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 The necklaceShort story By Azin Arefi October 3, 2002 The Iranian I had not been back to my parent's old house on Kashani Street since my mother passed away and I rented out the house seven months ago. But on that spring day that's where we were headed: myself, this round old lady and her husband with smooth white hair, accompanied by my driver Asghar Agha. Just the day before when I came home from the office during lunch my wife told me that some lady had called looking for me and that she would call back. That evening a timid shaky voice of a woman on the other end of the receiver asked for Mr. Zarrin. I asked her what I could do for her and she gasped, "Ah, you can put me at peace!" She introduced herself as Zeenat Khanoom and said that she used to work for my mother a long time ago. "Forty-seven years ago to be exact. You don't know how many times I wanted to come see your mother, but I never, I never could. And when I heard that she passed away, God rest her soul, ... well, I think it is about time that I at least came and saw you." She then went on to tell me that we needed to go back to the old house where she had worked for my mother. Thinking that she wanted the house as sentimental setting I told her that the house had been rented out. "Oh, Mr. Zarrin, I don't think you understand. I must go back to that house. I must do something. I must give something back that belongs to your mother. Please. I need the peace. Please." The next day during lunch Zeenat Khanoom and her husband showed up at my office so we could drive to my mother's old house. All morning I had sifted through my childhood memories for a glimpse of Zeenat Khanoom. I had flashing images of a young girl playing with me and my brother, putting on our shoes perhaps, but not much else. When she arrived she did not resemble the slight girl of my memory. She was a plump old lady, shaped like an apple, and her dark red hair sprouted out of the flowered scarf tied around her head. She was very enthusiastic at first, telling me that she had not seen me since I was a little boy when she used to take care of me and my brother, and how was my brother by the way, she asked, and I assured her that he was just fine, his business was good. She said she was very happy and proud to see my brother and me doing so well and keeping up the honorable name of our parents. She was very loquacious. But in the car she fell silent. She just stared out of the window and watched the streets of Tehran become more familiar as we got closer to the house. I decided to respect her silence and ignore my curiosity longer. Instead I chatted with her husband. When we got to the house she stepped out of the car and looked at the door for a few minutes. Her husband affectionately took her hand and said "Zeenat, come on. You are finally here. It will be over soon." "Yes," she said. "It will all be over soon." I rang the door bell. The tenant's little boy opened the door and I asked to see his mother. He ran across the yard yelling, "Maman, it's the landlord!" I heard Mrs. Guilani say, "The landlord? May God not bring us ill. What does he want?" She came to the door, wrapping a scarf around her head. "Mr. Zarrin, good afternoon. What can I do for you?" "Good afternoon, Mrs. Guilani." She glanced at my driver and Zeenat Khanoom and her husband. My entourage could not have looked threatening but she asked, "Did we forget to pay rent, God forbid?" "Oh, no, no," I assured her. "We just wanted to come in for a second if it would not be too obliging." I myself was not sure what we were doing there, so I could not tell Mrs. Guilani what we wanted. I pointed at Zeenat Khanoom. "This lady used to work for my mother in this house and would like to look around the house for a --" "The garden," Zeenat Khanoom jumped in. "Just around the garden, please, with your permission." Mrs. Guilani moved out of the way, a bit confused. "Please, of course, come on in. You are most welcome. It is your own house."  The four of us stepped into the yard. It looked just
as my mother had left it, with the addition of a tricycle and balls that belonged
to the Guilani boy. I still could not remember his name. We all watched Zeenat Khanoom,
waiting to follow her lead. She looked around a bit, still silent and distant. She
spent some time looking at the storage room in the corner, which I knew to be the
servants' quarters back when my mother had live-in servants. Then she began walking
to the right hand side of the yard. We all followed her. She stopped in front of
the apple tree. We all stopped too. She examined it up and down. Mrs. Guilani, not
knowing what else to do with us, asked "Shall I bring tea for all?""Oh, we don't want to give you any trouble," I said. "Oh, no, of course, no trouble at all. I will go make --" "Mrs. Guilani," Zeenat Khanoom said, not taking her eyes off the apple tree. "I would be much obliged to you if you brought us a small shovel." Mrs. Guilani gave me a questioning look and I nodded to her. "Of course. A shovel and some tea, right away." As she walked towards the house I heard her mumble, "That is what I bring all my guests, tea and shovels!" Then she yelled at her little boy to go fetch the shovel from the storage and bring it to me. "And, Behzaad, don't drop it on your toes!" she warned him. "The tree has grown so much since I last saw it," Zeenat Khanoom said, her voice deep in her throat. "Look at how many apples it is bearing this year." She then squatted down by the base of the tree and said, "Here, we need to dig right here." "Are you sure this is the spot?" her husband asked, squatting down next to her. "Yes. I promised myself I would never forget it." "Zeenat Khanoom," I said, "May I ask you what exactly --" "I will tell you everything in a minute, Mr. Zarrin."  Behzaad came running back with the shovel. I took it
and patted his black head. "Many thanks to you, my boy." Asghar Agha took the shovel from me. "Sir, if there is going to be any shoveling, allow me to do it. Khanoom," he addressed Zeenat Khanoom, "tell me where you'd like me to dig." "God grant you a long life, Asghar Agha," Zeenat Khanoom replied. "Please, just dig right here." Asghar Agha rolled up his sleeves and began the procedure. Mrs. Guilani came out with a tray full of steaming tea and sugar cubes. "Ah, may your hands not ache," the husband said. Zeenat Khanoom stared at the spot on the dirt, being dug away, and began uncovering her heart: "I came to work for your mother," she said, "God rest her soul, when I was fifteen. My aunt and uncle had been working for the Zarrin family for quite some time and they were very happy; as happy as servants can be, I suppose. The Zarrins were very rich, and Mr. Zarrin had the enviable job of working at the British Embassy here in Tehran. They were good people. My aunt and uncle were better off than most servants, living rather comfortably in the little house in the yard, right there if you look. The smartest thing my uncle ever did was to learn to drive a car. Back then owning a car was a luxury of course, but having someone to drive it was even more of a commodity. When my uncle learned, he got promoted to chauffeur, driving the Zarrin family proudly around Tehran in their navy Cadillac. When he was not home his domestic tasks fell on my aunt, in addition to her own. Mrs. Zarrin didn't trust anyone else to do the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, the child caring. By then my aunt had her own toddler son running around and she could have used another pair of hands. So they asked my parents if I could come live with them for one summer.  I was a young simple girl from Karaj. Coming to
live in the City, to help out in a huge house was exciting for me. I had never seen
a house like this one. The gardens beamed with flowers, roses mostly, and there were
fruit trees at every corner: apples, plums, walnuts, pears, all like ornaments on
the branch, offering themselves. See for yourselves! The first time I went inside
with my aunt I was not much help to her because I kept staring around me. Those delicate
chairs and coffee tables, the colorful Persian carpets, flowing to the edge of the
rooms, those mirrors and paintings, all in golden frames. Gold, gold everywhere.
Even the kitchen was new and fascinating. My aunt wanted me to watch the rice and
instead I watched the shiny pots and pans and that stocked pantry: dates, dried peaches,
smoked meat and fish, all kinds of spices. There was a jar of saffron! Just
a pinch of that golden spice was worth more than my dress. No need to mention that
the rice came out quite sticky that day! My aunt decided that I should watch the
kids instead, my cousin and Mrs. Zarrin's two boys, you and your brother of course.
I don't know why she trusted me with kids when I couldn't even watch rice boil! But
I was good with children. You were all nice little boys.Mrs. Zarrin was a very kind lady. She had the brightest smile and her voice had a song to it. I remember clearly that her nails were perpetually painted, as if she came out of her mother's womb with red nails. She was always impeccably dressed, wearing the fanciest clothes I had ever seen around the house. Her long fitted skirts dived from her small waste and her breasts pushed against her colored blouses. And her hair, her hair was always perfectly curled and pinned to the side. She was as new and fascinating to me as all her fancy furniture and paintings. I had to forcibly pull myself out of a room she was in when my aunt would summon me to the kitchen or ask me to come wash one of the boy's hands. I was naïve and young then and I did not realize yet that the reason Mrs. Zarrin had so much time to paint her nails and do her hair was because my aunt and I did the cleaning and cooking and raising her sons. She just seemed magical to me. After being around her for a while I began to feel ashamed of the way my aunt and I looked. I felt like we were spoiling the ambiance of her beautifully decorated house. We were the unsightliest things in the house! We seemed to fit so much better in our little house in the yard. Don't get me wrong, we were good-looking and healthy and always very clean. But we certainly didn't dress like or smell like Mrs. Zarrin. She smelled like European perfumes.  One Friday, about two weeks after my arrival, Mrs. Zarrin
was going out to visit one of her friends. I was dressing the Zarrin boys in their
best so they could go with their mother. My aunt had baked some of her special cream
puffs and my uncle was waiting in the yard for Mrs. Zarrin, picking some dark red
roses so that she could take them to her friend. "Zeenat," my uncle yelled for me from the yard. "Bring me some wrapping paper to wrap around the roses." "Yes, Uncle." "Wet them a little bit first. Just a bit." "I will." I sent the boys out to the yard and told them to wait for their mother. "Now, don't get yourselves dirty." I took out yellow shiny paper from the bottom drawer of the desk in the study room and sprinkled water on it in the kitchen sink. My uncle wrapped the damp paper around the roses and offered them to my nose. "Smell that, Zeenat dear, they smell of heaven." I took a whiff of the flowers, their soft petals tingling my nose. Their sweet scent almost gave me a headache. Mrs. Zarrin came out of the house and I don't think I will ever forget how she looked. She was wearing a light blue suit and a lemon silk blouse. Her skirt was right below her knee and the jacket emphasized her waist. And she was wearing something I had never seen anyone wear, a hat: a wide rimmed hat, perfectly matching her blue suit, with a yellow trim. She came clicking down the stairs with her blue heels to where we stood and started asking my uncle if he remembered how to get to her friend's house. "Yes I do, khanoom. Don't worry about a thing." Then he extended the roses to me and tilted his head towards Mrs. Zarrin. I took the flowers and felt a sharp pain in my thumb. I clasped my jaw in pain but managed to smile. I handed her the bunch and she took it gratefully.  "Ah, thank you Zeenat joon. They look so
good this year. Probably ëcause you are here!" She brought them up to her face
and took in their fragrance. All I could smell was her perfume. Standing there on
that summer midday, dressed as she was, her hat casting a crescent shadow on her
face, holding red roses to her face, her scent wafting in air, she looked like the
most perfect woman I had ever seen. My thumb throbbed.Mrs. Zarrin sat in the middle and set the roses on the front seat. After some shuffling the boys got in the car on either side of their mother. My aunt handed her the cream puffs through the window. "Be careful, khanoom, they are greasy. I have wrapped them well but don't get them on your suit." "Thank you, dear. And if these boys are well behaved they can each have one in the car, provided you don't tell your father I let you eat in the car." When they drove off I looked at my thumb. Blood wrapped around my thumb like glaze. I sucked on it and the iron taste made me nauseous. I noticed that I had gotten a small speck of blood on my dress, but it was hardly visible in the pattern. Then I wondered what would happen if Mrs. Zarrin ever punctured her finger. Would she bleed? Could she bleed on her blue suit? No. She was not allowed to get blood on her outfit. I took my thumb out of my mouth and looked at it. A tiny droplet of blood struggled its way out of my vein. More than anything else in the world I wanted a suit that I could not bleed on, a suit I could not stain. I ran my thumb down my chest and the blood smeared invisibly on my cotton dress. It was not long before the Zarrins were invited to a formal party at the British Embassy, where Mr. Zarrin worked. I had been so foolish as to think that Mrs. Zarrin wore fancy clothes around the house. Then I had seen her visit her friends and entertain them and I thought, ah, this must be Mrs. Zarrin at her fanciest. But I was wrong. The British party rolled around and Mrs. Zarrin got ready as if she were getting ready for her wedding. I was very excited that Mrs. Zarrin needed our help this night. It meant I would get to spend time in her perfumed, pink room, with trinkets and boxes, picture frames and mirrors all around. I got to be around her, and watch the magical transformation of a woman into a goddess. I was helping her fix her hair in front of the vanity mirror. I handed her black hair pins and she dexterously made them disappear into her hair. My aunt would take out shoes from the closet and bring them to Mrs. Zarrin to see which one she wanted to wear. I had observed that Mrs. Zarrin picked her shoes first and then decided which hat went along with the shoes. The rest was easy, there was a perfect dress for each hat. She seemed a bit agitated that night. She had so many shoes and yet none seemed right. I suggested she should pick a hat first, that might work better. "Dear child," she said irritably, "you do not wear hats at night!" When we were done with her hair I held a small mirror behind her so she could survey the outcome. "Oh my God," she gasped, "my twist is crooked!" She grabbed the mirror from my hand and held it at different angles, hoping the crookedness would disappear. "Zeenat, how could you not tell me that I was doing it wrong?" "It didn't seem wrong to me, khanoom." I was so incompetent. Of course it didn't seem wrong to me. What in the world did I know about French twists and what they were supposed to look like? "Yes, Mrs. Zarrin," my aunt came over and looked. "It looks good. Good and beautiful." "Ugh, what are you saying? It is crooked! Can't you see? Ah, now I have to start all over again," she said, fishing for black pins that appeared magically in her hands. "Why don't you two just wait for me outside. I think you are making me more nervous." My aunt cautiously closed the door behind us and whispered to me, "She gets nervous before these Embassy parties. I think it is all the British people that do it to her." I could not picture a British Embassy party, but I imagined all the British as being blond and blue-eyed, looking rather pale and boring, like yogurt. I pictured Mrs. Zarrin easily standing out amongst them. A while later Mrs. Zarrin stepped out of her room, taller than usual. She must have chosen her highest heels. Her hair was perfectly set atop her head and her black dress flowed from her. Then I saw it. The necklace around her neck. It sparkled. A thick diamond and emerald necklace. There was one large emerald in the middle, engulfed by diamonds and three smaller emeralds on either side of it, encased in more diamonds. For the first time, something Mrs. Zarrin owned was more beautiful than she. I went deaf and dumb. I am sure my aunt was praising Mrs. Zarrin as she threw the shawl around her and I think Mrs. Zarrin was apologizing for being a nuisance earlier. I was also paralyzed and I did not accompany them down the stairs, down to where Mr. Zarrin was waiting for his beautiful wife. I did not see her get into the car and be driven off by my uncle. I just stood there, outside her room, spellbound, and thought of that thing around her neck. That night I lay awake on my mattress, following her through the party, talking to the crowd, as she politely smiled and mingled. I heard the people say after her "Did you see that necklace on Mrs. Zarrin?" "It must be heavy carrying all that precious stone around one's neck." "There isn't a more beautiful woman, deserving of that piece of jewelry." "The Queen Farah Pahlavi herself doesn't have a necklace like that." That's what it was, the necklace! I sat up straight. That's what made Mrs. Zarrin beautiful and magical! Her powers came from her necklace. It was responsible for her transformations. Just owning it was enough to make her a female deity. Any woman that possessed that necklace was the luckiest woman, and had the life of a queen. I heard the Cadillac drive up to the house. I went over to the window. It was dark but I made out the shape of my uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Zarrin. They came in quietly, the couple said good night, and went up to the house. In the dark of the night I saw the jewels reflecting back the moon, the stars, the night, the party, the life. I climbed back onto my mattress as my uncle came in and went to sleep. He fell asleep easily, not consumed by the necklace. Two days had gone by and I had not forgotten about the necklace. I wanted to see Mrs. Zarrin wear that necklace again. As we were washing dishes I asked my aunt when the Zarrins might go to another formal party. "Oh, they usually get invited to those once a month," she told me. Then she stopped scrubbing and looked at me. "Why do you want to know?" "No reason." "Listen to me Zeenat, don't wonder too much about their parties and their lifestyles. We are all born with a certain amount of God-given things and abilities. We cannot change them and we should not try. Those parties are no place for us. Don't spend your time bothering with them." Her words made no sense to me. Perhaps I didn't want to understand them. Five nights after the party my aunt and I were in our house with the boys. She was making tea for us on the samovar. My uncle had driven the Zarrins to a funereal that night. "Sometimes you go to parties, sometimes you go to funerals," my aunt said as she poured us tea in clear cups. "See how the world turns, Zeenat?" She lifted the lid of the sugar cube holder and found it empty. "Look, your uncle eats more sugar than a bee eats honey! Zeenat joon, go over to the main house and bring us some sugar cubes. You know where they are." I left with the sugar cube holder. "Be careful, it is dark," she warned. I had never been alone in the main house before. In the dark the furniture looked scary and animated. I quickly went into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. I filled the holder with the cubes and put it in the pocket of my dress and was about to leave. Then I remembered the necklace. I could go look at it and no one would know. I went into Mrs. Zarrin's room. I didn't turn her light on; the light from the hall was enough. I looked for the necklace in the jewelry box on the vanity. It was not there. There was another small box on the vanity, made out of bones with miniatoor paintings on its lid. I opened it and there it was, clear and green, shiny, magical. I took it out and held in my hands. It was cold and heavy. My heart was racing. It was in my own hands. Mine. Without really thinking I claimed it. It may not have been mine before, but now it was. I put it in my pocket and left the house much heavier than I had entered it. I wanted to get away from the house as fast as I could. I walked quickly across the yard, the necklace weighing down my dress. Mrs. Zarrin would not miss it. She would notice that it was missing of course, but she would get over it. She had so much more. She had so much more jewelry and clothes and shoes and furniture and paintings and pots and pans. I even thought of her shiny pots and pans! As if they were equal to what I had put in my pocket! She had so much more. So much more to keep up her magic. I had nothing. Nothing. She could afford to give this to me. I walked briskly towards the little house. Then I suddenly realized I could not go to the house with it in my pocket. My aunt would obviously see it. And I had no place to hide it in the house. In the whole world I just had my bundle that held my clothes. I could not put it there. It would be seen any time I went to take something out. I had to do something -- and quickly. I had to get back to the little house soon, my aunt might come out looking for me. The Zarrins could come home any second. I had to make a decision fast. I ran to the nearest tree, the apple tree, and knelt down. I started digging with my bare hands, tearing away at the moist soil. I clawed and clawed, the hole got deep fast. My heart was all the way up in my ear, beating painfully at my ear drum, loud and deafening. I wiped my hands on my dress and took the necklace carefully out of my pocket. It was so beautiful. And I had to hide it from the world, put it in the dark damp dirt. I felt like I was burying my child. I tore a piece off the hem of my dress and wrapped it around the necklace and I slowly lowered it into the grave I had dug myself. After covering it up, I got up and memorized the spot under the apple tree forever. I washed my hands under the cold water of the hose and went back to the house. "What took you so long, child?" my aunt asked, pulling the blankets over the asleep boys. "I guess I didn't know where the sugar cubes were. I had to look for them." I lied and handed her the full holder. "Well, our tea is cold and so I have to brew it aga-- Zeenat, what happened to your dress?" "Oh, it got caught in the rose bushes as I was coming back." "I told you to be careful, it is dark in the yard. We have to ask Zarrin Agha to install a light switch from this side of the yard as well, not just from the main house, ëcause so many times I or your uncle ...." I did not hear her. Her words disappeared in the air. I sat down and an incredible joy washed over me. I now had the necklace! I had the most beautiful necklace in the world. And it was mine. I just had to go back and dig it up when the time was right. That night I slept soundly, no need to dream of the thing I already possessed. The next morning I woke up with the thought of my necklace. I smiled. But suddenly a cold fear entered my heart. Mrs. Zarrin was home now, in her room this very instant. If she chose to look for her necklace .... The whole day I was tense. I jumped at the slightest thing, especially people calling my name. Every time I was in the yard I would try to avoid looking at the apple tree, but I could not help it. When the boys played around it my whole heart would sink. I could not stay in the same room as Mrs. Zarrin. Her smile and lovely voice made me uneasy. She had not discovered what was missing yet. It took her another two days to find out that the necklace was missing. I had a fleeting thought that if it had been my necklace and it was missing I would have noticed right away. I must love it more than she. She told her husband and he was the one who asked us about it. He said he had no idea what could have happened, but the point was that a valuable piece of jewelry was missing. "It has both monetary and sentimental value. It was the necklace I gave to my wife as our wedding gift." So we all fell onto the house like thieves, turning over every leaf and looking under any stone for the necklace. Mrs. Zarrin herself stayed in her room, her husband assuring us that he himself had looked everywhere in that room. I could hear her sobs when no one else could. It made my liver burn. I helped in the search, of course. I searched in the oddest places and was praised for my cleverness and persistence. Somewhere inside me I wanted to go dig under the apple tree and pull out the necklace and march back to the house triumphantly. But there wasn't a good time. It was impossible. "She has probably misplaced it somewhere, put it somewhere that she cannot remember," Mr. Zarrin reasoned out loud to us after our failed search-and-rescue mission. "But Mrs. Zarrin is always so organized," my aunt said. "She always puts everything back in its place." "That's what she keeps saying as well," said Mr. Zarrin. "Perhaps it fell off her neck at the party and she did not notice it," my aunt suggested. "Don't be silly, woman!" my uncle said. "A piece of jewelry can't just fall off her neck and her not notice it." Mr. Zarrin was silent for a bit and then said slowly, "I am not insinuating anything, or making judgments about anyone, but perhaps we should search your quarters as well." My uncle swallowed dryly and turned yellow. "You are more than welcome to search that part of the house. It is your house after all." "I am not suggesting anything, you understand. Perhaps one of the boys took it and played with it and took it to the house. We will just search for the sake of being thorough." "Of course," my uncle agreed. "I will be right over." My aunt and uncle and I marched back to the little house, left the door open, and waited for Mr. Zarrin. "Do you hear what he is accusing us of, wife?" my uncle asked. "Do you hear? He thinks we took it. He thinks we are thieves. He is calling us thieves!" "No, he didn't really say that we took it," my aunt said quietly. "He just thinks that --" "That what? The curséd necklace grew legs and walked into this house?" "Well, I mean I don't know but --" "If we were thieves would we live like this?" he spread his arms. "Believe me, if we were thieves we would live much better. Much better. We would live like them!" "Please, lower your voice. He'll be here any minute." "What more can he do? He has already insulted us. After all these years, this is our thanks. We are honest, hard working people. My father never did a dishonest thing in his life, I have never lied to or cheated anyone, and my son will grow up an honest man as well. And you know something? He will be poor and miserable like me and my father before me because he is honest! But I will tell him that his dignity means more than anything. That is what my father taught me. And now look! We are being called thieves." My aunt just shook her head. I sat there, motionless. But my insides were all jumbled. Mr. Zarrin knocked on the open door. "May I?" he asked. "Of course, sir," said my uncle. "Please, come in." There was, of course, no necklace to be found in the servants' quarters. A few days later Mrs. Zarrin was helping my aunt pick roses for the house. The boys and I were outside, playing. My aunt cut the stems with pliers and handed them to Mrs. Zarrin. By then Mr. Zarrin had already apologized several times to my aunt and uncle and his apology had formally been accepted. "Maybe we should pick some more of the yellow ones," Mrs. Zarrin suggested. "Yes, khanoom." "I think we just need more flowers in the house. It will cheer up the place." "Yes, it will." Then Mrs. Zarrin said, "My husband has bought me a new necklace." "Really? That is wonderful. He is such a wonderful man. I am happy for you." "But I told him I didn't want it. I don't need any more necklaces. I just miss the one I had." My ears felt hot. If she only knew that it was just a few paces away from her! All I really wanted was to turn back time, or to stop time and go dig it out of there for her. But I couldn't. I was helpless. "You know," she touched my aunt's shoulder, "I thought he should never have searched your house. That was wrong. I didn't want him to." "Yes, I understand, khanoom." "He was desperate I guess. It's just that it was special to him as well," she went on. "He gave it to me when we got married. And now it is gone forever." Her eyes filled up. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Zarrin." "Oh, I know. Thank you. I don't mean to complain about silly things like necklaces. Those things can be replaced, one way or another. But this one meant someth--, I just lov--" Her voice was shaking. Her sing-song voice was out of tune. "Mrs. Zarrin," my aunt rubbed her shoulders. "You have your health, your husband, and your two lovely boys. Don't worry yourself about things that come and go." "I know. You are right. You are right." Her tears flowed down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them. They fell onto her blouse, on the roses, and into the soil. Each of her tears fell like a boulder on top of my chest, crushing me. The summer was nearly over and I was about to go back home to Karaj. I could not get the necklace out of my head. My anxiety about it did not calm with the passage of time. Even when I knew no one was looking for it and no one could ever find it, I looked at the apple tree with horror and guilt. When my uncle would pick its fruit and bring it for us to eat I could hardly swallow them. The apples tasted of metal, of jewels. The necklace was seeping into the fruit. At night I would watch the tree. I swore that the apples turned into diamonds and the leaves to emeralds. They just dangled there, sparkling in the moonlight. I wanted to undo it all, but I couldn't. The necklace could not magically just appear one fine day. And I could not possibly admit to my deed. I could not. And I certainly could not take the necklace back to Karaj with me. I had no place to hide it, I could not possibly wear it, and besides, where in the world would I wear it? So I had to leave it. I said good-bye to everyone, including the buried necklace, silent and cold, right under their noses. Mrs. Zarrin gave me so many things when I left, clothes, hairbrushes, those paper soaps I liked so much. She was killing me, stabbing me with every piece she gave to me with that kind smile on her face. For forty-seven years I have been dying slowly because of this necklace. So many times I wanted to come back and tell Mrs. Zarrin what I had done, to tell her that all she had to do to get her precious necklace back was to walk a few yards to her apple tree and push aside some dirt. But I was too ashamed. What would she do? What would she say? How would she feel? No, no. I could not see that. Then I read in the newspaper that she had passed away. That nearly killed me. I was too late. I could never give back her necklace. She died not knowing where it was, she died not having it. She died never wearing it again. I don't know if it would have been comforting to her to know that no one else has worn it either." Zeenat Khanoom stopped talking. We all stood speechless, looking at this round old lady who had hurt for so long, when she never had to. Mrs. Guilani was wiping her eyes. "And now," Zeenat Khanoom went on finally, "I thought I should at least give it back to her son." She looked straight at me with pleading eyes, as if asking me to forgive her for the pain she had inflicted on herself. I wanted to tell her that she needed to forgive herself. But I understood that she was here today to hear me, and consequently my mother, say she was forgiven. But I had not fully wrapped my mind around her story and how it related to me and my family. I could not say anything to her. She had robbed me of my tongue. No one said anything. No one had touched the tea Mrs. Guilani had brought. Asghar Agha had stopped digging a while ago. He had dug a deep hole around the spot Zeenat Khanoom had pointed out with her pudgy finger and reached the roots of the great tree. That's when Behzaad and I helped too, sifting through the tangles for the precious jewels, all the while listening to Zeenat Khanoom's voice. Soon after she stopped talking Asghar Agha suddenly held up his soiled hands. Then slowly he reached into the disturbed dirt and took out a piece of rag, decomposing in the earth. He walked over and ceremoniously put it in the hands of Zeenat Khanoom. She peeled away the rag and there it was, bearing no signs of its burial of forty seven years, like magic: the necklace. It was as beautiful and mesmerizing as she had described. We all inched closer around her. She held it in her hands, staring at it for a while. "Do you realize that this is the longest I have held it in my hands?" she said. "But I feel like I have been wearing it around my neck for all these years. Heavy and cold, choking me, for all these years." She looked up at the apple tree. "Just like this tree has grown and borne more fruit, so has my guilt, each year growing and bearing more guilt." She ran her finger across the necklace and carefully handed it to me. It was cold but lighter than I expected. "But perhaps now it will be over" she said. Her husband smiled sadly at her. "Yes, it is. It is over now, Zeenat." She closed her eyes and sighed and steadied herself on her husband's shoulder. I looked at the necklace. It seemed to stretch its diamond and emerald arms, happy and relieved to come out of its dark, lonely place. I looked at Zeenat Khanoom. She, too, looked that way.
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