NINETEEN MONTHS HAD PASSED. Nineteen long, heavy months she had carried the child, and still it would not come. She bore the burden on her belly and on her back, moving with a slow, laboured gait. Just a few steps and her breath would fail her and the world would tilt and spin about her head. It had come to this: she scarcely moved at all now. She would sit for hours, lost in thought.
She thought of the child she had not yet met, whose sex after all these months remained unknown to her. She would settle herself into a corner, eyes fixed upon her vast, swollen belly, and plead with the unseen creature within.
‘Come, my darling. Come, my love. Come and release us both from this torment. Come, so I may at last draw this aching longing from my heart and stroke your red, plump cheeks. Come, Mummy is waiting. Come, my sweet one. You have made an old woman of me before my time; you have worn me quite away. How can you be so stubborn, even before you are born, just like your father? No matter how I beg, you will not listen. Come, my hope. Come, my pretty one. Let me at last offer these waiting breasts to your mouth. I will give you the very milk of my life, that you may grow strong. I will give you my soul. My life is yours. Take it. Only set me free. Come, child. Come, damn you. Come and lift this suffering from me.’
She talked to her belly in this way. Sometimes, when she was in a gentler mood, she would sing to it. At other times she would hurl the ripest curses — at the child’s father, at herself, at that unseen, beloved creature who refused to emerge.
She had grown as large as the world. She thought that if this went on much longer she would become bigger than the world itself. She saw herself as a child inside the belly of the world. At night she dreamed of giving birth to herself. She dreamed she had grown so vast that she had burst out of the belly of the world and come into the open. Free. Free, and she had killed the world in childbirth.
She had become terribly big. People advised her to dismount from her devil’s donkey and put an end to this madness. Eat less. Move about a little. Lose some weight. But how could she? This child was not willing to be born even now. It was probably still too small. Probably not ready yet. She had to eat. She had to look after the child. More and more. Her belly hung in six heavy folds. It no longer resembled the belly of a pregnant woman; it looked more like risen dough. Her double chin was like a toad’s. The skin of her cheeks had cracked from fatness and the blue veins showed through it. She could no longer cross her legs, and when she walked she had no balance. With all that weight and only one arm it was hard to keep steady. She walked cautiously, one hand against the wall.
For months she had not left the house. The only path she travelled was from the comfortable sofa to the kitchen and the toilet. They had brought her a Western-style toilet seat and fixed it on top of the Iranian one so she could manage. Even so, it was still difficult. She drank as little water as possible so she would not have to go. The constipation was killing her. When she sat on the toilet she would curse heaven and earth. She would scream. She would wail. She would swear at God too. Dear God, must I beg even to be delivered of my own shit? Is this nineteen-month-old child in my belly not enough? Is all this torment not enough for me? My whole backside is torn to shreds and still You are not satisfied? How long do You want to punish me? That man has gone about his own business. You have left me alone in this house with all the misery. Did I ask for a child? I am a cripple with one arm. Even if it is born, how will I hold it with one hand? How will I feed it? How will I change it? How will I raise it without a father? If it is born and it is hungry and I am stuck here in this ruin with my own shitting, what am I supposed to do? I was wrong, dear God. I was wrong. Let it come. I swear on Ali, let it come. I will raise it no matter what it takes. I will do everything myself, alone.
She told herself that if the child came, perhaps her husband would finally appear too. She wanted him to come. Though deep down she was also terrified of his coming. She imagined what would happen if one day he returned and saw her like this. How disgusted he would be. How many insults he would throw at her. When he left, she had not been like a pregnant cow. True, she had only one arm, but her figure had been decent. Her eyes had not yet disappeared under the layers of extra flesh. She could still move about and cook whatever her husband wanted. Even with one hand. But she comforted herself with the thought that if he came and found out she was pregnant, he would stay. At least for the sake of the child he would stay. Then she would not need to be pretty and slim. The child would be enough. Let him stay just for the child. Then suddenly fear would seize her: what if he took the child and left with it? What if he only wanted the child? What if they both abandoned her and went on with their lives? What would she do then? No! This child must not come! Since it had not come until now, it should stay in its mother’s belly. It should stay until the man was trapped.
Then little by little she would persuade herself that if he stayed and the child was born, she would slim down again within a month. Like before! But what if her husband gave his usual excuse? Even if you slim down, even if your eyes appear in your face again, what about your hand? What will you do with your hand? Will you let him plant his seed in your stump? Grow another one for you? I don’t want a one-handed woman. All four limbs of my body are healthy. I want a healthy woman. A one-handed wife is no use to me. Do you understand? A one-handed woman does not arouse me. I can’t. It turns my stomach. I have no problem with you yourself. But I cannot get over the absence of that hand. When my eyes fall on it I feel disgust. Do you understand? I don’t know why I made this mistake. I don’t know how I agreed to marry a cripple like you. One day I will leave. I will go and live my own life. I will divorce you and free myself from this torment. From feeling sorry for you yet being repulsed by your missing hand and not knowing what to do with myself. We should separate. You go and find yourself another husband. Find one who has all his limbs. Someone blind, deaf, bald… someone who matches you.
The woman prayed that her husband would have an accident. Become crippled. That some disaster would befall him and he would come back home. But the man never came. Even if he became crippled, he would not return. He did not love her. Except for that one time when they had made the child, he had never loved her. So why had he come for her from the very beginning? Perhaps his heart had softened. She did not know. But he had come with a pleasant kindness. He had planted a feeling in her heart that he loved her, or at least did not dislike her. If it had not been so, the woman would not have thrown herself from the pit of her mad father into the well of a husband. Would she not? Well, she would have. She had always deceived herself in this way to convince herself that he loved her. Otherwise there was none of that. Who would have come to marry her? Who could have saved her from her mother and father? When her husband came, although gently, although smiling, from the very beginning deep in her soul the woman knew there was no love. No man falls in love with a woman like her. It was obvious. There was no discussion. The man had come. He had stayed for a while. Then he had taken his road and that was that. He had not touched her; except for that one time when they made the child. But why had he married her in the first place? What did he gain from it?
To hell with it. Let him never come! I will stay with my child. The two of us. We will live together. We will be happy. The world will be sweet. The child will grow up. I will not show myself to his friends so he won’t feel ashamed. I will stay in the house. In the back room. In hijab. I will not let life be hard for him. I will not let worry enter his heart. If he asks about his father I will answer boldly. I will say he is dead. I will say he died in an accident. The same accident that caused me to lose my hand. I will not let him know why I no longer have my hand. I will not let him abandon me like his father. I will never tell him how I lost my hand.
She talked to her belly and to herself, and slipped into a world that had once been hers. She turned the pages of her memories and ate something. Whenever the sorrow in her heart grew heavy she would eat and stare into a corner. But her eyes saw nothing. Most of all she thought about that night when the child was made. She went over it a thousand times. Sometimes her heart would sink in her chest. Thinking of the man’s tearful eyes would set her on fire. A hundred times a day she searched her memory in case she had missed something. The smallest word… the smallest movement…
Again the man had been in a bad mood. He had insulted her several times. He had thrown her missing hand in her face. He had moaned about his bad luck, about the mistake of marrying her. The woman had shed quiet tears and cursed her fate and her father. Then, on the pretext of shopping, she had gone out. When she returned home that night she found her husband and two of his friends sitting together talking. The house was full of smoke. Full of the smell of the man’s body. When she opened the door she was first frightened, but then she smiled at the guests and greeted them. With her husband, however, nothing. She even stole her gaze away in anger. She went to the kitchen and busied herself cooking something. When the guests left, the man came and stood at the kitchen door watching her. The woman’s ears burned. She was afraid he would do something to her. Distressed. She felt the weight of his gaze on her body. His look grew heavier and heavier.
She stopped what she was doing. She put down the dish in her hand and turned around. She wanted to tell him to leave her alone. She wanted to shout that she was not afraid of him. To say that she had not been blind when he came and married her. She had seen that the woman had no hand. It was not her fault. She wanted to scream that this is how it is. Go. Divorce me and go to whatever woman you want. You haven’t even been with me until now. For two years you haven’t been with me. We have only lived in one house but we have never even slept in one bed. But she had not said it. Her eyes had locked with the man’s strange gaze. There were tears in the man’s eyes. Two seas of tears. She had never seen it. She had never seen his eyes kind. Human. Shedding tears. Tears were swimming in her husband’s eyes. With a faint, sorrowful smile. The woman’s heart caught fire. Her chest burned. She could not bear it. Her throat tightened. Her hand went cold. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Her heart pounded like a drum. It beat fast like a sparrow’s heart. When the words left the man’s mouth, his tears rolled down his cheeks and other tears took their place. ‘How unkind you are. You greet my friends, you smile at them, but you don’t even look at me? Unkind…’
He had said it all with kindness and a lump in his throat. With sorrow. Then he had come forward, wrapped his arms around the woman’s neck, brought his lips to her ear, and breathed into it. Several deep breaths. Then he had taken her earlobe between his teeth. The woman’s heart fluttered. Her hand trembled like a willow. She forgot to breathe. She wanted to hold the moments. Not let them move forward. She wanted to keep this small excitement of her life for herself. To slow time. Slow it so much that it would last until the end of her life. But with one hand she could not stop the passing of the moments. She had no strength. The man, still kissing and breathing, had carried her to the bed that had never been warmed. He had played with her body properly. He had stolen her heart. He had stolen her body. He had stolen her womb and made the child. The woman felt as if she had ascended to God. As if she were not of this world. The new tenderness of her husband lulled her to sleep. The woman was at her peak. Her eyes were smiling. Her lips were trembling. Her heart was afraid. Afraid of making a mistake. Afraid the man would leave her. Run away. Afraid he would dislike her.
She did not dare do anything extra in case the man’s affection disappeared. But even after he had finished he kissed his wife lovingly. He lay down beside her and caressed her. The woman remembered it well and smiled. Could all those moments have been lies? It was impossible that he had woven such a skilful lie. His tears had been real. His kisses, his caresses, his words… The woman was ready to swear on her child’s life that everything that night had been real. The man had lain naked and content in her bed and talked with her for hours, kissing her bit by bit. For the first time the woman had felt desired, that she was beautiful. For the first time she had told herself that not having a hand was not so important. Everything was all right now. His love had finally reached her heart. The hard days of her life were over. And for the first time the man had asked her about her severed hand. The woman had spoken through tears. She had spoken and spoken. My father did it. My father brought me to this state. He was beating my mother like a dog. I couldn’t bear it. I went forward. I wanted to separate them. I wanted to take my father’s hand so he would stop hitting her. He pushed me. He wouldn’t let me. I didn’t have the strength.
Suddenly, in a rage, my hand moved beyond my control. Like a raging lion I leapt at my father. I clenched my fist. I punched him in the side. I was not even seventeen. I had no strength. But my courage overcame my father. He let go of my mother and came at me. He beat me as much as he could. Blood had covered his eyes. My mother was crying like a spring cloud on the other side. She said you’ll kill him, man. Back off. Let him go. My father wouldn’t stop. A few minutes later he suddenly stood still. He looked at me. Then at my mother. He said: All right. I won’t hit him any more but I’ll do something so he never eats extra shit again. So he can’t eat. I’ll do something to him so he can never raise his hand against his father again. My mother said fine. Do whatever you want. He deserves it. Just don’t hit him any more. My father ran to the kitchen. He picked up a knife. He came and stood over me. My mother was stunned. She was speaking without thinking. She kept repeating: Do whatever you want. He deserves it. Just don’t hit him any more. My father took my hand and pulled it towards himself. I was howling like a wolf. I had shit myself. He didn’t hear. I didn’t have the strength to scream.
My father placed the sharp edge of the knife on my forearm. I passed out. I went limp, half-conscious, between ground and air. My father cut. Blood spurted. My mother screamed. My father cut until the knife reached the bone. I closed my eyes from the sight of my blood and the pain. As if I were dead. But I was not dead. I had the life of a dog. When I woke up I found myself lying in the middle of the room. Blood everywhere. Someone had tied my arm with a cloth. The cloth was all blood. My body was ice cold. I said I’m going to die. I won’t survive. With all that blood I had lost. With that deep wound in my arm. But I had the life of a dog. I survived. Two days later my mother persuaded my father to open the door of the room. She wanted to come and take my corpse. She didn’t think I was alive. Her screams are still in my ears. I had no strength to move. My arm smelled like a dead dog. It had become infected. It did not heal. The doctors cut it off.
The man cried with his wife and kissed her, and in the middle of her tears the woman was happy that she had become important to him. That someone was sad for her sorrow. That he loved her. Now he knew the story and would no longer throw her severed hand in her face… She felt emptied. Her heart now beat calmly. She curled up in the man’s strong embrace and, lost in a thousand happy thoughts, fell into a deep, heavy, contented sleep.
When she woke up, the man was no longer there. He had gone. Anxiety seized the woman. She told herself that perhaps he had gone on some errand. That he would return. In an hour. In another day. In a week. In a month… Now nineteen months had passed and the man had not come. She did not understand what had happened. She was bewildered. No matter how much she thought, her mind could not accept the man’s departure. Little by little she began to swell. She could not get used to it. She went to the doctor. She was certain she was pregnant. They did tests. They said there was no sign of a child. But she knew better. After a few months she felt the child moving in her belly, sliding from one side to the other, playing like a fish on a slide. When she was full term the child began to kick. More ultrasounds. More tests. More doctors… Their machines did not show the child.
Now nineteen months had passed. Without menstruation. Without a drop of blood. Without a child coming. Without a man coming. She just sat on the sofa. Staring at the narrow walls of her house. Eating. Growing bigger. Thinking. Turning over her memories. Begging the child. She would put her hand on her belly and thrill at the child’s movements. Sorrow came and went in her heart. Thoughts and fantasies surrounded her. She had survived on memories and hope for the child. But the child flattened her illusions. The child was her religion and her world, and when it was born everything would be all right.
The woman rested her head on the back of the sofa, closed her eyes. She chewed and swallowed the mouthful in her mouth, smiled, and a spark passed through her heart. She tried to picture the child’s face in her mind. It looked something like her lost husband. Her smile deepened. Hope sprouted in her heart.