The Space Between Us
I felt my chest tighten.
I remembered a day when my mother and I were returning from shopping. It was around the time that school was about to start. We had bought a new schoolbag, new shoes, and pink and blue wrapping paper to cover my textbooks.
When we left the shop I said to my mother, “Do you think the shop owner was telling the truth when he said that in the wrapping-paper factory they roll out all kinds of paper on the floor so that he can walk on them and choose what he wants?”
My mother laughed. “Why would he lie?”
I held my mother’s hand in one hand and the roll of colored wrapping paper in the other. I was thinking how wonderful it would be to walk over such beautiful paper, when suddenly my mother screamed.
A thin, young man had just brushed past her, and grabbed her breast. The schoolbag and box of shoes fell out of my mother’s hands as she covered her chest. The young man laughed and ran off. My mother started to cry.
A lady passing by stopped, bent down, picked up the packages, and handed them back to my mother. “Shame on them!” she said. “As if they don’t have mothers or sisters of their own.”
A man, who was standing in front of a shop with his hands in his pockets, grinned.
My mother handed me the packages, straightened the torn collar of her dress with both hands, and cried all the way home. How I loved that dress. It had a lace collar and small pearl buttons from the neck to the waist. We got home, and Mother was crying even harder. When Father heard about the incident, he continued leafing through his newspaper and said, “If you don’t want to be harassed in the street, don’t wear such provocative dresses.” I went to my room, spread out the wrapping paper, and stamped on it again and again until it was in shreds.
Adamian was still talking and I was tearing a piece of paper on my desk into little shreds.
“Sir, I’ve been trying to talk to you about this for a while, but you wouldn’t let me. Now if you will allow me…”
He sat, as was his habit, bolt upright. “You know that I am from Tabriz.” I knew. “And you know that this woman also came to Tehran from Tabriz.”
On the day of her interview, Danique had said, “I was born in Tabriz but I’ve decided to live in Tehran.” She didn’t say more than that. Later I asked Martha several times why Danique’s family never came to visit her in Tehran, or why she herself never went to Tabriz, but Martha either changed the subject or simply stayed silent. I knew that this meant that she didn’t want to talk about it.
Adamian began again. He had been suspicious of Danique right from the beginning. He had written a letter to his relatives in Tabriz, asking them to look into Danique’s past. Their reply had come a month ago. There was no need for a detailed investigation: every Armenian in Tabriz knew Danique’s story.
The words “disreputable” and “immodest” whirled around in my head. One day, at my grandmother’s, she had said, “A respectable woman obeys her father until the day she marries, and after holy matrimony, she must submit to her husband. This has been our tradition and custom for thousands of years.”
My mother snorted. “Oh? And what do our thousand years of tradition say about men’s respectability?”
Adamian’s soft voice and confidential tone bothered me more than usual. “She was in love with their Muslim neighbor.” There was a large boil on Adamian’s cheek. “Without a thought for her family’s feelings on the matter, she insisted she wanted to marry this boy!” Adamian’s left eyelid twitched. “Shamed by the public humiliation, her poor mother became sick, and this madam, after all the trouble she’d caused, left for Tehran.”
Adamian raised his head, looked at me, and smiled crookedly. His face had the same triumphant expression whenever he was punishing a student for not bringing his notebook or textbook, or for laughing too loudly in the schoolyard.
Maybe he was waiting for me to call Danique to my office right there and then and fire her. When I said, “We aren’t interested in employees’ private affairs,” he went white, jumped up, and walked over to the door. As he put his hand on the knob, I said, “By the way, has your daughter-in-law had the cast removed from her arm yet?”
He slammed the door. A few months earlier, Adamian’s son had beaten his wife so badly that her arm had been broken in three places.
That night at dinner, I related the story to Martha. She started breaking off bits of bread and rolling it into little balls, and didn’t say anything for a while.
“I wish you had told me,” I said. “If I had known…”
Martha shook her head. “Hasn’t the poor thing suffered enough in Tabriz? And now this? Why won’t they leave her alone?”
She started to gather up the dishes. “Think of what they’ve done to her. They beat her! The priest excommunicated her in front of the whole congregation. Children and adults spat in her face in the street.” Her voice was trembling. “Her cousin wanted to kill her!”
She put the dishes in the sink and turned to me. “Just imagine. They said to her, ‘What, aren’t we good enough for you?’”
I had never seen Martha so angry. As I took her hands, she laid her head on my shoulder and started to cry. “Edmond, help her! Please.”
The next day at the board meeting, I argued her case for hours.
On my way back home, I thought to myself, Why am I defending Danique? For my sake? For her sake? For Martha’s sake? Wasn’t the way Martha behaved last night strange? Did that mean she loved Danique so much that she was willing to forgive her that mistake? It wasn’t a mistake: for Martha, what Danique did was a sin! But was it just a mistake? Was it a sin? Wasn’t it? I felt dizzy.
When we had put Alenush to bed, Martha and I discussed it. She sat quietly for a few minutes. Then she said, “I know. I’ve thought about it a lot myself…I don’t know. Maybe because I like her so much, maybe because I know that she’s not a frivolous woman. Maybe because everyone makes mistakes sometimes…” Then she looked at me and said, “Edmond, falling in love isn’t a sin, is it?”
Two days later, in Adamian’s presence, I named Danique the school’s new vice-principal. Adamian left without saying so much as goodbye. At Martha’s request, I never said a word to Danique about what had happened. Martha said, “Let her tell you herself.” But Danique never did tell me.
On the Sundays when Danique comes with me to the cemetery, she sits next to me, runs a hand over the gravestone and talks to me about Martha. About little things she remembers: small, sweet memories, like the day they went to buy fabric together and Danique convinced Martha to buy a white cloth patterned with red polka dots instead of a boring brown one. When Alenush saw her mother wearing the dress made out of the new fabric, and with short sleeves to boot, she said, “You look so pretty. Just like a lollipop.”
I remembered that dress with the short sleeves well. Anytime we wanted to go somewhere, Alenush would say to Martha, “Wear the lollipop dress!”
Sitting next to Martha’s grave, I look at Danique and think to myself, I have to bring it up. Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, or maybe even today on the way home.
On the way home, I’m numb and tired. The road is monotonous and slow, and all I can do is think to myself, What is it I’m going home to? Who’s waiting for me there? What am I waiting for? Maybe the occasional letter from Alenush. When I get home, I make myself a cup of coffee, read a book, eat something, iron my shirts, go through the motions of living, and say to myself, Tomorrow. Tomorrow I must speak to Danique.
The sparrows are still flitting about in the dirt in the flower bed, this way and that. What am I going to do until eight o’clock? Should I go for a walk for a few hours? It’s not a bad idea. I get up and take my coffee cup to the kitchen. I wash it, dry it, and put it in the cupboard.
I remember to take the house key with me. Martha used to say, “If I weren’t here to open it, you’d be left standing outside the door each day!” I say to myself, Now that you aren’t here, I remember the key.
Mohammad, the
son of Ali who owns the grocery shop at the top of our lane, says hello to me. “How’s it going, sir? You look a bit tired.”
I return his greeting. What have I done to make myself so tired? For some time now, I haven’t left the house much. Since Martha has been gone, Danique has been principal of the school in everything but name. In the morning I call her. “Everything okay? Do you need me for anything?”
Her laugh rings out through the receiver. “Everything’s okay!”
Then sometimes, on the same day, or sometimes the next morning, she will call me. “Edmond, please come straightaway. Something’s come up. You need to be here.”
I know that I don’t need to be there. I know that Danique can handle anything. I know that she only wants to ensure that my ties to the outside world, already fragile, don’t further fray, and then I feel tired. So tired.
I talk with Mohammad for a while and remember that he has gotten married and I still have not bought him a gift.
Martha used to give gifts to everyone in the neighborhood – neighbor or shopkeeper, Christian or Muslim – for every occasion, be it a birthday, wedding, or coming first at school. At Easter, all the children in the neighborhood would gather at our house to receive colored eggs from “Mrs. Principal.” For our New Year, Martha would make nazouk pastries and send them to Ali’s wife and all of the other neighbors. And in return, Ali’s wife would send us chickpea cookies for Norouz.*
Alenush loved chickpea cookies. She would pick them up one after the other, pop them in her mouth, close her eyes, and say, “Mmmmm…delicious!”
Martha and Ali’s wife would always praise each other’s baking. “Your nazok is indescribable, Mrs. Principal.”
Martha laughed. “It’s not nazok, it’s nazouk! And by the way, they’re nothing as good as your chickpea cookies.”
And Ali’s wife, chubby and rosy-cheeked, would pull her flowered chador back up over her head and laugh softly. “Oh, they’re not so special,” she’d say.
During the month of Muharram* our house would fill with bowls of sholeh zard* pudding. Alenush, Martha, and all of the family loved sholeh zard. Once, Martha got the recipe from Ali’s wife and tried to make it. Alenush tasted it and said, “Ummm…nope.” Martha tasted it herself. “Nope!” and laughed. “Everyone has something they’re good at.”
I say goodbye to Mohammad, wondering what sort of wedding gift I should buy for him. If only Martha were here – she would know for sure what to get. She would have told me at lunch or dinner or breakfast, “Mohammad got married. I bought him a gift.” And of course I would only have nodded and forgotten the next moment what she had bought for Mohammad.
On the main street near our lane, there is a piece of land that has never been developed. It is right between Mr. Maleki’s carpentry shop and Mr. Harootunian’s confectionery. Martha, when she wanted to give directions to our house, would say, “It’s the lane next to the dump.”
One year in the spring a dog gave birth to eight puppies there. Alenush had just started going to school, and the first time she saw the puppies she insisted, “We have to take them home with us. They’ll die of cold here.”
“Absolutely not!” Martha said.
Alenush cried and stamped her feet and refused to eat.
The puppies became the most important issue in our household and for everyone in the neighborhood. Finally Mr. Maleki promised to build a kennel for the dogs.
Each morning Alenush would go out with a bag of leftovers. We would stop to pick up the two bottles of milk that Ali never charged us for and along with Mohammad, who was waiting for us, we’d set off to see the dogs.
I’d have to repeat, “Kids, you’re going to be late for school,” several times before they could tear themselves away. Mohammad and Alenush renamed the dump “the doghouse.”
Even now, when Ali wants to give someone directions, he says, “after the doghouse,” or “before you get to the doghouse,” and if they aren’t familiar with the neighborhood and look at him strangely, he laughs and says, “I mean the dump next to the confectionery.”
When I get to the dump, I stand and look. It is full of flowerpots. Sweet briar and roses and box trees and oleanders. Little cedar saplings, nasturtiums planted in old cooking-oil tins, boxes of snapdragons, violets, and gillyflowers. Mr. Maleki, the carpenter, has a pencil behind one ear and his shirt is coming untucked as always. He is talking to a young man, but when he sees me, he scratches the back of his neck, then calls over, “You see this, Principal? The doghouse has become a hothouse!”
The young man, who seems to feel that I need an explanation, says, “I got permission from the city council.”
He doesn’t have a Tehran accent. I watch the flowers swaying back and forth in the wind. They’re so colorful!
I ask, “Where are you from?” and gaze at the violets.
As if this question has reassured him, he bends over to pick up a few empty flowerpots and begins to stack them. “I’m from Lorestan.”
I stare at the violets again. All four boxes are white. “What a lovely place. Why would you leave it and come to Tehran? Don’t you miss it?”
He arranges a few boxes of ivy. “You can be sorry to the end of the day, you know, but what good is a beautiful place if you can’t make ends meet? Right?”
A pickup truck full of lumber parks nearby and someone calls to Mr. Maleki. I notice something red on one of the violets and bend over to take a closer look.
The young man wipes his muddy hands on his wide trousers. “They’re the first violets of spring, mister. Take some.”
A ladybug is basking in the sun on the white petal of a violet.
I close my eyes. Then I open them. “How much for a box?” I ask.
All afternoon, Hushang and I plant the violets in my garden.
By the time the flower beds are full of violets, I know that Hushang is twenty-three years old. He’s been in Tehran for two years. His father is dead. His mother and four sisters live in one of the villages near Khorramabad.* A suitor has asked for one of his sisters’ hands, and Hushang is in love with the girl who lives next door. The girl next door is in love with the idea of living in Tehran.
When I pay him for his labor, Hushang hands me a flowerpot as a gift. “It’s oregano. Dry it and sprinkle it on kebab, it’s delicious. Really tasty. Your missus knows how to make kebab, right?”
I shake hands with Hushang and close the door.
It’s almost seven o’clock. I wash my hands and face and change my clothes. Danique had said, “Eight o’clock! Don’t be late.” The white violets look as though they haven’t quite gotten used to their new home yet.
I leave the house. It’s not far to Danique’s, and I decide to walk. Mr. Ali is unpacking boxes of soda in his shop. How white his hair has become! I remember the day that he came to our house to talk with Martha and me. He took off his hat, and I thought, What thick, black hair he has. When he left, Martha said, “What a sensible, intelligent man.”
That night when Alenush got home, she heard the story and giggled. “What? Me and Mohammad?”
Martha, sitting at the dinner table, pointed a finger at her. “Listen to me, Nunush. Mr. Ali didn’t come here for your hand in marriage. This poor man is more intelligent than anyone knows. He wants you to explain things to Mohammad, and you’re going to! You’re going to do it, and you’re going to do it right. God help you if I find out that you’ve made fun of this poor boy. Understand?”
Alenush lowered her head and said, “Yes, Mother.”
From then on, one of Martha’s favorite expressions was, “You don’t need a degree to have common sense!”
Danique’s house is as it ever was: small, tidy, humid, and full of flowerpots great and small.
Every time we went to Danique’s house, Martha would say, “It’s the Amazon jungle in here! What’s the name of this one?”
Danique’s laughter rang out in the tiny sitting room. “Umbrella palm. It needs a lot of water to live, and humidity.”
Martha loved maidenhair ferns. Danique brought her a few pots every year as a gift, but they always dried up and died. Danique’s ferns were always healthy, with shiny green leaves and black stalks, which Alenush said looked like power cords.
Martha would say, “They’re the prettiest plants in the world! Why is it so hard to keep them alive?”
Alenush pulled a face. “Taking care of beautiful things isn’t easy – it’s like taking care of me!”
Martha rolled her eyes. “Good grief, a fraction of this wit would be sufficient.” We laughed and I remembered the ferns that grew higgledy-piggedly everywhere in the spring in the coastal town where I had grown up. Who had looked after them? No one even paid attention to them. No one, except maybe me and Tahereh, who walked through the courtyard of the school and the graveyard, looking for them and counting them.
Danique’s dinner table is impeccable: it’s laid with a white cotton cloth, matching napkins, two candlesticks with tall candles, and, as always, a small maidenhair fern set in a pot in the middle. Danique brings out the dinner and says, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t have time to go get the holy wafer.” I know not having time is just an excuse for not going to the church to get it. Martha and Danique’s arguments over going or not going to church were endless.
One Sunday Martha said to Alenush, “You can’t go to church in pants!” Alenush was only eight or nine years old then, but she put her hand on her hip and said, “Fine! Then I’m not going. I’m going to Auntie Danique’s.”
Martha looked at me helplessly.
I said, “Auntie Danique is coming with us to church.”
Alenush looked at me. “Oh, really? Since when does she go to church?”
Martha bit her bottom lip. “What a mouth on this girl!” and went to the telephone. After half an hour the doorbell rang. It was Danique, wearing a brown suit and with a white scarf on her head.