Hollowed Out

In Hell, women are hung from the strands of hair they bared in front of the strangers. That’s what our teacher of Islamic Studies always reminded us and I couldn’t help picturing my sister—naked, oscillating with her long black hair tied to a pipe. Thanks to the fiery illustrations of Hell in our literature, the image was more embellished than that, but Shireen was always at its center, sobbing, shrieking. And that was only punishment for the exposed hair, not the skin she was increasingly showing since her proud admission to Tehran University.

I didn’t share these visions with my liberal-minded parents. My mom observed hijab, but in colored scarves, always showing off a few locks in the front. And while my parents fasted during Ramadan, never did they force it upon Shireen and me. My upbringing was more a product of school sermons than my parents’ own beliefs, which they kept to themselves.

Back then, I was a mishmash of quotations, shapeless in my beliefs.  Of course, I laughed at “each glance at the opposite sex is an arrow shot by the Satan.” We all laughed. But over time, with multiple retellings, those words would leave scorch marks, as if I had indeed been hit by arrows.

After all, as the saying goes, dripping water hollows out stone.

***

Shireen had an exclusive landline. When she was away, we took her messages. Ours was not a secretive family. So, when I told Shireen that a certain Abtin called for her, I was surprised to hear: “Don’t mention his name in front of them.”

She nodded towards our parents’ bedroom. 

“Why? Is he your boyfriend?” I snapped back. 

“Does he have to be? There could be other reasons.” Then she suddenly took on a nonchalant tone. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“Okay. I won’t tell.”

I kept her secret less to help her than to learn about the guy—this potential boyfriend who’d ditch my sister anytime he desired. According to my teacher, if the man’s affection was pure, he should step forward and take the woman’s hand in marriage. Would you marry a girl, he’d challenge us, who was with someone before marriage, even if that someone was you?

***

When I turned fourteen, I knew about sex, though it was still uncharted territory. Our education at school was very basic: that sex was bad, wrong, and nonexistent before marriage. In the pre-internet era, my knowledge came from hearsay and my friend Hamed’s clunky VHS player. We watched grainy, naked girls scream while being pounded. I even had a favorite actress. Sandra, a skinny blond, appeared in the first vignette I ever watched.

These films showed how imaginative sex could be, but many unknowns remained. A few of my classmates claimed they’d gotten laid, though their graphic depiction of the proceedings was more like a transcript from the porn circulating amongst us. The majority of the jokes at school were sexual in nature, and, mostly I could hardly understand the punchline. I laughed along to act cool, just part of the laugh track.

Testosterone governed our days.

***

Next time I answered, Shireen was showering. Not wanting to feed Abtin’s imagination, I claimed she was out.

“When’s she back?”

I could hear the hubbub of Tehran streets in the background.

“Soon, I guess.”

“Can you please tell her I’m sticking around the Beethoven? Chris de Burgh’s new—"

“You’ve got a mobile?”

My voice came off more excited than it should have. Few people could afford cell phones and those who did had to go through some registration bureaucracy.

He laughed. “Yeah, why?”

“Nothing!”

“I’ll show it to you when we meet. It’s a tiny, cute Nokia.”

He sounded like an old pal. I yearned to ask when we would meet. But the bathroom door opened and shut. I had time for one last question. “Do you intend to marry my sister?”

The street noise carried on for a few seconds.

“Hello? Hello?” he asked. Then the line went dead.

I still held the phone when Shireen stepped in, wrapped in two towels, one on her head and the other falling to her knees. When she noticed me in her room, she pulled the body towel up to better cover her chest.

“Somebody called?” 

“Your boyfriend.”

She smiled, as if it was a harmless inside joke. “He introduced himself like that?”

“He sounded like that.”

“You two seem to get along.”

“Yeah… he wants to show me his mobile.”

Her raised eyebrows lined her forehead. “He said that?”

Now, I managed to win her surprise, though it was mild. I stood up and stepped towards the door. “He’s around the Beethoven. He wants you to call.”

“Okay, once you give me some privacy.”

I took another hesitant step toward the door.

“One more thing.” I turned and saw her towel loosened, half of her left breast exposed. “I told him you were out.”

She looked at me peering at her half-concealed body, made the connection and exploded into laughter. With the towel safely fastened around her body, she pinched my cheeks. “My little protective brother.” 

She removed her other towel, revealing wet wavy hair that landed near her midriff. A few cold drops of water hit my face.

She opened a drawer, reaching for cotton swabs. It was as if I didn’t exist anymore. I took the hint and left the room, leaving her alone with her phone.

The trace of Shireen’s bare feet still glistened on the bright parquets leading from the bathroom to her bedroom. She hadn’t denied that Abtin was her boyfriend. I would have preferred her to jump down my throat at my accusation than to trivialize it with a smile. None of our cousins had a boyfriend or a girlfriend. I’d only heard, in passing, my mom talking to her sister about some distant relative’s daughter getting a boyfriend, sandwiched between other sad news of sickness and death.

Shireen’s bedroom shut behind me and with that the image materialised: my sister dangling from a dungeon ceiling, amid Sandra and other damned stars.

***

Hamed, with whom I shared a bench in class, was the youngest in his family. With three older sisters, he was an encyclopedia of information on girls. When the question occurred to me we were in the middle of physics. I was too anxious to wait until the recess and, besides, I felt ashamed. So, on a scrap of paper I scribbled, “Any of your sisters got boyfriends?”

He lifted the paper from its corner as if it was a dirty sock, turned, shooting me a glare, then scrawled: “None of your business.”

The teacher was instructing on convex and concave mirrors and how they distorted the image of an object. The blackboard brimmed with figures and formulas.

I thought Hamed might open up if I shared some context. So, I wrote, “My sister has one.” But, then, I scratched that and replaced it with, “My sister might have one.”

As I was writing I registered a sort of curiosity in his stare, a kind of attention that I didn’t want lavished on the content of my note. I crumpled the paper and shoved it into my pocket to safely get rid of it later, the way one disposes of disgracing evidence.

***

A thin wall separated Shireen’s room and mine. We used to send each other Morse code messages until she sadly outgrew it. Since then, I’d only heard her favorite music spilling over and, of course, her muffled phone conversations.

One evening after school, I crossed the line by pressing my ear against her closed door. Shireen kept breaking into laughter. Most of the time she was a listener and, once in a while, she interjected by uttering small sentences in a flirtatious air. The few words I heard were enough for me to find out they were going to a party that Thursday night.

I ran to my desk.

I couldn’t count on my parents to intervene. They wouldn’t mind Shireen going as long as she returned by eleven. For them, danger lay on the streets. My mom was obsessed with the local news: a jealous lover throwing acid in the beloved’s face, the construction worker raping a teenage girl, and the like. She imagined such things happened late at night and pictured Shireen as the victim. She always said, “I have full trust in my daughter. It’s the other people I don’t trust.”

But there were people at the party I couldn’t trust, including my own sister.

Shireen’s call finally ended and her music got loud again. To drown it out and focus on my geometry homework, I played my Aerosmith.

In my assignment, I had to visualize a bunch of planes, lines and points intersecting in a 3D space. But, all I saw was my sister intermingling with boys at a party.

***

Every morning, rain or shine, we formed lines in the schoolyard arranged by class to hear recitations of Quran verses succeeded by the principal’s latest announcements, of which he always had plenty.

The line next to mine belonged to a class one grade higher and it just happened the student adjacent to me was Davoud. He was known to be a party-goer, thanks to his older brother’s big social circle. He didn’t know me; the older students rarely cared about the younger ones. It was us, freshmen who looked up to them.

I hissed Davoud’s name. His head turned.

“Have you been to parties?” I whispered loud enough for him to hear.

The sound system spat deafening feedback. Takwir, a Sura of Quran, describing the wonders of the Judgment Day was broadcasted. 

Davoud’s face distorted into furrows. “What?”

And when the stars fall, dispersing.

I did my best to mouth party. 

He grinned, and then assumed a proud expression. I was prey who had willingly given him a chance to brag. “What do you want to know?”

And when the mountains are removed.

I was about to open my mouth when he suddenly span towards the platform. By the time I turned, it was too late. The schoolmaster beckoned me to his office. In respect for the Quran, he wordlessly used his eyebrows to convey his command. He dismissed Davoud too.

And when the girl buried alive is asked for what sin she was killed.

I’d never before been to that office but Davoud felt at home. He strode to one of the chairs and sat down.

“Why don’t you sit?” He pointed to an empty chair. “We have a few minutes to chat until he comes to the office and makes us promise not to do this again.”

I was already trembling. “Will that be all?”

He shook his head at me. “Only if you don’t break like that.”

I paced past him to sit. “What do you do at the parties?”

Outside, the Quran was over. The principal was speaking, his voice inaudible.

“What do you mean what do I do?”

We didn’t have time for any back and forth. “With girls?” I asked.

He sized me up. I was already self-conscious about my patchy facial hair. I knew I wasn’t handsome enough to attract girls and I figured that was what he was thinking.

“You can do whatever you want with them as long as you get the right signals. A little bit of alc helps too.”

Framed shots of Khomeini, Khamenei and Rafsanjani hung above the schoolmaster’s swiveling chair staring us down. A rosary of large black beads lay on the chipped mahogany desk, forming a jar-like shape.

“Alc?”

He was only a year older than me, but there appeared to be years of gap between us. Would I be like him in a year, I wondered.

“Alcohol. Make them drink. And you should too. The rest is downhill. Little by little you start groping them. Their arms, their legs. Then you get the feeling they want to be kissed.”

His description conjured one of Sandra’s films, the way it opened. Khomeini’s picture glared at me. Abashed, I crossed my legs to hide my reaction.

“Do they have to be my girlfriend?”

He gave my crotch a pitiful smirk.

“If that helps. The goal is to screw, one way or another. Girlfriend or not.”

I wanted to ask more, to find out what Abtin might do to my sister, but the schoolmaster entered and I was relieved he didn’t catch me talking. He shut the door, slumped into his chair and grabbed his rosary. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

“So, what was more important than the word of God?”

His somber face darted between me and Davoud. The silence in the room was punctuated by the occasional thud of one bead on another. We were in for a long tirade. I didn’t know what would happen after his preaching, but I knew where I’d be on Thursday night.

***

Shireen’s face was red, her eyes wide open. “Did you fucking really ask him if he wanted to marry me?”

I couldn’t remember the last time she was that furious. “I thought the line went dead.”

“Oh, interesting! You asked that because you thought the line was dead. I’m totally convinced now.”

Typically, in our spats I was good at leveraging her vulnerabilities to my benefit. But I couldn’t. There was a good chance I’d unleashed all my thoughts, worries. I was a detective who’d found the culprit but chose to prolong the arrest in hopes of learning more. She lingered at my desk, towering over me. I stared down at her painted toes in slippers. She took my inaction as remorse.

“Never interfere in my personal life. I wouldn’t do it in yours.” Her voice, a sadness salient in it, turned soft before she spun on her heel to leave.

I raised my head. “I want to come with you Thursday. To the party.”

“What party?” she asked quietly.

“Or, I will tell them everything.” I motioned towards the direction of our parents’ bedroom.

***

For twenty-four hours, a sort of stalemate reigned. My attempts at making conversation were answered with hushed yeses and noes. On Wednesday, when Shireen returned from school, she holed up in her room, her music louder than usual, to mask her voice on the phone. After two hours she emerged, leaned against my door, arms crossed.

“OK, you can come to the party, under two conditions.” She wiggled her index and middle fingers. “One, you’ll behave. Two, you’ll keep your mouth tight shut after.”

I could do both. I shrugged, stifling my fervour. “He knows?”

She nodded yes. I couldn’t read from her face whether Abtin had gotten angry when she’d told him. Had she pleaded for him to accept me? Had she told him I’d blackmailed her?

“Who’s gonna be there?”

“People!”

I decided I wouldn’t get more out of her. I’d wait and see for myself. It was my first party, my debut. A host of girls would be there. They would all probably be older. Or maybe not. And this uncertainty made the event more exciting. Davoud’s words kept coming back to me: a hand on the arm, a hand on the leg, a kiss. The sinking of my heart. The rush of my blood.

“Make sure you have something nice to wear in front of my friends,” Shireen said, before leaving me alone with my reverie.

I watched her go. My original goal, protecting my sister—whatever that meant—was becoming secondary, incidental.

***

Abtin picked us up in his hatchback Xantia. Shireen confidently took the passenger seat and I climbed into the back, excited to examine the insides of the luxurious car.

Abtin and Shireen, like two business partners, shook hands under my watchful eyes. Then, he turned and stretched his hand awkwardly. “So you’re the brother.”

I shook his hand and mumbled hi.

His bony face housed a well-groomed five o’clock shadow, bushy eyebrows and big eyes that, despite his macho features, I liked to think were kind.

“Have you practiced your dance moves?”

I chuckled. Satisfied that he could make me laugh, he pulled into traffic.

Compared to my dad’s cautious driving, Abtin’s maneuvers were thrilling. Young drivers my dad always dismissed as careless and sloppy, spoiled kids who stole their rich daddy’s cars.

Shireen extracted a bundle from her purse. “Abtin, I have to change my dress.”

He sounded baffled. “Why didn’t you change at home?” 

“Because of my parents.” She turned to me. “This is an example of the things you need to forget.”

I couldn’t remember ever seeing the yellow dress in her hands. The one she wore was short-sleeved and hit her knees. No cleavage, no revealing cut. Before she put on her coat and scarf, my mom had given her an approving look and said, “Have fun both! Be back by eleven.”

“Come on Shireen! Your brother’s a man.” Abtin said, like those who claim something without meaning it.

After that, I was left out of the rest of their conversation until we reached our destination. When we got out, Abtin picked up a gift-wrapped square box from the trunk and that was how I learned it was a birthday party.

The throb of music filled the hallway on the fifth floor of the building. The night before, I had rehearsed my entrance but it turned out unnecessary. I’d anticipated, like at our family gatherings, the other guests to be properly perched on the couches waiting for us to enter and salute. Here, no one came to receive us. The inside of the apartment was dark except for a couple of dim lights. Everyone was standing, some danced. Abtin and Shireen went in and I followed, surveying people curiously as if I had stepped into a zoo. Somehow Shireen found the host, Sahar, and introduced me to her. She showed her purse to Sahar, mouthed something and was shown to a room.

“You stay with Abtin until I change,” Shireen shouted at me before dashing to the room.

I didn’t like the way she babysat me, but I was relieved he wasn’t going with her.

Abtin introduced me to a few friends and then ushered me into the kitchen, which was less noisy. It seemed to be collective knowledge that people should go to the kitchen for finger food and drinks, unlike our family mehmoonis where the host had to keep offering guests things to eat.

“I’m not sure if you should drink alcohol,” he said while he was unscrewing a bottle of colorless liquid. I could guess what it was. Aragh Sagi, homemade and distilled from raisins.

“Does Shireen drink?”

“I’m fixing her Aragh with Sprite. She likes that.”

He inadvertently revealed they had drunk together and since it was prohibited to do so in public, they had probably been together at other parties too. I dismissed the thought the moment it was conceived. Maybe she’d told him about her preference over one of those interminable phone calls.

“I’ll have some.”

He winked at me. “Only a little and this will remain between you and me.” 

The adult world seemed more replete with secrets than I’d anticipated. Abtin gave me a slice of lime and a plastic cup. To show him I was worth my salt, I drank the whole thing in one go.

Streaming down, it burned my whole body. I felt dizzy and, for a moment, gave in to a twisted face. 

“Easy buddy!”

I bit into the lime and was in the middle of adding a spoonful of yogurt and cucumber mix into a bowl, when I heard Abtin crooning, “Oh la la!”

The subject of his awe was my sister in her short strapless lemon dress. Her hair hung from one side brushing against her thick belt. Her eyes encircled with kohl, her cheeks mildly rouged. I turned to Abtin, watching him watching her. Then, my eyes traveled back to where his were settled. Shireen was hot and she was my sister.

She sashayed into the kitchen. “How are you two making out?”

“Great!” Abtin offered her the cup he’d fixed for her. She held it with two hands and looked at me, expectant.

“I won’t tell them,” I said.

“Don’t bother saying that every time. You’d have to talk all night.” Abtin raised his cup. “Cheers!”

They both took a sip. Immediately afterwards he slipped his arm around her waist and we meandered our way to the living room. Most of the guests were dancing; we found free spots on a sofa to sit, Shireen in the middle. The loud music didn’t let us make conversation. So we all looked at people dancing. Shireen and Abtin kept waving to the others, some of whom came forward to say hi, shake a hand, offer a hug or a kiss. Once in a while, Shireen sipped from her cup. When the music changed, Sahar tottered forward and forced them to dance. She invited me too, but I declined though it felt good to be included.

Shireen’s half-finished cup sat on the coffee table, next to a bottle of water. I’d seen the amount of Aragh Abtin had used for her drink and didn’t want her to finish it. I took a deep breath, downed most of her drink, and swiftly replaced the missing portion with water. Then, I continued watching the dancers light headed, pleased with myself, and bent on reviving my trick till the end of the night.

A well-known Persian song was playing whose reprise was, “Leila your love killed me.” Some guests danced intimately. Abtin and Shireen kept their distance but occasionally they took each other’s hand only to release it a second later. To my surprise, it didn’t hurt me. Their chaste affection had been normalized by their peers’ riskier actions. Besides, Abtin and I had bonded. We shared a secret, one that Shireen didn’t know about. He’d earned that much trust, that much leeway.

When she came back, Shireen didn’t seem to realize her drink had been modified. She finished it quickly, asking Abtin for a refill. While he was in the kitchen, she dragged me onto the dance floor. Even though I hated any kind of dance, I found that my limbs and hips were shaking on their own, more rhythmically than I could normally manage.

Abtin passed the refilled cup to Shireen and disappeared. She drank a bit and put it away. I followed it with my eyes, looking for an opportunity to intervene.

A few minutes later I had my chance, and it was then that things became hazy. This memory was later completed by others. I didn’t throw up on the embroidered couches or the handmade carpets. I managed to haul myself to the bathroom where I soiled the laminate floor. When I stumbled out, I fell unconscious. Shireen called my name, repeatedly. I was taken to a room, placed on a bed which had temporarily become the repository for coats and jackets. A crowd gathered above my head, each suggesting one cure or another. I was in and then I was out. The next time I opened my eyes, there were three of us in the room. I heard Abtin confessing he’d given me Aragh, but just a little. Shireen yelled at him, worried. I wanted to speak but fainted. The next thing, some distant noise, people singing happy birthday.

***

The first question I asked when I came to was, “Is it past eleven?”

Shireen sat on the edge of the bed, wearing her black dress again. The pile of coats was gone. Daylight pierced the flimsy curtains, exposing my stupid question. The silence was deafening.

She was soothingly calm. “It’s seven in the morning. Don’t worry. Things have been taken care of.”

 “It wasn’t Abtin’s fault, I–”

“I know. Sahar’s brother saw you. Well, actually more than one person. You weren’t very subtle.” She pinched my chin and repeated what she often called me: “My little protective brother.” Only this time I felt she meant it.

She reached for her purse and took out a cellphone. She tossed it next to my side.

“Abtin left it for you to fiddle with. He meant to last night.” Shadows rimmed her eyes. “I’m going to meet him soon. So, be quick.”

She hadn’t slept. Yet she was pumped up at the prospect of reuniting with Abtin, her boyfriend. My hand closed around the Nokia. “Tell him thanks and that I’m sorry.”