The Shipwrecked Read online

  I could not believe it. People promise things but never carry through. I looked at him doubtfully. “Do you know someone trustworthy?” I asked. “I mean, like yourself?”

  “Do you think I would recommend an unsuitable person to the service of the Grand Lady?” he said, somewhat miffed. “These days,” he continued, “one is suspicious of one’s own shadow. I had heard about Hassan Agha and was embarrassed by his behavior. Sincerely, I could not look the engineer in the eye. What a world this has turned out to be! Even a dog does not recognize his master. But we are obligated to you and the Grand Lady’s kindnesses. Believe me, my mother blesses the engineer every night at prayer. If she finds out that the Grand Lady needs help, she would volunteer herself.”

  I thought he was buttering me up. Mohammad Agha, an observant man, read the look of skepticism on my face and took up the issue directly. “I will go right now to my aunt’s house,” he said resolutely, “and, with her permission, fetch her daughter to attend the pleasure of the Grand Lady.”

  This was ideal, exactly the person we had in mind. It did not matter whether she could cook, sew, or keep house. The important thing was that she was Mohammad Agha’s cousin, and thus, reliable. She would alleviate Mother’s concerns and introduce some degree of order in our disrupted lives.

  Mohammad Agha explained that his cousin had never worked anywhere and was mostly a homebody, shy and withdrawn, religious and chaste. In other words, she was exactly the person we were looking for. I was only afraid that her mother might oppose the deal. As an added incentive, I let Mohammad Agha know that there would be something in it for him. He rejected the idea with a vehement shake of his head and waving of his hand, which left me somewhat mortified for thinking along those lines.

  Mohammad Agha left his mission, and I rushed home to bring the good news to Mother. Nothing could top this.

  At the house, I did not see Hassan Agha himself, but his wife and the bevy of his brood were there, lined up in the corridor near the entrance. Zahra Khanum, trying to be inconspicuous, was standing behind the sons. She held her head down, and the black chador covered half her face. The sons were nervous and ill at ease, mumbling incoherently. It was the son-in-law who was in control of the mission. We did not know him well, but he certainly was in command.

  They wanted money—half the house, part of the garden. Somehow, they knew that legally and in practical terms they had not a leg to stand on, so every time Mother cast ferocious glances in their direction or made a biting remark, they blushed and retreated. There was only one thing certain: neither side was in the same position as in the old days. Shy and maladroit, Zahra Khanum took it up herself to point this out. From where she stood, she jutted her head and squealed in her high-pitched voice, “So why was there a revolution?” Good question, we all thought.

  Going directly to the heart of the matter, my brother asked, “How much do you want?” This took the men by surprise and made them even more inarticulate. Zahra Khanum, holding a corner of the chador in her teeth, batted her trachoma-damaged eyelids uncontrollably. The son-in-law, less mindful of us, blurted out a figure, which in his view was exorbitant. For us, however, it was less than expected. We agreed and the meeting ended abruptly.

  The anticipated arrival of a new maid and Mohammad Agha’s agency in the matter seemed to soften the blow we had just suffered. “To spite Hassan Agha,” Mother intoned, “I will give this girl a higher salary; I’ll give her the upstairs room; I’ll personally find her a suitable husband. . .” I interrupted her and urged her to hold off her munificence until later. But she was excited and on a roll: “The old, stupid, ungrateful jackass. When he came to us he had not even done his national service and did not have a penny to his name. He arrived barefoot from Arak,2 and I sent him to adult literacy classes. When he brought his diseased, trachoma-stricken cousin from the village, I spent so much on her medical bills that I even paid for his children’s schooling. I put together a dowry richer than my own for his daughter’s wedding. Now they have the gall to ask, ‘What was the revolution for?’”

  An hour later Mohammad Agha arrived with his cousin. She was young and fresh faced, rather plump but in a pleasant way. She was wearing a chintz chador but no stockings. Mohammad Agha saw me stare at her bare legs and said quickly, “Forgive her impromper appearance. I just picked her up and brought her over. My aunt was not home. She was going to put on black stockings, but I was afraid it might take too long. So I told her to get going.”

  “We are not strangers anymore,” said Mother, “but I wish she’d come with the approval of her mother.”

  “In fact,” rejoined Mohammad Agha expansively, “you are Zeynab’s mother. We are all your servants.”

  Zeynab lifted her head and stared quizzically at Mother. She then chuckled, returning her gaze to the floor.

  “If memory serves, my son had always spoken highly of your aunt. She is a respectable lady.”

  I knew Mother had never met the woman, but she was so excited that she had convinced herself of the truth of her statement, convinced that the aunt was exactly the kind of person she expected her to be.

  We sat on the veranda, and Mother, in a convivial mood, struck up a conversation with Mohammad Agha, asking about his family and making complimentary comments about his wife (although she had never set eyes on her). It looked like she was trying to delay negotiations about Zeynab, relishing the pleasure of the moment, like a tasty morsel of food in her mouth. She steered the conversation to the inflationary spiral of prices, shortages of water and electricity, my brother’s run-in with the authorities and his recent incarceration, the theft of Uncle Doc’s car, and Hassan Agha’s traitorous defection. If the conversation continued along these lines, I decided, it would lead to some sensitive issues. So I interrupted her and asked Mohammad Agha to tell us about Zeynab.

  “Sit down, dear girl,” said Mother. “You’ll get tired standing up. Think of this as your own home and of me as your own mother.” She then stood up, walked to the fruit basket, piled a plate with fruit, and offered it to Mohammad Agha. Zeynab, who had been standing all this time, sat on a chair at Mother’s insistence.

  “This girl has never worked anywhere,” said Mohammad Agha. “She is exceedingly naive and simple. My aunt too is old-fashioned and religious. She has made this girl into a true homebody.”

  “That is how it should be,” declared Mother, eying Zeynab with approval. Zeynab dropped her head down and gave a childlike, meaningless giggle, every inch an ingénue, inexperienced with the ways of the world.

  “As a matter of fact,” Mohammad Agha continued solemnly, “the parents of this poor child died in a car crash when she was barely two months old. She herself was tossed out of the car window, and it was only by divine providence that she was spared. My aunt, devout and godly as she is, raised this child as if her own. She is the apple of her eye!”

  Mother, casting a pitiful eye in her direction, announced, “I will personally watch over her . . . find her a husband. They could live in the cottage at the end of the garden. The husband could work in my son’s office. If they had children that proved studious, I’d pay for their education . . . send them abroad.”

  An agreement was reached soon, and Mohammad Agha, in something of a hurry, rushed out of the house. But before he left, he made two firm provisos: Zeynab was not allowed to leave the house under any circumstances—on her days off, the aunt would come for her—and she was not to make or take phone calls.

  Mother nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, of course,” she said, “all these restrictions are absolutely necessary, what with this girl being so young and pretty. You may trust her with me.”

  Zeynab put away her bundle and took off her chador. “I’ll begin from here,” she declared, as she cast her glance around the kitchen. She then grabbed a broom, opened the windows, piled the chairs on the table, and began to sweep.

  “There you are,” I told Mother. “That’s a maid for you!”

  “What a gem!�
� replied Mother, ecstatically. She immediately remembered Mohammad Agha’s injunctions and told Zeynab that first she should say her mid-day prayers. Zeynab was fully engrossed in her work, beads of perspiration forming on her brow, the thin fabric of her dress sticking to her pale skin, outlining her young firm flesh. She ignored Mother’s bidding, mumbling something about work being more important. This thrilled Mother. Even my suggestion that we should first eat something fell upon deaf ears.

  By now Zeynab had moved the cupboards, the refrigerator, and other kitchen furniture, and was cleaning the space behind them.

  “This is what I call an immaculate, sensible person!” Mother proclaimed. “The important thing is to clean everything, even what is not visible. That filthy Zahra Khanum only passed a hand over things and let it go at that.” Mother was now fuming. “And that good-for-nothing husband of hers, Hassan Agha, just eating and sleeping and maligning. Good riddance! To hell with them!”

  Zeynab’s dress was deemed short and too open at the neck. We decided to get her a smock and thick hoses. Mother suggested that she wear a light headscarf when we had company. At this suggestion, Zeynab cast an amused glance at us and gave a laugh, which struck me as incommensurate with her look of shy innocence. We postponed lunch until she finished cleaning up the kitchen.

  “It is cleaning the nooks and crannies that counts,” said Mother. “See how everything shines! This girl is a godsend, an angel. I will take care of her myself—find her a husband, set her up in the lodge at the end of the garden, and have her children sent to America. And if her husband knows something about driving and gardening, he will be the chauffeur and gardener. Forget about the ungrateful Morteza—filing a complaint against us. Imagine! One hair on this girl’s head is worth a hundred like that scumbag.”

  All in all, Zeynab was too good to be true, and with this realization came a certain amount of concern. “Makes me sick to think she may not stay,” said Mother, her face etched with worry. “She is young and gullible. Neighbors will get her away from us. We are finished if your Auntie Malak finds out about her. Mustn’t praise her a lot. With such shortage of good help, she’ll be whisked away in no time.”

  A knock on the door brought our hearts to our mouths. It was Mohammad Agha. “Miss, he is here to take you home, I guess,” I suggested to Zeynab. “To hell with him,” she blurted out, with one hand at her hip, glowering at the doorway. “Still a free country, isn’t it?”

  Mother cast a surprised and confused glance in my direction. The bewilderment in her look shot through me. There was something grating and strident in Zeynab’s voice that ran counter to her diffident, peasantlike smile.

  It so happened that Mohammad Agha had come to collect his tools. We asked him to stay for lunch but he declined. He was in a hurry to get somewhere. Before he left, though, he took Zeynab aside and talked to her under his breath. Like an impetuous, playful child, Zeynab shifted from foot to foot, scratched her upper thigh, and rolled her eyes with impatience.

  “The more advice she gets, the better,” noted Mother. “There is good reason to be concerned.” No sooner had Mohammad Agha left than Zeynab returned to her cleaning zealously, as if her life depended on it. Despite her small stature, she was amazingly strong, easily moving heavy furniture around. “Dear girl,” pleaded Mother apprehensively, “don’t move that antique vase, please. It might shatter. No need to dust the china. Please leave the crystal chandelier alone.” It was no use. Stubbornly, Zeynab proceeded with her taste, ignoring Mother’s pleas. Eventually we gave up and left her to her own devices. Although she insisted on total obedience from the household staff, Mother watched Zeynab with obvious satisfaction as she went though the house bestowing a sheen of cleanliness on everything she touched.

  She finished around two in the afternoon. Not feeling hungry, she pushed her food aside and drank a whole bottle of water. She then washed her face and wetted her hair in the sink, plumped down in the middle of the living room floor, and went out like a light. Perspiration oozed from her pores, and an animal warmth radiated from her young, firm, healthy flesh. The short skirt was riding up her thighs, revealing a glimpse of her flowered underwear. She looked younger in her sleep, with her pink cheeks and turned-up eyelashes. Something primitive and amorphous in her body coupled with that impish, sensual smile, imbuing her childlike presence with ambiguity and suggestiveness.

  In the early evening the telephone rang. It was Mohammad Agha’s aunt who wanted to talk to Mother about Zeynab. I listened to the conversation from the extension in my bedroom. The woman sounded more literate and cultured than expected from a peasant. She said she worked in an office, knew of our family, and had a nodding acquaintance with my father whom she admired. Getting to know my mother would be a great honor, she added. She had also heard good things about my brother and me, and believed Zeynab to be exceptionally lucky to have ended up in our household. She mentioned, sort of offhand, that Zeynab had many suitors, and it was possible that some of them might try to talk her into marriage, something she would not allow, nor would she allow her to talk to any men.

  Profusely, Mother assured her that Zeynab’s virtue would be protected at all costs and, at the proper time, she would herself find her a suitable husband, send her children to school, etc. Reassured, the woman hung up and we all felt that we now had a reliable housemaid on a permanent basis. I even fantasized about taking trips, certain that Mother was securely ensconced in her home with adequate help. My brother, too, would rest at ease, once he heard the good news, thanking God for this piece of good fortune.

  The dusk had barely fallen when Auntie Malak arrived at our house. Her eyes popped at the sight of Zeynab. “Where did this come from?” she exclaimed. Mother tried to shrug it off. She said casually that the girl was a relative of Mohammad Agha, the carpenter, that she was not much good and completely untrustworthy. The last epithet shook up Auntie. “She is not Afghani, is she?” she asked apprehensively. Mother hunched her shoulders, shook her head, and curled the corners of her mouth as a gesture of uncertainty. “What? Are you crazy?” Auntie exploded, raising her hand to her throat. “If she is Afghani, you’re gonna be done with tonight! How stupid! Where did you get her, anyway?”

  Mother was being obnoxious, of course, while I was trying to calm Auntie down. But she wasn’t to be comforted, casting suspicious glances at Zeynab. “I’d rather die a death of loneliness, wash floors, and clean house by myself than let a stranger into my life,” she announced. “Just the night before last they raided the home of an elderly couple and cut their heads off. That’s what the paper said. It is the work of Afghanis, they say. Same thing with Mrs. Khavary. They gagged her in her kitchen and beat her on the head with a club. They tie up the kids and twist their necks like chickens.”

  Zeynab brought in the tea tray. Mother looked at her pridefully and said, “Zeynab is every inch a lady, and I am happy with her.” As she picked up the empty glasses, Zeynab turned and looked at Mother with a grin and murmured, “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Mother gave a hollow laugh, trying to look as if she hadn’t heard it. But Auntie, on full alert, heard everything and let her jaw drop. “Did you hear that? Don’t count your chickens . . . What gall, the little bitch!” she exclaimed.

  Desperate for a way out, Mother groped for words. She said dismissively, “Ah, you blow things out of proportion, Auntie. She just said something. Not that she has any education. Perhaps she just wanted to be complimentary. The end is always better than the beginning.”

  Auntie was not to be comforted. She was worried, most of all for my brother. “What if she reports on us?” she speculated.

  Mother, frustrated and irritable, gulped down her tea. “So what? We haven’t done anything. What have we to be afraid of? We have nothing to hide,” she said firmly.

  At this point, Auntie rose to her feet and straightened the large scarf covering her head, pulling it almost down to her eyes. “You must pr
otect yourself,” she advised. “Just the fact that you’re sitting here hale and hearty is itself a crime. Our crime is that we still have our heads on our shoulders. What’s worse?”

  When Auntie departed, Mother and I felt ill at ease. We began reading the afternoon papers with a bad taste in our mouths because of Auntie’s blabbering. Mother stood up, looking around indecisively, as if she wanted to say something but had changed her mind. She sat down again.

  By this time Zeynab had finished her work. She sidled toward me, craning to see the pictures in the paper. “These are all dead?” she asked.

  “Let me see,” interrupted Mother, “have you recited your evening prayers? Mohammad Agha was very particular about that, you know.” Ignoring her, Zeynab pointed to the paper. “What’s written in there?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. When the telephone rang, she jumped. “I’m sure it is for me!” she chirped, as she reached for it. Mother blocked her advance, yelling “Wait a minute, girl!” as she picked up the receiver. “Hello, hello,” she repeated into the phone, but there was no answer.

  “I told you it was for me,” said Zeynab defiantly. Mother, trying to control her temper, replied, slowly and deliberately, “You must never pick up the phone. Your aunt insists on it. Do you understand?” There was so much authority in her voice that even I was transfixed. Zeynab, pale and intimidated, gathered herself and lowered her eyes. “I’m going to water the flowers,” she said timidly. But then she turned to me, and like an excited child talking to a playmate, asked, pointing to the newspaper, “What’s written here? Are they dead? Must have been smugglers, right?” Without waiting for an answer, she careened down the stairs, picked up the garden hose, and turned on the tap. She took off her slippers, splashing water on her feet. She exuded the freshness of a flower patch, and her youth, like the fragrance of acacia vine, permeated the yard. She was childlike in her joyousness, making it hard not to excuse her occasional odd behavior and words. Mother was once again well disposed, forgetting the Auntie’s injunctions. Her face glowed with a halo of satisfaction as she peeled an apple and shared it with me.