I'll Be Strong for You Read online

  That day, though, I had found a job all by myself. In a small bookstore that had customers like you, where you could smell the dust covering the spines coming from the shelves. I had told Mr. Ferdowsi that I didn’t care about the pay, that I would start the next day. And I had come home with my joy to share the good news with you. You should have been happy that I had finally realized that even though Dad paid for all my expenses, I needed to work. That we would grow even closer to each other through books. You stood by the kitchen counter, and I paced around the room. I paced and said I wanted to change the way the shelves were arranged and sort the books based on the authors’ countries of origin. I said I wanted to tell Mr. Ferdowsi to put an upright piano in a corner so that I could play for the customers. I said that when there were no customers, I would sit in the back and read all the books there so that you would love me more. I said it wasn’t fair that you and Roja knew all the books in the world, while I had only read a few insignificant novels. I said once I had read all the books, I would speak to anyone who came to the bookstore, figure out what they liked, and put the best book in their hands. And then I would wait for them to come back one day and tell me that they really liked the book. I said that after a while, we would even open our own bookstore. I said I would keep cleaning my dusty hands on my manteau so much so that when I came back home, it would be dirty down the sides. I showed you my pockets and said, “Look, it would be really dusty here.”

  And I laughed. But you didn’t laugh. You just leaned on the counter, reprimanding me for not realizing that it was not a proper job. You said that I hadn’t studied so hard simply to open a bookstore. You said that I should come to my senses before it’s too late and that even if I didn’t want to continue my studies, I should build up my résumé so I could still get admitted to a foreign school, because you would leave regardless, and we had to be together. You said I had better put my feet firmly on the ground and see real life. You said, “Real life, real like everyone else’s, not like your Dad’s.” I stopped pacing. I lost my wings of joy, and Bagh Bookstore disappeared from my heart. My feet were firmly on the ground, if only you wouldn’t take yours off the ground and board that fucking plane. For you, real life was one thing, and my life had nothing to do with that. I wanted to be a teacher, a bookseller, a piano soloist, a journalist. I didn’t want to let go of any of my dreams. Whenever I started one, my heart soared toward another; and when I focused on that one, I missed yet another one.

  The closer I get to home, the less I want to be there. I wish the traffic jam would never end so I could continue to be stuck between the cars’ red and white lights. My heart would be happy with anything but the darkness and silence of the apartment. I want to go out to dinner with some friends. I want us to sit around a semidark restaurant, eat, and laugh out loud at everything in the world. The people at the surrounding tables would frown upon our behavior, and we would keep laughing out loud. I hate arriving home alone like every other day, with nobody there to open the door for me, and having to use my own key. I hate turning on the lights at night, hearing my own voice sometimes, speaking to myself, every time growing more and more afraid that I might be going crazy. I don’t want to go home. Not tonight. Roja has a class. Maybe I can go visit Shabaneh. I want to speak with Mahan until morning while he keeps looking at me astounded, merely looking at me and not saying a word, as usual. I stare at my phone and can’t make up my mind to dial Shabaneh’s number. I am not in the mood for anything. Not the apartment, not Shabaneh, not even myself. I throw my phone in my purse and turn into the darkness of the garage.

  As I open the door, the silence of the empty apartment slaps me in the face, and the heavy air collapses on my chest. I open the windows. I turn on the TV to have something alive around me. That movement on the screen will do. It makes me feel like someone is breathing in the apartment, even if they’re behind the thick glass screen of the TV. The weak late afternoon light lingers still, but I turn the lights on so that the sadness of the setting sun won’t surprise me when it comes. I sit on the red couch and change the channels. There is nothing on to watch. I turn on my laptop. Facebook, my blog, email. Nothing is going on. I should call and ask someone to come over. I should find a job as soon as possible to avoid staying home in the evenings. The empty apartment is driving me crazy. Its walls keep getting closer to one another, and one day not too far away, they will crush me between them. There should be either you or a job. My life can’t go on any other way. I have to get a job, no matter what.

  TWO

  FUCK ME. FUCK ME FOR sitting like a mouse on this chair, staring at the monitor. Fuck me for never learning to express, like a normal human being, what I do and don’t want. Fuck me for never having my word be the last word. Today is like every other day, this time is like a thousand other times. I sit at my desk and curse my terrified self. Romeo, my black-sheep plush toy, looks at me from the top of my monitor, saying, “Stupid Shabaneh. You fool.” My desk is at the rear of the open-plan office and I like that it is next to the wall. I have a corner of my own and I don’t get distracted by people walking past my desk. The space is full of desks and chairs and computers and engineers. They read the misshapen lines on large papers and draw colorful lines on their black screens. Then they get up, drink tea, walk around, ask each other questions, and grab other papers with even more crooked lines from the printer and get busy once again. There is a quiet buzz in the office. I can’t distinguish the words over the slow hum of the air conditioner and the computers’ fans and all these engineers breathing next to each other. If a car doesn’t drive through the alley outside, sending its noise reverberating inside, I can just close my eyes and pretend I’m sitting at the beach, and that this sound is the sound of the calm sea. Now I just have to take off my shoes and walk on the sand and look at my footprints that remain wet and dark for a few seconds, allowing myself to enjoy the cool breeze coming off the sea and touching my face.

  A breeze from the air conditioner passes over Roja’s desk and comes straight to my face. There are three desks between hers and mine. Roja sits by the office windows. Like birds, she loves the sky. The moment she arrives, she pulls the blinds all the way up, not caring whether the light reflects off her monitor. When she gets tired, she turns her chair and stares at the persimmon trees in the company’s courtyard that, in a month or two, will be full of colors—though she herself will not be here to see their crimson fruits. Roja can’t stay put in the closed office and constantly needs to jump up and leave. She hasn’t returned yet. My heart breaks whenever I see her empty chair. Arsalan sits by the door on the other side of office. I could never sit in that spot. People walk by his desk on three sides and I don’t know how he doesn’t get annoyed amid all the hustle and bustle. He’s wearing a dark blue T-shirt with pale-blue jeans. From where I sit, I can see his profile, I can see him run his hand through his hair from time to time, turn around to smile at me from where he is sitting at his desk. I am not in the mood for him to get mad at me, so I smile back, a forced, weak smile. He is happy, because he’ll get whatever he wants. Today like every other day. This time, too, like a thousand other times.

  I had finished my plans, printed them, and was taking them to Mr. Moghadam. As I walked by the rows of desks, Arsalan followed me with his eyes. When I reached his desk, he called out to me.

  “Do you want to go out tonight, talk a bit?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, after work. I’ll drop you off at home after.”

  “Can we do this some other time? Maybe at the end of the week …”

  “No, I want to talk.”

  “Let me take these plans to Mr. Moghadam. He wants to see them.”

  I didn’t look at him and continued on my way. Mr. Moghadam is on the first floor, we’re on the third. I walked down the black granite stairs inside the building. I walked slowly to stretch out the time before I would have to answer Arsalan. I checked out the plants on the staircase. The staircase is dark, and the black of the gra
nite makes it seem even darker. The light that came through the dark windows passed through the leaves of the plants that were as tall as me and dappled the floor. One of the leaves of the dieffenbachia plant on the first floor had yellowed, and its sharp point had become dry. I touched the plant’s leaves. It was begging me not to let it die. I asked, “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, “Do you need some sun? You don’t like the black tiles? Do people come light their cigarettes next to you?” I looked at the soil. It didn’t have much breath left in it. I moved the soil around with the tip of my fingers. The plant loved it. I should tell Karam Ali to add some mulch to its pot.

  The leather-covered door to Mr. Moghadam’s office was closed, and his secretary was busy on the phone. She gestured to me to just give her the plans and go. That was good, actually. I was not in the mood to sit with the boss as he went on and on for two hours about the contracts and bids he didn’t win, and in the end, he would say, “Join me tomorrow for the meeting with the Soroush Company.” And then I would have to say no, and we would have a fight and he would fire me. Then I would have to sit at home and keep calling this person and that looking for work, and not finding any and having to argue with Mom every day about Mahan. In the end, I would have to take Mahan and leave the house forever and go either to Leyla’s or Roja’s and no matter how much Dad would call, pleading, trying to talk me into going back, I would not heed him at all.

  I walked back up the two floors very slowly, thinking about all this and finally deciding I’d tell Arsalan that I couldn’t see him tonight because I was not in the mood. I wouldn’t go because I was tired, and I would say I didn’t want to discuss it anymore. I won’t go, and that’s that. But by the time I was standing next to Arsalan’s desk, another Shabaneh said, calmly, “Can we just get together another time?”

  “No, Shabaneh. I want us to talk. It’ll be quick.”

  “I’m just tired. Besides, I don’t want to go out in my work clothes.”

  “Where do you think we’re going? We’re not going to a wedding or somewhere you couldn’t go in your work clothes. We’ll drive to Jamshidiyeh Park, go for a walk, chat, and head back.”

  I gathered all my strength to ask, “Should I tell the others to join us?”

  He jumped up from his seat.

  “So the problem isn’t that you’re tired or your work outfit. You have a problem with me. You don’t want to go out with me.”

  His face turned red. I looked around and was relieved that no one was paying any attention to us. I was afraid that he would raise his voice again.

  “Calm down, Arsalan. What are you talking about? I just wondered whether we should …”

  “You just wondered what? I just said a dozen times that I want to talk to you. You know what, if you don’t want to go, we won’t go. Just think about it and let me know.”

  He slammed his pen down on the desk and stared at his monitor. I was afraid he would start another fight in front of everyone. He would stop talking to me again, and whenever I’d look at him, he would frown. I was afraid he would sulk and ruin everything. And then, like in the past, I would be alone, with no one who wants to take me to Jamshidiyeh Park, and I would keep looking at the others going out with their lovers and I would die of the sadness of solitude. So I said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  “You just want to ruin everything, even going out,” he murmured while he busied himself with his papers.

  He didn’t look at me. I waited to see whether or not we were going out in the end. But no matter how long I stood there, he didn’t raise his head. I walked back to my own desk. Something would happen, eventually. I passed the other desks and glanced surreptitiously at my colleagues. No one had heard the sound of the pen slamming down on the desk. I sat down and held my head in my hands. My fingers were freezing. I wished I knew whether I should go out with him or not. I listened to the buzzing of the air conditioner, and no matter how hard I tried, I failed to picture myself wearing a colorful pleated skirt and sitting on a beach somewhere by the Mediterranean, waiting for a tall man in a tux and a bow tie to invite me to lunch at a hotel restaurant. I thought to myself, Why am I so terrified of being alone? Why can’t I just talk like a normal human being? Why can’t I stand by my decisions? Who should I hold responsible? My father? My mother? Or Mahan’s illness, after which our life was never the same again? Since when I have become so weak? Maybe since that winter night when the air-raid sirens sounded, and Mom held Mahan close to her breast and screamed, “What can I do with this sick child?”

  Mahan had a fever. He would not open his eyes. He was not even crying. He was just breathing fast. Mom had put his little mattress on our red carpet. The power was out, and I hadn’t finished my homework. Dad paced around the room, and when he walked past the candle, his terrifying shadow grew larger on the wall. Mom took Mahan’s pants off and washed his feet in the little orange plastic tub. Dad brought a plastic bag full of ice. Mom told me to put the ice on Mahan’s forehead. I did. His body quivered. Holding on to the bag of ice, I stared at his chest quickly rising and falling. The ice cubes grew smaller and smaller and floated around in the bag full of water. Dad emptied the bag of medications on the table. The air-raid sirens started again. Dad went to the window. The window turned yellow and orange, and then came a horrible sound. The glass in the windows trembled. I dropped the bag of ice and went and stood against the wall. Dad shouted, “Hurry up! Get dressed.” My fingers were freezing, and I was sobbing. My tears rolled down into my mouth and tasted like the sea. I had not finished my homework, and Mahan was dying. The sirens started again. Mom took the rest of Mahan’s clothes off and poured the water from the tub all over him. His mattress was completely soaked. Dad grabbed him and put him in Mom’s arms. Mom said, “Let me take some clothing for them.” Then she started crying. Dad picked me up. He said, “There is no need.” He threw a blanket over Mahan and pulled Mom’s arm.

  “Hurry up or the house will collapse on top of us.”

  I looked at our house, terrified that it would collapse on top of us. I looked at our red carpet. The border made up the streets on which I parked my toy cars; the floral medallions at the center were the park I swung in. I looked at Mahan’s mattress and his bed in the corner of the room. At his bag of medications on the table. At the large floor cushions. The crumpled blanket and the ruffled pink pillows embroidered with green-and-red sequined peacocks, souvenirs from Mecca. I looked at our TV cabinet with its wooden door, which we closed when the kids’ program ended and decorated with grandma’s little quilt. I looked at my notebook and my Persian textbook on the table. At Mom’s needlepoint frame, on which I had sewn a white bird in the sky. At the candle flickering on the table and at the terrifying shadows that fell on the wall with every move we made. The house was going to collapse on top of us and that would probably be followed by the needlework falling on the candle, and the table with all the homework I had done would catch fire, and the white needlepoint bird would fly through the bricks and reach my teacher and tell her that night had come and I still hadn’t finished my homework. Dad blew out the candle. I closed my eyes and pressed on them hard.

  The phone on my desk rings. It’s Mr. Moghadam’s secretary.

  “Can you come down for a second? The corrections on your plans are ready.”

  I glance at Arsalan, who is busy with his own work. I wish I didn’t have to walk past him. But there is no other way. His desk is right by the office door, and the boss is expecting me. I grab my cell phone and start walking, pretending that I’m busy with my phone.

  The secretary gives me the plans and smiles at me with her red lipstick. On my way back upstairs, I look at the plans. When did he have the time to make so many corrections? I keep my eyes on the plans and walk past Arsalan’s desk. He calls my name. He is kind now, and that means that tonight we are going to Jamshidiyeh.

  “I want to order some food. What do you want?”

  “Nothing. I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you upset?”
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  “No. I just had a big breakfast. And I’m gaining weight. It’s better if I don’t eat.”

  “What did Mr. Moghadam say?”

  “He made some corrections.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “No, they’re not that many. Thanks, though.”

  I rush back to my desk and sit down. Romeo and one of the other engineers are looking at me. I look down. When I speak to Arsalan, I feel like everyone is watching me and thinking, “What a coward!” Then the ones who know about Mahan will tell those who don’t about it, and half an hour later all of them will gather around my desk and talk about me and Mahan and Arsalan. They’ll talk until I feel like I’m suffocating and I’ll start to cry and gather my things and leave the company forever.