Read Online The Girl from the Garden by Parnaz Foroutan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Parnaz Foroutan
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drenching the front of the girl’s shirt. Rakhel bends and cupping water with both her hands, throws it out toward Khorsheed, who runs from the pool’s edge, her feet slipping in the mud, her arms out for balance. The rain becomes steadier. The girls’ eyelashes are wet, water streams from their faces, their clothes stick against their bodies.
“Khorsheed, come back and wash your feet, we have to go back inside before Zolekhah finds us.”
“Promise you won’t splash me.”
“You are a pregnant woman, you must be treated with great care. Petted and fed and pampered like an exotic bird from Hindustan. Now come back.”
“Promise,” Khorsheed says, standing in the rain. “Or I’ll tell Zolekhah you dragged me out here against my will.” She walks back, puts her foot gingerly on the edge of the pool, and bends forward.
Rakhel grabs a handful of Khorsheed’s hair and with her other hand, splashes water into her face. “Your nose is dirty,” Rakhel says. “Let me clean it for you.”
Khorsheed clutches Rakhel’s wrist with both hands. “Dada, you’re hurting me.”
Rakhel laughs and releases Khorsheed, who spits out water and begins coughing violently. The rain comes down hard now, sheets of it break against the surface of the earth, against the water of the pool. Rakhel steps out of the pool, her tumban wet and sagging, drops of water falling from her fingertips. Khorsheed takes the hem of her short ruffled shaliteh and twists it with her hands, squeezing out the water. The two girls walk back to the sitting room, the door blown wide open by the wind. Rakhel closes the door behind them and they stand soaking the edge of the thick red rug.
“Take your clothes off, quickly,” Rakhel says when she sees that Khorsheed’s lips are blue from the cold. She helps Khorsheed pull off her clothes, then removes her own. She drops the wet clothes in a pile and shakes her head back and forth. She walks across the room to the small brazier, takes a match and lights the coals inside it with trembling fingers, kneels on her bare haunches to blow so that the fire catches. Once the fire starts blazing, she closes the metal door, places a short-legged table on top of it, and drapes a blanket over the top of the table. Khorsheed walks across the rug on the tips of her toes, both hands clutching the small curve of her belly. She lays down beneath the blanket and Rakhel pulls it up to their chins. As the heat spreads from their feet, over their thighs, toward their hearts, the two girls fall fast asleep.
That’s how Fatimeh finds them, asleep in each other’s arms, naked under the korsi . She recognizes the wet chador stained red and bulging with pomegranates. She follows the muddy footprints up the stairs and across the marble of the breezeway, pushes open the door into the sitting room against the mound of wet clothes, sees the two girls asleep on the rug, Khorsheed snoring gently.
Fatimeh picks up the soaked pile of clothes and shuts the door softly behind her. She walks to the kitchen to pour more water into the samovar for the chai. She was much younger than Khorsheed when she herself married and bore her first child, born with its face clenched up and clutching at the cord wrapped like a black snake around its throat. Rakhel’s age when she bled out her second child, two months before it was due. Both had been girls. By then, her husband was already old, working as a servant in the governor’s office in the plaza of the city. “Should the Lord have seen them fit to live, my daughters would have married by now,” she says out loud. “They would have had children of their own.” She wrings out the water from the girls’ clothes and imagines holding the warm, fat bodies of her grandchildren, imagines kissing the soft pink flesh of their arms and legs. She might have lived with her daughters, in the house of their husbands, raising those children. She shuffles to the hearth to tend to a pot.
“G-d is
“Khorsheed, come back and wash your feet, we have to go back inside before Zolekhah finds us.”
“Promise you won’t splash me.”
“You are a pregnant woman, you must be treated with great care. Petted and fed and pampered like an exotic bird from Hindustan. Now come back.”
“Promise,” Khorsheed says, standing in the rain. “Or I’ll tell Zolekhah you dragged me out here against my will.” She walks back, puts her foot gingerly on the edge of the pool, and bends forward.
Rakhel grabs a handful of Khorsheed’s hair and with her other hand, splashes water into her face. “Your nose is dirty,” Rakhel says. “Let me clean it for you.”
Khorsheed clutches Rakhel’s wrist with both hands. “Dada, you’re hurting me.”
Rakhel laughs and releases Khorsheed, who spits out water and begins coughing violently. The rain comes down hard now, sheets of it break against the surface of the earth, against the water of the pool. Rakhel steps out of the pool, her tumban wet and sagging, drops of water falling from her fingertips. Khorsheed takes the hem of her short ruffled shaliteh and twists it with her hands, squeezing out the water. The two girls walk back to the sitting room, the door blown wide open by the wind. Rakhel closes the door behind them and they stand soaking the edge of the thick red rug.
“Take your clothes off, quickly,” Rakhel says when she sees that Khorsheed’s lips are blue from the cold. She helps Khorsheed pull off her clothes, then removes her own. She drops the wet clothes in a pile and shakes her head back and forth. She walks across the room to the small brazier, takes a match and lights the coals inside it with trembling fingers, kneels on her bare haunches to blow so that the fire catches. Once the fire starts blazing, she closes the metal door, places a short-legged table on top of it, and drapes a blanket over the top of the table. Khorsheed walks across the rug on the tips of her toes, both hands clutching the small curve of her belly. She lays down beneath the blanket and Rakhel pulls it up to their chins. As the heat spreads from their feet, over their thighs, toward their hearts, the two girls fall fast asleep.
That’s how Fatimeh finds them, asleep in each other’s arms, naked under the korsi . She recognizes the wet chador stained red and bulging with pomegranates. She follows the muddy footprints up the stairs and across the marble of the breezeway, pushes open the door into the sitting room against the mound of wet clothes, sees the two girls asleep on the rug, Khorsheed snoring gently.
Fatimeh picks up the soaked pile of clothes and shuts the door softly behind her. She walks to the kitchen to pour more water into the samovar for the chai. She was much younger than Khorsheed when she herself married and bore her first child, born with its face clenched up and clutching at the cord wrapped like a black snake around its throat. Rakhel’s age when she bled out her second child, two months before it was due. Both had been girls. By then, her husband was already old, working as a servant in the governor’s office in the plaza of the city. “Should the Lord have seen them fit to live, my daughters would have married by now,” she says out loud. “They would have had children of their own.” She wrings out the water from the girls’ clothes and imagines holding the warm, fat bodies of her grandchildren, imagines kissing the soft pink flesh of their arms and legs. She might have lived with her daughters, in the house of their husbands, raising those children. She shuffles to the hearth to tend to a pot.
“G-d is
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