The Girls' Garden By Amir Hosein Bakhshian (Translated by Farshad Torkashvand), The last part

 

Planet of a Thousand Springs

"Nothing is really a waste of time, even a broken clock is right twice a day." Thomas Edison  

 "I have placed my chin on the windowsill and my hands on my head like pillars, watching the flocks of pigeons fly, the swallows dive, the turtle doves build nests on the brick chimney, and the sparrows' way of life among the tree branches. We see our parents on the patio, drinking tea and having an afternoon snack, engaged in semi-scientific and philosophical conversations about the concept of time and space. Our mother takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of bitter orange blossoms and the fragrance of jasmine flowers from Amin al-Dawla Alley. She then places her hand on her heart and says in English, “Home is where the heart is.” Our father, ignoring our mother's profound statement, looks at his foggy wristwatch with an annoyed expression, as if he's caught a whiff of the neighbor's oleander and Ailanthus tree. With a crumpled face, he says, “Shidrokh, it's great that you brought up the topic of time. My watch stopped this morning... I have to get the battery changed as soon as possible.”

The doorbell rings, but no one pays attention. A strong wind begins to blow; the curtains and windows rattle against each other, and all sorts of pollen and tree blossoms scatter into the sky. They swirl strangely, as if a whirlwind is in motion, and suddenly a severe thunderbolt strikes, shaking the earth and sky. Our hair stands on end, and a strange terror grips our hearts. A blue light illuminates the patio and the courtyard floor, and then the terrifying sound of thunder shakes our hearts, and immediately after, a heavy rain begins to fall. It pours in a downpour, in a torrent. It seems the holes of the sky's sieve have gotten bigger, as the raindrops fall to the ground in this way.

We immediately rush to save the curtains and window from the chaos. The curtain that tears the door curtain and the window that when father brought a tree from the forest and made a table, benches, and a bed from its wood, he made this one, because he loved it more than the others, from that window... Unconsciously, our eyes fall on the cuckoo clock's bird, which suddenly jumps out of its nest with a "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" sound, announcing the new hour. The only thing that calms us down is not the Simurgh and the Kashkul and Tabarzin but the name of Imam Ali engraved on it.

Our mother also immediately starts to gather and tidy up her handwritten notes and typed translations. She gets up halfway and looks at the clock and the bird that has jumped out of its nest... She tidies her hair with her hand and adjusts her green jade shawl and scarf, which are the same color as her eyes. Then she breathes on her glasses, cleans them with a handkerchief, and with a weary expression and a suppressed voice, says, "Arzhang, a sudden feeling of dread fell upon my heart. Why haven't the twins come? They should have been home by now because the ceremony ends this evening, and it's already dark. I'm always afraid that, God forbid, my paper flower will one day wither and dry up, or, God forbid, my paper pigeon will fly away. You know very well that these two have mutated genes, and unfortunately, I have never understood the feelings of my paper flower or the concept of my paper pigeon."

And then she gets up from her chair and from behind her desk and throws her checkered velvet and brocade overcoat over her shoulders and tries to relieve some of her agitation by binding her translations and gluing the cover design of her new book, which is a painting by Mahshid. She presses the key to turn on the lamps on the patio and in the courtyard.

Our father also extinguishes his half-smoked and half-chewed cigarette in the ashtray and shoves our mother's scraps of paper into the bin so he can make cardboard sculptures out of them when he has a chance.

Then he clears his throat and says, "Don't get worried for no reason! It's a normal thing for Mahshid and Bahramshid to be out at night. Mahshid is always with her artist friends in galleries, art galleries, boutiques, and cosmetics shops at this time, or she's with her astrophysicist friends at the Bam city observatory. And Bahramshid is so fond of the night and night-walking that he should have lived during the time of Al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, the king of Egypt, and I think Rembrandt must have painted his masterpiece "The Night Watch" inspired by Bahramshid's movements and actions."

Our mother replies, "I know that during his reign, people were only allowed to come out into the streets at night, and women were not allowed to leave the house, not even to go to the public baths, and no shoemaker was allowed to make shoes for them. You are right, but I have a bad feeling in my gut. I have never experienced such a feeling before. I have always been afraid of the fate and future of the twins, because these two are truly strange, especially Bahramshid, whose night-walking and later sleepwalking have really preoccupied my mind and disturbed my spirit. In a way, you are right; Bahramshid reminds me of Rembrandt's painting "The Night Watch," which the American government intended to acquire from the Dutch people in exchange for five ships of provisions during World War II, but they did not accept the offer. We, too, must support our children as much as we can, especially Bahramshid, and not sell this Joseph at any price. I hope his going to the garden of girls will be a happy ending for his restlessness and a solace for my worries..."

A severe thunderbolt strikes again, and it mixes with the sound of the doorbell, but again no one notices. The intensity of the rain increases every moment. A severe thunderbolt constantly strikes from the sky, shaking the earth and sky and sewing the earth and sky together. Rain falls from the sky to the earth and from the earth to the sky. A sudden, terrifying, and deafening sound of thunder is heard, and a blue-azure light illuminates everywhere. So much so that it illuminates all the rooms of our house, even our mother's study room, which is dark, and her bookcase shakes. First, we hear the sound of a gunshot, and then the sound of cars' brakes screaming and them crashing into each other, and an explosion follows. We think the power pole exploded all at once because the electricity goes out in the blink of an eye. The power is cut, and the city is plunged into complete darkness.

Only a few minutes pass when suddenly there is a sound at the door, and what a sound it is; at the same time, the sound of a woman's and a man's scream fills the air. When we open the door, we see Mr. and Mrs. Afshar standing at the doorway with troubled and worried faces, soaked and rain-beaten, and without delay, they ask, "We rang the bell several times, but you didn't notice. The reason for the disturbance is that we wanted to know, has Anahita not come here?!"

Our parents stood on the porch with anxious and worried faces, saying apologetically, "We're so sorry, we were distracted by the children. As far as we know, Mahshid and the other children from the art gallery have gone to the Garden of Girls for the 'Chehel Menbar' ceremony. Didn't she tell you? Don't worry, the kids will show up any minute. Please, come inside and stand under the awning so you don't get any wetter. Our humble home is yours, please come in!"

Then both of them went to greet Mr. and Mrs. Afshar and guided and invited them inside and onto the porch with a hand gesture.

Mr. Afshar said, "Yes, we are aware, but it's gotten very late. And besides, if it keeps raining like this, continuously and heavily, like it has for the past few days, there will be a flood, just like in the old days when it rained for a full day and night. Especially since the new bridge and the low-water crossing that are under construction are making it worse; their height is low, and the piles under their foundations prevent the water from passing. The flood will sweep away the crossing in a few hours unless the municipality acts quickly and demolishes the bridge with excavators, loaders, and bulldozers. Otherwise, in less than an hour, the water will flow into the coastal streets and houses, engulfing the Bronze Garden and the Garden of Girls, and all our efforts will be wiped out and destroyed in the blink of an eye."

Mrs. Afshar continued, "If that's the case, we have to inform the children as soon as possible. But... but unfortunately, none of them have their cell phones with them, and the city, oh my God, looks like a ghost town."

Our parents said, "This is what we get from the new municipal engineers and contractors! So we must take matters into our own hands and go find them ourselves."

My mother said, flustered, "There's one thing you should also know... and that is that Bahramshid is most likely there too. We did everything we could, but we couldn't stop him."

Mr. and Mrs. Afshar said in surprise, "Seriously?! So Bahramshid finally went his own way. What can you do? Bahramshid truly lives in his own world."

My father said, "In a way, it's a good thing because at least in this situation, he'll be looking out for the girls."

The curtains and window doors rattled against each other. We first ran our hands over the faces of Mahshid's purple paper flowers to comfort them and encourage them to be patient. Then we quietly and gently closed the window and drew the curtains. We took the stairs to the roof to check on Bahramshid's paper pigeon and make sure it was safe and sound. After that, we joined the group of our parents and Mr. and Mrs. Afshar to step into another world, a world whose reality is uncertain. A world that Mahshid first saw in a dream and later Bahramshid turned into an ongoing story... Then, all of us, in a state of panic, went to the basement and the closet with emergency supplies and my father's mountaineering gear. We put on scarves and hats, wore boots, put on raincoats, and took umbrellas, flashlights, and headlamps with us so that we would appear in a new form and, before any harm came to them, we would reach Mahshid, Bahramshid, Anahita, and the rest of their companions as quickly as possible. As soon as we entered the basement, our eyes fell on Bahramshid's broken stone angel, which was scattered across his workbench. Mr. and Mrs. Afshar also took the opportunity to temporarily glue the shattered pieces of the stone angel together with stone glue in the "Kintsugi" Japanese style so that they could mend it properly later, like Chinese porcelain repairers. Mr. Afshar said strangely, "The face of this statue and this angel has a dual state, both Eastern and Western... What do you think about this?"

Mrs. Afshar said, "You are right. It's completely dual. It's both a typical Western type and somewhat Eastern."

The courtyard door was ajar. We closed it so that our courtyard wouldn't turn into a pool full of various and colorful fish from the Khorram Rud river in a fraction of an hour, as this had happened before.

When we looked at the sky, it was as if the Chernobyl nuclear power plant had exploded, and the raindrops were like nuclear radiation scattered in the air. Our Malaria Alley, or "Love Lane," was full of pollen and trees floating on the water. The first thing my father did was to remove the leaves in front of the downspout and reduce the air in the tires of Mahshid's cherry-red Peugeot so that it wouldn't float on the water if the water rose. And our mother turned off the gas and electricity fuses and locked the door with her magical key and her bunch of paper keys.

Mr. and Mrs. Afshar said, "We can get to the Garden of Girls through two routes. What do you think if we each go from a different direction to find the children faster, huh?!"

Our parents said, "Whether it was in the renovation and reconstruction of the Garden of Girls or in the construction of the Bronze Garden, we were almost all in this together, and now we will go together because the important thing is the children's safety and reaching them."

The water of the Shah Abad river has risen and engulfed the streets of Orchid, Rose, Violet, Lily, and Nasteran, and there is no way we can get to the Garden of Girls from this route unless we have a boat, but there is no boat. In fact, this route is the closest way to the main gate of the garden, but what can we do.

We reluctantly turn our way toward Motahari and Eastern Shohada streets to go to the Bronze Garden via Telecommunications Alley and City Park. A silvery light fills the space, and from our angle, Bank Square is visible, where the water is flowing rapidly towards the Bronze Garden, and a tent with a placard at its entrance is installed on both sides of the square. "Every land is Karbala, and every day is Ashura."

When we arrive at the Bronze Garden, the river has overflowed, and the muddy water has covered Bahramshid's bronze statues up to their waists. There is nothing we can do at all unless the rain stops and the river water recedes. Everything is plunged into darkness. Even Falak-ol-Aflak Castle is plunged into darkness, just as it was centuries ago when it was nicknamed the "Black Fortress."

The only light in the city, which resembles a lighthouse, is Esteghlal Cinema, whose orange neon lights are flickering on and off, casting an orange glow on the trees and the surface of the water, and that too must have remained on with the cinema's "UPS" electricity.

Now, the only way to get to the Garden of Girls is the Safavid Bridge. The Bronze Garden is on this side of the river, and the Garden of Girls is on the other side of the river, which are exactly symmetrical, and the distance between them is this very Safavid Bridge, or, in other words, the Lovers' Bridge.

I wish getting to the Garden of Girls was the way Mahshid was telling Bahramshid this morning and that one could enter the Garden of Girls just by saying a password.

Because getting to the Garden of Girls is not that simple. The river water has risen, and the trash, the trees that have been cut down upstream, and the scaffolding and piles that have separated from the low-water crossing have blocked the arches and spans of the Safavid Bridge. The water has also covered the bridge and is flowing into the coastal streets on both sides of the river.

This is where our hearts sink, and our minds go a thousand different ways.

Initially, we thought the children had returned home this way, but we saw that our assumption was completely wrong because if they had come from this direction, we would have seen them.

We were mentally dissecting our next theories when our attention was suddenly drawn to a tall girl holding a rainbow-shaped umbrella, standing on one of the platforms of the Bronze Garden statues. The orange neon lights of the cinema spread across her face.

My mother said, "Who do you think that girl is, the one standing on the platform of the 'Derafsh Madur' statue?"

My father said, "I think she has a veil similar to a burqa because her face is not clear, and only a glimpse of her face is visible."

We move a little closer, and just as we are about to ask her a question, she doesn't give us a chance and immediately takes a piece of paper from our pocket and hands it to us.

While the water is up to our knees, we shine our flashlights on the paper to see what it is... The paper has black and white squares, like a chessboard. The white squares are covered with letters in pairs, threes, and fours, like the Abjad letters, which must be deciphered. On the black squares, the image of a horse and an elephant is visible, as if they are neighing and trumpeting, and then their slanting shadows spread and stretch across the board. We don't have time to decipher it, and the puzzle-solving is left for another time. We ask her about Mahshid, Bahramshid, and Anahita again.

Without her saying a single word or uttering a syllable, she first bends down and places the paper on her knee, and in that position, she writes on the back of the paper, "Don't worry, I'm Malakeh!"

She folds the paper into a paper boat and throws it into the water. Then she stands up and takes her professional camera out of her backpack and, with a look from top to bottom, shows us a picture that leaves all of us stunned and bewildered; we see Bahramshid in a green checkered shirt and simple black pants, with handcuffs on both hands. His cast has been removed, and two police officers are on his left and right. Behind them is a crowd of veiled and chador-wearing girls who are looking at Bahramshid with anger and fury, as if they are taking him to a slaughterhouse. We are all shocked, and as soon as my mother sees the picture, she slaps her own face and hits her hand. Tears well up in her eyes, and she says with a choked voice, "Did you see what happened to my paper pigeon?!"

My father immediately comforts her and says, "Let me see what happened. This is just a picture."

When we look at the picture closely, it was taken from inside a window frame. In the margin of the photo, a painted and colored window and a calligraphed and embroidered curtain are visible.

Suddenly, my mother stares at the girl's face and her colored eyes, which shine like a night-glowing jewel, and while shedding tears, she says, "This girl looks so much like the girl Bahramshid is looking for. Oh my God, her eyes are so similar to hers."

And then my mother utters a sentence in English, and she reaches for the girl's veil, but the girl takes my mother's hand and looks at her in surprise and, like a nightingale and without an accent, answers my mother by pronouncing the English alphabet vowels "a, e, i, o, u," which means, "I saved your son today. In fact, I vouched for him. Otherwise, like that boy last year who I think worked in the flour factory silo, he would have had to drown himself in the river. He was very helpful in my work of collecting dictionaries and writing my books and always brought me books, but when his fiancée found out about this, things completely changed, and she thought we had something going on... Anyway, I have heard a lot about your artistic and skillful son, so I came to this garden without permission to see their art up close. It's truly admirable."

And then she hummed a poem in Persian: "Except for me who walks the path of love in submission, No swimmer has ever swum with hands tied."

Then all of us ask together, "Since you have witnessed and observed the movements and actions of the people of the Garden of Girls, tell us, who took off our Bahramshid's mask?"

Just as she is about to speak, we suddenly hear the screams of several girls, the sound of car brakes, and the sirens of an ambulance, a fire truck, a police car, and rescue teams, and the flashing yellow and red lights are seen from a distance.

We immediately rush to the Safavid Bridge, where girls and boys are standing, taking selfies and videos of themselves and the flood, and some are even reporting. They are so many that the light of their phone flashes has illuminated the bridge, and it looks like a chandelier to which everyone has clung and taken refuge.

We see Mahshid and Bahramshid diving into the water and rescuing little girls and pulling them out of a green van that has fallen into the river. The van is stuck between two of the bridge's arches, and Anahita is on the bridge, guiding Mahshid and Bahramshid with whistling, shouting, and hand gestures on which direction to swim. Mahshid and Bahramshid cannot bring the little girls to the shore in one go, so they take a fresh breath by holding onto the bridge arches and then continue on their way. The rescue teams have also thrown their life tubes into the river to help Mahshid and Bahramshid pull the little girls out of the water in this way.

One side of the river's stone wall has collapsed, and it is most likely from that side that the van fell into the river. A number of people are pulling the little girls up onto the shore, and the rescue teams and doctors and nurses from Shahid Rahimi Hospital, which is adjacent to the river, are giving them CPR to completely get the water out of their mouths and are performing echo procedures.

When Mahshid and Bahramshid rescue the last little girl, they come up to the bridge with the help of the people and stand on the left and right of Anahita, with disheveled appearances and muddy faces, and are cheered on by the people's salutations.

My father breathes a sigh of relief and says, "Mahshid and Bahramshid learned to swim from their mother, who is the goddess of water and a water fairy. She turned Mahshid into an amphibious creature like a frog and brought Bahramshid out of his cocoon and made a butterfly out of him."

My mother, whose eyes are red from crying and sadness and whose voice is hoarse, says to the children, "You've been touched by an angel." All ten little girls who were in the van are standing on the shore, also with muddy faces because the river water is muddy and the river's silt has risen.

Anahita goes a little closer and looks at the faces of all the little girls to make sure they are safe and sound, and she recognizes each one of the little girls and says that they are novice students from the Irish Niloofar Art Gallery: Helia, Fatemeh, Reyhaneh, Roxana, Ra'na, Jinoos, Kiana, Kimia, Setayesh, and the last girl, who was behind the wheel of the van and whom Mahshid knows better than us, says, "This is the same teacher from the academy, meaning our neighbor's daughter; Yalda."

And Anahita falls silent and busies herself with tidying and comforting the little girls.

Then Mr. and Mrs. Afshar say with a hand gesture, "Look over there. The excavators and bulldozers are demolishing that low-water crossing bridge so that the water doesn't flow into the houses and streets. If this weak bridge is demolished, the water level will drop, and the Bronze Garden and the Garden of Girls can breathe a sigh of relief."

Then my father and Mr. Afshar say to the crowd who are taking pictures and videos, "Instead of taking pictures and videos, we should also get a move on and rush to help the people whose houses have been flooded. We must be of assistance to the rescue teams." They say to my mother and Mrs. Afshar, "All this time, we thought Bahramshid would no longer be as effective as before, but today we realized that he has abilities that others and even we ourselves were unaware of. We are curious about how and in what way the officers were convinced to remove his handcuffs."

My mother and Mrs. Afshar interrupt them and say, "Bahramshid's righteousness is not hidden from anyone. He is a hero whom you have not yet recognized!" Then a huge crowd, each with their own tools, rushes to help the people and goes towards the Garden of Girls. Anahita lights a match under the piled-up firewood of Ashura so that the girls of the garden, who are muddy, can dry themselves and not shiver from the cold. And we see that the piles of firewood, which are placed at specific distances from each other, are lit one after another by the people, and the city comes out of the darkness.

We also go towards the Garden of Girls and see Bahramshid, who, while his clothes are muddy and his body is trembling, distances himself from us and stands in a foggy space at the end of the garden next to a 'Saghakhaneh' (a public water fountain for mourners) where the candles are flickering. Anahita also goes to him, and they start talking warmly and are in one frame. We see three veiled ladies who are cooking something similar to 'Fereni' (a type of rice pudding) and are whispering something to each other. Then one of them pours some Fereni with a ladle into a bowl that has the image of a Simurgh engraved on it, and the other one puts a spoon in it and places it on a 'Galamkari' (a type of hand-painted textile) tray and gives it to Anahita and Bahramshid, who is soaked with water. The third person shows them the blue tiles of the inscription above the Saghakhaneh. 

"He is the First and the Last, the Manifest and the Hidden."