What The Doves Said: The Saboteur (Book One) Read online

A Scorching Afternoon

  Dove Two takes a small step closer to me, stretches her neck forward a little.

  “It is a scorching afternoon, mid-summer,” Dove Two pauses to make sure I am listening. “So hot you can make sunny side up eggs on the asphalt. The wide grey, thirsty road is melting under the baking sun. The trees, tall, strong, full of branches with an abundance of leaves that look like large open hands, line the street. Their limbs are dry; so dry anyone, even a child, could break them off easily. The tall, old, strong trees with leaves so thirsty, they have turned all their cells into open mouths and yet there is nothing, not even one drop of moisture, for them to drink. The ground is dry; Mother Earth has cried herself out of tears. One would think the sun is angry with these people to punish them this hard.

  “Any other day, any other time, this would have been a street to be seen in. The king’s old castle, one of several, sits at one end of the street, white with tall slender cypresses encircling it, like a ring of emerald green around a precious large diamond. Beautiful, grand luxurious mansions line the street, guarding the castle, like loyal servants.

  “Any other day, any other time, this would have been a bustling street, with automobiles cruising up and down showing off their drivers’ newly found fortune or their old money, dressed in metallic armor, breathing gasoline made abroad from the homeland’s natural resources. Young sharply dressed men with thin moustaches – the current fashion trend – would be walking in small groups hoping to get a glimpse of the girls sitting on their balconies. The girls would be pretending to escape the heat but in reality checking out the young men.

  “In your family’s house, your oldest uncle would be ironing his trousers again, the crease, sharp enough to cut through a Persian melon, as your mom would say. Amoo jaan, as his nieces and nephews called him, would take small sips of his tall glass of lemonade made especially for him by Goli, their housekeeper, not too sweet – which he rests on the side table next to the ironing board.

  “Any other day, in any of these houses, it would be siesta time between one and four or five o’clock in the afternoon. There would be no sounds but the cry of tired fans and the occasional cry of a child who didn’t want to take a nap but was forced to by his parents or nanny – not in this house as your family didn’t believe in forcing others, not even a child, to do something against their wishes.

  “Around siesta time, the stores would close. Anybody, who was somebody, and even the ones who were nobodies, would rest and wait for the sun to become kinder. The shops would close and the shopkeepers would either go home, or if they lived too far, would close their doors for privacy bring out their siesta mats – every one of them has one – and take their precious naps. They couldn’t be bothered, not even by paying customers.

  "Any other day, around three or four o’clock in the afternoon, the housekeepers and servants – every home on the street has at least one – would get up from their siesta. They would brew a pot of dark aromatic Persian black tea, make some sort of Persian Sharbat drink, usually from rose water, cherries, lemons, or other wonderful ingredients they had stored for these hot days, and wait for the house to wake up. Soon after the first, often the oldest, occupant of the house was awake the servant would attempt to cool down the house by hosing down the thirsty ground of the yard, the porch, and the balcony.”

  I remember my childhood, the ritual of pouring water on the Earth, and the refreshing scent of the ground as it woke up with joy, grateful to be bathed after a long hot day.

  “The yards here are large and have a beautiful pond in the middle, often with a school of red goldfish, surrounded by paths created by pebbles or tiles. Different kinds of trees, fruit trees like pomegranates or persimmons, weeping willows, shrubs, and an abundance of fragrant flowers such as lilies and roses, are carefully planted in the yard to create intricate geometric patterns.”

  “Any other day, around four or five in the afternoon, in any of these houses, the entire occupants would get up, wash, and gather around the table set by the servant on the large patio, balcony, or yard. They would leisurely drink their tea or sharbats while conversing about anything and everything that came to their minds.

  “Any other day, around six or seven, one of the occupants of the house would come to the yard and walk around, examining the flowers and plants. They would water them passionately and ask the servant to bring a sharp scissor so there will be a stem of flower or two on the dinner table that night – in your house it would be either grandmother or Amoo jaan.

  “Any other day, late in the afternoon, there would be shopping for dinner, preparing it, and guests who would arrive without calling.” I remember Dad was always annoyed by unannounced guests and would tell them so, something that made my mom upset as this is taboo in the Persian culture, where one is supposed to welcome guests no matter who they are, when they arrive, and how long they stay. “There would be sounds of music from houses with gramophones, and the sound of the radio from other houses.

  “Any other day, in the evening, there would be bustling to get dinner started, and gathering the family to eat – always together. If someone were late to the table no one would start eating until he or she arrived.

  “Dinner would be long, accompanied by laughter and light conversation. Often there would be a story or two that someone remembered about the dish, the guests, the flowers in the middle of the table, or some ordinary but pleasant detail of life. After dinner, dishes would be cleared and taken to the kitchen to be washed, dried, and put back in the cupboards. There would be the occasional after-dinner guests, mainly close friends, family, or neighbors who would stop by to say hello – they would be invited for a cup of tea and a late night snack, or perhaps a friendly game of backgammon.

  “Any other day, after the day was done, there would be a new round of bustling by the servants who climbed up and down the stairs to set up the beds on the roofs – as it gets too hot this time of the year to sleep indoors. There would be the challenge of getting the kids to bed” – though I can’t believe it would be that hard to convince a young one to sleep where she can see the whole sky with thousands of stars – “and making sure there would be a pitcher or two of water and enough glasses so no one had to climb downstairs in the middle of the night.

  “Any other night, there would be whispering of lovers, older folks snoring, and the occasional cries of hungry babies who needed to be nursed. There would be sweet dreams and stars to share them with.

  “On any other day and night, but on the day of our story, all of this would have been true. But this is a different day, a different time, and the sky is about to fall.

  “Let us stop here,” Dove Two tears into my daydreams, though her voice makes only a smooth and gentle tear, more like a small cut left unnoticed.

  “You can’t stop here. I have to know.”

  “But it is time for bed. Tomorrow will be another day and we can continue with our story.” I feel as if Dove Two is channeling other storytellers whom I don’t know; Ezy never cut her stories in half.

  “You seem to forget, I am not a child and it is not even close to my bed time,” I say rather angrily. I am not about to lose yet another opportunity to learn about history. My generation has done enough of that. And perhaps we are now paying for our ignorance, and the mistakes we’ve made.

  “Besides, this is my story. Only I will decide when to stop it,” I add, wondering where the pushover in me is now. According to my friends, I have a thin middle ground – or no middle ground to be exact. I am nice and ridiculously patient – my friend’s choice of words not mine – for a long time. But when I come to the end of my innate kindness and patience, I tend to snap suddenly, which seems to surprise the receiver– wondering where that came from. In my defense, shouldn’t people know enough is enough – why do others take advantage of my good nature?

  “I think she has a point,” Dove One interjects in craftily. “If you are not going to continue, I will take your lines. I have them all me
morized, you know – just for these kinds of situations.”

  “I am sorry, will you please continue?” Here comes the pushover – I can’t stay mean for more than a minute or two. “I really am not that tired and who knows when I will have time for the rest of the story again – with my deadlines and all the time I have spent these days worrying instead of working,” I plead and look imploringly at Dove Two. Truth be told, I don’t want Dove One to tell the story. This is not the right time for a change of voice.

  “Very well,” Dove Two begins again without sidetracking. “It is a hot summer day in August, 1953.

  “It is mid afternoon. The house your family lives in is quiet as everyone appears to be asleep. Your mom’s side of the family has always been close-knit. Grandpa died rather young, before having a chance to see any of his grandchildren. He left everyone a lot of money since he was a wise man and knew how to invest. The rest of the family, grandma, your three uncles, and your mom tried hard to stay together and often succeeded. Your uncle, the one in the middle, bought this house for its perfect setup – two stories, a full size basement, and multiple flats so there would be room for everyone – including frequent overnight guests like your older cousins.

  “Goli, the servant, is stretching in her bed, thinking it is time to get up and brew a pot of tea. She doesn’t know that your grandmother is already up and has already boiled the water. Amoo jaan is upstairs in his flat reading without really comprehending. His mind is exhausted from the weight of the unfortunate events of the past few days. He has felt all his dreams and wishes for his country secure in his hand, so accessible he could taste them, only to have them snatched away.”

  Dove Two repeating my own exact words to describe my uncle’s state of the mind makes me uncomfortable. I am reminded that the Story Doves know everything there is to know about the past, present, and future including what goes in our minds.

  “Mom is up, although she never did fall asleep. She is still in bed, exhausted both physically and emotionally; eyes red from a combination of not enough sleep and the tears she has tried to keep from the others, including your dad. Dad is up but he too has stayed in bed, pretending to be asleep, worried sick for days but trying to hide it from everyone else in the house – no one else is convinced Dad is doing a good job covering his worries and fears.”