“Yes, I will arrange it.”
“I think I will do sour cherry jam and pear compote. The rest can go to market.”
“And the grapes?”
Bibi-Khanoom knew exactly why he inquired about the fate of the grapes. They had the same delicate conversation every year.
“Will you be needing a crate or two for your medicinal juice?”
“Yes. It’s very helpful with sleeping problems.”
“Of course. For sleeping problems.” Bibi-Khanoom shook her head in mock disappointment. Mirza tried to suppress a smile.
Bibi-Khanoom was a devout Muslim whose lips had never touched alcohol, but she never minded when others did. She peeked into the vestibule. “Where is Jafar?”
“With the chickens.”
“Again?”
Inside the coop, Jafar circled around the dusty straw, following a particularly fluffy hen. He had a red ribbon in his hand and bent over, trying to catch her by the saddle. She picked up her pace and waddled faster in circles. He was a portly boy and breathed audibly from the exertion. The hen outmaneuvered him at every turn. He finally gave up and sat cross-legged in the center of the coop, his head in his hands. The chicken slowly waddled over. He smiled at her, reached into his pocket, and held out his hand full of seeds, dropping them on the ground. She hesitantly bobbed her head and pecked at the seeds. He wrapped the red ribbon around her neck and quickly tied it before she protested and flapped away. Off she waddled in circles, clucking protestations at the other hens like a brothel madam.
Bibi-Khanoom stood in the doorway of the coop holding her chador over her mouth and nose. She coughed and Jafar jumped to his feet, shame flushing through his face.
“Have you named her?” said Bibi-Khanoom.
Jafar nodded yes.
She looked at the hen and for a brief moment allowed herself to see it as Jafar saw it. The snow-white feathers, the sharp yellow beak, the satiny red ribbon. She almost resembled a wedding confection. Bibi-Khanoom looked at her little boy and put her hand on his head. “No harm will come to her. But you must stop naming them.”
He nodded in reluctant agreement.
“Now come inside and change your clothes. Everyone is on their way. Including Madjid.”
Jafar’s face lit up at the mention of Madjid. He followed his mother back into the house as his beautiful chicken went back to her seeds.
The first lunch guests to arrive were Bibi-Khanoom’s niece, Ghamar, her reluctant husband, Mohammad, and her willful daughter, Nasreen. Billows of dust rose as they hurried up the road—already arguing.
As they reached the orchard doors, Ghamar pushed her husband out of the way. The two doors had two separate knockers. The one on the left was an ornate pewter plate with an oblong handle hanging from a hinge. It was for male visitors. The shape of the knocker created a deeper sound. The one on the right, for female visitors, had a delicate round handle hanging from the hinge of the plate that made a high-pitched snap. Ghamar grabbed the male knocker and started banging. Her husband winced.
Mirza immediately recognized Ghamar’s knock, not so much by its sound as by its ferociousness. He braced himself for her entrance by looking up to the sky and asking a god he did not believe in for his protection.
Ghamar burst through with Mohammad following behind, his eyes to the ground, and Nasreen already looking for her beloved Madjid.
“Keep up!” bellowed Ghamar.
A sparrow flitted off through a pear tree.
Ghamar was always the first one ready to go anywhere, as though she could never stand to be where she was.
Earlier that morning, she sat on the plastic-covered sofa, yelling until Mohammad finally took out worry beads, flicked through a few, then mustered the courage to leave his bedroom and face her.
Nasreen had remained at her vanity. She turned up the volume of her cassette player and continued to apply a mismatched array of makeup that she had collected from friends over the years. The dusty pink plastic Mary Kay lip palette case, a tube of Max Factor mascara with a comb wand, a pair of rusted tweezers, and an antique brass kohl holder. She sang along with the pop star Googoosh, “Help me, help me. Don’t let me stay and fester here. Help me, help me. Don’t let me kiss the lips of death here,” as she inspected her face from every angle possible.
No matter where Madjid sat in relation to her in the orchard, she made sure she would be flawless. She spied a rogue hair in her perfectly groomed brows, plucked it without remorse, then continued to sing. “In my veins instead of blood is the red poem of leaving.”
Her room was a shrine to cassettes, magazines, and books about theater. A large poster of a film, Through the Night, starring Googoosh, hung over her bed. The film, which had been released the year before, was the story of a famous singer-actress who falls in love with a young fan dying of leukemia. Halfway through, the actress showed her breasts on screen, a first for Iranian cinema. Traditionalists were outraged, furious. Boycotts and protests ensued.
For Nasreen, Googoosh was a proud, sensual woman she hoped she’d be one day. If her mother would only get out of her way.
She closed her eyes and hummed along to Googoosh’s song about a fish imploring her lover to break them free into the ocean. She touched her lips and thought of Madjid—the green almond taste of his kiss, his soft, full lips.
Sweeping through the French doors of the kitchen, Ghamar made a beeline to Bibi-Khanoom. She let out a sigh and leaned against the wall. “Oh, Auntie,” she moaned. “I’m boiling in this chador!”
“Water?” said Bibi-Khanoom.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Ghamar coughed slightly and looked at Mirza, who handed her a glass of water.
Ghamar sniffed the water. She was suspicious of Mirza. She was suspicious of anyone who was an Afghan, Turk, Armenian, Arab, Mongol, Baluchi, Jew, or Kurd, which left no one in Iran for her to trust. On one occasion, Madjid—Bibi-Khanoom’s grandnephew-in-law—made the mistake of pointing out to Ghamar that there was no such thing as a Persian and if she wished to meet one, she would have to go to India and find a Parsi. Ghamar had been leery of him ever since and often told her husband that there was something a little Indian about his olive complexion.
Mohammad had joined the judge in the living room. They sat on the floor pillows and flicked their worry beads and took tea.
“How is the tailoring business?” said the judge.
Mohammad shook his head. “The same. Mostly abas for the clerics. God never seems to run out of brand-new recruits and they all need brand-new robes. It should get busy with spring, though. Wedding dresses and suits.”
“And the family?”
“Everyone is healthy and happy.”
The judge studied Mohammad’s face. There was something his nephew-in-law wasn’t telling him. Over the past year, Mohammad seemed even more removed from his life, stopping by the orchard at odd times to say hello and stay for hours, as if he didn’t want to go home. For her part, Ghamar had become even more confrontational and easily set off by the slightest offense. The judge could feel the tension between them, but it was not in his nature to pry. “And life goes on,” he said with a smile.
The next to arrive was the judge’s older brother, the mullah. He had just finished leading an especially successful prayer at the local mosque, wearing a white turban and khaki aba that Mohammad had made for him.
His following was growing. His Friday services were filled almost to capacity. That morning, he had begun with one word: “Dignity.” Then he let the word ring out as he sat perched above the crowd. Men looked down at the ground, flicking worry beads and swatting away