The woman is sitting on the cushion by the door. Neither the sudden light of the oil-lamp nor my return stops her from staring at the carpet. Her head hanging down, her hair, as always, curtaining half her face. She is silent. I leave the lamp close to the door, within her reach, and moving very carefully so as not to disturb her, I go over to the cushion under the windowsill. From the corpse of the old candle, a new light burns. I sit down. My shadow trembles on the opposite wall, over the woman’s body.
I gaze, transfixed, at the black lines on the carpet, haunted by the desire to cast a quick glance at her. Is her breast still uncovered?
We sit in silence. Each of us waiting for the other to speak. Should I say something? But what? Who are you? Why have you mixed me up with somebody else? Why won’t you let me go? All these questions, right on the tip of my tongue, make my heart pound, my stomach churn, my throat seize up.
I’m spellbound by the patterns on the carpet. I must say something.
“Sister, I can’t begin to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But the truth is, I have no idea what on earth has happened to me! Yesterday …”
“My son, Yahya, and I were sitting outside on the terrace when we heard a jeep pull up, and then soldiers cursing and shouting — followed by the sound of someone being kicked and punched. After they’d gone, I went into the street and found you passed out in the sewer.”
My mesmerized gaze, now freed from the patterns on the carpet, falls instead on the flowers printed on the cushion beneath her. But it lacks the courage to travel any further up her body …
“Yes … I was out late. After curfew. I was on my way home … I’ve caused you so much trouble … I really should be going now.”
The woman’s hand is hiding a flower on the cushion.
“You should stay here till morning; we can sort things out tomorrow. You’re safe here — they’ve already searched the place thoroughly so they won’t be coming back. I have a suspicion it was you they were after. They said a burglar had gone to ground around here. They’ve turned the whole area upside down.”
My gaze, stricken with guilt, moves hesitantly upward, away from the woman’s hand covering the flower pattern.
“They were looking for a burglar?”
Her blouse is done up.
“Well, they had to come up with something to convince us to go along with the search.”
One half of her face is hidden by my shadow, the other by her hair.
“I have no idea why they arrested me and beat me up. All I did was forget the password!”
Releasing the crumpled flower on the cushion, her hand lifts her hair from one side of her face, and tucks it behind her ear. And I shift my head away from the candle, lifting my shadow from the other side of her face.
“Not having the password or the Party membership card is a crime in itself.”
“Oh no! My ID card and student card!”
Without thinking, I leap up and rush to the bathroom where I hurriedly search through my trousers and shirt pockets. Nothing. Dejected and exhausted, I return to the room. The woman is sitting on the cushion as calm as ever. Frantic with worry, I stay standing by the door.
“I have to go.”
“Without your ID?”
“They’ve probably chucked my documents in the sewer; they wouldn’t have hung on to them.”
“Are you suggesting you go and look for them now? They’re patrolling the streets.”
Confused, I take a few steps back to the cushion under the window. In complete disarray, I cry out under my breath:
“Mother!”
“I’ll fetch you something to eat,” the woman says as if she hasn’t noticed a thing.
She rises to her feet. Picking up the oil-lamp, she unsettles the silence of the dark passageway.
Like the melting wax of the candle on the windowsill, I sink down onto the cushion once more.
Alone again, I’m haunted by the image of my mother’s face, her worry hidden from my brother and sister because it’s still night. They must sleep. They’ve got to go to school in the morning. My mother paces back and forth behind the door to the street, praying all the while. The courtyard is taut with her anxiety. I must go, otherwise my mother will stay up all night.
“I have to go!”
My voice rends the cavernous silence of the room. I get up. My shadow shatters all over the walls and ceiling. Yahya’s mother comes in from the corridor, carrying a tray.
“I have to go!”
“Have something to eat first.”
The woman kneels down to pour the tea. Her manner as unruffled as ever, just like her untroubled gaze, her steady speech.
“My mother won’t be able to sleep.”
“If you leave now and fall into the hands of the soldiers, your dear mother will never sleep again.”
I am at her mercy. I feel like a child. Shaking as violently as my shadow, I sit down on the floor by the tray. The woman busies herself with the tea.
“Sister, I’ve caused you more than enough trouble already. You …”
The woman drops a sugar cube into a glass of tea and hands me some bread.
“Let me assure you, it’s impossible to imagine anything worse than what I’ve been through these past few years. There’s nothing darker than total darkness.”
Her even gaze travels slowly across my trembling shadow.
“A year ago, my husband was thrown into jail. Then came the news that he’d been executed. I haven’t told Yahya. He thinks his father has gone on a journey to a faraway city called Pul-e-Charkhi …”
“Why does he call me ‘Father’? Do I look like his father?”
“No, you’re nothing like him.”
“Then why?” I want to ask. Has he forgotten what his father looks like? Aren’t there any photos of his father in the house? What was going on when he announced, triumphantly, that he’d woken me out of my dreams?
Yahya’s mother slumps back against the wall and disappears into her shadow. Her eyes track the movement of my hand. I put the bread down on the tray. Her gaze locks on the bread.
“The young man who was with you in that hole is my brother. He’s not yet eighteen. He was in prison for three weeks. I don’t know what on earth they did to him there. His mind is gone. His hair turned white overnight. Now, he never says a word. Every night he wakes up, moaning and sobbing like a newborn child …”
She falls silent, her eyes fixed on my trembling hand as it replaces the glass of tea on the tray. In my mind’s eye I see her naked breast, as innocent as my mother’s, fill with tears.
“Two times they’ve called him up to the army. They’re convinced he’s faking. Each time he’s come back more damaged than before. All I can do now is try to hide him away.”
She tucks her hair behind one ear. Silence. As though she is waiting for me to start asking all those unasked questions. But I too am silent.
Then, abruptly, she gets up, loading all my questions, my fears, and my feelings onto the tray with the bread and the tea, and she carries them off into the darkness of the corridor.
Yahya’s mother comes back to say “Sleep well,” then leaves me with my quaking shadow. I focus on the image of her fingertips gathering up her hair. Fingertips that, when I’m most afraid, seem to sweep my fear away with that lock of hair she tucks behind one ear.
What is it about this simple gesture that leaves me mesmerized and tongue-tied — and banishes all my doubts?
It moves me because, through this effortless movement, she reveals herself to me. When her face is hidden by her hair, I worry that she’s anxious. But when she lifts it back, I can see she’s not afraid.