Read Online A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea by Dina Nayeri - Free Book Online
Authors: Dina Nayeri
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Like a prophet she opens her mouth and infects the room with awed silence. “I wonder if Mahtab is growing a big backside like you.”
Ponneh glances at Saba and begins to object. “What are you—”
“Oh, hush, hush, Ponneh jan,” says Khanom Mansoori, waving a hand in Ponneh’s direction. “Saba knows what I mean. Don’t you, child?”
Saba licks her dry lips and squints at Khanom Mansoori as if trying to peer through a crack in a wall. “Mahtab’s dead,” Saba mutters, because she has been told that this is the truth. Ponneh beams with pride and nods, which helps Saba with the guilt of having told a kind of lie, and of growing up and surrendering to the slow, bleak workings of adult logic. Saying the words aloud brings on a flutter of panic, like admitting out loud that there is no God after a lifetime of faith. A voice whispers, I saw them get on a plane.
But Khanom Mansoori is shaking her head, making her scarf slip and revealing henna-colored tufts. “ Hmmm . . . They said you were smart, full of book-reading and intuition. And here you are, believing everything they tell you to believe. You don’t know what’s true”—she shakes a finger at Saba and glares—“ ultimate truth, real truth like most people don’t see. You can’t even unlock the magic of being a twin.”
Saba is bursting with the hundred responses that bubble up all at once, but before she can choose, Ponneh jumps to her feet. “Come, Saba,” she says. “We need lunch.”
Saba doesn’t move. She looks into the unfocused gaze of this tiny oldworld fortune-teller who, through her curtain of cataracts, has seen more of Saba than her own father has. “Mahtab’s dead,” she repeats, her voice betraying a hint of encouragement.
Khanom Mansoori leans in. “What about that letter?” she whispers.
Saba stares wide-eyed at Ponneh, her best friend, who looks both disapproving and ashamed—because who else would have told old Mansoori about the letter? She tries to remember if she ever asked Ponneh not to tell. Is this a betrayal? Will Ponneh be angry if Saba considers it so? Finally she decides.
“I’m too old for those stories,” she says, her voice all confidence and maturity. She knows what Khanom Mansoori is trying to do. She is close to the end of her life and she enjoys this abstract talk, the kind of what-ifs that take away the sting and foreverness of death. Maybe she wants Mahtab to be alive as much as Saba does. Or just to know that even if Mahtab is dead, someone keeps her memory fresh. Regardless, Ponneh’s opinion is much more vital to Saba’s happiness—and Ponneh is a realist.
“Too old for your own sister?” Khanom Mansoori tuts. “Not good.”
“The letter was only make-believe,” Saba offers for Ponneh’s sake. Then she adds, because it sounds so adult to say the words, “I was a kid. It was a way of coping.”
Khanom Mansoori chuckles. “Make-believe? Well, I don’t believe you,” she says, laying her head against the wall and slipping into sleep even as she speaks. “Come back when you’re older and not too grown-up. . . . Go on, both of you. I need a nap.”
Saba wishes Khanom Mansoori wouldn’t fall asleep. She wants to reach out and shake her awake. But Ponneh takes both her hands and pulls her up with all her strength, so that the momentum launches them into a manic run toward the kitchen. As they rush off, Saba hears the old woman’s faint snores, a last chuckle, and the mumbled words: “See me when the kid and the coping come back for a visit. They always come back when you think you’re grown . . . always, always.”
AIJB
Agha Hafezi attempts to leave lunch—or at least hints of what to do for lunch—for Saba almost every day when he is busy in his office and his rice fields. On his worst days he leaves cash, or a note for Saba to deliver to one of the khanom s. Usually it says something like: “May I trouble you to cook lunch for my daughter? And tomorrow please come to the house and
Ponneh glances at Saba and begins to object. “What are you—”
“Oh, hush, hush, Ponneh jan,” says Khanom Mansoori, waving a hand in Ponneh’s direction. “Saba knows what I mean. Don’t you, child?”
Saba licks her dry lips and squints at Khanom Mansoori as if trying to peer through a crack in a wall. “Mahtab’s dead,” Saba mutters, because she has been told that this is the truth. Ponneh beams with pride and nods, which helps Saba with the guilt of having told a kind of lie, and of growing up and surrendering to the slow, bleak workings of adult logic. Saying the words aloud brings on a flutter of panic, like admitting out loud that there is no God after a lifetime of faith. A voice whispers, I saw them get on a plane.
But Khanom Mansoori is shaking her head, making her scarf slip and revealing henna-colored tufts. “ Hmmm . . . They said you were smart, full of book-reading and intuition. And here you are, believing everything they tell you to believe. You don’t know what’s true”—she shakes a finger at Saba and glares—“ ultimate truth, real truth like most people don’t see. You can’t even unlock the magic of being a twin.”
Saba is bursting with the hundred responses that bubble up all at once, but before she can choose, Ponneh jumps to her feet. “Come, Saba,” she says. “We need lunch.”
Saba doesn’t move. She looks into the unfocused gaze of this tiny oldworld fortune-teller who, through her curtain of cataracts, has seen more of Saba than her own father has. “Mahtab’s dead,” she repeats, her voice betraying a hint of encouragement.
Khanom Mansoori leans in. “What about that letter?” she whispers.
Saba stares wide-eyed at Ponneh, her best friend, who looks both disapproving and ashamed—because who else would have told old Mansoori about the letter? She tries to remember if she ever asked Ponneh not to tell. Is this a betrayal? Will Ponneh be angry if Saba considers it so? Finally she decides.
“I’m too old for those stories,” she says, her voice all confidence and maturity. She knows what Khanom Mansoori is trying to do. She is close to the end of her life and she enjoys this abstract talk, the kind of what-ifs that take away the sting and foreverness of death. Maybe she wants Mahtab to be alive as much as Saba does. Or just to know that even if Mahtab is dead, someone keeps her memory fresh. Regardless, Ponneh’s opinion is much more vital to Saba’s happiness—and Ponneh is a realist.
“Too old for your own sister?” Khanom Mansoori tuts. “Not good.”
“The letter was only make-believe,” Saba offers for Ponneh’s sake. Then she adds, because it sounds so adult to say the words, “I was a kid. It was a way of coping.”
Khanom Mansoori chuckles. “Make-believe? Well, I don’t believe you,” she says, laying her head against the wall and slipping into sleep even as she speaks. “Come back when you’re older and not too grown-up. . . . Go on, both of you. I need a nap.”
Saba wishes Khanom Mansoori wouldn’t fall asleep. She wants to reach out and shake her awake. But Ponneh takes both her hands and pulls her up with all her strength, so that the momentum launches them into a manic run toward the kitchen. As they rush off, Saba hears the old woman’s faint snores, a last chuckle, and the mumbled words: “See me when the kid and the coping come back for a visit. They always come back when you think you’re grown . . . always, always.”
AIJB
Agha Hafezi attempts to leave lunch—or at least hints of what to do for lunch—for Saba almost every day when he is busy in his office and his rice fields. On his worst days he leaves cash, or a note for Saba to deliver to one of the khanom s. Usually it says something like: “May I trouble you to cook lunch for my daughter? And tomorrow please come to the house and
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