Read Online A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea by Dina Nayeri - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dina Nayeri
Ads: Link
win one stupid love contest.”
“It’s not a contest. . . .” Saba wants her friend to understand, but Ponneh has always been one of many—never part of a pair.
Ponneh interrupts. “I say three is always better than two. In the end, it’s your friends who help you. Look at Khanom Omidi and Khanom Basir and all those women. They do more for each other than they do for any husbands.”
“That’s peasant talk,” says Saba. “It says so in the Bible and every place.”
Ponneh looks thoughtful. “Maybe . . . But I think it’ll be the three of us forever. You, me, and Reza. Even if we get married to other people, or if you go to America.”
“Okay,” Saba mutters. Her stomach hurts. “Whatever you want.”
Ponneh continues. “Maybe we can all run off to America and dye our hair yellow. And you and I can wear red, red lipstick all day outside like in Life magazine!”
“Fine.” Saba drops her spoon and gets up to leave. She is still angry because Ponneh hasn’t apologized for speaking badly of Mahtab. And her back aches.
Saba stomps out of the kitchen. As she heads to the living room she hears Ponneh’s scream follow her down the hall: “Oh my God! What is that ?”
Khanom Mansoori stirs on the floor pillows. “What is all this noise?” she hums, smacking her lips several times before opening her eyes. Saba turns to see Ponneh now standing behind her, mouth agape. Khanom Mansoori is snickering. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m too old for these girl bazi things.”
Ponneh runs to Saba and says, “Don’t worry! I’ll go get my mother and we’ll take you to a hospital in Rasht. You just wait right here.”
Saba follows Ponneh’s gaze over her own shoulder and down to the seat of her pants. She lets out a shriek when she sees the blood. She is covered with it, and now both girls are screaming. Khanom Mansoori is trying to hoist her child-sized body up, muttering, “Aieee . . . No need for hospital. Stop the screeching and the drama bazi , khodaya . Let me just get my thoughts together.” The bewildered look on a face lined with years of experience makes Saba panic even more. It must be cancer. Or a burst tumor. Or internal bleeding. The old woman drones on. “Ponneh jan, you better call Khanom Omidi or Khanom Basir, or somebody else . . .”
It takes Khanom Omidi and Khanom Basir only ten minutes to arrive, and when they do, they are laughing and gossiping as if nothing were wrong. Saba wants to scream at them. This is her death, and they could at least muster as much concern as they showed when they all faked Mahtab’s death and sent her off to America.
“Let me see how to say this,” Khanom Omidi says, as she chews on a piece of basil. She must have been caught in the middle of a meal. She adjusts her girth and pats Saba’s trembling hand as she tries to explain. “In the old days, we would have to tell the whole town . . . and there is this story . . . let me see.” She moves to sit and, never forgetting her lazy eye—visible only when she looks up or down—pulls Saba into her line of vision. “There was a girl named Hava. And God decreed that the price of sin—”
Khanom Omidi is mumbling, looking for bits of wisdom in her memory. It is her habit to dole out advice generously on all things (whether or not she knows anything about them) like coins and dried mulberries from the thousand little pockets sewn in the folds of her fabric coverings. This indulgent woman reminds Saba of the Victorian doll on her desk, the one with dusty pockets sewn all over her dress for hiding jewelry where no one will expect. Sometimes Saba tucks coins in the hems of her own clothes to bring on the sheltered feeling of having a secret plan. She could use a secret plan today.
She strains to recall a section about blood and womanhood in one of her mother’s medical books, something about cycles and hormones. And did a calamity like this happen in a novel? Usually in books, if a passage seems odd, she blames her
“It’s not a contest. . . .” Saba wants her friend to understand, but Ponneh has always been one of many—never part of a pair.
Ponneh interrupts. “I say three is always better than two. In the end, it’s your friends who help you. Look at Khanom Omidi and Khanom Basir and all those women. They do more for each other than they do for any husbands.”
“That’s peasant talk,” says Saba. “It says so in the Bible and every place.”
Ponneh looks thoughtful. “Maybe . . . But I think it’ll be the three of us forever. You, me, and Reza. Even if we get married to other people, or if you go to America.”
“Okay,” Saba mutters. Her stomach hurts. “Whatever you want.”
Ponneh continues. “Maybe we can all run off to America and dye our hair yellow. And you and I can wear red, red lipstick all day outside like in Life magazine!”
“Fine.” Saba drops her spoon and gets up to leave. She is still angry because Ponneh hasn’t apologized for speaking badly of Mahtab. And her back aches.
Saba stomps out of the kitchen. As she heads to the living room she hears Ponneh’s scream follow her down the hall: “Oh my God! What is that ?”
Khanom Mansoori stirs on the floor pillows. “What is all this noise?” she hums, smacking her lips several times before opening her eyes. Saba turns to see Ponneh now standing behind her, mouth agape. Khanom Mansoori is snickering. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m too old for these girl bazi things.”
Ponneh runs to Saba and says, “Don’t worry! I’ll go get my mother and we’ll take you to a hospital in Rasht. You just wait right here.”
Saba follows Ponneh’s gaze over her own shoulder and down to the seat of her pants. She lets out a shriek when she sees the blood. She is covered with it, and now both girls are screaming. Khanom Mansoori is trying to hoist her child-sized body up, muttering, “Aieee . . . No need for hospital. Stop the screeching and the drama bazi , khodaya . Let me just get my thoughts together.” The bewildered look on a face lined with years of experience makes Saba panic even more. It must be cancer. Or a burst tumor. Or internal bleeding. The old woman drones on. “Ponneh jan, you better call Khanom Omidi or Khanom Basir, or somebody else . . .”
It takes Khanom Omidi and Khanom Basir only ten minutes to arrive, and when they do, they are laughing and gossiping as if nothing were wrong. Saba wants to scream at them. This is her death, and they could at least muster as much concern as they showed when they all faked Mahtab’s death and sent her off to America.
“Let me see how to say this,” Khanom Omidi says, as she chews on a piece of basil. She must have been caught in the middle of a meal. She adjusts her girth and pats Saba’s trembling hand as she tries to explain. “In the old days, we would have to tell the whole town . . . and there is this story . . . let me see.” She moves to sit and, never forgetting her lazy eye—visible only when she looks up or down—pulls Saba into her line of vision. “There was a girl named Hava. And God decreed that the price of sin—”
Khanom Omidi is mumbling, looking for bits of wisdom in her memory. It is her habit to dole out advice generously on all things (whether or not she knows anything about them) like coins and dried mulberries from the thousand little pockets sewn in the folds of her fabric coverings. This indulgent woman reminds Saba of the Victorian doll on her desk, the one with dusty pockets sewn all over her dress for hiding jewelry where no one will expect. Sometimes Saba tucks coins in the hems of her own clothes to bring on the sheltered feeling of having a secret plan. She could use a secret plan today.
She strains to recall a section about blood and womanhood in one of her mother’s medical books, something about cycles and hormones. And did a calamity like this happen in a novel? Usually in books, if a passage seems odd, she blames her
Similar Books
