Song of a Captive Bird Read online

  “Yes, it’s sometimes that way,” I echoed vaguely, gathering up my things and following her up the stairs. When we reached the door to my old bedroom, I turned and studied her more closely. Her waist had thickened since I last saw her at my wedding. Wrinkles fanned out at the corners of her eyes, and her lips, which she’d always painted a deep red, were bare and faintly cracked. She also seemed to me sadder than I remembered, but then I’d left her when I was very much still a child and now I’d returned more grown up and could see her differently. Yes, I thought as we parted that night, there was something different about her, something she wouldn’t confide and I couldn’t yet guess.

  * * *

  —

  “I knew something was up when he turned up in the neighborhood and I heard him humming to himself,” Sanam told me later that night. My mother had retired to her room, and now Sanam and I sat in the kitchen, drinking cardamom-spiced tea and nibbling on chickpea cookies.

  “Humming?” I said, confounded by the vision of the Colonel in such a carefree mood.

  She nodded, folded her hands across her chest, and launched into her story. He hadn’t been to the house in weeks and he looked so different that she hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d grown stout and his walk had taken on the jaunty gait of a bachelor, but as soon as he pulled a cucumber from his pocket she knew it was him. “To mask the scent of liquor on his breath,” she explained. “An old trick of his.” She watched as he smoothed the tips of his thick mustache with his fingers and then screwed his face into the scowl with which he always greeted my mother. “The next day he disappeared,” she said.

  He’d been gone for close to a month when word came that he’d set up another woman in her own house. Since then, my mother had been crying as she stood before the samovar in the morning, pouring the tea. Crying as she shelled fava beans, trimmed parsley and basil for the stew, and rinsed the day’s rice. Crying as she embroidered in the parlor in the afternoons and as she stooped over our best carpet in the mehmoon khooneh to smooth and straighten its tassels. She spilled too much salt in her stews and tipped too much saffron into her rice. Pots fell from her hands and onto the kitchen floor. She dropped to her knees to mop up the mess, but her eyes were absent and she did a very poor job. Her tahdig—crisped rice—burned to brown and sometimes even to black. My mother, who’d always been fastidious, grew inattentive and slatternly. She grew tired and gaunt. She grew old.

  No one in the family had been formally introduced to the Colonel’s other wife, but Sanam passed her in the streets a few times by chance. The new wife was slightly plump and pretty, and she had a large mole on her right cheek. From the neighbors, Sanam learned that the Colonel’s second wife was just sixteen years old when my father married her. No one seemed to know anything of the girl’s family or of the nature of her courtship with my father, but as Sanam spoke that night I imagined her as a merchant’s daughter, maybe the youngest in a tribe of pretty sisters, the one who’d given the most trouble and the one her parents were most keen to marry off and make a husband’s worry.

  The Colonel moved his second wife into a house a few streets away from our home in Amiriyeh, and after that he never again passed the night with my mother. Day by day, he continued to grow younger. His stomach, however, strained inelegantly against his military uniform, and the fabric of his jacket now puckered and its buttons threatened to pop loose. The neighbors reported that the new wife was an unusually good cook and that the Colonel was especially fond of her sweet saffron custards. He’d also purportedly outfitted his second house with smart new furnishings and appliances for his new bride. He was so besotted with her, the neighbors said, so entranced by her grins and her giggles, that he refused to let her leave the house on errands my mother had routinely performed since the first days of their marriage.

  Now in the afternoons my mother no longer lit the charcoal brazier for the tea, nor did she entertain guests in the parlor. Instead, she sat at the korsi, under piles of quilts, staring down at her hands or gazing absently at the embers. When the flame died out, she didn’t call for Hassan to replenish the coals, and at night, when the house was quiet, Sanam often came upon her sitting alone in the dark kitchen; if Sanam approached, my mother looked up with an expression so confused that it seemed she didn’t know her at all.

  * * *

  —

  I didn’t sleep that night or the next. I was exhausted, and it was useless to lie there in the dark, but I couldn’t drift off to sleep. I missed Kami and I knew Parviz must be frantic about my disappearance, but my mother didn’t have a telephone and there was no way to contact him. On top of that, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother. It had never occurred to me to wonder what was in her heart. She had been married to the Colonel for more than twenty years. How many times in those years had she gone to sleep wondering if he would return to the house in the night? Sometimes he would disappear for whole weeks, only to reappear without telling her where he’d been or how long he would stay before leaving again. For her, marriage had always been an act of faith. All her rituals, habits, and devotions shaped themselves around that faith. The house where she had arrived as a young bride and brought up seven children, the garden that had once been her refuge and that she forced herself to forget—all these things had surely taken on a new meaning now.

  My siblings and I never learned the name of our father’s other wife, just as we did not know him except as the Colonel. We called her his zan, a word denoting both “wife” and “woman.” As for my mother, for the rest of her life she retained the same title, though we understood its meaning now as I think she herself did—a lie, a betrayal, and a disgrace.

  * * *

  —

  I set out from Amiriyeh at ten in the morning in my beige trench coat and with my hair pinned up in a chignon, which I hoped would make me look older and more sophisticated. The night before I’d copied ten poems from memory and tucked them into my purse. I was lucky to know them by heart, but of course this morning I was so nervous that everything I’d written seemed to need revision. I’d painted on lipstick and run a stick of kohl around my eyes. My heart was knocking against my chest, but despite my nervousness, my hand was steady and sure as I winged my eye makeup in the corners. In the end, I had settled on just three poems and removed the others from my purse. He’d like them or he wouldn’t—there was no use second-guessing myself now.

  When I reached Zand Alley I lingered by the entry to the teahouse, peering inside and searching the men’s faces. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a silver sports car parked on the street. Nasser Khodayar poked his head out from the window, gesturing to me with his gloved hand.

  “Where should we go?” he asked as I approached.

  I was prepared for a cup of tea, perhaps a quick lunch in a nearby restaurant. I told myself before setting out that I’d meet with him just long enough to give him the poems and get his opinion of where I might send them.

  I stepped toward the car and set one hand on my hip. “I thought you’d tell me where I can send my work,” I said, “not drive me around the city, Mr. Khodayar.”

  “Nasser—please call me Nasser,” he said, smiling. “Isn’t it easier to talk privately rather than surrounded by all these people?” He waved in the direction of the streets.

  I glanced up. He was right. Just by standing next to a man’s car, I’d already attracted the attention of several passersby. I asked, “Where can we go?”

  “Anywhere you like.”

  The prospect of this “anywhere” thrilled me. I thought for a moment, seeking in my mind the most exotic destination I could imagine. “How about Karaj?” I said, naming what I’d heard was a picturesque spot an hour outside the city. I was sure he wouldn’t want to go as far as that, but to my surprise he pushed his sleeves up, turned the ignition key, and patted the seat beside him—all while keeping his eyes on mine. “Let’s go to Karaj, Forugh,” he said.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “W
hy not?” he asked. “I know a little coffeehouse up there. A nice spot in the hills where we could talk comfortably.”

  “Well, for one thing, I have to catch the train back to Ahwaz this afternoon.”

  “Ahwaz?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows. “I guessed you didn’t know the city well, but I didn’t realize you’d come from as far away as that! So how does a young woman from Ahwaz get as far as Tehran on her own?”

  Afraid it would lead to further questions, I ignored the comment and instead asked, “Will you really tell me what you think about my poems?”

  By way of answer, he leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  I return to this moment often because it was when everything that came next in my life was decided. I knew that if I entered the car, I would become a certain kind of woman. A “cheap woman.” If anyone were to see me now, whatever was left of my reputation would be gone.

  I pushed the thought from my mind and slid into the passenger seat.

  As Nasser started the engine and steered into traffic, I stole a sidelong glance in his direction. He was the handsomest man I’d ever met and certainly the most sophisticated. His hair was combed back with brilliantine and he smelled of tobacco and clove-scented cologne. When he shifted the gear, his hand brushed my knee, and I realized I’d never sat in such close proximity to a man who was not related to me. A hank of hair fell into his face and he pushed it back in a swift, practiced gesture. I trained my eyes on the road and stared hard ahead.

  After some minutes he opened the windows, and a chilly but pleasant breeze filled the car. As we drove, he talked about the journal he edited and his connections to various other literary magazines in the city. He’d started out as a reporter for one of the large Tehran newspapers, writing about art and literature. He’d been The Intellectual’s editor in chief for a few years already, but lately he’d become interested in bringing more contemporary writing into print, including work by emerging poets and writers.

  Ten or fifteen minutes, the city gave way to quieter, tree-lined streets and I felt myself relax. The farther north we traveled, the air turned cooler and carried the moist, clear scent of the pines. The wind was soon whipping against my hair and face, and I pulled a kerchief from my purse and knotted it under my chin.

  He asked a few questions to draw me out, all of them simple and polite, but all the while we shared a more intimate, wordless exchange. I’d entered his car. I’d let him drive me away. By these means I’d told him much about who I was and what else I might be willing to do.

  * * *

  —

  Karaj had the simple prettiness of the provinces: wide green fields and orchards broken up by the occasional cottage or barn. The road became winding, and with each plunge and swerve I had the sensation of falling. My heart pounded and lurched, and I gripped the edges of the seat. Nasser parked along a hillside, and we walked down a narrow mountain path and then cut across onto an unpaved road. Street vendors were selling bright copper bowls and bushels of white mulberries.

  We came to a quiet side street and he placed his hand on the small of my back, steering me off the path and into a passageway. The coffeehouse was small but airy, with low banquettes covered in cushions and kilims. White tents had been strung up through the trees, and the patio looked out across a small stream.

  “Don’t your days belong to anyone?” I asked him once we’d settled at a table.

  “No.”

  That stopped me—not what he said so much as the coolness with which he’d said it. “You’re very lucky, then,” I told him.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “I suppose by that measure I am.”

  “And by that measure I’m not.”

  A waiter approached the table, setting a gurgling water pipe and two small glasses of tea before us. He was a young man, thin and wiry. I watched as his eyes slid from me to Nasser. I stiffened and looked away.

  “Here,” Nasser said when we were alone again. He held the wooden nozzle of the pipe up to me, offering me a smoke. When I shook my head, he shrugged and then drew a deep puff. The scent of tobacco and mint filled the space between us. I plucked a sugar cube from the bowl, tucked it into my cheek, and took a slow sip of tea.

  “Who do your days belong to, Forugh?” he asked.

  He was watching me closely, waiting for my reply. I turned the question over in my mind. Who did my days belong to? I wish I could have made some clever answer, but I could only laugh a little and pretend to study the view.

  Afterward we walked for a time along the stream. Once, when I stumbled over some rocks, he took my hand and steadied me. A few steps on, when we stopped to admire the view, he reached over and placed his hand on the small of my back. I felt my heart kick against my chest.

  “You’re glad you came now, aren’t you?” His eyes danced across my face.

  “Yes,” I said quickly, and allowed myself a smile.

  We continued up the path. “I’ve decided something,” I told him when we made our way up from the riverbank. “I’ve decided this day belongs to me.”

  Tilting his chin, he blew a plume of smoke up in the air, and then he smiled.

  * * *

  —

  “I missed my family,” I told Parviz when I returned to Ahwaz.

  I’d been gone five days by then—gone and free for five days. I had been reluctant to return home, though the feeling fell away as soon as I held Kami again.

  “You should have told me you were going, Forugh. Do you know how it looks, you running away like that? Spending nights away on your own? Leaving Kami behind?”

  He went on like that for a long time, but I heard his words as if from a distance, like an echo. That night, I didn’t reach for him or try to soften his mood with explanations or apologies, and after he fell asleep, I sank even deeper into my thoughts. In my head, I replayed every detail of the afternoon I’d spent with Nasser. Again and again my mind returned to the moment just before I’d stepped out of his car. He’d placed one hand on my bare knee and another against the back of my neck. “Meet me again,” he’d said, and brought his lips to my mouth. In my haste to catch the train back to Ahwaz, I’d forgotten to give him my poems. Yes, I thought now, I’ll meet him again. I’ll meet him again very soon.

  13.

  It was so many years ago, but I can still see myself making my way to him. I conjure the apartment: spare, hushed, and dark. A ceiling fan spins overhead, throwing slivered shadows against the walls. The rooms are barely furnished. I close my eyes and I see myself standing before him. I see myself pause, unpin my hair, and slip my feet free of my heels. He looks at me and smiles. Do I smile back? Do I greet him? What I remember is this: I unclasp my pearl necklace, take off my blouse, step out of my skirt slowly and deliberately. I play the part of a woman for whom gestures like this come naturally. I play this part for him but also for myself.

  I stand before him in just my silk stockings and slip. He uncrosses his legs, leans forward. Waits. He knows what I want—that’s his power over me. I’m sure if I’d been less determined to appear experienced, he would have been more forceful, but he knows how to calibrate his advances. He knows I’ll yield more readily if I’m given the chance to make the first move—yes, he’s known that about me from the beginning.

  “The poetess,” he calls me, and it reminds me that to him I’m not really a poet, just a girl who thinks she can write poetry.

  I pull away a little and cross my arms over my chest.

  He grabs my wrist and pulls me back toward him and down to the bed. “Maybe you’ll write about this,” he says, catching my face with two hands.

  It’s more a dare than a question, but I answer it all the same.

  “Yes,” I say gamely, and begin unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything,” I answer, and then grin.

  He loosens his trousers, kicks them free. As he comes close I smell clove, the same scent that filled the car on our drive to the mountains. I close m
y eyes. His hands are on my breasts now, his breath against my skin. His fingers move down toward my stomach and then between my legs. My breath catches. I climb on top of him, my knees on either side of his thighs, and then the room fades and falls away.

  * * *

  —

  I will write about it later—“everything,” just as I promised now. With Nasser, I’ll forget all sense of propriety and modesty until it is too late, but on this day there’s no knot of memory to untangle, undo, and rearrange, no history yet for either of us to betray. I know hardly anything about him, and he knows nothing at all about me, nothing apart from my name and the fact that I write poems, but this not knowing is necessary to the story; it makes me brave enough to begin.

  Alone afterward, I rise from the bed and start to dress. As I bend to hook the garters to my stocking, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser. What do I see exactly that draws me closer to my own reflection? I hook my other stocking, straighten my slip, and walk toward the mirror. I push my hair from my face and study myself. There is, of course, still much of the old me there, the girl with the full lips and dark eyes, but my hair is in tangles and my cheeks are flushed. I step closer. Look more carefully. Wine, pleasure, heat: My face still holds their trace.

  Something else about me changes that day, but it isn’t a matter of appearance or even of experience. Standing before the mirror for those few minutes, I take the first true measure of my body and decide that it’s shame, not sin, that’s unholy.

  * * *

  —

  Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Those were the only days he was free to meet, or the only days he chose to set aside for me.