Free The Shipwrecked by Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone Page B

am exhausted and careless about what goes into each carton. I just fill them up and line them against the wall.
    Mr. Yazdani is a constant, bothersome presence. He is one of those old men who feel entitled to interfere in everybody’s life. His gray hair has now yellowed with age. He has a florid complexion that looks flushed when hetalks. He has strangely hirsute hands. He always looks harassed and there is an urgency in his movements. One would think that at the time of his death he would hurry things up to get a more desirable place in the ever after.
    The first time I saw Mr. Yazdani, his watchful eyes darting under puffy eyelids, I had a premonition. He always seemed like he was chasing you with his eyes, constantly watching every move. But the house was attractive and I couldn’t resist because of its bothersome landlord. It took me a while to convince Mammad. He was likely to change his mind at any time, and insist that in his absence the best place for me and the baby would be his mother’s house.
    Mr. Yazdani had his acquisitive gaze fixed on me, trying to look understanding and sympathetic as Mammad signed the lease. We were now Yazdani’s tenants and Mammad stayed for a few days before going back to work. The first day, Mrs. Yazdani, with her half-covered face under the chador, turned to Mammad and exchanged greetings and pleasantries with him. She then turned the uncovered half of her face to me.
    â€œI told Yazdani that only one child is allowed,” she said, as she glanced at my swelling belly. Mammad had told her that we would soon be a family of four. “Well now that you are here,” she added, “it doesn’t matter. You are all welcome.”
    The Yazdanis had two sons living at home and attending college. They seemed very shy. Any time we met on thestaircase, they would stand aside against the wall and slide down the stairs, eyes cast downward.
    Since our apartment was on the first floor, we could hear the traffic up and down the staircase. Visitors were supposed to take their shoes off before ascending the carpeted stairs to the Yazdani residence. We could often hear Mr. Yazdani grumble audibly for the untidy way shoes had been left at the bottom of the staircase. He picked them up and neatly arranged them by the wall.
    I fell in love with the place at first sight. It was quiet and afforded privacy. The rooms were freshly painted, sunny, and inviting. The kitchen was large with a window opening onto the alley. When I opened the window I could hear the birds singing. The alley was wide and clean, with old houses on either side. The house across from our kitchen window was well-kept, and its wall was covered with jasmine and musk-scented roses. In the afternoons, a little girl would come out to play in her toy car. With the baby in my arms, I would watch her from the window, as she appreciated the audience, pedaling faster and doing intricate maneuvers around the courtyard.
    Mr. Yazdani handed me the basement key. “Dear girl, consider this your own home,” he said.
    â€œThank you,” I replied.
    â€œYou’re like my own daughter.”
    â€œThank you.”
    I had said “Thank you” one hundred times to get rid of him, but Yazdani had to explain the house rules over andover again. There were certain conditions for the use of the yard. The shoe rack had to be placed at a certain angle at the entrance door. I could use the garden hose, but had to roll it up and hang it on the hook every time. He talked hurriedly and in a low whisper, putting his face close to my face, staring at me with inquisitive eyes, as if he was searching for some unknown secret. I could see the pupils of his eyes moving restlessly from side to side.
    I had become aware of the old man’s disturbing energy early on. He was unlike other elderly men who would slump down in a comfortable chair and doze off. Actually, I don’t remember ever seeing him seated at all. He was