Read Online 53 Letters For My Lover by Leylah Attar - Free Book Online
Authors: Leylah Attar
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lamb every Friday, and eggs every morning. And every night, Pedar opened another bottle of whisky.
“It’s okay,” said Ma when she pricked her finger. “You wait. See. After he buy house, he looking for big business. Making Kamal and Hafez a partner. After that, everything is all right. Everything is all right.”
I put a pillow under her ankles and we continued sewing.
That night, Pasha Moradi came into the living room. It was well after midnight. I watched from the mattress as he stood over the couch, swaying over Pedar’s and Ma’s sleeping forms. Then he went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Pedar got up and followed him. They met in the dark hallway, green ghosts glowing against the night light. Pedar stroked Pasha Moradi’s face. Pasha Moradi took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom.
March 21st, 1983
“Be ready. 6:30 p.m.,” said Hafez.
My heart soared as I put the receiver down. For the first time in months, I had caught the glimmer of a spark in his voice. Instead of spending Nowruz, the first day of the Persian New Year at home, Hafez wanted to take me out. I knew that Ma and Pedar wouldn’t be pleased when they got back, but dinner was ready and there was just enough time to do the dishes and hop in the shower.
I hummed as I cleaned up. It was rare to have the place to myself. I hoped the friend that Pasha Moradi was visiting insisted that he stay the night. Maybe two or three. Preferably forever.
Yeah, right. I shook my head. Wishful thinking.
My eyes rested on the beautiful Haft Seen, the traditional table we had prepared for Nowruz. It symbolized the arrival of the spring equinox and the rebirth of nature. In the middle were seven items starting with the letter ‘S’ in the Persian alphabet. The candles that Hafez and I had lit together were burning over an elegant arrangement of mirrors, eggs, coins, nuts and pomegranates. Perhaps Ma was right.
“The candles bring good. Warm. Spring come,” she said. “Evil go. Winter go. But they burn till finish, okay? If blow out, bring bad luck.”
I felt foolish, having her explain things that I should have learned growing up. The Haft Seen had been something that the help set up, and later, Maamaan had done it silently, grudgingly.
Ma and I got along. I tried to imagine her, married to Pedar at sixteen, her hair lush and flowing around an unlined face. It was tough to picture her like that. Ma’s face was set in a permanent scowl that was directly proportional to how swollen her feet were that day. The one thing that transported her away from it all was the glass cabinet. I gave it a light dusting, wondering what dreams lay frozen in the porcelain families that made her smile.
I hopped in the shower, feeling a stir of anticipation. Hafez had kept his distance, but perhaps tonight...I reached for the shampoo, recalling the hushed conversations Salomeh had shared with me about boys. Maybe it was the lack of privacy, like Farnaz had suggested. Maybe if Hafez and I went somewhere alone—I flushed as I wrapped the towel around my body and stepped out of the shower.
With one foot on the ledge of the tub, I started rubbing lotion over my legs. I knew my husband wanted me. Sometimes it was so fierce, that look of longing, but always he turned away, as if he’d hit an invisible wall.
A puff of cold air hit my neck.
Then I smelled it.
Whisky.
I spun around and froze.
Pasha Moradi was standing in the doorway, watching me.
Fondling himself.
A thousand thoughts rushed through my head, but none of them mattered.
He lunged for me, his eyes red and greedy, ripping the towel off me. I fought, my nails clawing at the shower curtain. Ping ping ping. The metal rings bounced off the ground. The jolt of my bones colliding with cold, damp tile emptied my lungs. Pasha Moradi pinned me to the floor. Or against the wall. I couldn’t tell. I had no idea which way was up. All I could feel was his breath on the back of my neck, his hands
“It’s okay,” said Ma when she pricked her finger. “You wait. See. After he buy house, he looking for big business. Making Kamal and Hafez a partner. After that, everything is all right. Everything is all right.”
I put a pillow under her ankles and we continued sewing.
That night, Pasha Moradi came into the living room. It was well after midnight. I watched from the mattress as he stood over the couch, swaying over Pedar’s and Ma’s sleeping forms. Then he went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Pedar got up and followed him. They met in the dark hallway, green ghosts glowing against the night light. Pedar stroked Pasha Moradi’s face. Pasha Moradi took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom.
March 21st, 1983
“Be ready. 6:30 p.m.,” said Hafez.
My heart soared as I put the receiver down. For the first time in months, I had caught the glimmer of a spark in his voice. Instead of spending Nowruz, the first day of the Persian New Year at home, Hafez wanted to take me out. I knew that Ma and Pedar wouldn’t be pleased when they got back, but dinner was ready and there was just enough time to do the dishes and hop in the shower.
I hummed as I cleaned up. It was rare to have the place to myself. I hoped the friend that Pasha Moradi was visiting insisted that he stay the night. Maybe two or three. Preferably forever.
Yeah, right. I shook my head. Wishful thinking.
My eyes rested on the beautiful Haft Seen, the traditional table we had prepared for Nowruz. It symbolized the arrival of the spring equinox and the rebirth of nature. In the middle were seven items starting with the letter ‘S’ in the Persian alphabet. The candles that Hafez and I had lit together were burning over an elegant arrangement of mirrors, eggs, coins, nuts and pomegranates. Perhaps Ma was right.
“The candles bring good. Warm. Spring come,” she said. “Evil go. Winter go. But they burn till finish, okay? If blow out, bring bad luck.”
I felt foolish, having her explain things that I should have learned growing up. The Haft Seen had been something that the help set up, and later, Maamaan had done it silently, grudgingly.
Ma and I got along. I tried to imagine her, married to Pedar at sixteen, her hair lush and flowing around an unlined face. It was tough to picture her like that. Ma’s face was set in a permanent scowl that was directly proportional to how swollen her feet were that day. The one thing that transported her away from it all was the glass cabinet. I gave it a light dusting, wondering what dreams lay frozen in the porcelain families that made her smile.
I hopped in the shower, feeling a stir of anticipation. Hafez had kept his distance, but perhaps tonight...I reached for the shampoo, recalling the hushed conversations Salomeh had shared with me about boys. Maybe it was the lack of privacy, like Farnaz had suggested. Maybe if Hafez and I went somewhere alone—I flushed as I wrapped the towel around my body and stepped out of the shower.
With one foot on the ledge of the tub, I started rubbing lotion over my legs. I knew my husband wanted me. Sometimes it was so fierce, that look of longing, but always he turned away, as if he’d hit an invisible wall.
A puff of cold air hit my neck.
Then I smelled it.
Whisky.
I spun around and froze.
Pasha Moradi was standing in the doorway, watching me.
Fondling himself.
A thousand thoughts rushed through my head, but none of them mattered.
He lunged for me, his eyes red and greedy, ripping the towel off me. I fought, my nails clawing at the shower curtain. Ping ping ping. The metal rings bounced off the ground. The jolt of my bones colliding with cold, damp tile emptied my lungs. Pasha Moradi pinned me to the floor. Or against the wall. I couldn’t tell. I had no idea which way was up. All I could feel was his breath on the back of my neck, his hands
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