Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,170

in her tiny frame seemed uncontainable, like a hummingbird’s. Was she pretty? All I know is that I was irresistibly drawn to her.

“Sister of mine, may God be thanked!” I began, my voice tangled with emotion.

An old woman whose eyes were buried in wise wrinkles had been observing us all this time. “Happiest of families, how long has it been?”

I looked up. “Twelve years!”

“Voy, she was just a baby. How did you recognize her?”

“I recognized him,” said Jalileh proudly.

“It is no surprise. You are like velvet cut from the same bolt,” the old woman observed.

“In that case, I am glad my brother is comely,” Jalileh replied in a teasing voice, “by the blessings of God!”

I laughed out loud at her boldness, then exhaled with relief at it. Though Jalileh wore a faded cotton robe and tunic, with not a single ornament in her ears or around her neck, and though she had not felt a parent’s love since she was seven, it seemed that her spirit had not been ground into powder.

I gave Jalileh’s few belongings to the porter and sent him off to the palace. Then we said goodbye to the old woman and the caravan leader and walked outside the caravanserai together, side by side for the first time. Her gait was rapid, her eyes alive with interest, but they stayed on my face rather than being distracted by the city’s sparkling domes.

“Where to begin?” I wondered aloud. “Our cousin didn’t—”

“Our mother wanted—” Jalileh said at the same time. We stared at each other, feeling the weight of all the missing years.

“Labu! Hot labu!” a vendor called out, and my stomach came alive with hunger as the syrupy scent of beets filled the air. But then I remembered how my sister had hated beets as a child. I looked at her, wondering. There was so much I didn’t know.

“I love beets,” she replied to my unasked question. “And I am hungry!”

I laughed and paid for two beets. The vendor served them to us steaming hot in ceramic holders, smiling for no particular reason at both of us. We blew on them and feasted in the middle of the street. Jalileh’s lips and fingers grew purple as she ate. She giggled and wiped her mouth.

After we finished, we cleaned ourselves, and then there was another awkward silence. What could we say to each other after so long? Jalileh’s eyes were red, and I realized that she needed to rest.

“Come,” I said. “Let me take you to the palace so that you can see where you will be living.”

“I am to live in a palace?” She could not hide the excitement in her voice.

“Yes, you are. And soon you will wear a fine robe and ornaments in your hair, I promise you.”

“But where will you live?”

“Nearby,” I said. “I will tell you everything once you are settled. Right now, I want to show you something.”

We walked together in the direction of the Tehran Gate until we reached the mill. A group of women were waiting in line to have their grain crushed, while others were purchasing the flour sold there. We stood and watched the donkeys turn the wheel that moved the huge stone, which rolled over the wheat and crushed it into flour. Jalileh was transfixed.

“At home, I had to do that by hand,” she observed. I took one of her hands and brushed my fingers across her rough and chapped palm. She had never written anything about work to me; she had never complained.

Jalileh removed her hand from mine, pressing her small lips together in chagrin. “If we buy flour, I could make you some bread,” she offered, her voice very small. “I learned all our mother’s recipes from her cousin.”

Suddenly, it was as if I were back in my family home again watching my mother pull her sesame-sprinkled bread out of the oven, her eyes glowing with pride, while Jalileh and I gathered around to admire the crisp, corrugated loaf and to rip off pieces of it while it was still hot. No baker’s bread had been as good. My nostrils flooded with the scent, and my tongue ached with longing for it.

“Jalileh, this mill belongs to us. Someday I will tell you the whole story, but for now you can think of it as a legacy, in a roundabout way, from our father.”

As I said this, I realized how true it was. If our father had not been killed, I would never have served Pari, and