Return Visit

H

ow much eidi have you collected?” I whispered over the phone.

It was the morning of the twelfth day of Nowruz and this year I was determined to beat my cousin, Amir, in collecting new year money.

“24,150 tomans,” Amir replied. “You?” I could hear his smirk.

I eyed the frayed envelope next to the phone. During the first days of the holidays, I wrote the number in pencil and carefully erased the previous amount as I added new banknotes. But then I used a pen after visiting great-uncle Nasser and started to cross out numbers as my eidis soared. I didn’t need to read the only uncrossed number that said 20,050 tomans to know I was behind. I had just re-counted my money before calling Amir.

“I haven’t counted mine since yesterday, but about the same,” I said as I did the mental math and scribbled 4,100 tomans—the amount I needed to collect by the end of the day. The problem was that the last day was for visiting distant relatives and everyone knew that they would only give small amounts, if they gave anything at all.

“We shall count tomorrow,” he said.

It was bad luck to stay indoors on the thirteenth—the last day of Nowruz—so every year the relatives would picnic at Amir’s mother’s pomegranate orchard in Arsanjan to rid themselves of the curse of staying indoors. Since first grade, Amir and I had been bringing our eidis to compare our earnings. He always won.

“Are you going to anyone’s house today?” I asked in my best casual voice.

“I have to finish my Nowruz Messenger today or my maman won’t let me go to the orchard tomorrow,” he grumbled.

I grinned. He couldn’t collect any more eidis today. All schools—including his posh private school—received the same mandatory holiday workbook from the Department of Education. It wasn’t an Apollo launch—I completed mine the day I brought it home. But Amir was a procrastinator. That boy has too many diversions, my mother said about his grades.

“It’s so dumb,” Amir continued. “My brother says German kids don’t get homework for their holiday breaks.”

“You can do it,” I said brightly before I hung up.

The competition was unfair. Amir hadn’t lifted a finger to collect so much.

First, his parents were doctors and they’d each given him 5,000 tomans while I got 1,000 from both of my parents. His father—my mother’s twin—had gone to medical school where he married up into a family of former landowners.

To make matters worse, Amir’s parents gave us each 3,000 tomans—my highest eidi—which put my parents into a bind, gifting Amir with a generous eidi of 6,000 tomans to somehow compensate for what they had contributed to our large family.

“You didn’t have to give him so much, sister,” I overheard my uncle say under his breath. “He’s spoiled as it is.”

My mother waved a hand with her head held high. “It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing for us. My mother was a midwife and my father an electrician. But I kept quiet because I knew that saving face was everything.

Amir’s other advantage was that his older brother had been sent abroad in the early years of the war to avoid the draft, and ended up staying there. Not only did Amir get to ride shotgun in their shiny, maroon-colored Lancer for visits, but he was often gifted more as people were generous with an only child. Not that I blamed relatives for counting twice as they carefully pulled out the banknotes they’d tucked away between the pages of their Qurans for blessing. Just handing all five of us Hashemi kids a crisp banknote was an act of generosity. If I got more than 200 tomans from a second cousin, it was a victorious visit.

The only thing that ticked me off were those who gave us eidis based on our ages. I was the fourth child and at ten, I had needs too. Like the need to beat Amir, who at the same age had everything—a mountain bike, a skateboard, Atari, a pair of real Adidas sneakers, and foreign brand toiletries his brother sent from Germany. He even had his own phone line. And since I got better grades in school, Amir was quick to rub in everything he knew I would never own.

I never voiced my jealousy, of course. It was a sin and I’d be given a tongue lashing for being ungrateful and conniving.

Things were different this year and for the first time in the history of our eidi rivalry, I had a chance. At seventeen and fifteen, my two sisters fussed over their studies in preparation for the national university exam, so my parents allowed them to skip visits to extended family. It was down to my brother, Ahmad, myself, plus our finicky little brother Ehsan, who my parents would often leave home with our sisters. People were more generous when it was just Ahmad and myself, and I hadn’t missed a single visit.

I got up from the phone bench and trudged to the kitchen. Ahmad was sitting at the kitchen table next to our sister, Samira, who was coaxing little Ehsan to eat a spoonful of haleem.

“Maman, what return visits do we have left for today?” I asked.

Despite the bags under her eyes, my mother gave me a smile as she stirred the pot. As if her shift work wasn’t enough, Ehsan’s night terrors were keeping her awake. “My aunt Ashraf—” she started.

“—wait, why haven’t we visited her yet?” She was an elder of the family—one of the first people to be visited.

“She was in Isfahan with her son for the holidays. Just returned two days ago.”

A glimmer of hope. Aunt Ashraf was quite generous.

“Then we will see cousin Manouchehr.” She placed a bowl of steaming hot haleem in front of me. “And your baba’s nephew, Jafar—the one who got married last year.” My father had a lot of siblings who had a lot of kids.

She turned off the burner, ladled herself a bowl, and sat across from me. I watched her add butter and sugar and mixed them into the hot porridge as the butter melted.

“It’ll be a long day,” my mother continued. “Jafar lives all the way out in Bezin. It’s alright if you skip today.”

“Yes, boys,” Samira said, mockingly. “If, God forbid, Minoo or I didn’t want to visit someone she’d say, It’s tradition. You’ve become too soft, maman.”

My mother laughed, her eyes shining with adoration for her firstborn. “You’re such a tease!”

“I want to come,” I said abruptly and prayed for Ahmad to take the offer to stay home. When he learned I was trying to beat Amir this year, he’d shrugged his now-familiar middle-schooler shrug. Childish, he’d scoffed.

Ahmad gave me a knowing stare, then tipped his bowl to spoon up the last of his breakfast. “I still have to work on the history paper we were assigned for the holidays.” In middle school, he got real homework like our sisters, not a lame Nowruz Messenger.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. It was going to be just me. I would be like Amir for a day.

Great-aunt Ashraf looked frailer than what I remembered. We lounged on stylish Louis XV-style furniture, and she immediately went on a tirade about how her daughter-in-law had made her feel unwelcome in her own son’s house. I dodged my mother’s glances as I stuffed my face with the fresh gaz candy Aunt Ashraf had brought back from Isfahan. When it was time to leave, Aunt Ashraf looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“How old are you, Ahmad?” she asked. Ahmad was only two years older than me, so people often mistook us—especially the once-a-year relatives.

I pushed the gaz I was chewing into the corner of my cheek and sat taller. I knew my mother would scold me for correcting the elderly aunt, so I only said, “Ten, Aunt Ashraf. I’m in fourth grade and the top of my class.”

“My boy was always the top of his class too. He adored me, until that hag bewitched him.”

I nodded like a grownup, hoping this would get me a larger eidi.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Aunt Ashraf rushed out of the salon. My heart beat faster as I knew what was coming. I ran my tongue over my gums to get the sticky nougat candy off.

My mother took the opportunity to reprimand me, “You’re embarrassing me! Three pieces of candy, one fruit, one drink, and a scoop of nuts,” she repeated our family rule for each visit. “They’ll think we don’t feed you at home! Besides, gaz is the worst for teeth. Do you want more fillings?!”

Aunt Ashraf came back with her wallet, and I watched her slide out two green 1,000 toman bills. “I’m sorry I don’t have fresh banknotes. I didn’t have time to go to the bank before my trip.” Her manicured fingers paused, and I thought she was going to put one back. But she pulled out a third green note, as if to apologize for the worn-out money.

“Don’t forget your mother’s sacrifices, young man. She’s given up a lot for all of you.”

I smiled and nodded greedily as I thanked her for the money. 1,100 tomans to catch up with Amir.

“I obviously won’t be able to return your visit by the end of Nowruz,” she said apologetically to my mother. “But once you get your work schedule for next month, I’ll come over for tea one day.”

I got to ride shotgun from Aunt Ashraf’s house all the way to cousin Manouchehr’s, where I drank two tall ice-cold glasses of sekanjabin sharbat despite my mother’s warning glances. By the time we left his house, the noontime call-to-prayer echoed throughout the streets, and I was 500 tomans richer. It was time for the siesta, but my parents wanted to finish off the return visits, so we took the long dusty road out to Bezin to Cousin Jafar’s.

On the edge of town, we stopped at a neighborhood mosque, for me to use the toilet.

“You don’t know your own limits.” My mother frowned as I made my way to the filthy toilet rooms behind the ablution fountains.

“We might as well do our prayers,” my father said, rolling up his sleeves for ablution.

After they finished their prayers, my father used the payphone outside the mosque to call Jafar’s neighbor, as his house didn’t have a phone line. He asked the neighbor to let him know we were twenty minutes away. “Please tell him we’ve already had lunch,” he added, even though my stomach was rumbling.

“Why would anyone live out here?!” my mother said as she climbed back into the front seat of our rickety Paykan. “It feels desolate.”

“This is the direction the city will grow,” my father said. “Before you know it, this will be a highway.”

I perked up to observe the future of our city in the unfinished two-story construction and the stakes holding up a few saplings. Desert lay beyond.

“Why have they left these buildings half-built?” I asked.

“Inflation,” my father said. “Families build a portion of the building as they come into money. Otherwise, they’ll never afford to build it all at once. Whatever money you earn today loses its value tomorrow. Better to put it into steel and concrete.”

I wondered what I should do with my eidis to keep their value. It wasn’t enough for a bullion gold coin. I had heard of people exchanging their tomans for foreign currency. 1,000 tomans was one American dollar these days.

“I cannot see myself living here,” my mother continued. “No schools or offices or retail strips. All this crowd will still have to commute into the city every single day. Is it even safe?”

My father shrugged, his silence heavy.

We arrived at a one-story mud brick house, at the end of a narrow street of leveled plots and half-erected structures, some exposed rebar already rusted.

Jafar and his wife, Azzie, beamed when they opened the front gate.

“We didn’t get a lot of visitors this first year,” Jafar said, his broad smile reminding me of how much I liked him. Unlike the other older cousins, he was always up for a soccer game in the back alley of our grandparents’ house.

I asked for the toilet right away and was guided to an outhouse in the backyard. A narrow hallway ran from the front door to the backyard, and I scanned the small living room, kitchen, and bedroom along the way. Four stacks of orange-colored bills sat on a worn wooden console by the back door, and I smiled to myself. 500 toman bills. I was certain Jafar would give me two, if not more. He had just said I was one of his few visitors.

When I returned to the living room, I found my father engrossed in something Jafar was explaining and my mother in the kitchen helping Azzie prepare tea. I sat out of my mother’s sight and helped myself to the platter of chickpea cookies, careful to take them evenly from all sides, so my mother couldn’t tell how much I’d had. Once they arrived with the tea, I stopped munching and what was left of the delicate cookies slowly melted their way down my throat.

When my parents stood to take our leave, Jafar grabbed his wallet. My heart soared, but immediately sank when he handed me a crisp 100 toman bill. I paused, thinking he might be looking for more money, but he only smiled. “Thank you for visiting, little cousin.”

I was furious, but managed to mumble, “Thank you.”

“You didn’t have to, Jafar,” my father said, which only made me angrier. Most likely, I was their only child visitor and 100 tomans was all he afforded me? This was the last return visit and I still needed 500 tomans to match Amir.

As my mother knotted her headscarf, she whispered, “It’s a long drive back. Do you need to use the toilet one more time?”

I did. I removed the shoes I had just tied to walk through the house to the backyard. I heard my mother apologize. “He drank too many glasses of sharbat at the last visit.”

As I approached the console with the stacks of money an idea formed in my head. What did a couple of bills mean to Jafar or his wife? One or two days of groceries? I had come all this way to visit them. A proper eidi was my right which they’d denied me.

I quickly slipped three bills out of the top stack and stuffed them into my back pocket. I ran all the way to the outhouse with my heart pounding in my chest, tripping twice in the oversized plastic yard slippers. Blood rushed to my ears, and I shook my head to cast away the invisible chorus calling thief, thief, thief!

On my way back I cast my eyes to the cheap machine-woven carpet as I passed the console and did not raise them as we said our goodbyes. I leaned my head against the windowpane in the back seat of the car and closed my eyes.

As soon as we pulled away from the waving couple, my mother started. “They’ve both become gaunt since the wedding. That brother of yours makes regular pilgrimages to Mecca and Karbala when only one is required of him, but he won’t spend a toman on Jafar—his own flesh and blood. A true God-fearing Muslim would help those in need.”

My father hushed her. Through my shut eyes I sensed his glance. He whispered my name, to which I didn’t respond.

“He’s asleep,” he said, then cleared his throat. “My brother sent his son to private schools hoping to choose the crowd he’s associated with. He wanted Jafar to marry the daughter of a city councilor which would strengthen his business relationships, but Jafar didn’t comply.”

I remembered hearing that Jafar had fallen in love with Azzie and insisted on marrying her despite my uncle’s objections. When Azzie’s family learned of my uncle’s disapproval, they forbade her to belittle herself by marrying Jafar. Both had to fight their families to get permission to marry.

Through my quivering eyelashes I caught my father’s knobby fingers patting my mother’s pale hand. “They’re both working two jobs to save enough for a rent-to-own unit in an apartment complex that will break ground next year, closer to the city. He told me he will deposit the first installment on the fourteenth as soon as the banks open.”

The weight of the 500 toman bills sunk me deeper into the back seat.

“Of all people, your brother could certainly afford to give them a small condo in the city,” my mother said, unconvinced. My uncle was a builder-seller, the derogatory term for a residential developer. My father and his crew were often hired for the electrical work on his projects.

“I don’t have a say, my dear. My brother has his ego, and Jafar his dignity.” I saw him lift my mother’s hand and kiss her knuckles, an act of intimacy I had never witnessed.

I wished to holler and get my father to make a U-turn back to Jafar’s, but shame constricted my throat, and I started coughing instead, tears stinging my eyes.

My mother craned her neck. “You alright back there?”

I sniffed and nodded.

My mother frowned. “You look terrible.”

“I just dozed off for a bit.”

She stretched and touched my forehead. “You’re a little warm.”

I slept fitfully the entire night. When I peeled myself out of bed at dawn, fragments of my nightmares still danced in my head—the most vivid was the menacing laughter of my Religious Studies teacher, Mr. Askari, as he threw me into the blazes of Jahannam on Judgment Day. To hell with Amir and his eidis.

The house was buzzing with activity as everyone—my sisters included—was packing food, treats, and games for Arsanjan. As I approached the kitchen, my stomach grumbled to the aroma of fried mint and onions. My mother was stirring a huge pot of her famous noodle aush.

“Maman, I have a stomachache. I can’t go to Arsanjan.” I was so miserable, I didn’t even have to pretend. “I shouldn’t have eaten so much gaz at Aunt Ashraf’s.”

Concerned, my mother studied my face and put a hand to my forehead. “I’d feel bad to leave you home alone,” she said. “You can come and lie down inside the cottage. I’m sure you will feel better when you see Amir.”

I frowned at the mention of his name. “It’s a two-hour drive. I’d rather stay home.” With both my parents working, we’d all been left home alone when we were too sick to go to school. They can’t bring down the house when they’re sick, my father always said.

My mother helped me to bed and checked my temperature.

“No fever.” I could sense her mind running through options. “They don’t have a phone line out there in the country…”

“I’ll be alright, maman.” I pulled the covers over my chin and closed my eyes. “I just need rest.”

Fifteen minutes after they left, I tucked my eidis in the inside pocket of my windbreaker and rushed past the dark and empty stores on Zand Boulevard to a vacant Namazi bus terminal. The information kiosk was closed, so I crossed the street to the security booth of Namazi Hospital and asked the guard about the buses.

“I wouldn’t count on them, kid,” he told me with a wave of his hand. “Ever since the Public Transit Authority gave the ownership of the buses to the drivers, they operate only when it’s profitable to them. No one goes anywhere on the thirteenth.” He laughed at the irony of what he just said. “In fact, everyone goes somewhere, but not where the buses go. If they don’t have a car they get a ride from a family member or friend.”

I hadn’t considered this. Jafar didn’t have a car, but what if they weren’t home? I could slip the money under their front gate.

“Where do you have to go, anyway?” asked the guard.

“Bezin,” I said.

He let out a long whistle. “Why so far from home?”

“My cousin’s home.” I didn’t elaborate.

He searched my eyes. “Are you lost, kid?”

I held his stare and shook my head.

He paused, then took a deep breath. “The only way to get there on a day like this is by car service. Even the city cabs don’t operate today.”

My stomach turned. “How much would it cost?”

“Give me a minute.”

He cradled the receiver between his shoulder and ear and flipped open a worn-out phone directory straight to the section of car services. Clearly, he made lots of calls for people to get them rides.

He started dialing a number on the dusty rotary. “You’re getting off there, right?”

I gulped. “No, I’m dropping something off.”

He looked at me suspiciously but didn’t say anything. “No answer. Let me try another one.”

For a split second I feared he’d call the police on me.

But he said, “Hold on,” before covering the mouthpiece. “He says it would cost 25,000 on a day like this.”

My stomach dropped. I mentally subtracted the money I’d taken from Jafar’s console. “I can only pay 23,650,” I said with a quiver.

The guard looked surprised. No one carried around that much money.

I stared at the almond blossoms beyond the entrance as the guard sweet-talked the operator into accepting what I had to offer.

When he finally hung up, he reached into his breast pocket and started counting  some worn out bills. “I got them to agree to 24,000 tomans,” he said, handing me his own money to make up the difference “Their only driver will be here in ten minutes.”

The blossoms turned into a pink blur as hot tears spilled over.

“Are you okay, kid?” the guard asked. “Come inside and have a cup of tea.”

I shook my head. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very, very much,” was all I managed to get out, as I turned to face the road.