the people of the village. Agha took his old machete from the corner of the basement, scrubbed it clean, and was sharpening it on the whetstone when his friends came to him to assuage his anger and break the painful news that the merchant’s arrangements had met the bride’s consent, if not willingness. That night, the young Agha left his village taking only his machete with him for the bandits.
Agha looked out of his window until the sun was in the sky, behind the clouds.
23
HMAD CAME BACK HOME from the hospital with gauze to remain on his eyes for an extra week, with the feeling that he really had a family that he wanted to be with. It was a few weeks before the New Year, although nobody yet knew they would not have spring for years to come. The girls left for school early in the morning. The little he could do to help with closed eyes, Ahmad would do: he crushed saffron in a small mortar, careful not to waste a speck of the valuable spice; he winnowed beans, lentils, and chickpeas and because he could not pick out the small pebbles, chaff, and husk from the grains, he did the reverse thing: feeling each one individually, he threw the grains one by one into a separate container. Sitting at the dining table with a pile of herbs in front of him, he picked the leaves and put them in a basket, one stem at a time. Homa did the rest: she washed, diced, sautéed, added pinches of spice into the pot like an alchemist, put the lid on, and lowered the flame.
By early afternoon, when the sisters came home from school, the smell of food wafted from the stove across the house. Excited, the girls talked to Ahmad about their day at school, their grades, what a classmate had done, and what their teacher had taught them. Ahmad helped with schoolwork. With the grace of a young lady, Leyla sat on the couch in the living room, one eye on her book and the other on her father as he explained math and science to Lalah. In the evening, the heater warmed the house in the corner of the living room, while it snowed outside. Ahmad listened to the radio. The tension between the clergy and the Shah had been rising. In their public sermons, some notable figures had asked for the freedom of Ayatollah Khomeini who had been put under house arrest nine months before.
Like every year, people cleaned up their houses from ceiling to floor, scoured the walls, scrubbed the kitchens, dusted the furniture, and wiped all the windows. They postponed washing the rugs until summer, which they thought would come in six months. The traditional Haft Seen tables were set for the New Year: nice mirrors were put on them; wheat sprouts were grown in low bowls and ribbons were tied around the stems; and goldfish were placed in bowls. The older bought presents for the younger; some placed brand-new bills inside the Quran to offer as their New Year present, others just fished the money out of their pockets. Shortly before the turn of the year, and dressed in their best clothes, Ahmad and Homa sat at their Haft Seen table with their daughters on their laps, looking at one another in the big mirror flanked by two candles. The goldfish circled in the bowl. The countdown had already started on the radio. In Khan’s house, the traditional assemblage was laid not on a table, but on the floor. Agha, Khan, Pooran, and Zeeba looked into their mirror waiting for the moment. Ameer had worn a suit and tie to the New Year Haft Seen. He sat in front of an oval mirror with Sara and Salar. Majeed took photos of his family. Salman and his three cellmates propped up against the wall a tray that did not reflect anything.
A few hours after the turn of the year was announced on the radio with the sound of a cannon fire followed by upbeat music, everyone gathered in Khan’s house to pay the elders the New Year visit. In a big basket, fruit came out of the kitchen into the guest room. Nuts were piled in bowls. Cups of steaming tea on saucers passed hands. The children played in the snow in the yard. Pooran moved from the kitchen to the guest room as if she was eighteen again. The kids stood in a