The Girl from the Garden by Parnaz Foroutan

Author:Parnaz Foroutan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-06-09T16:00:00+00:00

Mahboubeh watches the warblers dart in and out of the bare rosebushes, eyeing her with suspicion, eyeing the plate of bread crumbs she’s left for them, then looking at her again. She remembers how Rakhel used to walk to that well to talk to her djinns and curse her enemies. She and the other children hid and listened, holding their breaths for fear that she’d name one of them. And whomever she did name came to some misfortune, one way or another. So no one ever crossed her. Everyone always did what she asked. Mahboubeh walks back into the kitchen and closes the door. She presses her forehead against the cool of the glass. She watches the little birds outside gather around the plate. A small war ensues among them.

Mahboubeh remembers the night Rakhel suggested the neighbor’s son as a potential suitor for her. Mahboubeh was home on holiday from the college she attended in Tehran. She announced to the whole family, at the Sabbath dinner, the news that she had just been selected for a scholarship to further her studies in mathematics in France. Rakhel looked at her. Then she turned to Ibrahim and mentioned Elchonon’s eldest son. He owned a shoe store with his brothers. He had even studied up to the eighth grade, knew how to read and keep numbers. His mother had come calling.

“No,” Mahboubeh said.

Six months later, Rakhel led Mahboubeh, weeping, to the altar.

Mahboubeh sits down at her kitchen table and looks at a portrait of her husband on the wall. A tall man. Sad eyes. Smooth skin. A faint smile. He wears a fine tailored suit. The photograph is in sepia and soft white, but his cheeks have a slight rosy tint and his eyes a hint of green, the stroke of the photographer’s paintbrush. She closes her eyes and sees him as he was the first few mornings after their wedding. He sits before her, at the table she set for him, the steam of the chai rising in swirls between them, the bread still warm. He clears his throat, but she does not look up. It is she that speaks, first.

“I want to work as a teacher,” Mahboubeh says. “I will make my own money. So that my will is my own.”

“Yes,” he says.

She has not asked him for permission. She simply stated a condition for the life they will lead together. He looks up to meet her eyes and nods his head. She looks back at him with fierce resolve. He chuckles. He brings the glass of chai to his mouth to hold back the laughter, but it escapes him. He laughs for a while, then looks at the bewilderment in her eyes and laughs again.

“Yes, Mahboubeh. Clearly, your will is your own,” he says. She smiles. He stops laughing and looks down, his cheeks red. Then he stands abruptly and says, “Thank you for breakfast.”

“You will be home for lunch?”

Her kitchen is silent. The click of the refrigerator. Mahboubeh looks about her, lost for a moment.

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