” She stoops beside Khorsheed’s bed, reaches beneath it, and takes out a large pair of iron scissors. Then she hands them to Ibrahim and motions to the alcove above the bed. “These should be placed up there and not removed. Only boiled water, if she must drink at all. And sheep fat, as much as she can stomach. And on the fourth day, a broth of rooster and hen, cooked together. I’ll be back on the sixth day.” The old woman walks out without looking back. “Your son has a birthmark like a snake. He’ll turn whatever he touches to gold. Put a little soot on his face,” she says. “To keep him safe.”

  Rakhel picks up the pot wordlessly and walks after her. “Not yet, child,” Naneh Adeh calls out. “I have business with that water.” Naneh Adeh turns toward Rakhel and walks slowly in her direction. She stops, looks Rakhel in the eyes, then blows three times over the surface of the water. “To protect the mother and child,” she says to Rakhel. “Against the evil eye.” She winks, then nudges Rakhel toward the garden. “Wait for it to cool, then pour it out at the base of a fruiting tree, daughter, and pray with a pure heart, so that you too may yield.”

  The ceremony requires that the mother of the infant boy hand the child to another woman, one who is childless, and this woman carries the infant to the father, who in turn will place the baby in the arms of the man honored, usually the father of the father, who will hold the baby in his lap as the rabbi proceeds with the covenant. Ibrahim decided that the honor of holding his son during the ceremony belonged to Asher, who was like a father to him, and so it could only be that Khorsheed herself placed Yousseff in Rakhel’s arms on the morning of his Brit Milah, who walked the boy over to the chair and gave him to Asher.

  Mahboubeh tugs at a vine that grows at the base of one of her rosebushes. The leaves are hardy, green, with fine hairs that irritate the skin of her hands. “I don’t remember planting you.” She follows the vine to its root, digs with the tips of her fingers into the soil, and pulls the vine out. She throws it on the small pile of similar weeds she has spent the morning uprooting. She rises heavily from the ground. The rosebushes are bare. She picks the dead leaves of a stem. “Spring will come,” she says. “And with it, the blooms.” She stops and looks up at the empty skies, then turns back to her roses.

  Ibrahim must have instructed Khorsheed to give Yousseff to Rakhel on that morning. Perhaps the first time Rakhel held him. Mahboubeh looks up at the cloudless blue skies again, as though waiting for a sign. A distant airplane. Crows flying toward the brown mountains. She imagines Rakhel waiting impatiently, watching Khorsheed and her child with a heart brim full of longing.

  Khorsheed bends her face down to smell the perfume of her son’s head as he sleeps in the cradle of her arm. Rakhel steps forward to take the c
hild from her into the crowded room, toward Asher, who waits in the ceremonial chair. Khorsheed hesitates a moment. In between Khorsheed and Rakhel, in the ray of light that separates them, the baby sleeps.

  Khorsheed ignores the waiting guests, the impatience of her mother-in-law, the haste of the rabbi. She looks at the infant’s clenched fist, the delicate curve of his nostril, the stir of his breath. She marvels at his perfection. He is just that, perfect. For seven days, when she is not asleep beside him, she studies him, the shimmer of his fingernails, the pattern of the hair on his head, the glow of his skin. Not human, she thinks, angelic. Or human as meant to be before the dust of this world settles and dulls the shine. This morning she asked Ibrahim, again, even though she knew it must be, if they must circumcise him. “But he is so beautiful as he is,” she said. “All of him.” He did not respond to her but continued to dress himself in preparation for the event.

  “But, Ibrahim, what about the pain?”

  “Not another word,” he said. “What nonsense to even think of.”

  So she carries her baby gently and whispers into his sleeping ear, “Yousseff, you must be brave. I will be here to hold you, after. Rakhel will carry you to the chair and back to me when all is done, because she is childless and this act may bless her with a son of her own.” She steps to the door of the great guest hall and Zolekhah tells her to hand the baby to Rakhel. Rakhel will carry her son and give him to Asher, who will sit, holding her baby upon his lap, and wait for the prayers, who must hold the infant still until the blood and then. . . .

  “Then he will be pure,” Ibrahim told her.

  “But he is pure,” she said.

  Khorsheed continues to stand in the doorway holding the baby and a hush falls upon the room. Rakhel waits, her arms extended to receive him.

  “Khorsheed,” she whispers. “Give him to me.”