The Gardens of Consolation by Parisa Reza

Author:Parisa Reza
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Europa
Published: 2016-10-24T04:00:00+00:00

On Thursdays school ends at lunchtime. Back home, Talla has already spread out the tablecloth. Today she has made bread herself, delicious little rolls that are crusty on top and doughy in the middle. Sardar will be happy: “It’s like bread from the village.” Bahram wolfs his food down and then lies on the ground next to the cloth.

“I mustn’t go to sleep. If I fall asleep, wake me up when you’ve finished doing the dishes.”

Talla fills a bowl with water from the pond, wets the plates and glasses, scrubs them with a handful of dirt from the yard, then rinses everything out. The pond water is murky, not safe to drink, and she uses it only for washing. She rinses the tableware a second time with fresh well water. Then she wraps the remaining bread in a big napkin, winding it around several times, otherwise the heat and the dry air will turn it hard before the evening.

She waits a few minutes before saying, “Bahram jan, Bahram jan, get up, my son.” He is fast asleep. “Bahram jan, Bahram agha . . . ” He does not react. She leaves him to sleep and lies down beside him under the mulberry tree. She is tired but must not fall asleep, she needs to wake Bahram. In the meantime she turns toward him and studies him in profile. Then she puts her arm around his head and hugs him to her. Bahram’s head is buried between her breasts and this wakes him. He leaps to his feet and curses at Talla, then hurries upstairs and comes straight back down with his jacket on. His mother follows him to the door, reciting a surah from the Koran and blowing on his face.

Bahram runs over to Telephone-khaneh Street, and waits for Ghassem under the old plane tree. It is forty degrees in the shade and Bahram sweats in his wool jacket. It is siesta time, and there is not a soul to be seen. They have to go to Djam’s house at four o’clock, they have been granted an audience. Bahram does not have a watch, but there is bound to be someone to tell them the time.

Ghassem strolls up to him nonchalantly.

“Where the hell have you been? What if it’s already four?”

“But four o’clock must be later than siesta time.”

“Okay, well, let’s go. We need to get Siavosh,” Bahram says, setting off at a run.

“Bahram!” Ghassem cries. “It’s too hot to run.”

Bahram slows to a walk and picks up pebbles, which he aims at the trunks of trees on the other side of the street.

Sweat beads on their shaven heads, running over their foreheads and dripping from their eyelashes. Bahram wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket. Ghassem is not wearing a jacket; the one from his school uniform has been patched too many times to be worn in front of Djam, so he is wearing the smart shirt he and his older brother share for important occasions. It is a little too big for him.

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