ALI ZARBALI

Faded curtains and bright neckties

---

Since grandpa’s death, grandma is completely alone. She wakes up very early like all the other elderly people, takes shower, combs her thinned silver hair, and forces herself to eat. She has lost her appetite; she isn’t sure if it is because of grandpa’s death or just a natural manifestation of old age. In fact, she isn’t mourning for him; she is just left alone. Anyway, they have never been all good together. But now she would unhesitatingly trade her loneliness for the ceaseless fights with grandpa. She spends her days killing time in front of the TV. She watches daily news and soap operas, lingers in her recollections, and falls asleep in the chair. The loneliness for the young is just a good mental practice, it is not damned with hopelessness, it is bound to a promise for the future. However, for the old, solitude is something else; it is sitting on the edge of an unmade bed in semi-darkness with a sense of foreboding; it is unbearable, it is an indication of the lurking sense of an end; it is a vulgar joke from death, softened with a shameless wink. 

Now her mind is busy with the thoughts of her unlucky son who is in a drug rehab center. She relives random fragments from the past. “No, I am not unlucky, you are just goddamn terrible parents”, Emil’s shouts still rumble in her ears; she is preparing dinner, her cheeks are warm with rising steam. Grandpa just arrived home drunk. He is untying his bright necktie. Grandpa has tens of them, a rich collection, not a color missing.

“Emil, what have you been doing in the bathroom”, she still remembers how her voice trembled that day, “Emil, answer me!” Emil’s eyes are half-closed, lips distorted. Grandma’s cheeks warm with flooding tears. Emil mumbles something in delirium.

She almost faints when she finds an empty syringe and bloodstains in the toilet. She tries to talk to Emil calmly, but he is raging. He curses her, “why do you pretend you care”, he ridicules her. “If you want to do a favor to your boy just give him some money, right?” he says with a scary grin on his pale face. 

“Your son is deteriorating in front of your eyes, don’t you think you should do something about it?!” grandma breaks down in tears. Grandpa seems unbothered. He pours some more “Russian Standard” and swigs it. “What can I do about it?” he says rubbing his temples. “I am afraid it is too late…” Grandma has lost her temper already. “You say so?” she says sarcastically, “of course, it is late, when you were supposed to take care of your child you were so busy with your shiny suits, filthy drunkard friends, parties and whores!” 

* * *

The building I live, faces the one that grandma lives in. On weekends, when I come to my almost abandoned hometown I see her sun-bleached curtains open; she stares off into the distance thoughtfully from her wooden windows. This scene fills my heart with intolerable sadness. I go to visit her. She is very happy to see me. “How is the university”, she is excited, she asks a lot of questions and proceeds to talk without waiting for an answer, “did you cover the differential equations already? You know that I have tons of books about that”, she brags, and grabs a dusty old book written in Cyrillic from her vintage bookshelf. She is a mathematician and she wants me to be one. We drink tea and she re-tells the stories about her youth, how they met with grandpa, and childhood of dad. I know these stories by heart, of course. I am switching the channels and she talks. A flood of talk. She checks the time and warns me tenderly that soon her favorite Turkish TV show will start. I end up watching the show with her for a bit. After about half an hour I hear her mild snoring; she is comfortable in her seat, her mouth half-open. I switch the channel to watch a football match.

* * *

I pray five times every day. Sometimes when I am not too exhausted I go to the mosque after classes. I am a freshman. I share a room with another guy in a student dormitory. After I finish my prayer, my roommate asks me if I pray because I am grateful to Allah or I am just afraid of his punishments. I just smile and don’t reply to him, in fact, I don’t have an answer. I tell him it is a very silly question. 

On Mondays when I leave my hometown for the capital – I am studying in the capital – mom loads my backpack full of delicious food. Before the first class of the day, I rush to the rehab center to deliver his portion to dad. Sometimes I cannot even meet him, “he is sleeping”, the nurse says and reaches for the nylon bags in my hand, “I’ll take care of it, darling, don’t worry”. On the way back I say a prayer in my head and ask for God’s mercy on him. “O Almighty Allah, restore dad’s health and gift him with long life and prosperity”. I repeat the same prayer for grandma too.

* * *

I go home for the weekend. There is something wrong – I feel it as soon as I arrive home. My brother leads me by my arm, “Come let’s go outside. I need to tell you something”. We stop in front of our old five-storied soviet building. “What’s happening?” I ask impatiently. “Grandma left us”, my brother exclaims, bursting into tears. I stay there nonchalantly. I want to cry but I am not able to. I glance at her windows in the facing building; the sun-faded curtains are closed. “When?” I ask. “Two days ago”, my brother says, wiping his nose. “We didn’t tell you, because you had exams, we didn’t want to distract you”, he says in a tone as though he is asking for forgiveness. “Two days ago…” I repeat. Then I remember my last prayer at noon, right before coming home. I remember myself at the end of my prayer, as always, asking mighty Allah not to take our grandma from us anytime soon and let her live long. The absurdity of the situation leaves a silly smile on my lips. “When I asked God for health and long life for grandma, she was already gone”, I mutter staring down. “What?” My brother asks confused. I shook my head and sigh, “Nothing”. I gaze at her windows over my brother’s shoulder; the sight of her faded curtains becomes blurry; I feel my eyes fill up with tears.

Back to JUSTICE