He shakes his head. I know he is cursing himself for being so naïve. I have made his sincerity look like stupidity.

He says, “Your father was only good at one thing: seducing other people’s wives.”

He turns all red.

I say, “That is the basic story of all the world’s exciting movies.”

I realize that I am being very stupid. The fighting engine has started. Sometimes it is hopeless; the quarrel goes on and on no matter what you do. No amount of wisdom can stop it. He says one thing and I say something else. There is no joy in defending something you don’t believe in. Amir puts me in this position. I don’t like him. He makes me feel like an ugly witch. And why not get uglier? Amir is on a roll and does not stop. He gets excited about what he is saying. It is at a point when I have to yell.

It took me years to realize that one scream is equal to three hours of begging and pleading. Like lightning, a scream will burn everything all at once. It took me years to figure out that people unknowingly need to be yelled at. They need a loud sound to make them listen at the appropriate time, and to drown out the unwanted noises around them, to remember that there is someone else sitting in front of them. I yell. Loud and clear. Without crying or moaning. That’s what Amir calls feminine deception. I know that the “Young Rooster” is behind the door, and that Mrs. Hashemi is bending halfway out of her window in the backyard.

Amir says, “Keep your voice down.”

I don’t. I stand up so that the sound carries better. I am glad that our house is so small that he can’t run away from my screaming.

Quietly he says, “I will divorce you.”

It’s like a deadly bullet that he has fired calmly.

I must be dying. I lie down to die, but I don’t die.

Chapter 17

17

The basement I see in my dreams has no windows. But the basement in my father’s house had windows; four small windows. The basement in Aunt Mahboub’s house had only one window that could be seen from the backyard. Our basement was big and full of old furniture, kerosene barrels, and pickle jars. Coming down the stairs, first you saw the small basin in the corner and the twin trunks with packages of lavash bread on top. The basement had a low ceiling. Whenever I start traveling to my past, I end up in this basement that, through its winding passages, was also connected to Aunt Mahboub’s basement.