The Age of Orphans Read online

  THE AGE OF ORPHANS

  A Novel

  Laleh Khadivi

  Contents

  Book I

  Southern Zagros Mountains,

  Courdestan—1921

  Book II

  Nehavand Barracks and the Town of

  Saqqez, Persia, soon to be Iran—1929

  Book III

  Tehran, Iran—1938

  Book IV

  Kermanshah, Iran—1940 to 1969

  Book V

  The Dirges of Old Man Khourdi,

  Taqibustan—1979

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  To Kamran and Fereshteh

  . . . they have marked me—even to myself. Because I am not like them, I am evil. I cannot get my hands on it: I, murderer, outlaw, outcast . . . Because their way is the just way and my way—the way of the kings and my father—crosses them: weaklings holding together appear strong . . . The worst is that weak, still, somehow, they are strong: they in effect have the power, by hook or by crook. And because I am not like them—not that I am evil, but more in accord with our own blood than they, eager to lead—this very part of me, by their trickery must not appear, unless in their jacket.

  Red Eric

  William Carlos Williams

  These people, the Kurds, lived in the mountains, were very war-like and not subject to the Persian king.

  Anabasis

  Xenophon

  It is more difficult to contend with oneself than with the world.

  Kurdish proverb

  Book I

  Southern Zagros Mountains,

  Courdestan—1921

  The Bird Boy

  The roof is made of thick mud, straw and woven sticks. Each morning the boy climbs a small mound of stones to reach the window ledge and then the roof’s lip and finally hoist himself to this top spot that affords a glimpse of endless horizon, the fan of a more ardent wind. Look, Maman! Look! Legs shrink and stretch to send the body of the boy, at four and five and finally six years, up, over and out for a moment’s flight; a swift reconnaissance of air and cloud and sky quick enough to blur the eyes and bate the breath. Mountains fold into the earth and the heavens round their blue nimbus over everything, and in this instant the boy ascends. His bones are thin and brittle, arms flung out and lax and his lungs open evenly to shout. Maaaaaaman! Looooook! No one calls back to him; no one comes; no aunts or cousins make mention or mind of the boy who every morning jumps and jumps again. He is but a boy, they say. Let the mountain air fill his lungs and the flashes of sky pulse through his head. The enthusiasms of a child are easily exhausted.

  In the end, breathless and sore, the boy cannot fly and instead must run to his maman to sit in the crisscross of her legs, where he comforts himself with the sweet taste of her milk and the steady sound of heartbeat until the bird in him is sated and calm. After the love and the drink he is ready again to walk about the village and take in the sights that repeat every day: his uncle hanging the skinned carcasses of goats and geese on the posts behind his house, messily slicing open their bellies as he smiles at the boy; older cousins stuck in games of stick fight and rock fight and fistfight turn to tease the boy with their spilled blood and swollen faces; girl cousins and aunts arguing and singing at the lip of the fountain, their arms sunk elbow-deep into the water to wash last night’s rice pots and this morning’s bread pans, keep him away with a simple tsk and nod of the head. At his own house the boy tiptoes to peer into the divan, where the men recline, take the pipe and keep each other company through the hottest part of the day. It is a room of rugs and whispers and smoke, and he is careful to see and not be seen, staying just long enough to catch sight of his baba’s eyes, blue and far and empty of any recognition for the boy’s little head that peeks just above the rim of the window and slowly floats past.

  He is just a boy, young, useless and kept from the tasks and play, the chiming world of women and the dark room of men. And every afternoon he takes to the periphery of the village in search of birds to watch and want to be, birds without limitations of mamans and babas, yes and no, mountain and fence.

  In the groves he marks the spry stares of sparrows and warblers for just a minute; they are too quick and low and fickle to carry the boy’s interest. He does not care for the inky crows that keep company with the sheep in the pens, or the finches that peck alongside the chickens and march out to the fields. Here he keeps his gaze fixed upward, to the ceiling of the sky, for the family of peregrines that circles high, indomitable and unsurpassed. When he spots them the boy lets loose to follow their flight with body and eyes and heart and spins about in their circle pattern until he grows tipsy and top-heavy. Stumbling, he wonders how his world would appear from that branch or that rocky escarpment or that particular patch of sky, and aches to fly from rooftop to mountaintop, to unfasten himself from the limits of the ground and soar in the enormous embrace of sky.

  But he is just a boy. Joined to the earth by bare feet and gravity, much like all the boys who came before, he walks over the dirt and stone of the land and will turn into an old man and then a dead man and finally dirt and stone. He is a simple son in a line of simple sons, born of a maman who sings only sad songs and a baba sharp faced and proud who reminds him, with a rough tug to the ear, that he is a lucky boy to be tied to the land by this tight knot of aunt and uncle and cousin that will protect him from the forever fierce beat of the sun, the jagged circles of mountains and the dry deserts all around.

  Still, the fascinations come first. At dusk he cannot help but run to his favorite rooftop, where he jumps and jumps until the earth and sky are a swirl and there is no up or down, no close or far. When he is tired and giddy and done, the boy lies on the roof and counts the stars as they shine out from the dusty dome, one and one and one. Each evening spreads over him like a satin blanket, immense and entire and yielding, to convince the boy that he too can belong to heaven and earth all at once.

  The Initiate

  It is the year they take the boy to the caves. It is the year after last, when he trailed the slow-moving caravan of pulled carts and horses and men, uncles, cousins and father, down the drive to the sloped edge of the bottomlands and his baba brushed him away with his hand in the air as if to move a fly, and said: Enough. Go home. Next year. Now it is that next year and but for the passage of days and days little about the boy has changed. His chest is not grown or round, his arms and neck are no thicker, the digits of his age are not doubled and just this morning he walks to and from the gathered caravan with the chalk-sweet taste of mother’s milk fresh on his tongue. Nonetheless, in a ceremony among themselves, the men, uncles, cousins and father, deign this to be the next year and the boy, his father’s only son, will be a man in it and suddenly all the days thus far suffice. They pack him in among the supplies on the flat bed of the cart pulled by his father’s donkey and his uncle’s old rheumy-eyed mule and say to the boy: Now. It is time. It is time.

  Alone in the back of the cart the boy remembers years past when he was left alone to keep the company of girls who would tease him. Have they left you behind again? You must not be man enough for the caves yet . . . or maybe you were meant to be a girl like us . . . come here, let us pull down your chalvar to see . . . Chided, the boy spent days on his roof, waiting for the return of the men. His eyes scoured the landscape of the Zagros and the flats and the distant line of the horizon, and the boy wished for wings to ride and meet the men, join them or return. When they came back, only a few days after their departure, he held his breath to see them. A procession of the empty-handed—without carcass or prized ibex horns, without bazaar toys, salt or even sugar—the men who were once uncles, cousins and father returned now hollow, deflated and extinguished as wrait
hs; the gel and water of their eyes emptied out and the sockets filled with the bold shine of sharp glass. A procession of the exhausted and blind. And every year he waited at his mother’s side, at his dog’s side, at the side of the house, for the men to stumble past and for his baba to take him in his arms and then to bed, where he would lie in the web of arms as the old man muttered, Next year, son of mine, next year, and fall into a sleep of clutching and sweating and snoring that kept the boy curious and wanting.

  Now it is his year and in preparation for the blindness the boy takes a good look around him. Alone in the back of the cart, he sits between the strings and stretched skins of instruments and flats of lavash, next to clanging copper pots and on top of rugs knotted by the tiny hands of girls who are perhaps now old women, maybe now dead women who haunt the world with these intricate patterns. The boy lies on his back to see the blue expanse. He holds his small hand up against it flat and then in a fist, the lines of his skin elaborate against the blank sky, birdless today and streaked across with white. He turns over onto his belly to press an eye between the spaces in the roughened wood slats and watch the earth roll beneath the cart in an endless succession of scrub, dirt, rock and bone, and the boy concentrates on everything above and beneath and around him, careful to memorize the look of it all.

  They travel a long time through the day on a dust path that strings village to village, from which residents come forth to stand with hands idly in pockets or across the smooth tops of canes and squint at the movements of the men, to observe and say nothing. Across the day and across the land the caravan travels without stop. The boy pees through the slats of wood and takes water from the cask as the medley of men and burdened beasts moves atop the arid earth that never belonged to anyone after the Parthians (once) and the Sassanids (once) and the Mongols (once) and the Turks ( just then) and the Russians (now and then) and the shah (soon), and so the Kurdish clan moves on, to own what ever piece of land they step on or roll over or smash for just that single moment of impact and no longer.

  Farther from home than he has ever been, the boy feels it too, at once in possession and at once dispossessed, and so holds close to himself, hands and legs and knees to the stomach, all of it sewn neatly into a skin. Evening spreads across the sky and the procession moves on, the eyes of man and the eyes of beast now similar in a common march of figures patient and erect, that hold soil apart from sky and push the western horizon of day from the eastern edge of night. The boy sits still, sees less and less, sings and finally sleeps.

  They walk until the animals slacken in their pull and the men arrive in a darkness deep and empty enough to seem not an arrival but a pause. The boy sees the nothing and senses the nowhere and the men dismount and drink and order him, Find wood, tether the horses, arrange the sacks, go into the cave and lay down the rugs, yes, the dark cave, go. And the boy goes into the absolute dark where the cold stone pushes all around him, full and heavy and smothering. He feels the entirety of the mountain atop him, timeless and sheathed in a thin skin of grass and moss. Inside it he is barefoot and steps on the spalled stones, compact and intricate with the details and dents of time and in a moment the cave wraps about him completely like a caul. In the dim hollow the boy recognizes no color or smell or touch but hears the ring of every sound—his own breath, the horses neighing, his father’s deep laugh—as they chime within him and without. Quickly he rolls out rugs and arranges sacks and spreads blankets where he thinks to be here and there and the stone closes in until it is all he can do to sit in the noisy heartbeat of the dark, on rugs knotted by last year’s girls, maybe this year’s women or next year’s ghosts, whose tiny hands flutter around him like bats.

  In time the men come into the cave and the boy is relieved to tend to them with tea from the samovar and oil for their feet. He and his closest cousin run sticks together to coax fire and flame and the cave opens, no longer black and closed but red and centered, and the uncles, cousins and father undress to the hot orange heart. They remove layers that shield them against sun and day, women and each other, and sit naked but for the cloth tangled loosely about the loins. All around him cave carvings flicker in the new light, but the boy does not see them, distracted as he is by the sudden presence of his family’s flesh: gaunt or corpulent, hairy or barren, with nipples just like his and shoulders just like those on his boy body, and remembers this to be his year and silently undresses himself alongside them.

  When the cave is filled with heat a pipe is lit and passed and the men, uncles, cousins and father, inhale and exhale until the brown coals and the light of their eyes are one and the same. In his life the boy has distinguished the men by their discipline and silence, their warning and argument, their smoking and sleeping and spitting. In the lambent light of the cave, though, the men are indistinguishable, folded into a piece, a joined monad unified in motion and desire. They pick up instruments and rile their voices and together sing one song, in one breath, with one voice.

  The boy tries to hum along but is distracted by the chronicles that emerge from deep in the cave walls; around him the cave walls are chiseled into animal bodies, human bodies, moon and sun. And the stone story goes: a crown, passed from hand to carved hand of figures robed and frozen, being passed, still passed, always passing, Here, this land is yours, this land is yours, here, Parthian, Sassanid, Madig and Saladin, this land is yours. Farther down bristle-covered boars and gigantic horses and round beasts with long uncoiled snouts walk among stalks of grain and grass toward the hunter king with his arrow and bow, toward their own capture and kill. Farther still a man in a sharp crown holds the ankles of the dead boar in his hands, and the boar, upside-down, bloodless and pierced through the neck, smiles with a twist in its lips. Women with harps in their laps, dead warriors spread out in layers of tangled limbs, the crescent moon and prickly sun and the stone story spread around the boy’s head, convincing and true. But the faces—smashed off, uneven, jagged and erased—the boy understands the personalities in the carvings to be present, responsible for the evening’s atmosphere, and reconciles the cold renderings in the rock with the live skin of the men who brought him here, uncles, cousins and father, who sit and sing now, full in breath, sentient and pulsed through with blood.

  The Kurds have many fathers and those are three.

  The boy is drawn into his father’s warm lap and held tightly against loosely clad loins. His baba points up to the triumvirate of human men sculpted shoulder to shoulder in the stone. The figures, dressed in wide pants and turbans, each with a long beard of stiff coils, are linked hand to hand, shoulder to hand, head to hand in a posture of victory.

  Just as I am your father you will one day father and the land has fathered us, the lines of Kurd blood do not cross but flow together from their time to ours, through those bodies and down into the bodies of son and son and father and son and king and son and me and you. We are aligned in our duty and our duty is to those three.

  The boy sees a man with a sharp crown on his head, a man in a sheath of armor, a man who pushes a spear through the ground. His father pulls him in until the hairs on his chest tickle the boy’s bare back and the old man’s exhales wet the knots of spine on his neck.

  We are the children born of Mount Cudi, where Noah’s ark rested after the flood, and our families are born of the animals and gardens of the survived, of God’s chosen.

  So he is told and so the boy hears the daf beat and the sitar strings hum.

  It was King Suleiman who wanted a harem of pale-skinned beauties, and it was the djinn who captured his harem of virgins and bred the Kurds, children born of mountain shaitans and golden angels.

  And so he is told.

  We survived the evil king Zahak, who fed on the brains of Kurds, until one by one we escaped to the mountains and that is how we came to live in the Zagros, to drink of the snow water and eat from cracks in the rock and grow into strong men, men of stone.

  And so he is told.

  When you think of God, when you lay y
our head down and pray against this ground, they—the father circles a finger in the air and points to all walls of the cave at once—will come to you.

  The boy leans back to nestle in his father’s lap and smell the pipe and hear the chord of their one song. After a time he grows sleepy and can no longer distinguish between the vision of his open eyes and the vision behind his closed lids. He imagines himself in round robes and mottled armor, his boy face heavy with an iron beard, his head arrayed in light; father and son standing as victors atop the layers of bodies dead and flattened into the ground. He absorbs his father’s breath into his back, accepts this new patrimony, gladly enters into the tight belonging of the cave and lets sleep enter and all of her entombed dreams.

  In the thin light of dawn the men rise, dress, drink the samovar’s cold tea and abandon the cave to walk, without conversation, up the shale and grass of the mountain in whose bedrock they slept. A gauze of cloud covers the sky and their shadows float beneath them, muted and dull. The boy holds neither to his father’s hand nor to his closest cousin and rises upward like the rest: loose of limb, given to the march, the wind, to the loom of sky and drop of earth. The mountain changes from the soft ground to scarps of jutting rock and stone broken apart by intermissions of loose talus. Young cousins rush to help older uncles with offers of hands and shoulders, crooks of elbows and sturdy waists, to steady the elders against the ungracious incline. The boy too offers his reed-thin arms and narrow shoulders and is quickly pushed back by stern hands.