Read Online The Shipwrecked by Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone - Free Book Online
Authors: Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone
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cock-and-bull story, she looked prettier and more appealing, eyes glinting and cheeks blushing, as if the risk of being caught in a lie added to her attractiveness.
The doorbell rang. It was Mohammad Agha. He walked in quietly, looking somber and demure. He was his usual selfânoble and dignified, inspiring trust. What a monster we had made of him! It was Zeynab who had ensnared us in her web of insane lies.
Deferentially, Mother invited him to take a seat and offered him tea. I turned to Zeynab and said that she should get packed and go with him. She grabbed my arm and drew me away, as she whimpered, eyes streaming, âI swear on the Koran, I swear to God, this man is worse than Shemr. He has ruined hundreds of girls. Believe me, if you go to his auntâs house, youâd see what I mean. If you force me to go with him, how will you answer to God? Or the Committee?â
As I went over to talk to Mother privately, Zeynabâs eyes followed me intently and she stared at us as we conferred. Her face was in a constant state of flux, like undulatingforms on the surface of water, making it hard to fathom what lay beneath them. Her expression reflected fear and hope, sincerity and mischief. She looked so pitiful, and I felt simultaneously drawn to her and repulsed by her. Something enigmatic and mysterious pulsated from her that bewitched and frightened me at the same timeâlike dark unchartered terrain, full of promise and temptation but impenetrable and menacing, a disturbing dream unbound by the norms of reason and convention.
Once again, Zeynab looked guileless and vulnerable, moving in my direction to seek aid and solace. With eyes brimming with tears, in a voice soft and plaintive she whispered, âIn the shower I was talking to God. I am not kidding. I donât say my prayers because I donât know the words but I talk to God. When Mohammad Agha brought me here, I thought I was going to heaven. Your mother was an angel. So were you. I was crying in the shower, telling God, they are good people; I must tell them the truth. Mohammad Agha told me not to open my mouth, or Iâd be kicked out. But something made me talk. I couldnât lie to you folks.â
I was moved to uncertainty. She was telling the truth. Even if she wasnât, I had an overwhelming urge to believe her. I wanted her and her words to lower my defenses and overcome my resistance.
âThis girl is crazy and a pathological liar. She has no idea who she is and where she comes from,â Mother had determined.
Perhaps, I thought. But who were we, I asked myself, with all the genealogical charts and documented vital dates, well-defined thoughts, carefully assessed plans, clearly demarcated philosophical grounds, trivial pursuits, and major apprehensions, who were we?
âZeynab will stay with us,â I rumbled across the room. âWe will not turn her over to anyone.â Mother was so shocked by my announcement she could have been knocked down by a feather. But before she could raise her voice, I repeated the verdict. My heart palpitated with an undefinable exhilaration.
Wordlessly, Mohammad Agha finished the tea and stood up. He mumbled something by way of leave-taking and departed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Zeynab gave a shrill yelp and began laughing, laughing spasmodically and endlessly. I could not tell if she was laughing with joy or having made a dupe out of me. It did not matter. I had done my deed and was happy about it. I had an urge to make her sit down and tell me her stories. I could also tell her the stories I had buried deep inside me. Perhaps Motherâs plan of marrying her off to a decent man who could be put to work for my brother and sending their offspring abroad for education, etc., could now be implemented.
We sat down to lunch in an eerie silence. We were all deep in thought, as if trying to make sense of the events of the past few days. None of us felt at ease.
Around
The doorbell rang. It was Mohammad Agha. He walked in quietly, looking somber and demure. He was his usual selfânoble and dignified, inspiring trust. What a monster we had made of him! It was Zeynab who had ensnared us in her web of insane lies.
Deferentially, Mother invited him to take a seat and offered him tea. I turned to Zeynab and said that she should get packed and go with him. She grabbed my arm and drew me away, as she whimpered, eyes streaming, âI swear on the Koran, I swear to God, this man is worse than Shemr. He has ruined hundreds of girls. Believe me, if you go to his auntâs house, youâd see what I mean. If you force me to go with him, how will you answer to God? Or the Committee?â
As I went over to talk to Mother privately, Zeynabâs eyes followed me intently and she stared at us as we conferred. Her face was in a constant state of flux, like undulatingforms on the surface of water, making it hard to fathom what lay beneath them. Her expression reflected fear and hope, sincerity and mischief. She looked so pitiful, and I felt simultaneously drawn to her and repulsed by her. Something enigmatic and mysterious pulsated from her that bewitched and frightened me at the same timeâlike dark unchartered terrain, full of promise and temptation but impenetrable and menacing, a disturbing dream unbound by the norms of reason and convention.
Once again, Zeynab looked guileless and vulnerable, moving in my direction to seek aid and solace. With eyes brimming with tears, in a voice soft and plaintive she whispered, âIn the shower I was talking to God. I am not kidding. I donât say my prayers because I donât know the words but I talk to God. When Mohammad Agha brought me here, I thought I was going to heaven. Your mother was an angel. So were you. I was crying in the shower, telling God, they are good people; I must tell them the truth. Mohammad Agha told me not to open my mouth, or Iâd be kicked out. But something made me talk. I couldnât lie to you folks.â
I was moved to uncertainty. She was telling the truth. Even if she wasnât, I had an overwhelming urge to believe her. I wanted her and her words to lower my defenses and overcome my resistance.
âThis girl is crazy and a pathological liar. She has no idea who she is and where she comes from,â Mother had determined.
Perhaps, I thought. But who were we, I asked myself, with all the genealogical charts and documented vital dates, well-defined thoughts, carefully assessed plans, clearly demarcated philosophical grounds, trivial pursuits, and major apprehensions, who were we?
âZeynab will stay with us,â I rumbled across the room. âWe will not turn her over to anyone.â Mother was so shocked by my announcement she could have been knocked down by a feather. But before she could raise her voice, I repeated the verdict. My heart palpitated with an undefinable exhilaration.
Wordlessly, Mohammad Agha finished the tea and stood up. He mumbled something by way of leave-taking and departed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Zeynab gave a shrill yelp and began laughing, laughing spasmodically and endlessly. I could not tell if she was laughing with joy or having made a dupe out of me. It did not matter. I had done my deed and was happy about it. I had an urge to make her sit down and tell me her stories. I could also tell her the stories I had buried deep inside me. Perhaps Motherâs plan of marrying her off to a decent man who could be put to work for my brother and sending their offspring abroad for education, etc., could now be implemented.
We sat down to lunch in an eerie silence. We were all deep in thought, as if trying to make sense of the events of the past few days. None of us felt at ease.
Around
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