Everyone was expecting Neda. Everyone wanted to see the celebrity relative and the daughter of the dead man. Many were there not because, or may be because of the death of the old man; but they wanted to see the most famous poetess of their country. She wanted to be left alone. But she knew that peace would not come to her at least for another week.
Sohrab had spent all morning to arrange the burial. Since four in the morning that he had left Neda in the hospital, besides going home, showering and changing to appropriate suit for funeral, he had been busy to buy a burial ground in Behsht e Zahra Cemetery, to arrange all the legal matters; and to set time for that afternoon to bury their father. Sohrab thought that Neda had done enough. He did not think that his mother or Sima were capable of doing anything. Maryam after dropping Aria at school, accompanied him everywhere. Her husband needed him then, so she would be with him. She did not care that people at the house would ask about her. Except the extraordinary circumstance, in Muslim Religion, the dead should be buried in twenty four hours after his death.
This time Neda let her brother to take charge; and she let Maryam to take her under her charge. She was too tired, too disturbed, too frustrated by the people around her that would not leave her alone. Maryam told her:
"These people are here to eat and gossip for a whole week. They don't care for the old man. They're here to take a glimpse of you and even talk to you, and then go spread rumors about you. Let me take care of you. You're too weak now!"
The news of her spending eight days in hospital with her father spread like a wild fire. Maryam took care of her as she had always been ready to do so. Neda followed Maryam, holding her arm, and did not remember anything else.
That night after burial, and a few more nights after that she slept in father's home. She mostly did this for her mother and for her half sister's sake. In a way it was expected of her and Sohrab. But Sohrab, Maryam and their son went to their home every night.
Late that night, exhausted both emotionally and physically, she removed her shoes and stockings. She stretched herself in the middle of the high bed with all white sheet, cover, and everything, that reminded her of her father's face before they had thrown dirt on him. They had made the fourth room on the second floor, which its door had always been closed, into a guest room. She did not seen it before. She did not known about it. This was the room that was always used as storage room. She guessed that perhaps this idea of making it to a guest room was Sima's.
How sensuous it felt to sleep in a strange, original and quaint bed with its odor of sweet newness, which lingered about the sheets and the room!
When she woke up in the morning, she asked herself:
"How many hours have I slept?" Her whole mood was changed.
"Where am I?" She looked around herself and for a moment or two could not remember anything. She looked at the clock on the night stand. It was a little before five in the morning. She had slept but a few hours; but she felt fresh like someone who had slept a long, restful sleep.
To Be Continued
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