“Then how has she been supporting herself?”

“She’s been managing somehow. I think your uncle had some money.” She started to pour tea into the glasses.

“Thank you, I don’t want any tea,” I said. It seemed I would choke if I tried to drink it. “But I wonder if you could give me her address.”

7

My father was sitting in the living room, reading a newspaper.

“I’m going to Kashan. My mother lives there.”

“What?” He looked astounded by my abrupt news. “Who told you that? How do you know it’s true?”

“It’s true. I talked to one of her relatives.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing running around?” he said indignantly. “Why didn’t you tell me about it? Why don’t you ever tell me anything?”

“I’m sorry. I just found out yesterday.”

“What’s everyone going to think?”

“Can’t you try to understand …” I fumbled for words. “It’s natural for me to want to see her?”

“Was it natural for her to leave you?” He got up and came towards me rapidly as if my words had filled him with too much energy.

“You stopped her from seeing me,” I said, immediately regretting it. He looked so desperate standing there before me, trying to block my way. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“I stopped her because I didn’t want her to contaminate you.”

I forced myself into silence.

“You’re not going to see her,” he said.

I began to walk away.

He grabbed my arm. “Go back into that room and stay there.”

“No,” I said, pulling away.

He dropped his hand to his side, his whole body slackening suddenly. “Go then, get out of my sight.”

“I won’t stay long,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

I took a taxi to the bus terminal, bought a ticket and got on the bus immediately. I wanted to be sure of a seat by the window.

The roads were narrow and curving, weaving through a vast desert. The color all around was a whitish-gray—the sand, the salt lakes, and the sky blending. Here and there I saw stubby trees, the ruins of inns and old villages.

The bus was filled to its capacity with passengers and luggage piled on the racks, under the seats, the aisle. People talked loudly or whispered to each other, the voices going on and on, mingling with the screech of the tires against the roadway. Children sucked on sweets, ate watermelon seeds and threw the shells on the floor, or sat silently looking out of the windows. Occasionally they cried or screamed or laughed.

Next to me sat an old woman who immediately put her head back and fell asleep. I tried to sleep too but the bus, jarring against bumps on the road, kept me awake. The excitement I felt at the prospect of seeing my mother paled gradually as people turned to look at me and whispered to each other. I was the only woman on the bus not wearing a chador and the only woman travelling alone. And what bond really existed between my mother and me at this point?