Deliverance (3 page)

"They seem 
cool 
enough." I emphasize the word cool, because isn't that the most important thing? Well, that, and if you want to plan for the future, then money matters too. Even I'm forced to be a little shallow if I want to make sure I can keep my middle class lifestyle. Especially in this failing economy. But the car they’re driving indicates money is probably not a problem.

"Not as cool as Ehsan," Leyli sighs.

Pride blooms in my chest. No, not as cool as Ehsan. But he is one of a kind after all.

Finally, the traffic has moved enough that the boys' car is next to ours. People behind us are honking and yelling obscenities to get her to move, but she ignores them. She exchanges smiles with the boys and takes the mobile number from the one in the driver's seat. The one wearing a football shirt. I suddenly imagine him in a bus filled with football-shirt-wearing jocks carrying flags and those annoying trumpets and chanting "Iran! Iran! Iran!" in that thickhead sporting way. God! In my mind, he might as well be a wrestling champion. I shudder.

My reaction doesn't fail to catch Leyli's attention. After she beams one last smile at the boy – who I can now only picture shirtless holding up those huge wooden clubs with a dumb smile on his face – and has driven up the few spots, she turns to me. None too early, because one of the annoyed obscenity-uttering drivers has gotten out of his car and is storming towards us. He returns to his car now that he’s the one blocking traffic.

"Okay, what did you notice that I didn't? What was wrong with him?"

I almost blurt out that he is a wrestling champion, but then remember that, in fact, the only thing wrong with him is that he's a football fan. So I shrug.

"Tell me," she insists.

"It's nothing. He was wearing a football shirt and you know how I feel about jocks."

"That's all? Nakissa joon, you should have seen the look of disgust on your face! I thought it was something bad. Like maybe he had a fat stomach or wore jogging pants or something."

I laugh and this encourages her to continue.

"I thought maybe you had noticed that he dresses like the president!" As usual, she rolls her eyes as she uses the 
P word
. "Could you imagine?"

By the time we reach the hospital, we have tears in our eyes from laughing so much.

Maman won't stop complaining. Apparently everyone has been mistreating her, ignoring her, or treating her like an invalid. She's been in the car for only five minutes and already Leyli and I are exchanging glances. Maman is not usually this high maintenance, but like all mothers, she can be over-dramatic. She loves to emphasize her suffering and then scoff at anyone who offers her pity. Sometimes I worry I'm a little bit like her.

The traffic is still a nightmare – when is it not? – and I wish we could just get home. Leyli's on her best behavior but she and Maman don't always see eye to eye on everything... or anything... and I'm just waiting for Maman to snap at her.

Leyli is answering Maman’s questions about her brother Mehran who is practically a genius and will probably receive a scholarship to attend university in the US. I’m just waiting on her to start picking on my own grades which are good, just not good enough according to her, or to tell Leyli she should be more like her brother – she’s done that before.

We inch past a small grocery store I've never noticed before. At first I think it's just the boredom of traffic, and trying to escape Maman's imminent nagging that makes it catch my attention, but there's something more. The building is old and rundown. One of those converted buildings from the past. When I look at it, images of how it must have looked fifty years ago flash before my eyes.

It feels so real that I'm instantly disoriented. The air seems thick around me, filled with a current I can almost manipulate. It's more than just the pollution. Music escapes the old building. The ancient languid, sorrowful sound strikes a chord inside of me. I feel like I own this song somehow. It belongs to me, in my heart, and it's a shock to hear it on the outside.

"Have you heard this song before?" I ask absent-mindedly.

"Um yeah, it only plays on the radio every hour." Leyli is referring to the latest mindless Persian summer tune imported from L.A. currently blaring from the car stereo and from everywhere in the city.

"Not on the radio. The traditional music coming from the store."

Leyli turns down the radio, eliciting a grateful sigh from Maman who is sitting in the front seat next to her, and cranes her neck from side to side. She raises her impeccably manicured eyebrows.

"Azizam, I hear nothing. Maybe you are just going crazy." She tilts her head and shifts her eyes to the seat next to her but Maman seems to be oblivious to the motion. Instead, she is peering around curiously.

"I'm sorry, Nakissa jan. I also hear nothing. It was probably just that cheap music you listen to; it's harming your hearing."

Obviously, there's something wrong with 
their
 hearing because the music is still playing and it's loud. The melody haunts me. Shivers crawl up my arms like tiny spiders, and I rub them to shake the feeling. Finally, the traffic moves again, and the music fades into the background, but not from my mind.

I haven't been back home for more than a few hours when Leyli texts me. She wants to go out and meet up with a couple friends at the coffee shop. Normally, I'm all for it but tonight I just want to lay low. I buy some time by telling her I need a shower and I wander into Ebi's room. My little brother’s in his usual position, lounging on his bed, video game controller in his hand.

I scan his room for what I'm looking for, and right away I find it, leaning against one of his poster-plastered walls. Ebi is seriously the coolest eight-year-old out there. His guitar, an old acoustic one that Bijan passed down to him, is covered in graffiti-like doodles and line-drawings of big American brands like Coca Cola and Converse.

"Can I borrow your guitar?" I ask him.

"What?" he shouts over the obviously-way-too-loud video game blasting in his headphones.

I step over the junk on the floor – before her accident, Maman would have kept his room clean for him, but there’s no way I’m touching that mess – to get to his guitar, pick it up and hold it up to him while raising my eyebrows at him as a question. He shrugs so I take it as a yes, and exit the room before I gag on the smell of rotting milk coming from somewhere under the heaps of dirty laundry.

Back in my room, I push my door closed for a little privacy. It's been months since I practiced music of any sort, and though I wasn't bad at it, I was never really good either.

I plop down on the side of my bed and pluck at some strings absent-mindedly. My mind wanders to the tune that came from that run down market. I imagine the building once again like it must have appeared fifty years ago, but suddenly I'm looking at something else, and I know it's not Tehran anymore.

I recognize Esfahan and for the first time, I understand why the proverb says Esfahan is half the world, because I'm seeing the city in its glory. I'm on a balcony over-looking a large square filled with tents and entertainers, fire jugglers and acrobats. Between my fingers are the delicate strings of a harp and I'm playing 
that
 song.

The sound of the harp gradually changes to the guitar and I return to reality. But the strange thing is I'm still playing the song that captured my imagination. My fingers move between the strings as if they have a mind of their own. I must have learned it in my lessons. I guess this is why the melody seemed so familiar, but strangely, I can't picture the music sheet for it.

My mobile dings, notifying me of an incoming text, and I reluctantly disengage myself from the guitar to check it out. It's Leyli. She's at the door and I have little choice but to come out.

On our way to the coffee shop, Leyli and I pass 
the
 store again and I still feel drawn to it, though I don't hear the music anymore. When I ask Leyli if we can stop, she raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing; she just parks the car and follows me in.

The assortment of things for sale can only be described as random. Some groceries line the barely stocked shelves in the center aisles, while the wall shelves contain miscellaneous electronic equipment. The back wall displays a few carpets and a glass counter show off more electronics and some imitation cologne. Leyli leans over the counter to take a better look at something and the shopkeeper rushes to help her.

His originally annoyed tone takes a different timbre when he notices her designer sunglasses and handbag. He begins offering her "a good price" on several colognes until he sees that she is clearly not interested. This is when he smiles and pulls a box from under the counter. In it, a few cans of whisky make a metallic cling sound as they rub against some bottles of brand name vodka.

"Maybe the lady is interested in some 
special
 merchandise?" he says in a way that would lead one to believe that not every shop on this street is also selling contraband.

"Ask her," Leyli says, nodding her head in my direction, "I'm not even sure why we're here."

To be honest, I don't know why we're here either. Yet, I just can't help but believe there is a clue to that weird music here, somewhere.

And then I see it.

Tucked into the corner of the shop, like an afterthought, is an antique harp. It makes no sense for it to be there. It doesn't fit in. The harp looks really old. The gilded carvings are packed with dust and dirt from years of neglect. Still, as I look at it, I just can't help but see its potential. I see it like it must have looked in its glory. I reach towards it.

"Don't touch that, it will break," the shopkeeper calls out.

I ignore him. Reason tells me I should listen to the man, but I can't. It's stronger than me. I have to touch it. Without thinking, I kneel in front of it, place my hands on each side, and start playing. My fingers glide against the silk strings and the motions feel natural, but the instrument is out of tune, so what comes out is anything but graceful or beautiful or anything, really. The shop keeper eyes me, and I'm afraid he's going to give me an earful about performing my music in public or something stupid like that. He takes purposeful steps towards me, and I detangle myself from the harp. His eyes are clouded by something. Doubt? Fear? I'm not sure.

"Do you play professionally?"

I shake my head. What a question. I've never even played the harp. I scan the store for Leyli and finally find her. She's standing stock still watching me.

"Well, aren't you full of surprises?" she calls out. There is a bitter edge to her tone I just don't understand.

"Follow me." The man walks towards a back door to another room.

I exchange a confused glance with Leyli and she nods her head in his direction. Leyli is reckless as usual, but I worry.

At the door, she pauses. "Well? Are you coming?" There is a challenge to her tone that I can't resist. I'm tired of always being the voice of reason. A quiet voice that is always ignored anyway. I shrug and follow her.