The Book of Fate Read Free Page A

Chevrolet you like?’
    Parvaneh looked at the car and then at me and she burst into laughter and half-screamed, ‘Oh how funny! She thinks a Fiat is a Chevrolet.’
    I was red up to my ears and dying of embarrassment, both from her laughter and from my own stupidity in having finally revealed my ignorance.
    Parvaneh’s family had a radio and a television at home. I had seen a television at Uncle Abbas’s house, but we had only a large radio. While Grandmother was alive and whenever my brother Mahmoud was at home, we never listened to music, because it was a sin, especially if the singer was a woman and the song was upbeat. Although Father and Mother were both very religious and knew listening to music was immoral, they weren’t as strict as Mahmoud and liked listening to songs. When Mahmoud was out, Mother would turn on the radio. Of course, she kept the volume low so that the neighbours wouldn’t hear. She even knew the lyrics to a few songs, especially those by Pouran Shahpouri, and she used to sing quietly in the kitchen.
    One day I said, ‘Mother, you know a good number of Pouran’s songs.’
    She jumped like a firecracker and snapped, ‘Quiet! What sort of talk is this? Don’t you ever let your brother hear you say such things!’
    When Father came home for lunch, he would turn on the radio to listen to the news at two o’clock and then he would forget to turn it off. The Golha music programme would start and he would unconsciously start moving his head, nodding in tempo with the music. I don’t care what anyone says, I’m sure Father loved Marzieh’s voice. When they played her songs, he never said, ‘May God have mercy! Turn that thing off.’ But when Vighen sang, he would suddenly remember his faith and piety and yell, ‘That Armenian is singing again! Turn it off.’ Oh, but I loved Vighen’s voice. I don’t know why, but it always reminded me of Uncle Hamid. From what I can remember, Uncle Hamid was a good-looking man. He was different from his brothers and sisters. He smelled of cologne, which was something rare in my life… When I was a child he used to take me in his arms and say to Mother, ‘Well done, sister! What a beautiful girl you gave birth to. Thank God she didn’t turn out looking like her brothers. Otherwise, you would have had to get a big cask and pickle her!’
    And Mother would exclaim, ‘Oh! What are you saying? What’s ugly about my sons? They’re as handsome as can be, it’s just that they’re a little olive-skinned, and that’s not bad. A man isn’t supposed to be pretty. From back in the old days it has always been said that a man should be uncomely, ugly and bad-tempered!’ She would sing these last words and Uncle Hamid would laugh out loud.
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    I looked like my father and his sister. People always thought Mahboubeh and I were sisters. But she was prettier than me. I was thin and she was plump, and unlike my straight hair that wouldn’t curl no matter what I did, she had a mass of ringlets. But we both had dark-green eyes, fair skin and dimples on our cheeks when we laughed. Her teeth were a bit uneven and she always said, ‘You’re so lucky. Your teeth are so white and straight.’
    Mother and the rest of the family looked different. Their skin was olive-toned, they had black eyes and wavy hair, and they were somewhat fat. Though none of them was as portly as Mother’s sister, Aunt Ghamar. Of course, they weren’t ugly. Especially not Mother. When she threaded off her facial hair and plucked her eyebrows, she looked just like the pictures of Miss Sunshine on our plates and dishes. Mother had a mole on the side of her lip and she used to say, ‘The day your father came to ask for my hand, he fell in love with me the instant he caught sight of my mole.’
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    I was seven or eight when Uncle Hamid left. When he came to say