What The Doves Said: The Deep Well (Book Two)

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  What The Doves Said: The Deep Well

  Book Two

  By Mojdeh Marashi

  Copyright 2011 Mojdeh Marashi

  Cover Image by Ala Ebtekar 2004

  Second Story In "What The Doves Said" Series

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  What The Doves Said

  The Deep Well

  Notes

  About The Author

  The Deep Well

  For a while now I have been sitting on the edge of my bed, something I don’t do often, as I like to get up and go once I am awake. But this morning, and the last many mornings, this sluggish behavior has become part of my new ritual. Or shall I say it has become a tactic for delaying my day.

  I wish I could blame this new behavior on my tendencies to be a night owl since I have never been a morning person - that would have been a blessing. However, I know well that this is not the case. The sun is shining, so brightly that I doubt my state of consciousness and wonder if I am still asleep after all. A sun worshiper by nature, I would have perked up instantly on a day like this. Today, however, it feels as if my feet are made of iron, weighing a ton, keeping me stuck to the ground.

  In one of my great Aunt Ezy’s stories, in order to get to his destination, the hero had to pass through seven seas and climb seven mountains in his seven pairs of metal shoes until they all wore off. The hero chose to do this impossible task in order to undo an injustice that had befallen another unfortunate soul – not the hero himself. In the end, when he finally arrived at his destination, not only would justice be served, but a prize awaited the hero - perhaps the hand of a beautiful princess in marriage, a treasure that would last him a lifetime, a rich and fertile land to rule, or some other earthly reward.

  In some of Ezy’s Persian fairytales, there were also many heroines who rose to the occasion - proof that in reality the Persian culture is not as unkind to women as most think. At least the culture used to be more inclusive of women when these stories were created, thousands of years ago, when Iran was in fact a pinnacle of civilization. Back then, over twenty five hundred years ago, women of Iran were engineers, doctors, navy generals, and queens who ruled their country in place of their king fathers, brothers, or husbands.

  Today with my feet weighing a ton, it feels as if I know how the young men and women in Ezy’s stories must have felt while those metal shoes weighed them down - though wearing them was the best or perhaps only option since only the hard metal could endure the rough terrain of heroism they had to traverse.

  I close my eyes for a second and when I open them my mother is sitting in front of me on the floor by the bed. She looks at me with brown eyes that look even bigger behind her thick glasses. I await her warm and familiar voice to talk to me but her lips are not moving. Instead she is speaking with her eyes, as she sometimes did, her light brown eyes moving ever slightly in different directions, with pauses in between, in a very precise and rhythmic manner, as if they are dancing.

  Even though I am convinced everyone can speak the language of the eyes, we Persians seem to speak it exceptionally well. Perhaps all the invasions and injustices we have endured throughout the last fourteen hundred years of our history have honed this ability. After all, to speak without using your tongue can come in handy if you are to be criticized or persecuted for every truth you speak. And if the invaders call you “dumb” simply because you can’t speak their language, as Persians were called by Arab invaders, then why not play your part and act dumb to avoid the enemy’s wrath?

  No doubt the language of the eyes has evolved throughout Persian history and is now used not only because of the invaders – old or new – but also for communicating with the dearest of kin, when words themselves fail you.

  My mother is now telling me, or reminding me, with her eyes of her old saying:

  “Life is like a sour lemon; it is you who can add sugar to make it sweet.”

  Any other time, I would have taken her bait and played our game, saying something to the effect that I don’t like sweets and therefore sour lemons would be fine with me – but not today. Today, I have no patience for humor. She understands, closes her eyes, presses her eyelids together ever so gently for a second and then looks up again at me with a new twinkle in her eyes.

  “You should smile at life so it smiles back at you.”

  “What smile, Mom? There is no smile left in me! No matter how hard I smile life is not smiling back. To heck with it all. How can I smile when I have to witness so much ugliness in the world?” I want to scream but I don’t have to. I have voiced it with my eyes.

  “You are not the only one upset about this and you can’t change it all by yourself – certainly not by sitting at the edge of your bed,” she says with her lips tight but eyes moving.

  I want to tell her that I feel miserable; that I have lost all hope, and that once more I am left to pick up the pieces. But this time there aren’t even that many pieces left to pickup. It is as if I am in a pit of darkness and … “I have lost my youth to injustice and now it seems like I am losing the rest of my life to it again,” I want to shout.

  “Drama queen! Even the ones in the midst of it all are not feeling this hopeless.”

  “Perhaps, but I am super sensitive to these things; you know that.” I used to cry over people less fortunate whenever I encountered them even when I was four years old.

  “I know. I stopped taking you shopping with me to places where there could be beggars around just because of that.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m sensitive.”

  I am about to say that she has no idea how much it hurts to be in my situation. Then I catch a glimpse of her face.

  “Selfish woman!” I tell myself as I remember what she has gone through – so much pain, so much fear, and so much longing for a time when she could be safe and close to her loved ones – a time that never really manifested itself long enough for her to taste.

  I look at her, eyes wet, lips tight, and forehead adorned with deep lines. I never asked her, really asked her about it. The very little she said here and there lost its significance by the sugar coating she added for my protection.

  I wonder if it is too late to ask now. I look at her again. She is still very beautiful. I would feel lucky to look this amazing in my old age. The perfect shaped face, the complexion that never needed makeup, the pair of symmetrical eyebrows that could move up and down independently – something I never achieved no matter how hard I tried as a child; the great looking nose with nostrils that gave her away by flaring just a little whenever she got upset; the dark soft hair with the curls so well-placed you thought she had spent hours at a salon – the same hair that turned white and sparkled as if it was made of snow and reflected the sun’s rays; the smile that was never defeated despite all the hardship and injustice of a life no one could have predicted for her – the only daughter of my grandfather, a rich and respected businessman who spoke four languages and would have given all his riches to see his daughter happy; the kind hands so warm it melted everyone they touched even those with a heart made of iron; and above all the eyes that recited poetry instead of words.

  “Mom, what was it like?” I want to ask her, but the words don’t leave my mouth, nor does the movement form in my eyes. It
is all in my head. Of course it was painful. Asking her would be such a cliché, I tell myself.

  During the last couple of weeks, I have gone from cloud nine to the pit of the earth, from being an ultimate optimist to an absolute hopeless soul. I have felt all my dreams and wishes for my birth country secure in my hand, so accessible I could taste them, only to have them snatched away from me. Words such as absolute devastation wouldn’t even begin to describe my state of being. I am a fool, I tell myself. I should have known better. After all this is not my first time facing such calamity.

  I look at mom again, my heart drops, for her it has been at least one additional time, I remind myself. And unlike me, witnessing the events from the other side of the globe, she was there, right in the center of it all.

  It must have been so painful to see her life break piece by piece and not be able to do anything about it. What was it like for her when Dad was caught up in the 1953 coup d'état, I wonder.

  “Tell me. Please tell me and don’t hold back. I want to know everything.” I say in the language of the eyes.

  “I had a great life,” her eyes say but I see a hint of deceit in their corners.

  I don’t have the heart to confront Mom about her lie. She is again sugar coating, something she has done my entire life. Me, me, and me – her life has centered around me!

  “If there is a true love, it is the one your mom has for you,” my uncle claimed many times as if I didn’t know. Yet, I only truly understood my mother’s love when I had a child of my own. To be a mother is the utmost unselfish act in the universe. It is motherhood that makes you forget you.

  I look at my mother. Years have taken their toll but have not had an affect on lessening the twinkle in her eyes. She is teasing me now. She won’t tell the story I am really after. She wants to trick me and guide me to her side of the spectrum, the optimist’s one. I am stubborn though, have always been, and want to hear the story the way I want it, without sugar coating.

  “I tell you what, why don’t I tell the story, and you correct me if I get it wrong,” I suggest.

  She projects a hint of smile as a sign that she approves of my suggestion even though I know she can’t be happy with this arrangement, as it allows me to color her story with my pessimism.

  “It all started when you were still at your parents’ house.” Immediately I see a sign of dissatisfaction in her eyes.

  “I thought you were going to tell the story from my point of view.”

  “Yes, I’m trying.” At first I think that she is not happy with my tone but then it occurs to me that she wants me to tell the story as if she is telling it, from her point of view, and in her own words.

  “Okay, let me start over.” I smile.

  I may have a hidden agenda but I still would like to please her as a storyteller. All the years I was growing up, she believed in me and was so proud that almost everything I did got her approval. But now I feel that I need to please her – not sure why but perhaps it is because I am playing her role and I want to bring back her memories and give them life again – for her and me both.

  “We, your father and I,”I begin in my mother’s point of view, “were not living in Tehran at the time. His work took us to different cities, something that was not easy for me, being the only girl, rather spoiled and surrounded by family. I was lonely and homesick outside of Tehran. Yet, I tried hard to hide my feelings. I was not the kind of person to show them – just like you – I was tough and was going to prove that I am capable of anything life threw at me.”

  I know this about her. When she came to visit us here in the U.S., she was the only mother who didn’t cry at the airport. Years later, I found out that she cried all the way to Tehran on the plane once we were not around anymore.

  “When we came back home to visit, everyone was asking when we were going to have a baby. It got to be really embarrassing. At first we said it was too soon but that got old after a few years. Those days most couples had a baby soon after they were married.”

  My dad couldn’t have children. Back then almost no one endured a childless marriage. If it was the woman who was barren she could be replaced in a heartbeat. If it were the man’s fault most women too would flee and remarry – especially if they were as beautiful as my mom. In general, it was difficult for women to get a divorce but if the man could not have a child, then divorce was easy. For most women back then, a life without a child felt empty. Additionally, a childless woman would be more vulnerable if she ended up a widow. Not only were the inheritance laws unfair towards women in general, the women who didn’t have children were often in risk of not having someone who would take care of them in their old age.

  But my mom stayed with my dad – against wise people’s advice – they were in love and he begged her to do so.

  “If you leave me I will die!” he had cried.

  Funny it was he who ended the marriage after 35 years and remarried, to everyone’s disbelief – no one in our family had ever committed such a crime.

  “My dad was eager to have a grandchild,” I continue in my mom’s voice. “It was as if he knew he would die young, before seeing his first grandchild. He was too decent to ask about it or insist on us having kids. Others weren’t as polite and not only asked multiple times, but also gave themselves permission to offer suggestions and remedies for us, the poor barren couple. At first we didn’t know whose ‘fault’ it was. Then we visited a specialist who had come highly recommended and he ran some tests.

  ‘It is you!’ he pointed at your dad.”

  Dad’s face must have turned white – that was not what he had expected. He was certain it was Mom who couldn’t give him any children.

  ‘“There is a surgery.” The doctor paused. “It is, however, very dangerous. We can arrange for you to have it. There is a great chance the outcome would be successful – if you survive the surgery.’

  ‘You don’t want me to have the surgery, do you?’ your father asked me. ‘I could die.’

  His brown eyes had turned shinny with the water that gathered in them.

  ‘But I would do it in a heartbeat if you decide to leave me otherwise’ he had cried. ‘Don’t leave me. I will die without you.’”

  She, my mom, was young and in love. Above all she was too decent to divorce him, especially now that he needed her so badly. She didn’t even think it through long enough. She made a promise, which she kept forever.

  “‘No, it’s okay. We don’t have to have kids. We are happy now – together, just you and me. We will stay together. I won’t leave you. I promise.’ Everyone told me I was crazy and that he will betray me – as men often do.

  “But I didn’t believe them. None of the men in our family betrayed their wives. They were great men, decent men. They stayed with their women, no matter what. They looked down on men who cheated or remarried.”

  Mom has a point. The men in our family are sweethearts, angels almost, who worship their wives and before that their mothers and sisters. In our family, women are special and treated like princesses. My family goes back a long way. You can say we are almost ancient. Perhaps a little bit of matriarchic blood still runs through our veins. A little of the same blood that ran through the veins of the Persians 2500 years ago, when women were head engineers for Persepolis, the Achaemenidian castle. Twenty-five hundred years ago, these women were paid as much as the male counterparts and even had maternity leave. My own grandmother was a feminist before the term was even popular. Her husband, my grandfather, and all my great uncles and the men before them treated women as their partners, nothing less. My poor mother’s vision and understanding of men was one that didn’t match the majority of the species.

  “I had no children.” I continue in my mom’s voice. “So I had a lot of time on my hands especially with your father gone so often. I would read all the magazines that were published back then. I read novels, short stories, and all the ‘good reads’ of the time. When your dad came home from trips, we went to parties, lots of th
em. I spent a lot of money – I had a lot of it from my own dad – on clothing, purses, and shoes.”

  That is an absolute understatement as my mother was among the best-dressed women in the city. It took me years to realize that the high-heels I wore as a kid when I was playing grownup, and the purse I dragged around the house with my doll shoved into it, looked exactly like the ones Hollywood stars of the time had. Over the years, before I was born, my mother, had spent enough money on her amazing accoutrements to buy a couple of houses – something she regretted years later when she no longer relied on my dad for a living as she was too proud to accept alimony.

  “When I came to Tehran to visit, I would go to Berlin Street, Tehran’s answer to today’s Rodeo Drive or perhaps Paris’s Shanzelize Street. It was the place to find the best shops. I’d spend all day going from boutique to boutique to buy a pair of shoes and then I spent days, sometimes weeks, to find a matching purse.”

  Even after she had me, Mom still had difficulties curbing her appetite for the best of everything. I remember going back and forth to many notion shops with her to find the perfect buttons for a new outfit her tailor was making for her.

  “Lady, this button matches perfectly with your swatch,” the shopkeeper would claim.

  “Thank you, but it is not the exact shade I am looking for,” Mom would say after taking the button and her fabric swatch to the front of the store where she could examine them under natural light.

  Once we left the store and the not-so-perfect button behind, and before we hit the next button shop, my mom often took me for ice cream. I still remember the big bowl of Persian ice cream, with its rich flavor and creamy texture, the pieces of emerald green pistachio mixed in, and its fabulous rose water aroma. While eating ice cream, she would ask me what I thought about the buttons and show me the fabric swatch once again. During the process she taught me to value my own opinion more than anyone else’s. She always treated me in a way that fostered confidence in me. She was, without a doubt, a master in child psychology. After my mom had found the perfect button, we would get a taxi and go to her tailor to deliver our finds. Her tailor was a kind man who kept a big bowl of candy for kids just like me accompanying their picky moms.

  I look at my mom. She is smiling and looking at me with those big, bigger even behind the glasses, brown and kind eyes. My childhood is filled with stories of her, or better said, my childhood is my mom. She is everywhere with her kindness, support, and above all her unconditional love and positive energy. All of a sudden I realize Mom has been successful in derailing the story and turning it to my story instead of hers. I knew she would