Mariam held the edges of her flowered calico veil between her teeth. With assurance and a firm heart she tied the rose-red bit of cloth to the saint's tomb. Then she raised her head and, fixing her large eyes on the dust-covered lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the tomb chamber, and prayed in a fervent, entreating whisper.

        "Please, son of Musa Ibn Jafar, give me my wish and take away my shame. Fix it so I can settle down at last and raise a family. Send me a husband, a dependable man who can get me out or my father's house. He can take me any place he wants. I'll never ask you for anything else. Just this husband. You have such power, it wouldn't cost you anything. Anyway, what's the matter with me? That girl of Aziz Khan's--the one with the big boil-scar on her nose--How is it you gave her such a good man? Please, dear saint. I'll make a deal with God--if I get my wish, I'll offer up a fat sheep for you."

        Other than Mariam, there was also a blind Qur'an-reciter sitting in the portico smoking a crude pipe. From time to time he would recite a verse from memory, and his dead, drawling voice would twist through the tomb chamber.

        Mariam held the tomb's brown wooden railing in a firm, steady grasp. She was breathing hard. Thousands of cloth charms of all colors were tied to the railing. Tears had gathered around her eyelids. Her heart was weighed down with a painful longing and a chronic helpless feeling, chronic and mixed with shame. She opened and closed her eyes a few times, then pressed her forehead to the railing and with a dumb, level stare, looked at the lamps and furnishings over the tomb.

        Over the tomb was a cover of moth-eaten green wool, full of dust and grime. The lamps and furnishings trembled through Mariam's tears. The things over the tomb seemed to occupy her attention.

        The tomb was massive and long, and it was obvious that a tall manly figure slept beneath it--or this was how Mariam thought. With a mixture of curiosity and wonder she looked it over from one end to the other and fell to musing.

        "Dear, dear, what a fine build he had!"

        But, because she had asked a man to get her a husband, she was ashamed and her face blushed rosily.

        She stood up with a quick nimble movement and, very sensuously, pressed her lips to the rail and audibly kissed it several times. Without lifting her hands from the barrier, she ritually walked twice around the tomb and sat down again where she had been sitting at first.

      Here she tugged again, softly, on the cloth she had tied to the rail and slowly fondled it. Then she saw that a coarse charm of leaden gray twill, tied there earlier, had fallen over her own charm. This upset her and she peevishly drew out her red charm from under the one of blue-gray twill. She fondled it a little. Like a gardener who, without expecting it, finds a noble flower in the middle of a patch of weeds, she singled it out and set it off against the other charms. All of a sudden she gave a start, and it occurred to her that perhaps some man had tied it there for luck. She thought to herself: "Could be some man who's looking for a wife tied this one on--who can tell about fate? And now I've gone and pushed it back. But that could be some kind of bad sign.

      Sensuously she stared at the blue-gray charm which, rough and manly, was tied near to her rose-red scrap of cloth. Her heart was moved as she looked at it, and she felt her heart overflow with love for that charm. That scrap of twill, for her, stood for a strong, desirable man, and she loved it the way she would have loved a husband.

      Now she was sorry for the rough treatment she had given it. The blue-gray charm seemed to take the shape of a man who had reached out to her, who wanted to hold her. Her heart grew heavy. She stole a glance to either side. Then she slowly pressed her lips to the charm of blue-gray twill and fervently kissed it.

      Her eyes were closed. Greedily she inhaled the fetid smell of the old tomb and the twill cloth, and pressed her sweaty fingers against the railing. Before her eyes was a man whose face and form she couldn't make out, wearing blue-gray clothes. He was jumping around in front of her, and running away from her. She opened her eyes and calmly lay the blue-gray charm over her own red charm, the way they were first. Then she hurried out of the sanctuary.

      In this big, bustling world, Mariam lived in fear of loneliness. Everyone thought only of himself. No one knew that there was a Mariam in this world who was sick and tired of the fear of loneliness, who wanted a husband. There were thousands and thousands of men who wanted women--and if they knew about poor Mariam's heart--maybe they'd break their necks to get to her. But then, how can you know? How many men and women go to bed at night with the same longing, yet not one of them knows about any of the others. It'll be a sad day when those mattresses learn to talk. The things they could say would really frighten people away from one another.

      Mariam had passed her whole life hoping. She felt as if she had always been waiting for the day when someone would knock on the door and ask for her, and grasp her hand and take her away. This hope came back, fresh and new, every morning when she woke up. But except for the oil-seller who had been bringing kerosene to them for years, no one ever came to their house. There was only that man, his clothes smeared with kerosene and a fleshy mole on his eyelid, who would come to the door of the house, take the empty tin from Mariam, fill it, give it back, and go his way.

      Sometimes, when she was doing her housework, she would hear a knocking at the door--and when she ran to open it, there would be no one there. That's when she was sure she was imagining things. She made up thousands of fanciful husbands for herself, and was content with every one of them in turn. She even liked the one who was an oil-seller, and who had a fleshy mole on his eyelid.

      But all of Mariam' s life had been one way, and her trip to Qom had been one way. In her life, the memory of this trip was sweet. It was during this trip that, for the first time in her life, the rough, manly hand of the bus driver held her under the arm--near her breast--as he helped her board. She would never forget that night. She was always recalling its details, and she relished them--a sensuous relishing, touched with madness.

      It was a dark, warm night, and they had had a flat tire below Kushk-e Nosrat. All the passengers got off the bus. So did Mariam. A moist, putrid smell rose out of a marsh off to the side . The stars, as if the had killed the moon and buried it in a pit, twinkled in the black sky. The driver's helper was pouring gasoline. The driver himself was standing next to the steps of the bus, helping the women board--the step was too high.

      And when the powerful, coarse hands of the driver seized Mariam under the arms--near her breast--the pungent smell of gasoline struck Mariam's nostrils and she felt in herself a relish she had never known before. Her heart raced and she didn't know what to do.

      When she went to the back of the bus and took her seat she was still giddy. It was as if she had had half of a sweet dream, and, dizzy with desire, was looking for the rest of it. The muscles of her throat moved as if to swallow, but her mouth and throat were dry. Without realizing it she was still pressing her right arm against her side, as she tried to keep this relish from escaping. The smell of gasoline had also made her giddy.

      Often after that, both asleep and awake, she would press her right arm to her side and feel pleasure. The coarse smell of blue-gray twill and the pungent smell of gasoline would strike her nostrils and she would be exhilarated.

      For a long time now, Mariam had been sitting near the garden patch in her courtyard, under a pomegranate tree, looking up at the tiny pomegranate buds all covered with dust. She was still thinking of a husband. Suddenly the voice of the oil-seller rose at the door as he shouted:

      "Hey oil! kerosene!"

      Mariam jumped to her feet, but immediately stopped and put her hand on the gnarled, crooked trunk of the pomegranate tree, and couldn't make up her mind. She thought to herself:

      "Well, there's nothing blacker than black--if it happens it happens--and maybe he needs someone. It's no sin--and it's not impossible either. Maybe he is looking for one--like me."

      She went to the door and held out the empty tin to the oil-seller. This time she exposed more of her olive-skinned arms than usual from under her flowered calico veil, as she held her glass bracelets before the oil-seller's eyes. With his usual scowl he took the empty tin from her hand and began to pour the kerosene. Again the pungent smell of gasoline struck Mariam's nostrils and her heart started to throb: "Say, oil man, don't you sell gasoline?" "What do you want gasoline for? Watch it, lady, or some day you'll put gasoline in the stove and burn the place down." "Yeah, I know--but it's for something else." "Like what?" "Like for a car. By the way, don't you have a wife?" "Three of them." "How about kids?" "Nope. And the fire's gone out." "Course you can have up to four wives. Maybe you'll find another one. It's hard on you...I mean, it's no good if a man dies without leaving somebody behind." "Nah, lady, I'm fine the way I am. Who needs them? What did I ever do for my folks that my kids would do for me, anyway?"

      Mariam was still standing at the door staring at the drops of kerosene which had spread out on the ground. An onion-hawker stopped his donkey opposite her and said in a hoarse voice:

      "Lady, I got a load of good dried onions, want to try some? Real good onions. From Isfahan."

      From a distance she could hear the familiar voice of the oil-seller:

      "Hey oil! kerosene!"

1945