The Lemon Grove by Ali Hosseini

Author:Ali Hosseini
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: The Lemon Grove
ISBN: 9781480417649
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2013-02-18T23:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

I’VE LOST COUNT OF THE coming and going of the days, so slow in passing, and the nights, host to darkness and anxieties. My health gets worse each day. I’m either burning with fever or shivering with chills. It is as if my body and mind are being prepared for their end.

The weather too has undergone a metamorphosis. The air has picked up the sharp coldness of fall. Unlike the summer wind that loved to linger and sweep up to the dome of the sky whatever was in its path, the autumn wind blows constantly and is in a hurry. It howls and moves low to the ground with no particular direction, like an escaped prisoner running away from everything and everyone, not knowing where to go. I feel its chill constantly, no matter how long I lie in the sun or sit near the fire that Musa makes. My lungs won’t accept the cold air and push it out quickly, feeling like they are going to collapse at any moment.

In the afternoon sun, the distant village is one with the bare fields beyond. A lone dog is barking and a sad voice carries with the wind. Maybe it’s the cry of a mother mourning her lost child. Or the moaning of someone wandering aimlessly in the desert. I look toward the village road and search for the shapes of a woman and two children—Kemal’s family. They’ve been coming to the Naranjestan since the day I handed over the deed. His wife brings food and prepares tea for us and has cleaned up the house and washed the old blankets and pillows. She’s a young woman with a round face and, unlike the city women, dresses in bright-colored clothes. After lunch she draws water from the well and washes the dishes and makes tea before going back to the village. Sometimes the children stay all day and Kemal takes them home on his motorcycle. Musa’s wife never comes here—he says she is old and has bad knees. The children play in the Naranjestan without coming near me. Their mother keeps her distance too. The boy, Amir, is six years old, with a sharp curiosity in his eyes. The little girl, Golboo, is four years old and has long black hair and the look of a sleepy cat. A few times I have thought about walking to the village, to see it up close, walk its narrow alleys, visit the school, and see where Musa and Kemal live. And if I can gather up my courage, possibly visit Mother.

The huge iron door of the pump house has been pushed open. It extends the entire length of the side of the building facing the orchard. Kemal is standing by the motor. The old diesel engine is a Lister double-cylinder type and is fastened down to a cement chassis in the middle of the room. On another chassis about five feet away from the motor sits the pump. Two metal pipes extend out of the pump.

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