The Space Between Us

  With the second ring, I heard Danique’s voice in the receiver. “Adab Armenian School. May I help you?”

  “Mrs. Vice-Principal, don’t you know what it means to be on vacation?” I teased.

  She laughed. “Don’t you know how to be punctual, Mr. Principal?” she joked back.

  “Can you sign the report cards on my behalf?”

  Her voice became serious. “Are you not feeling well, Edmond?”

  “I’m fine, but…”

  I could just imagine what she was doing: removing her clip-on earring, gluing the phone to her ear, and, with the pen that was unfailingly in her hand, starting to draw elaborate doodles on the piece of paper that was always on her desk. “Is Martha all right, then? Alenush?”

  I took a deep breath. “We’re all fine. I’ll tell you about it another time.”

  I heard her let out a sigh of relief. “Don’t worry about the report cards. It’s just…they called from the North. The textbooks are ready. But there’s no one who can bring them to Tehran. Should we wait until after the holiday?”

  I couldn’t think. We’d been waiting for those books for several months now, but…I just couldn’t think. “I’ll call you back, Danique. And…thanks.”

  I imagined her face, the thin eyebrows raised, giving her pale, round face an expression of surprise, but all she said was, “Thanks? For what?” I hung up.

  I returned to the sitting room, sat down again facing the garden and the violets, and wondered what I would do without Danique. I remembered our first meeting. She had come to my office for an interview. Alenush wasn’t even one yet. In those days Danique was still thin and her hair still black, and she wore it down around her shoulders.

  I asked, “Do you have any experience working in a school?”

  Just then Adamian dragged two boys into the office by their ears, both of them sweating and crying. I didn’t have much patience for Adamian: he was the school supervisor and loved to give lengthy reports on each and every banal occurrence in the schoolyard. I cut him off before he could begin. “What was the fight about?”

  Adamian let go of the boys’ ears, coughed his sententious cough, clasped his hands behind his back, rocked back and forth on his feet a few times and finally said, “Over a dime that they found in the lane. Please take into consideration, sir…”

  One of the boys, still in tears, interrupted him. “I swear to God, I found it first, sir!”

  The second one cried, “Liar! I found it first.”

  “Silence!” shouted Adamian.

  I was trying to figure out how to resolve this expediently when Danique reached into her purse. Her hair fell over her bag and I couldn’t see what she was doing. My attention was caught by an ornament hanging from the handle of her purse. Before I could figure out if it was a cat or a bear, Adamian started again. “I’ve said many times that the children who lie come from families who…”

  This time it was Danique who interrupted Adamian. She snapped her purse shut and asked me, “May I?”

  Not waiting for my answer, she looked at the children and asked, “Where’s the dime?”

  She took the offered coin and put a nickel in each of the children’s hands. “Half and half. Okay?”

  The astonished look on Adamian’s face was priceless. The boys looked at each other. Adamian coughed a few times but before he could say anything, I said, “The matter is resolved, Mr. Adamian.” I looked at my watch. “Isn’t it time to ring the bell for class?”

  Adamian looked indignantly at Danique and put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders. “Off with you!”

  Danique said, “Wait a minute, please.”

  The metal donation box on my desk was labeled “Help the Needy Children.” Danique held it out to the boys.

  As soon as the door closed, I started to laugh. “Can you start tomorrow then?”

  Her laugh echoed in the office. “Why not right now?”

  In all these years, how often had I said to Martha, “What would I do without Danique?”

  Martha laughed. “She’s just wonderful. Wonderful!”

  From the first time they met, Martha and Danique had become close friends. I was surprised. There was almost nothing they agreed on. Whenever they discussed an issue, like the responsibilities of women and commitments of men, they would argue, and Alenush, who always took Danique’s side, would laugh herself sick. Danique and Martha had completely different tastes in clothes as well. Alenush always criticized the dark clothes her mother wore and would say, “Auntie Danique wears lovely bright colors.” Martha would frown and say, “Women ought to wear clothes that suit their age.” But then, as if she had suddenly developed a guilty conscience, she’d laugh. “Bright colors really do suit Danique, but not me.”

  I had asked Martha a few times, “Have you never asked Danique why she left Tabriz for Tehran?”

  Martha shrugged. “If she had wanted to tell me, she would have by now.”

  “But haven’t you at least asked why she never married?”

  Martha laughed. “You of all people shouldn’t press the point. If she gets married and her husband doesn’t want her to work, what will you do?”

  I knew she was dodging the question. Wanting to know the reason for Danique not marrying was not just to satisfy my curiosity. I wanted to have a convincing answer to give the constant stream of suitors who approached me with bids of courtship for Danique from among our friends, acquaintances, family members, and even the teachers at school. The day that I learned the reason for Danique not marrying, Martha said, “Please don’t say anything. Please let her tell you herself.” But Danique never said a word.

  Like every year, we were invited to my aunt Shakeh’s house for Easter dinner. Martha didn’t come out of the bedroom until it was time to go. Alenush got back from the university just in time to change her jeans for a slightly newer pair and to brush her long, straight hair. Martha came downstairs. She did not tell Alenush to Please put on a skirt. I leaned against the coat rack in the hallway. Alenush looked at her mother and chewed on her lip.

  Martha started towards the door. “Hurry up. Auntie Shakeh will be getting worried.” On the white collar of her dress she had fastened a small ruby brooch.

  Martha and I were sitting in the garden of Café Naderi* when I put the ruby brooch on the table and said, “Will you marry me?”

  Martha ran a finger over the ruby a few times. Then she raised her head and laughed. “What a bright red stone!”

  Her gaze was set on something in the garden. An Italian singer with a thick accent was singing one of Vigen’s* famous songs. “Oh moonlight, lovers’ companion…” My heart was in my throat.

  When she looked back at me she said, “Have you ever wondered where they get such red watermelons from?” She nodded towards the waiters who were carrying large platters of watermelon slices. Among the greenness of the trees in the garden, the deep red of the fruit looked even redder.

  The orchestra had gathered up its instruments, the fountain in the middle of the pool had been turned off, the waiters were folding up the white tablecloths, and I was still talking. “My grandmother is very particular. About cleanliness and housekeeping, and customs and traditions. More than anything, she cares about speaking proper Armenian and about religious beliefs. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about most of that stuff and is easygoing about everything.”

  Martha lined up the watermelon seeds on her plate with the tip of her fork. “What an interesting woman.”

  “My mother?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Your grandmother.”

  When Alenush was born, Grandmother made Martha a gift of her own diamond engagement ring.

  In our family, no one really understood the relationship between Grandmother and Martha. For the rest of the family, visiting Grandmother was an obligation; one undertaken out of respect or perhaps fear. But for Martha, visiting Grandmother was a favorite pastime. They would sit together for hours talking about knittin
g or cooking, or about Grandmother’s youth or the proper way to perform religious ceremonies.

  One day after Grandmother had visited, and had praised Martha’s baking, Martha was washing up the baking tray when she said over her shoulder to me, “I wish I was your grandmother’s daughter.”

  Alenush was eight or nine at the time. She glanced up from reading Children’s World magazine and looked at me. “Would that mean you’d be married to your aunt?”

  Martha stared at the water splashing over the tray for a few moments. Then she turned off the tap and said, “Nunush, it’s past your bedtime.”

  Alenush, grumbling, left the kitchen. Martha leaned against the sink and began to dry the tray. “My mother, may she rest in peace, had no patience for the simple pleasures in life, like baking or sewing. Maybe that’s why she was always restless.” She put the tray away in the cupboard. “But the real joy in life lies in exactly those things – the little things – doesn’t it?”

  I leafed through Children’s World, which Alenush had left on the table, gazing longest at the back page where Alenush’s favorite series, The Fearless Pilot,* was printed.

  In the car I put on some music that Martha liked. After a few minutes, she said, “Edmond, please turn that off.” No one said anything until we got to my aunt’s.

  My aunt’s house was as it always was on Easter nights. Arsham showed me the dyed eggs. “Remember how we used to fight over these?”

  I was just thinking Is there anything we didn’t fight about? when Arsham said, “Is there anything we didn’t fight about?” and his plump body shook with laughter.

  Arsham is two years younger than me. When we were kids, he was skinny and much taller than I was. All of the children, both in our family and at school, were in awe of him. He loved hunting and sports and any game that offered the possibility of breaking something. If we were left alone, he would yawn and make fun of my toys and collections. Almost every time we were together we fought. I don’t know how old I was when we finally became friends. Maybe it was the day we went to the movies together. When the hero’s best friend was killed we both cried, and when we got back home, we dueled with Grandmother’s knitting needles, just like the hero and his buddy. For years now we had not just been cousins but also very good friends. For a moment I considered telling Arsham about Alenush.

  I had just opened my mouth when Arsham picked up two colored eggs from the basket. He gave one to me and said, “What’s the wager?”

  I lifted up my egg and brought it down on the pointed round top of his egg. Nothing. His turn, and my egg broke under his blow.

  Arsham laughed. “You still can’t beat me.”

  Arsham’s little daughter, chubby and curly-haired, arrived on the scene and said, “Playing with eggs is for kids, not for grown-ups.”

  She took the egg carefully from her father, put it back in the basket, and looked at me. “Uncle Edmond, now that your egg is broken, you don’t need it anymore, do you?”

  She took my egg, looked around furtively, put one finger to her lips and said, “Shhh…now I have five.” Then she skipped out of the room.

  Arsham started laughing. “Naughty child!”

  “Like father, like daughter,” I said.

  He laughed harder. “You remember?”

  One Easter, when we were children, we invented a game where whoever collected the most broken eggs was the winner. One year, Arsham had vanquished more eggs than usual but his own remained undamaged. Later he showed me the egg he’d used in the game. He had persuaded the neighborhood carpenter to make him a wooden egg, and Arsham had very cleverly painted it so that no one would know he was cheating.

  The basket of colored eggs sat on a sideboard in the dining room. Next to it there was a big paska* loaf topped with a chocolate cross, and nazouk* pastries that my aunt had baked herself, and whenever someone praised them, she would say, “No, no, they don’t hold a candle to Mother’s.” And there was sweet and salty gata,* and fruit and iris* candy. There were two tall silver candlesticks that were placed on the sideboard and their white candles lit every Easter night and Epiphany. On the wall there was a large picture of Grandmother in a wooden frame with a black ribbon fastened diagonally across the photo.

  While Grandmother was still alive, the whole family gathered at her house every Easter and Epiphany, even for those last two years when she was almost continually in bed, and the preparation of the rice and kuku* and the smoked fish, as well as tending to the guests, was left to Auntie Shakeh. That final year, Grandmother had only been able to come to the table in her wheelchair for a few moments, just long enough to say the prayer before the meal and to take the holy wafer with us. For as long as I could remember, I had taken the holy wafer while Grandmother said a prayer, and my eyes would be fixed on her bony face with its high cheekbones, and her hair gathered in a bun at the back of her head. When I was a child I thought that if Grandmother wore a hooded cloak, she would look like the monks whose pictures we won as prizes from the priest in church on Sundays.

  As always, Auntie Shakeh finished the prayer before dinner by remembering Grandmother. “May your pure spirit always be with us and protect us.”

  Martha, who was sitting next to Auntie, started to cry. Alenush stared at the flowered china plate and gripped the silver handle of her fork.

  Auntie leaned over and said slowly to me, “Sometimes I think Martha loved Mother even more than I did.”

  One of the children ran into the room crying. “All of my eggs are broken!”

  Arsham picked up the serving spoon for the rice. “God have mercy on those who have passed, and have a thought for the living, too.”

  Our cousin, who, according to Arsham, would laugh at the drop of a hat, started giggling. Auntie glared at her and the twenty people sitting around the table tried not to laugh, too. I looked at Martha and Alenush. It was as if neither of them were in the room.

  My uncle’s wife was saying, “They met at a friend’s birthday party. A very respectable family. His father works for the NIOC.* They moved to Tehran only recently.” She looked at her granddaughter. “You said he is studying what?”

  Her granddaughter was a thin, shy girl who didn’t say much; she was almost the same age as Alenush. When they were children, Alenush had nicknamed her “Holy Mary.”

  Auntie said, “Congratulations, my dear.” She looked at the photograph of Grandmother. “She was always so worried that the children would choose someone unsuitable. These days…”

  The sound of glass breaking made everyone jump.

  Martha pushed back her chair and bent over. “I’m sorry, it was my fault. My hand slipped. Be careful of the splinters, children.”

  Alenush didn’t even raise her head.

  Throughout dinner, Martha didn’t say much, and Alenush made a little pile of rice and kuku on her plate.

  When we were getting up from the table, Alenush squeezed my hand. “Dad, you have to talk to her. Please!”

  We were visiting my childhood home in the North when we heard Behzad’s name mentioned for the first time. Behzad, who was the smartest student in the faculty; Behzad, who had read so much; Behzad this, Behzad that. Martha just listened silently. It was April, and the perfume of the orange blossom was overwhelming.

  Since our family left for Tehran, I had only returned to our coastal town a few times. Before my mother’s death, we didn’t visit because she had no desire to go back, then my father died, and then…I don’t know why.

  There wasn’t much left on the upper or lower floors of the house, just some old furniture and chests full of odds and ends. Alenush rushed excitedly through the rooms. Only in my mother’s room did she calm down for a few moments and look around.

  She ran a hand over the broken foot of a mirrored wardrobe. “What a shame. Such a beautiful wardrobe.”

  It was part of my mother’s mother’s trousseau, and for years it had sat in one of the uninhabited rooms on the ground floor. Mother had no purpose for it, but she couldn??
?t bear to throw it away either, until finally, one day, she found a use for it.

  One afternoon, following an evening of fighting between my parents, the wardrobe came upstairs. I was used to my parents’ bickering and arguing; usually it stopped at the point of saying hurtful things or, at most, yelling (though not very loudly) behind the closed door of their bedroom. But this night things had gotten out of hand. Behind the bedroom door, I heard the sound of things being thrown and breaking. Mother brought a pillow, blanket and mattress to my room and spent the night there. The next day when I got home from school, the door to the closet next to my room was open. In a corner, there was a single bed and facing it, the mirrored wardrobe. The closet, which had a window facing the courtyard of the school and church, was really a bedroom that we had never used before, but from that day on, it was known as “Mother’s room.”

  My mother said to her sister, “A room of my own! Do you understand? It’s all mine. It’s the only place where I feel at peace.”

  Once Grandmother finally got used to this new arrangement, she would say to my aunt at least once every few days, “If only she spent half the time she does cleaning and tidying that room on the rest of the house…”

  My mother, who hated sewing, made flowered curtains for her room and a matching bedspread out of the same fabric. On the shelf above her bed she arranged books and a few little boxes, each containing something: some locks of my baby hair; two of my milk teeth; her grandmother’s silver thimble; a pair of socks from her own childhood. If she was in a good mood, she would let me come into her room. Behind the little table next to the window I would sit and do my homework. Mother’s room always had a lovely smell and sitting behind that small table, I was ready to do a thousand pages of homework. Mother sat on a chair facing the window. She read a book or, with one hand under her chin, elbow on the windowsill, she looked out at the courtyard of the school and the graveyard beyond. Sometimes she sang under her breath. Sometimes she embroidered. She never showed her embroidery to anyone, but arranged a few pieces here and there in her own room, on the table or the arm of a chair or on the shelf above the bed. Maybe I was the only one who knew that she kept the rest of her embroidery ironed and carefully folded in a wooden chest in her room. The chest had a huge key that made a muffled ring when she turned it in the lock. Sometimes Mother allowed me to lock and unlock the chest so that I could hear that sound. On one of Martha’s birthdays, Mother made a gift of the chest and all its embroidery to her.