Divided Loyalties Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Nilofar Shidmehr

  Published in Canada in 2019 and the USA in 2019 by House of Anansi Press Inc.

  www.houseofanansi.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  “Sakeen” was published in the Michigan Quarterly Review in April 2019.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Shidmehr, Nilofar, author

  Divided loyalties / Nilofar Shidmehr.

  Short stories.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4870-0602-0 (softcover).— ISBN 978-1-4870-0603-7 (EPUB).—

  ISBN 978-1-4870-0604-4 (Kindle)

  I. Title.

  PS8637.H49D58 2019 C813'.6 C2018-904720-8

  C2018-904721-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018958252

  Book design: Alysia Shewchuk

  Typesetting: Sara Loos

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program

  the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada.

  For the apple of my eye, my daughter Saaghar,

  with new hope for unification

  Contents

  Sakeen

  Butterflies on the Bus

  Yellow Light

  The Gordian Knot

  Let Go of My Hair, Sir!

  Sign Language as Second Language

  Saving the Dead

  Divided Loyalties

  Family Reunion in the Mirror

  Acknowledgements

  Sakeen

  Sakeen the housemaid was rarely free to play with us, even at parties. She had to prepare dinner, serve it to the guests, and clean up. Shahnaz, my uncle’s wife, liked to throw big parties to outplay our mothers in a game between them known as “The Best Hostess.” Her dinner table would always be colorful with various dishes, pickles, salads, and desserts.

  After dinner, Shahnaz and the other women would move into the living room to sit on the sofa gossiping, waiting for Sakeen to serve them tea. My uncle and the other men changed into pajamas and moved into the guest room to sit on the silk Tabriz carpet and play trump. The boys — my cousin, Hossein and others — went to the storage room to play soccer. We girls — Shahnaz’s daughter Naazi, my sister Shaadi, and I — moved to the kids’ bedroom to play, hopeful that Sakeen would join us later.

  The boys in the adjacent room set up their mini soccer goal nets and divided into two teams. Once their ball started thumping against the wall separating the two rooms, we knew their game had started.

  On this particular night in the summer of 1978, Naazi insisted on playing Cinderella. We had told Sakeen Cinderella’s story so often that, flipping through the pictures in the book, she could tell what happened in each scene. I tiptoed out of the kids’ room and down the corridor leading to the living room to go get her. I stopped by the bathroom door where I could see women who, as usual, were immersed in a conversation about gold and jewelry. Then, while Shahnaz was bragging about a necklace she’d recently received as a gift from my uncle, I sneaked through the living room into the kitchen. Her sleeves rolled up, Sakeen was forcefully scrubbing the dishes.

  Even though she was only three years older, Sakeen was much taller than me. Unlike Naazi and me, flabby girls from upper-middle-class Tehrani families, she was wiry and raggedy, overdressed for summer, wearing a headscarf and gray leggings under a long, thick skirt, like all maids. She was not beautiful, but with her black beady eyes and aquiline nose, she looked as powerful and intimidating as her mistress, Shahnaz, who had brought Sakeen from a village near Quchan, where her family owned land.

  This was the time when women of well-to-do families could afford to bring in maids. As a result of the mass migration of villagers to Tehran, there were many women and girls from poor families living in the suburbs who were available to work as housemaids. Meanwhile, their husbands worked as day laborers for construction projects booming in north Tehran.

  My father being a judge and my mother a legal secretary, we could have had a maid too. Actually, my mother wanted one badly. I also wanted someone Sakeen’s age to play with me. If only my father was not a clandestine socialist, against both child labor and the shah. Every time I asked him for such a playmate, he would say, “How could you be so insensitive to ask me to separate a child from her family for your own interest? I thought I instilled good values in you.” Every time my mother insisted that he should bring in at least an old woman to help her with housework, he remained firm, saying that he hated the culture of showing off that the regime promoted as modernity. It was not real modernity but “Westoxification.” He felt that my mother, as a university-educated woman, should display higher values. In retaliation, my mother would go as far as to insult my father, saying, “You think you are progressive, wasting every weekend playing cards. And in such silly fashion, sitting cross-legged in pajamas on the floor but not removing your tie? No. You might be a judge, but you are still the same provincial man you were when you arrived in Tehran twenty years ago!”

  I agreed with both my mother and my father: Papa and the other players certainly looked ridiculous rather than modern, and Maman was definitely jealous of Shahnaz. The year before, Shahnaz had returned her last maid, a very young girl who was the same age as my little sister at the time. Tala’s dark complexion and scruffy appearance contradicted the meaning of her name — “gold.” Her family had lied about her skills. She was too young to clean the mess Naazi and Hossein and their father left, and she couldn’t cook properly either. Worst of all, she would break into tears whenever Shahnaz scolded her. Once Shahnaz had dumped Tala back in her village, she got into her car to go to the next village to find another family willing to send a daughter to work at her house. But a village woman approached her and begged her to take her daughter. The crying mother guaranteed that her girl, who was much older than Tala, wouldn’t be a disappointment.

  Naazi told me that Sakeen’s mother had taken Shahnaz to a chicken coop where Sakeen’s father had locked her up. The woman begged Shahnaz, saying that if she took Sakeen, she would be saving the girl’s life and the family’s reputation. There would be no monthly payment; Shahnaz could have Sakeen for free. When I asked why, Naazi told me a story that left me both impressed with and fearful of Sakeen, for, as my mother put it, she could “open my eyes and ears” to secrets beyond my age. Sakeen had run away from home with a truck driver; her father found her at dawn with the man in his truck on a dirt road close to a village. He dragged her home, locked her in, and threatened to kill her the next day. I wouldn’t have believed Naazi had I not seen the whip marks on Sakeen’s back and bruises all over her body the first time I met her in Naazi’s room, stripped shamelessly, flaunting her injuries. The marks Shahnaz left on her body later were nothing compared to those she brought with her from her father’s home. She was certainly tough. It was this toughness, which she displayed defiantly, that attracted me the most.

  As I approached Sakeen from behind, I couldn’t take my eyes from her hands, like those of a grown man, under the flow of hot water. When she turned and glanced at me, I reported to her why I was there, as I would report to my mother. “Leave the scrubbing. Just rinse the dishes and let’s go before Naazi changes her mind!” My words didn’t get her to speed up, so I pulled her sleeve and added, “You know Naazi has brought her mother’s makeup?” At this, she finally turned her head. “I’ll
tell her you should get made up too,” I whispered.

  Sakeen showed no enthusiasm; she just shoved me out of the way to refill the samovar. Then I noticed something different about her. She was shuffling awkwardly, her skirt trailing in a zigzag path behind her. What was this strange movement about? She had always been swift and nimble; at the religious ­ceremonies Shahnaz held, Sakeen carried a tray full of glasses brimming with hot tea on only one hand.

  When Sakeen opened the fridge and bent to remove some trays of fruit, I noticed something more: she was not as flat-bottomed as before. Her butt bulged with something beneath. I lingered, trying to figure out what she was wearing under her leggings. “Get out of my way or I can’t do a thing,” she grumbled.

  Yet I was too concerned with what was in her skirt to leave.

  “Go!” she commanded, noticing my gaze focused on her bottom, “or I won’t come to play at all.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, there were four of us in the bedroom. Sakeen had her sleeves rolled down and her scarf knotted under her chin. Now we could put on the Cinderella play.

  “So, what do you think, Naazi? Can Sakeen use your mother’s makeup too?” I had made the suggestion before Sakeen joined us.

  “Okay, but she can’t be Cinderella,” Naazi answered. Of course, Naazi saw herself as the most eligible candidate for the leading role; she was pretty enough. “Sakeen is ugly and she doesn’t know how to play a maid,” Naazi asserted.

  Shaadi and I scoffed. Sakeen was a real maid. Look at the way she was dressed. Her skirt was coarse wool, she wore Shahnaz’s old blouse that was too big for her, and she was the only female in this party who wore a headscarf. Naazi had a point. She wasn’t the best candidate for Cinderella. In fact, she looked more like Cinderella’s stepmother.

  Shaadi declared that Naazi was the prettiest and voted for her to be Cinderella. It was true: Naazi’s hair, stylishly cut, was as black as a raven’s feathers. She had a dimpled square chin and full lips, just like her handsome father, and her beautiful almond eyes had nothing in common with her mother’s narrow Tatar eyes. My mother said that the whole time Shahnaz was pregnant with Naazi, she did not look at her own reflection because she feared the superstition that her child would turn out like her.

  I gave in. “Okay, Naazi will be Cinderella.”

  Shaadi opted for the role of fairy godmother. This time, I agreed with a grin. I knew Naazi had a blue satin dress that was too small for her, so I suggested she give it to Shaadi. Before Naazi could disagree, I went to her walk-in closet, took it out, and held it in front of my beautiful sister, whose innocent eyes gave her the aura of a fairy godmother. Naazi gave her a nod of approval.

  The roles of stepmother and stepsister remained for Sakeen and me. Sakeen broke her silence, rubbing her hands on the sides of her rough skirt as if wiping off dust. “Whatever you say, girls, but Cinderella should wear maid’s clothes before she turns pretty.”

  She was right, though I feared what making the play so authentic would mean: Naazi had to swap clothes with Sakeen.

  As the truth behind Sakeen’s words dawned on Naazi, her face went sullen. To ease her feelings, I put a lilt in my voice as I spoke to her. “Naazi, if you want to be a real Cinderella, you should definitely look like a maid at first.”

  Naazi glanced at Sakeen’s outfit and winced. Her eyes narrowed like her mother’s, emphasizing how painful it would be for her to wear crude clothes with pants underneath. Her black irises displayed outrage. “I don’t want to play Cinderella anymore,” Naazi rasped. Once again she was ruining a night for us. I stifled a sigh.

  Naazi seemed to read my thoughts, and attempted to justify herself. “None of us can be Cinderella. Cinderella is blond, and we all have black hair.” She said this as if it were a major discovery.

  But Shaadi was already changing into Naazi’s blue dress. She looked up at me, puzzled. I shook my head, an indication that she should take off the dress. In anger, she trampled on it and shuffled toward me, naked. I kicked the dress out of the way, tugged her by the hand, and made her sit at the edge of Hussein’s bed. I tried to pull on her shirt. She didn’t resist at first, but when I tried to tuck her feet into her skirt, she kicked madly and burst into tears.

  “Hush,” I said. “Auntie Shahnaz can hear you.”

  Her tears stopped. When Shaadi tried to kick, Sakeen tickled her feet. Her giggle was delightful, changing the mood in the room and encouraging Sakeen to tickle her all over. I managed to pull up Shaadi’s skirt as she fell into Sakeen’s embrace. They rolled on the bed, tickling each other. I joined in their fun until I heard Naazi calling to us. On her third yell, the three of us finally stopped and collapsed in a heap, Shaadi gently pinned below Sakeen. Shaadi squeaked, as she did when she discovered something shocking. “What is this you’re hiding under your leggings?” she asked, sitting up. “Look, she’s bleeding.”

  Sakeen quickly shook Shaadi away and sat up. Naazi dashed across the room to inspect her. In haste, Sakeen got up, pulled her skirt over her trousers, and hurried toward the door in short clumsy steps. “I need to serve fruit.”

  Our bewildered gazes followed her. She turned around midway and pointed to Naazi and me, standing shoulder to shoulder, mouths gaping. “This is what I told you about that night. The thing that happens to girls when they grow up. You’ll get it too.” We looked at each other in shock.

  * * *

  Just weeks ago, during Ramadan, when our families had stayed at another uncle’s house for the night, Sakeen had told us about menstruation. We girls all slept on the second-floor balcony. Shahnaz had brought along a pillow and two dirty bedsheets for Sakeen. Shaadi fell asleep, but Naazi and I stayed up and waited for Sakeen to finish her work. We moved our mattresses apart and made room for Sakeen’s in between, giving her our clean sheets in return for things she would tell us about adult life. That night’s story was a sickening surprise. “You know what’s going to happen to you in a few years?” Sakeen asked. “You’re going to bleed for a week once a month from there.” Our eyes widened as, with no shame, she pointed to her vagina.

  “This is a camel that one day lies by the door of every girl’s house,” she continued. “I am telling you, you can’t escape it.”

  It was still hard to believe. We sat up together, looked at each other, and rolled our eyes.

  Sakeen said that our mothers, too, bleed every month.

  This news made Naazi as angry as I’d ever seen her. “Watch your mouth, liar!” she yelled. “My mother never bleeds, okay?”

  Sakeen snickered. “Yes, she does. A lot.”

  “How do you know?” Naazi demanded, leaning over her in fury.

  “I know.”

  “How?” I asked.

  Before Sakeen could answer, I fired off a second question. “How then do they hide their bleeding?”

  “How did they hide your peeing and pooping when you were a baby?”

  “No way!” I squeaked.

  “Yes, a pad down there. In their pants, between their legs.” All Naazi could do was make a puking gesture.

  “You’d better get used to the idea.” Sakeen emphasized her words with a malicious laugh.

  Still, I was sure she was a big liar.

  * * *

  After Sakeen left the room, my sister asked me ­several questions: What was that bulging from Sakeen’s behind? Did she cut herself? Was she sick?

  I didn’t know. If this bleeding happened to every woman, including my mother, how come I never saw a bulge in her dress around her bottom? Perhaps her pads were different than a maid’s — smaller and thinner so that they couldn’t be seen.

  Pretending I knew more than I did, I told Shaadi that I would tell her later. My sister was too innocent to understand anyway, I reasoned. But she continued to demand answers, so I pressed my hand over her mouth to shut her up. More stubborn than Naazi and me together, she sh
outed even louder.

  “You’re too young to know!” Naazi said, finally coming to my aid. “We’ll tell you in a few years.” I knew she was referring to the time when we would start this awful thing Sakeen had told us about, a time when we’d know all about it. But Shaadi wanted to know right away. She burst into tears and started kicking the edge of the bed.

  “I’ll tell your maman you stole her makeup,” Shaadi told Naazi, “unless you tell me why Sakeen’s behind is bleeding.” Shaadi’s screams became louder.

  Frustrated with my stubborn little sister, I hid my head between my hands and covered my ears, leaving Naazi to save the day. Naazi grabbed the blue dress off the floor and shoved it toward her. “If you’ll stop crying, I’ll wear Sakeen’s clothes and we’ll play Cinderella, okay?”

  That idea was enough to appease Shaadi. It amazed me, how easily she could switch from one mood to another. Now her vengeful-sister personality appeared, and she asked Naazi — not me — to do up her zipper. And once done, she sat beside Naazi as if Naazi were her older sister. I couldn’t tolerate this alliance, so I started chanting “Shaadi’s a shaazy.” Shaazy means “monkey” in Arabic. Naazi knew this because she had lived in Baghdad for a few years, but my sister didn’t know.

  “What is a shaazy?” my sister asked Naazi.

  Naazi hugged her to stop her curiosity. “It doesn’t mean anything. She’s crazy.”

  I turned my face from my heartless sister who had chosen Naazi over me and lay alone on Hussein’s bed, spreading myself across the soccer field printed on his blanket.

  Sakeen was really taking her time with the tea service. I wondered whether she’d even come back. If she didn’t, there would be no play that night; my sister would quickly get bored and go to sit on our father’s lap and watch the men play cards.

  From time to time I looked to see what Naazi and Shaadi were up to. I wished it were me flattening the frills of Cinderella’s dress. For sure, I could do a better job than careless Naazi.