Talking through the Door: An Anthology of Contemporary Middle Eastern American Writing

S u s a n A t efa t - P ec k h a m

55 s u s A n A t E F A t - P E C k h A m Marvari The Pearl Tree —for Joel He asks if I remember them—I remember few, I say. Leaning deep into leaves, my uncle pinched and turned white berries from the pearl tree in hands as old and twisted as the branches. He rushed to where I waited, uncurled his palm and tossed them, rolling into linen spread on my lap. He squeezed my fingers into his and pushed the silver point through each fruit, tugging on the thread until my palms were wet with juice. I feel the grip and weight of a white necklace soft and warm in the curve of my neck. I return to the garden, alive again with yellow fl wers and the fresh scent of cucumbers. I am tall enough now, but he holds my fingers back and thrusts his own arthritic hand in leaves, his mind fixed on a memory. One wet finger unfolds and reveals a palmful of pearls. He asks if I remember him. T a l k i n g T h r o u g h T h e D o o r 56 Fariba’s Daughters Iranian law states that once a girl turns nine, she is of age and must wear the chador in public places. Fariba pulls her scarf off hen we are alone, holds her head taut like a winter oak, dark and bare. She likes her books under the mattress, under the wooded tucking of blankets, between mattress and box spring. She asks me if it’s good to read, and reaches under white to pull the book from its hiding. I hear her voice, clear and strong, talking of school, asking how freedom feels, asking if I had sex before marriage like girls in the West, or if I was a good Iranian virgin. I tell her what freedom is. It is noon and the prayers outside are loud. I ask her why she never teaches her daughters a different way. Her stare is hard. Almost as hard as the roll of her eyes when someone wants more doukgh, more bakhlava. She is worn from wanting. This is my favorite—Jean Paul Sartre, they say his wife was smart, she says. But I can see her daughter Attar turning with the scarf, winding it around her head and loving to see herself as her mother in the dresser mirror. I ask Fariba why she wears it. For my daughters, her fingers catch in her hair, for my daughters. I remember when Father said I wasn’t to wear a chador to the bazaar. I was not old enough s u s A n A t E F A t - P E C k h A m 57 to choose my way, that I would be safe. So Grandmother pulled me under her chador, wove me into her folds, just me and her under cloth so postars would leave us alone. Bepau, she said, Watch it. And I thought it was fun and safe and soft standing against Grandmother’s lap, seeing from an opening near her hands. Perhaps there is some joy in being captive, some comfort in knowing we obey. Nebraska winter drops in tufts. Does Sartre still hide in wood? What does Fariba read today? Attar turning, almost nine. What color will her first scarf be? Woolen snow drifts and weaves its way. Daughters are warm wrapped in their Grandmother’s chadors. Dates Three days and they wrapped his washed body in muslin, no lumbering sounds of coffins carried, only the white ripple of cloth. I sat back where all women sat, staring from behind a wooden net, carved and set aside. The others swayed as if crows under the mirrored dome of the mosque webbed in their chadors, breathing cloth in and out of their wailing, in and out. Their black heads bobbed against the carved light of the wooden boundary, the roar T a l k i n g T h r o u g h T h e D o o r 58 and echo of men beating themselves downstairs, pounding their chests tightly, fists on flesh, to the rhythm of a prayer for the dead. A woman stood and held a tray, the edges of her chador clenched in her teeth and wrapped so tightly around her...