Thirty Shadow Birds by Fereshteh Molavi

Author:Fereshteh Molavi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inanna Publications
Published: 2019-02-13T16:00:00+00:00

19.

BEFORE TURNING THE KNOB, SHE LEANS her forehead against the wooden door with the devotional feeling of a pilgrim who has reached a shrine. Touching wood makes her feel restful. Instead of prayer, she heaves a long sigh. Another no-overtime Saturday work day is done and she feels satisfied rather than tired or pissed off as she usually does. When it comes to her job the glass is definitely not full, or even half full. She’s simply watching the glasses of others.

Yalda wonders if her son is home. She feels her heart rate pick up. Through all the days of this restless month of June, glistening threads of hope have crossed along the surface of the hidden sea of her anger and despair, and have finally appeared in her consciousness.

When she opens the door, she doesn’t see the familiar sign of his presence: his bulky boots right in the middle of the hallway. The carelessly removed shoes, now a promising sign, used to drive her mad and make her curse under her breath as she put, sometimes threw, them in the closet. The rough boots, an awkward reminder of his “rough and tough” dream job, are now simple evidence of his presence.

Still, he may be home but asleep, she thinks, perhaps without taking his boots off.

Putting the takeout box on the kitchen counter, she glances towards his room and notices that the door is half open.

This may mean a change, she thinks. Her hands busy transferring food into dishes, Yalda counts off the months by clattering her teeth, stopping at eight. Well, after eight months of encountering a closed door, it’s no wonder that she thinks a half-open door is a good sign.

Passing by the door and peeping into his room, she finds his bed empty. Yalda forces herself to ignore the messy room, reminding herself that she’s picked her battles.

“His damn rotating shift work schedule has ruined my appetite,” she mumbles as she puts the food in the fridge, “and my plan, too.”

Driven by a desire for revenge rather than a sudden craving for alcohol, she grabs the bottle of Martini Rosso that she got from the duty free store in Rotterdam. She smiles nervously when she finds some dried white mulberries in her beloved turquoise ceramic bowl. Despite Nader’s absence, she’s going to have her exclusive Iran news fest.

C’est la vie, she thinks, turning her eyes away from the table that was supposed to be set for him. After putting her laptop, her martini, and the bowl of mulberries on the side table, she collapses into her rocker.

From her vantage point, the metal rim of the balcony glass balustrade separates a sky deepening with twilight hues from a panel compacted with curves of trees and diagonals of buildings. The glass of the panel is spotted with rain and handprints, and she feels guilty for not keeping it sparkling clean. Above the rim, the sunset scene with its cosmic perfection makes her sad. It reminds her of her enduring imperfection, her stale incompleteness.

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