BRONWYN HACK
Bronwyn Hack is known for her multifaceted practice which spans sculpture, painting, printmaking, and ceramics.
CONTENT NOTE
Hossein Asgari’s ‘Anti-theft Door’ features depictions of gender-based violence and police brutality.
She hears the living room door close. ‘Hamid?’ she calls.
‘It’s me, Maman jan.’
She pours two cups of water into the pot of rice, places it on the stove, and turns to see Hamid entering the kitchen.
‘Milk.’ Hamid puts the bottle on the table.
‘Thanks, dear. How was your walk?’
‘As usual. We went to the Wooden Park, Baba sat and chatted with his friends, I found a quiet spot to read, and then we walked back.’
‘Can you bring me two potatoes from the shed, dear?’
‘Maman, did Baba contribute to building the Wooden Park?’
‘What do you mean? Council builds and maintains parks. Why?’
‘When he parted from his friends, he was a bit upset. He said that previously the park was empty land. It belonged to a wealthy man who wanted to turn it into apartments. And he was the one who arranged a fundraiser in the mosque to pursue the owner to let his land be turned into a public park. He said his friends didn’t believe him and thought he was making the whole thing up, and he didn’t want to go back to the park and his friends anymore.’
‘You know how expensive such a large piece of land is in this neighbourhood? And it’s always been like that. No way you can raise that much money through a fundraiser in a mosque.’
‘But he couldn’t have made the whole story up, could he? There must be an element of truth in it. Has he ever been involved in any fundraiser activities?’
‘You know how your Baba is these days. The other day he was talking about my late Baba and called him a doctor when he’d barely finished primary school.’ She chuckles. ‘And don’t worry, I bet he’s already forgotten everything.’
Hamid nods. ‘Two potatoes, you said?’
‘Yes, dear.’
He is back in a minute.
‘Put them in the sink, please.’
‘Any news from the door guy?’
‘I called him yesterday, and he said the door still hasn’t arrived from Tabriz. Of course he is lying. The day he came to measure the door frame, he said it would be ready in three weeks.’
‘How long has it been?’
‘Almost eleven weeks.’
‘Why Tabriz, though?’
‘He said they make the best anti-theft doors there. Anyway, I called Mr Rezvan again and he said that—’
‘Mr Rezvan?’
She picks up a potato to wash. ‘The glazier who changed our windows to double-glaze a few months ago. He is the one who recommended this clown in the first place. Anyway, Mr Rezvan was so apologetic and said he didn’t know this guy was so unreliable and he’d recommended him to us based on a colleague’s recommendation—’ she opens a cabinet door and picks up a peeler ‘—and that he’d even dropped by his shop the other day and asked him to return the down payment if he—’
‘It was way more than a down payment, wasn’t it?’
‘He said he needed the money to order the door.’
‘Can you give me his number?’
‘What is he going to tell you that he hasn’t already told me?’
‘I can give him a piece of my mind.’ He opens the fridge door and gets a bottle of water. ‘It seems he’s taken us for a bunch of fools.’
‘It won’t do us any good.’ She passes him an empty glass. ‘Let’s wait a few more days and see how it goes.’
After waiting a week she decides to go to his shop and talk to him face to face. In what sort of land is the man who sells anti-theft doors a thief himself?
‘Where are you going?’ Hamid asks.
‘I’m going for a walk and to buy some saffron.’ She checks her handbag to ensure she has her masks and hand sanitiser.
‘Why didn’t you ask me to buy it this morning?’
‘I could use some fresh air.’
‘Where are you going?’ Her husband enters the living room from the yard.
‘Going for a walk.’ She glances at the dirt marks around his knees. ‘Change your pyjamas and leave those for me to wash.’
‘Look at these berries. So ripe! If I turn my head, birds will have them all.’ He offers her a recycled yogurt pot filled with freshly washed mulberries.
‘I’ll have some later.’ She sits on a chair to put her shoes on.
‘You’ll be back soon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t stay out too late.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And be careful.’
‘I am careful! I have two masks and everything,’ she says tapping her handbag. ‘Hamid? Keep an eye on him. If I’m late, don’t let him wait for me outside,’ she whispers, though she is sure her husband cannot hear her.
‘I’ll be teaching an online class, but I’ll make sure he is fine. Enjoy your walk.’
The streets are congested with traffic. Where did all these cars come from? Not too long ago, there was a time when cars hadn’t conquered the city yet, when people’s word meant something, and they did business without any written proof. Now, one cannot trust her own brother, she shakes her head. Shall she go to buy saffron first or get it on the way back? A motorbike horns and drives past her on the sidewalk. ‘God damn it!’ she says under her breath. ‘I want to avoid the traffic, so the hell with the pedestrians.’ She exhales.
‘Come here!’
She turns her head to see a Morality Police officer beckoning a young girl.
‘Me? Why?’ The girl’s hands move to her scarf to adjust it on her head.
Without thinking, almost instinctively, she does the same, though she knows that no one would really care about what she wears at her age.
‘Yes, you!’
‘My outfit has no problem,’ the girl says.
‘There are at least twenty things wrong with it,’ his colleague, a female officer in a green uniform and black chador, answers for him. ‘Get in the van!’
‘What? But why?’
‘Hey, that’s my sister. Let her go, please. It won’t happen again,’ pleads a young man in a scarlet T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.
‘Stay out of it,’ the female officer says. ‘This way.’
‘We are not from here,’ the young man steps in front of his sister. ‘We don’t know anyone in this city. Please! It won’t happen again, I promise.’
The female officer reaches around him and grabs the girl’s arm. ‘Come on!’
‘Hey! Don’t touch my sister!’
The officer takes his baton out, points it at the young man’s chest and says, ‘Back off!’
‘What do you mean back off? She is my sister.’
‘You’re her brother? If you were a man, you wouldn’t allow her to dress like a whore! Now fuck off!’
‘Whore is the one who gave birth to someone like you,’ the young man responds, and she sees regret filling his eyes before the words have fully left his mouth.
A baton cracks the air.
‘Ha!’ she gasps and takes a step back. The young man is on the ground, clutching at his side. His face is tainted with an ugly dark purple as the pain rippling through his body stops the air from entering his lungs. The girl is shrieking. Two female officers try to drag her towards the van, away from her brother.
‘Let her go!’ somebody shouts, and soon it turns into a chant. ‘Let her go, let her go…’ Passing drivers sound their horns. Somebody pokes his head out of his car window. ‘You bastards!’ he shouts, before turning into a side street. It all makes the officers more adamant to get the girl into the van. Even the male officer, who is not supposed to touch her, grabs her ankles, and now the girl is in the air, crying, cursing, her body twisting itself into an eerie dance as she struggles to set herself free.
She sees two hands stretching out of the dark van. The girl’s head bangs on the side of the van door. ‘Ha!’ she gasps and takes another step back. The two hands lock under the girl’s shoulders and pull her inside.
The girl’s scarf is left on the ground, like a patch of red and yellow buttercups in a cement garden. A female officer runs, picks it up, and throws it inside the van.
A crowd has gathered around the young man, through which she sees his head resting on a woman’s lap, her hand holding a bottle of water at his lips.
A soda can hits the side of the van. The officer wants to chase after the teenager who hurled it, but he thinks twice and gets inside the van.
She is in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at the empty space where the van once was, when a young man walks past her and says, ‘We’ll dance on their graves, soon! You’ll see!’
The rage in his eyes, the hatred in his voice—though not meant for her—unsettles her. She walks away in a hurry, hesitates at the junction, and then turns back towards her house.
‘Maman!’ She can hardly hear Hamid over the sound of the vacuum cleaner. ‘Why are you vacuuming? Didn’t Zari do it two days ago?’
She nods.
‘What did your doctor tell you?’ She ignores his question. ‘Let me do it then!’
She shakes her head. He says something she cannot discern and returns to his room.
She scrubs the kitchen floor, washes the sink spotless, and replaces the plastic tablecloth with a new one made of lace. She takes her silver cutlery out, wipes and arranges it back in its black velvet case. She bought it two years before the Revolution, with her first salary as a secondary school teacher. At the time, she had paid a small portion of her salary for it. Now, even if she wasn’t retired, it would cost more than a month’s salary. ‘It’s so bourgeois,’ her younger brother, then a leftist anti-Shah activist, now a dentist living in Germany, had said. He had said it lightheartedly, but it had still hurt her feelings. Regardless, she likes the cutlery set more than anything she has ever possessed. Why? She is not sure. She runs her hand over the intricate carving patterns of a teaspoon before closing the case and placing it back in the top cabinet.
She soaks chickpeas, lentils, and kidney beans and takes a pack of frozen vegetables out of the freezer to defrost, so she can cook aush-e-reshte, Hamid’s favourite, for lunch tomorrow. She places some cheese, walnuts, and fresh vegetables on a tray and carries it to her husband’s room. He is propped up in bed, still in his dirty pyjamas, his head slightly tilted to the left, snoring softly.
‘Your dinner.’ She places the tray on his bedside table. He opens his eyes. ‘And I’ve told you a hundred times, you don’t need to wear a mask indoors.’
He pulls his mask under his chin. ‘You already had yours?’
‘I don’t feel like it.’
‘Why?’
‘I just don’t!’
‘Hamid has eaten?’
‘I’ll warm up the leftovers from lunch after he’s done teaching.’
‘What’s he teaching?’
‘English.’
‘English? Since when?’
‘Since forever.’
‘You sure you don’t want a bite? This new cheese is really good.’
She leaves the room.
She turns to her side, checks the fluorescent hands of the alarm clock next to her bed, gets out, and walks to the kitchen.
‘It’s you, Maman jan?’ Hamid says, his head poking out of his room. ‘I thought it was Baba again. Can’t you sleep?’
‘I just had a sleeping pill. I’ll be alright.’
She returns to her bed, lies on her back, and closes her eyes. She knows that the pill will kick in, and soon she’ll be asleep—a deep sleep with no dreams.