Read Online The Girl from the Garden by Parnaz Foroutan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Parnaz Foroutan
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great,” she says beneath her breath. She begins hanging the clothes from a rope drawn from one kitchenwall to the other. “G-d is great,” she repeats, wiping her eyes with the hem of her chador. “G-d is great, G-d is great.”
Snow covers the ground. And in the snow, footprints this way and that. The men’s footprints lead toward the stables, the horses’ footprints toward the gate, the women’s footprints back and forth to the central pool, the kitchen, to the steps leading into the cellar. The sun travels a low arc in the sky and, not too long after making its appearance, it sets. In the kitchen, the girls work fast, their fingers stained a deep purple, their black chadors wrapped around their bodies to protect their clothes. Rakhel sits on the ground and Khorsheed squats, her belly resting between her thighs. Cracked and whole pomegranates form a mountain between them, beside which stands a bucket of the red skins with empty white combs and a crystal bowl full of the glistening, ruby seeds. Fast, their fingers remove the seeds into the bowl. Red juice pools beneath their hands, splatters onto their arms.
Zolekhah stands by the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for Fatimeh to return from the cellar with the fruit stored in the late summer for this very night. Sadiqeh and Zahra silently scrub cooking pots by the fountain, their breaths visible. Fatimeh returns, carrying a large watermelon. She sets it on the ground and poises the knife on the tip of the melon’s tight green skin. One move and the whole melon cracks open, the flesh crisp and jagged, the heart red, surrounded by black teeth. She removes the rind and cuts theflesh into square pieces, then arranges the pieces on a silver tray. Fatimeh leaves and returns from the cellar again, this time with a basket of persimmons. She moves her legs briskly up and down for warmth, her arms clenched to her body. She shakes her shoulders and heads back into the cold afternoon to tell one of the girls to wash the fruit in the nearly frozen pool.
The women work silently, the dim light of the day having made them somber and lethargic, though the cold keeps them moving. When the women are finished arranging the fruits, they shuffle across the snow toward the five doors of the sitting room. They place the trays on the tables while Fatimeh pokes at the coals in the small brazier, places the low table over it, and drapes the blanket over the table. The girls push the chairs out of the way and gather the large pillows to spread around the blanket. Wordlessly, they leave the room. Sadiqeh and Zahra nod good-bye to the others and walk to the gate, where their husbands await to escort them home. Fatimeh retires to her room for the evening, to say her prayers, eat her dinner, and drift to sleep. The rest of the women leave for their private bedrooms, to prepare for the evening. All that is left of the sun is a streak of orange against the horizon.
Rakhel peers through her window in time to see Asher leading his horse back across the courtyard toward the stables. Ibrahim follows silently behind him. When they return to the courtyard, they both stop near the pool, and she watches them hold council, as is their custom each night,before they part. Asher speaks at length and Ibrahim listens, nodding in agreement. Then Asher takes his leave, and Ibrahim walks toward his bedroom where Khorsheed sits brushing her hair by the lit window.
Asher walks past Rakhel’s room toward his private study, his gaze down, his hands clasped behind his back. Rakhel waits a moment, then steals quietly down the breezeway toward the study. Through the window, she watches Asher light a lantern and walk to the gramophone. He turns the crank, carefully sets the needle down, and, after a few moments, closes his eyes.
Rakhel knocks softly on the door. He must be listening to his music, the records he orders from merchants he knows in faraway places like Austria and France. Places where men play instruments
Snow covers the ground. And in the snow, footprints this way and that. The men’s footprints lead toward the stables, the horses’ footprints toward the gate, the women’s footprints back and forth to the central pool, the kitchen, to the steps leading into the cellar. The sun travels a low arc in the sky and, not too long after making its appearance, it sets. In the kitchen, the girls work fast, their fingers stained a deep purple, their black chadors wrapped around their bodies to protect their clothes. Rakhel sits on the ground and Khorsheed squats, her belly resting between her thighs. Cracked and whole pomegranates form a mountain between them, beside which stands a bucket of the red skins with empty white combs and a crystal bowl full of the glistening, ruby seeds. Fast, their fingers remove the seeds into the bowl. Red juice pools beneath their hands, splatters onto their arms.
Zolekhah stands by the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for Fatimeh to return from the cellar with the fruit stored in the late summer for this very night. Sadiqeh and Zahra silently scrub cooking pots by the fountain, their breaths visible. Fatimeh returns, carrying a large watermelon. She sets it on the ground and poises the knife on the tip of the melon’s tight green skin. One move and the whole melon cracks open, the flesh crisp and jagged, the heart red, surrounded by black teeth. She removes the rind and cuts theflesh into square pieces, then arranges the pieces on a silver tray. Fatimeh leaves and returns from the cellar again, this time with a basket of persimmons. She moves her legs briskly up and down for warmth, her arms clenched to her body. She shakes her shoulders and heads back into the cold afternoon to tell one of the girls to wash the fruit in the nearly frozen pool.
The women work silently, the dim light of the day having made them somber and lethargic, though the cold keeps them moving. When the women are finished arranging the fruits, they shuffle across the snow toward the five doors of the sitting room. They place the trays on the tables while Fatimeh pokes at the coals in the small brazier, places the low table over it, and drapes the blanket over the table. The girls push the chairs out of the way and gather the large pillows to spread around the blanket. Wordlessly, they leave the room. Sadiqeh and Zahra nod good-bye to the others and walk to the gate, where their husbands await to escort them home. Fatimeh retires to her room for the evening, to say her prayers, eat her dinner, and drift to sleep. The rest of the women leave for their private bedrooms, to prepare for the evening. All that is left of the sun is a streak of orange against the horizon.
Rakhel peers through her window in time to see Asher leading his horse back across the courtyard toward the stables. Ibrahim follows silently behind him. When they return to the courtyard, they both stop near the pool, and she watches them hold council, as is their custom each night,before they part. Asher speaks at length and Ibrahim listens, nodding in agreement. Then Asher takes his leave, and Ibrahim walks toward his bedroom where Khorsheed sits brushing her hair by the lit window.
Asher walks past Rakhel’s room toward his private study, his gaze down, his hands clasped behind his back. Rakhel waits a moment, then steals quietly down the breezeway toward the study. Through the window, she watches Asher light a lantern and walk to the gramophone. He turns the crank, carefully sets the needle down, and, after a few moments, closes his eyes.
Rakhel knocks softly on the door. He must be listening to his music, the records he orders from merchants he knows in faraway places like Austria and France. Places where men play instruments
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