The Septembers of Shiraz Read Online Free Page A

morning rain, she shook her head no. She told him she is afraid of dogs, and besides, they are dirty. “They say this dog is very smart and well-behaved; they say it can even open doors,” Abbas said. She laughed. “That’s all I need! A dog that opens doors.” When she snuck another look at the orphaned animal, she saw Isaac patting its head. Soon the two of them were at play in the garden, Isaac throwing a yellow tennis ball—one of Parviz’s relics—and the dog running after it, carrying it back in its mouth and dropping it at Isaac’s feet. She saw the delight in her husband’s eyes and gave in. “Fine,” she said. “The dog can stay, but he will not enter the house.” A smile spread across Abbas’s creased face. “God bless you. And by the way, he’s a she. Her name is Suzie.”
    It amused her to be jealous of this dog, this Austrian-raised Suzie who could make Isaac’s eyes laugh in a way she herself had not been able to do in months.
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    A SHARP PAIN behind her right eye migrates to the nape of her neck and down her back. On the opposite wall, trees peering over the terrace make swaying shadows that most nights manage to put her to sleep. Tonight, as she watches them, she sees a shape hanging from a branch, a shape with flaccid limbs and a limp head. She shuts her eyes and counts to ten, but when she opens them it is still there.
    She unlocks the glass door leading to the terrace, hears its rattle as it slides open. A breeze rushes into the bedroom, sending the curtains into an unchoreographed dance. She stumbles through them and steps with her bare feet on the icy marble outside. Leaning against the balustrade, she sees it—a man wrapped in a white sheet, hanging on a low branch of their cherry tree. Isaac? Urine gushes down her legs. She goes back inside, makes her way down the stairs and out to the garden.
    When she reaches the damp cloth she runs her hands over it, front then back, finds nothing in its folds but dead air. The housekeeper, Habibeh, probably hung it there after drying the dog and forgot to remove it. She sits on the grass, its wetness seeping through her already-soaked nightgown and into her skin. Feeling a chill settling in her thighs, she goes back in, to her quiet house, which suddenly seems unnecessarily vast—the white limestone facade, the lanterns illuminating the garden path, the shimmering blue of the pool, all posing as elaborate gatekeepers to the unraveling inside.
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    â€œF ARNAZ-KHANOUM ? A RE YOU all right? Shall I bring you some tea? You don’t look so good. And why are you sleeping with just a camisole? You’ll catch cold…”
    Farnaz opens her eyes, sees Habibeh standing over her bed. “No, I’m getting up, thank you. I have to go out.” Her mouth is dry, a bitter taste trapped in her throat.
    â€œYes?” Habibeh looks at the bed, at the unruffled side, where Isaac should have been. “Amin-agha never came home?”
    â€œNo, Habibeh. They got him.” She pushes back the comforter, brings her feet to the floor and stares at them, her toenails painted a pinkish white—like seashells—reminding her of promenades along the beach, where they had been, just weeks ago.
    Habibeh rests her hand on Farnaz’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, khanoum. He is a good man, and he will get out.”
    â€œYes. But wasn’t Kourosh a good man? Where is he now?”
    â€œDon’t think about that now.” Habibeh walks to the windows and pulls open the curtains. The room plunges into a harsh brightness.
    â€œRemember Farnaz-khanoum, that gold silk sari Amin-agha brought me from India? I still have it wrapped in its paper in my closet. From time to time I take it out and run my fingers over it—it’s the softest thing I’ve ever touched. You remember that, khanoum?”
    This reminiscence, Farnaz thinks, has the flavor of old stories