The Fortune Catcher by Susanne Pari

Author:Susanne Pari [Pari, Susanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Susanne Pari Shirazi
Published: 2021-03-06T00:00:00+00:00

30

Three Days Out

I knew I had to stop spending so much time in bed, but it was hard to care about what would happened to me if I didn’t follow through with my decision to escape Iran. I felt half-dead without Dariush, and sleep was the best escape.

Then I felt it. Lying on my stomach, pillow over my head, my body molded to the pliant mattress, an almost imperceptible sensation that I’d been ignoring as just another internal, involuntary gastrointestinal function. A light, feathery, fluttery tapping from inside. Like my heartbeat, only farther down and unsteady. I threw the pillow off, raise my head, and gasped loud enough to bring Feri running in. “What! What is it! What’s happened!”

“The baby! I feel the baby!” I was crying and smiling. Crying for my husband, buried beneath the marble tiles of the mausoleum, and smiling for the life of our child, buried within me. I let Feri embrace me and I held on to her strong arms. No more sleep, I told myself. This child will see the sky and the mountains and the clouds its father once saw.

Uncle Hooshang was right. His size nine men’s shoes, stuffed with cotton and thick gauze, were easy to walk in—certainly more comfortable than bare feet. Each day I could put down more weight. Still, I wasn’t ready to walk or stand for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

Amir wouldn’t tell me exactly when I was supposed to leave. He’d turned very serious, businesslike, almost detached. I followed his lead. He was the expert. Every day he came with more “essential tools” for the escape. “Here,” he said one day. “Study this.” He handed me a brand new Iranian passport with the Allah logo stamped in gold on the front. Peering inside, I saw that my name was to be Javad Mahmoudi, a cook by profession who was of medium height with black hair and green eyes. “We’ll have to take a picture soon,” said Amir. He turned to Feri who was, as usual, preparing some delicious meal. “It’s time to cut her hair.” Feri nodded and I felt queasy. I’d never had short hair.

“I don’t know much about cooking,” I said to Amir.

He chuckled. “I doubt they’ll ask you to give a demonstration. As far as I know, there aren’t any kitchens at airport security checkpoints.”

“You don’t have to patronize,” I said, staring at his eyes until he looked away.

“Very sorry,” he finally said in that stiff British way.

I closed my eyes while Feri cut my hair. I imagined Dariush braiding it—he used to do that—gathering the tresses together with such gentleness, as if they were made of silk thread.

When Feri was done, I opened my eyes and saw the floor and my lap littered with discarded strands. I rubbed some of them between my fingers; they felt inorganic, like a fabric sample. My head felt light, my neck and ears cold. I looked in Feri’s old hand mirror; the hair was half an inch long.

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