Stories
Excerpts
THE RAVINE
[Short
Story]
I
She
is an early bird in an early morning of the early
autumn. The wind is also early to be this cold. No
matter what the weather is, she’s used to taking a walk
before going to work. This is her time. She walks
along streets, or around the ravine park.
Today is her fourth day at the store. This
means something. The first time she saw the Help Wanted
sign behind the window, the job didn’t look that
difficult. It was not a big post office, only a small
outlet at a stationery store in Spadina Village, with
one sales person, one cashier, and that stout
grey-haired woman, always busy, grim-faced at the dimly
lit back of the store. She’d gone to the outlet before
to buy stamps for resumes she had had to mail or for
postcards to friends back home. She applied in person,
sent her resume, called several times to follow up until
last weekend she got a call from Olga, the stern stout
woman, who’d convinced her boss that a mature woman
could be more helpful than a careless adolescent. She
is sick of the part-time job she has at La Senza. If
she survives this week of probation, she’ll get out of
hell.
Hell
is managed by Helena, the store manager: tall, slim,
blonde and beautiful, though with a slight hunch. To be
fair, she admits that hell is not hell just because
Helena is bossy, or arrogant, or a foolish narcissist.
What really annoys her is sorting panties and bras, or
competing with other sales persons to grab a customer
just to add a dollar to her daily wage, or mechanically
smiling at customers and cajoling them into buying more
and more. When Helena eats her lunch time sandwich in
the stock room, she amuses herself by repeating, “I’m a
genius!”, imitating her talking doll. Observing Helena,
she says to herself in the same tone of voice, "I was a
manager!"
Now her past looks as external as the
sidewalk she steps on; something detached, like the edge
of the ravine bordering the sidewalk. It’s outside
herself, around her, sometimes at her back, ahead of or
beside her, sometimes invisible, as if it were her
shadow. No wonder others ignore her shadow. She is not
concerned about that, either. But she knows that the
past, shadow or not, might be more than a past; maybe
it’s the entire present, the whole future, a unique
space of time. She lives in a Jewish neighbourhood, and
sees Hasidim cocooned in their past. Hers had been torn
apart by others, and abandoned by her.
She’s reached the bridge. Before crossing the street
and making her way towards
Spadina Road, she lingers for a while to watch the vast
ravine broaden beneath the surface of daily fuss. It’s
in the full colours of the season’s splendour, yet the
wind’s chill makes it unwelcoming. She recalls that
lazy summer day when she went there for a walk with her
husband and her son. They were new to the neighbourhood
then and the ravine looked like the countryside.
Thrilled at the newness of their surroundings, they
enjoyed their meander around a ravine so vast and open.
They went up to the hilltop and watched the pretty scene
below. Then time began to pass rapidly, and left them
desperate. Her husband started to regret what he had
lost. Her son, unable to communicate with his
classmates, became isolated at school. She found out
that a survival job would be the only kind she could
get. One day on her way to work, when she wanted to
cross the ravine, an unleashed dog ran towards her
barking angrily. There was no sign of the dog owner.
She ignored it and kept walking; the dog kept barking.
At the entrance both she and the dog stopped and looked
at each other. She was afraid of it; what she realized
was that the dog had barked at her because she was a
stranger trying to invade its territory. She was a
stranger; she didn’t think of herself that way but the
dog noticed it at once. Since then she has approached
the ravine many times, but never dared go in.
Olga
is busy at the counter. The small shipping room is full
of bags and boxes. Olga has assigned her to organize
shelves, replace parcels and packages according to the
date they were received, check delivery orders, review
supply lists…. She doesn’t doubt that she can manage
all these tasks. She’s already caught a discrepancy in
the accounts and made corrections. Olga didn’t give her
a word of praise, but surely she noticed. What makes
her most anxious is the possibility of having to work at
the cash register; she’d certainly be called to do that
sooner or later. Yesterday she was trained to do it.
She’s also worked with the register at La Senza; she
knows she’s good enough. Her weakness is her halting
English. That’s why she’s afraid of the customers.
Olga knows well that she’s a newcomer, with little
experience in customer service. Does she expect her to
respond to all the customers’ demands promptly and
appropriately? Would it be bad if she asked a customer
to repeat an inquiry? Weren't many of these customers
once newcomers too? Yesterday, Olga had to go out for
an hour and left the outlet to her. Everything went
well. It was a quiet day though, and by chance
customers had simple demands. From time to time she
casts an eye over the queue cautiously and her anxiety
rises while she thinks how great and unpredictable the
range of these people’s demands might be. She’s proud
of her good memory and she spent a long time last night
memorizing the rates and prices of all possible
services. But this doesn’t guarantee anything.
Nothing is guaranteed. This is the key phrase of her
new home--the first she heard, the first she learnt.
Her husband doesn’t like to hear it. He is desperate
for guarantees, not only of objects, but also in their
life here. He agreed to emigrate, not only for a
guarantee of survival, but for success. Maybe she had
the same drive; yet she soon realized that it was
nothing more than a mirage. To be a mail clerk is a
very modest ambition, so tangible, so possible – if only
she survives today.
Olga calls her to stand at the cash register. She
flushes with anxiety as for a moment she senses
Helena’s tone in Olga’s voice. She summons her courage
and confidence. She smiles at the first customer, a
hunchbacked old woman with hearing aid, who declines to
return her smile. “She doesn’t like to see me at the
register instead of Olga,” she says to herself. Olga
watches her closely. Her heart beats so madly that she
thinks even deaf people can hear it. Then comes the
next customer, and another and another. At the end of
business hours she feels more or less comfortable with
customers, as if they were giving her the benefit of the
doubt. Thank God, she hasn’t made a big goof. Once or
twice she asked for clarification, once or twice she
hesitated over the right price, once or twice Olga had
to intervene and give her assistance or advice. Not too
bad for the first real test! Now she feels her muscles
relax, her forehead no longer sweating, her heart back
to its normal rhythm. Thinking back to the days when
she was advisor to a government minister, she discovers
that this present humble success gives her more
satisfaction than all her previous achievements
brought. Olga interrupts her thoughts by calling her to
the shipping room.
“Take
a seat please,” says Olga.
She
tries to look as dignified as Olga expects a mature
woman to be. She starts to think about how best she can
express her appreciation.
“My
customers are local. Most of them are seniors. They’re
not patient enough to stand someone who’s not quick with
change. No doubt you wanted to be accurate, I’m happy
with what you did in the back and even with the
customers, but this job requires experience. You looked
clumsy when you made change …”
“But
Olga…” she says in an unfamiliar pleading voice.
“I’m
sorry…” Olga says, and her voice sounds unfamiliar too.
Then
she hears more words turning in a vacuum. On her way
home, hurrying by the edge of the ravine, she turns her
eyes away.
II
She’s
early enough to get an early number. All she has to do
now is find a seat and wait. One end of the queue
reaches the desk of the smiling elderly woman giving out
the numbers; the other end goes out of the basement,
even past the steps and out onto the sidewalk of the
quiet secondary street. People are still coming to join
the group, alone or in company of pets, children, or
partners. Such a crowd on a February day at a branch of
the food bank in a wealthy neighbourhood raises
questions. But she’s reluctant to find herself becoming
an economic analyst again. For ten years she had
analyzed her country’s economy without knowing what was
happening around her, in her office, in her home, in the
city where she’d been born and brought up.
She heads for a drafty bench not far from the
entrance. She sits beside a little girl and holds her
empty backpack in her lap to make room for the girl, who
shifts over while taking care of a baby in a stroller.
Here she can observe the people, those who are inside,
hanging around the room, chatting, waiting in the line,
or standing in a corner sipping their free coffee; and
also those who are rushing in to flee the cold and grab
their canned goods. Though she doesn’t know their
names, their faces, bodies, and gestures are as familiar
to her as those of her family. Once in a while a new
face may appear. The first time or the second it looks
strange, then, whether she cares for it or not, it joins
the other faces in her new family album. These people
are a clan to which she feels she belongs without having
to perform any rituals. Occasionally she exchanges
information or a few words about the weather with one of
them; and most often simply a pale smile or a gesture of
deep sympathy. What she has in common with them goes
farther than economics. They are all focused on the
necessity of food -- always the same food, the same
brands and quality, the same donated surplus products
approaching their expiration dates. Ironically, she
realizes that all the fine food she shared in the past
with the upper-class never created as strong a bond as
she feels with her companions and what they’re given
here.
Maybe
this is one of those things she will tell her husband
this afternoon. She looks at her watch. This morning,
before leaving home, she asked him to come to the
church.
“I
have to take the car to the garage. Didn’t I tell you
it failed the emission test?” he said.
She
knew that, and also that he hated to go to the food
bank. A few months ago, he had barely agreed with her
when she’d argued that they could save food expenses by
getting what they needed from the food bank.
“Listen, I’ll do it. I'm not ashamed to say we’re
poor,” she’d said, expecting to hear back, “You’re not
ashamed to ask for welfare either.” But he had said
nothing.
“I
have to volunteer in the mornings and study in the
evenings to get a degree. I want to find a job as a
social worker,” she’d continued.
She
still recalls how he flushed, almost choking, when he
heard about her new resolution. She was scared for a
moment.
“You’re crazy! You’ve forgotton who you were,” he
muttered hopelessly.
“I
don’t care about the past,” she said to herself. She
was kind enough not provoke him more by saying it
aloud.
“I’ll
be done by 5. I don’t want to walk home alone,” she
gently said to him this morning. This wasn’t true,
though. She wanted a chance to talk to him alone.
Perhaps in the ravine; after all it was a short cut
home. She wants very much to go there again, in cold or
pleasant weather, alone or in company. It’s been a
while since she started planning to do something for her
unhappy husband, for their son who was sick of so much
conflict at home, for herself who felt miserable seeing
them suffer. She began by setting short- and long-term
goals for herself. She replaced a full-time survival
job with a part-time one, registered in a university
program, began to volunteer. Nothing seemed to her more
reasonable. But it hadn’t caused their family life to
improve. Indeed, it seemed to make things worse. Her
husband had to keep working hard as a courier, a job he
hated, to pay the rent. His background didn’t serve him
well here. He didn’t like change; he did like a life of
leisure – having to make a living was vulgar.
The
baby in the stroller bursts out crying. The little girl
starts to make funny faces to distract him. Their
mother is now at the box of treats, trying to find
something good. Occasionally they are lucky enough to
get such bonus items. Mostly, luck is a combination of
first-come, first-served, with enough cleverness to
wangle something extra. With a victorious smile and
Smarties the mother returns to her kids. She passes the
Smarties to the girl, digs into her big purse, finds the
pacifier, and thrusts it into the baby’s mouth. He
rejects it and starts screaming. The woman impatiently
keeps thrusting until the priest who updates clients’
profiles calls her over. The little girl crunches the
Smarties cheerfully, and keeps making silly faces for
the baby. Then she moistens a red Smartie with her
tongue, rubs it on the baby’s lip, tosses it into her
own mouth, and bursts out laughing.
“You’re a very smart girl,” she says, smiling. The girl
turns and looks at her as if she’s just noticed a
stranger beside her, and then giggles.
“My
brother’s very cute, isn’t he?”
“He
is. Good for you!” Before finding more words to keep
the thread of conversation, her number is called. She
rushes toward the counter, thinking about words not to
say to the girl but to her husband.
Putting the stuff in the backpack that once belonged to
her son, she reviews the items to see if she’s selected
what they needed most: a bar of soap, a box of
spaghetti, tea, sugar, flour, powdered milk, canned
corn, rice, and… “Oh! I could have grabbed Smarties for
my kid!” she whispers, remembering how her son’s eyes
shone whenever he’d seen a bag of those magic beans in
his parents’ hands. “Isn’t that what we needed most?”
she thinks. “If he’s my son, he needs luxuries, not
necessities!” she remembers her husband liked to say.
She looks at her watch. She has quite a lot of time
before meeting her husband at the streetcorner, far from
the side door of the church. As well as her purse and
the backpack, she has to carry a heavy plastic bag. She
places them on the bench close to the door. The girl
has moved the stroller to the other side of the room
where there is a small space for children. She sits,
trying to concentrate on what she wants to say. She
might start saying that she’s never ignored him, his
wishes, his preferences; that she knows what he’s doing
now goes against his will and nature; that she hates to
see him as the sacrificial lamb; that … “ But this
sounds mawkish,” she says to herself. She would say that
both of them were responsible for their misconceptions
and plans. They used to overestimate not only their
privileges, but also their ideas and abilities. It was
simply luck -- nothing to do with what they deserved --
that they once had many things and then had nothing.
They came here to flee an artificial paradise that had
suddenly turned into hell. They had brought their
savings to start a business and they had failed. “And
this sounds like a lecture,” she thinks. Maybe she’d
better get to the point right away as usual. But what’s
the point? She doesn’t know. All she knows is that
they can’t tolerate this mess anymore. She also knows
she’s ready to do whatever is reasonable and practical.
Like what? Well, one of them should work hard so that
the other can get a degree right for the job market, and
this one can be him, if not her. She doubts he’ll
accept this suggestion, but it seems the only way to get
them untangled. She breathes a sigh of relief.
The
sidewalk is slippery. When she joins her husband, they
walk slowly; sometimes they’re shoulder to shoulder,
sometime he’s one or two steps ahead of her, bent
slightly by the weight of the backpack. His worn boots
are still in shape. “Good boots!” she says.
“Good
bargain in Good Will!” he sneers.
She
wonders why he hasn’t as usual suggested taking the bus
or even a taxi. “It’s good it’s not windy,” she says to
change the subject.
“It’s going to snow soon,” he says.
He
doesn’t sound impatient or grumpy. It’s the right time
to reveal what she has in mind. Yet she doesn’t know
how to begin. It’s not easy to find words while you’re
walking on a slippery surface. She passes the plastic
bag over to the other hand. They reach the intersection
and stop at the red light. “The ravine is the best
place,” she thinks. He turns his head. “Let’s go for
coffee,” he says with a smile.
“Coffee? Now?”
“Why
not? I’m going to invite you, Madame. What’s wrong
with that?”
“Well, nothing, but. …” she doesn’t find any reason,
“but I wanted to invite you to the ravine.”
“Oh!
I won’t reject such a wonderful invitation once we fuel
ourselves with hot coffee.”
“I
already had it.”
“OK,
you enjoyed the free coffee of that damned place; now
enjoy your second cup.” He heads for the Second Cup in
Spadina Village, “I want to talk to you.”
He’s
sipping his café latte in silence. “You forgive my
little treat, don’t you?” he breaks the silence.
“Is
that what you wanted to say?” she’s angry that he’s read
her mind.
He
puts his cup down. “Remember those golden days when you
spent money carelessly?”
She
gazes out the window, trying to be calm. “It’s getting
dark,” she says softly.
“I
quit my job.”
She tries to say, “We’re not going there,”
but she cannot speak.
“I
called Mother and asked her to send me a ticket to go
back home.”
“In
few minutes we could have reached the path,” she says to
herself. A brief smile crosses her face. She drinks
water.
“Over
there at least there is a roof over our heads I don’t
have to ruin my life for. Right?”
She
nods, trying to recapture her vanished smile. The path
would have led them quickly to the snow-covered slope.
“I
know you don’t want to go back, maybe just because
you’re too proud to accept it was all a failure.”
She
stares at him. They could have slid down over the
smooth snow and seen how rapidly the white faces of the
trees passed them.
“Or
you’d like to develop a thick skin. I’d rather take
care of my delicate skin.”
Down there, they could have stood and looked up at the
faraway hilltop.
“Well, consider me an asshole, if that helps you.” He
finishes his coffee.
They
walk in silence; sometimes shoulder to shoulder,
sometimes the man one or two steps behind her
III
“Still closed,” she says as she parts the dark cotton
curtains. The window opens across from another
apartment window in the building opposite, a sooty brick
chimney, and a narrow patch of bright blue spring sky
lined with loose strands of cloud. “Close those
curtains!” her son groans and rolls over to the other
side in his bed.
She
opens the widow a little to let fresh air in and turns
to her son, “It’s nearly noon….” Crooking his body, he
has become fetal. The midday light reveals their dull
room divided by a partition into two zones: one has a
sofa, an arm chair, and an overloaded bookcase for her;
the other a bed, a computer desk, a rocking chair, and a
TV set for him.
“I’m
going out shopping. You hear me?” she asks gently.
“Ummm!” he drags the pillow from under his head to cover
his ear.
When
she returns, he’s watching television and playing a
computer game at the same time. “So, my early bird is
out of bed!” she says. He nods and waves. “Good
progress!” she mumbles and rushes to the small stuffy
kitchen, her corner, to do the dishes, mop the floor,
clean the stove and cabinets, and prepare a meal, while
involuntarily thinking how sarcastic her husband would
have been if he had been here watching her do domestic
chores so doggedly. She would have muttered, “Well,
someone’s got to do them.” And certainly he would have
said, “We’re not somebody.”
Whoever he is, she’s somebody like the anybodies
she sees around herself: strangers on the streets,
homeless people in the shelter where she’s employed as a
social worker trainee, overwhelmed single women, people
floundering in uncertainty. She sets the table for
two. Sunday is the only day she can have the chance to
have lunch with her son. “It’s ready,” she says
loudly. Not looking at her at all, he comes to the
table, hastily takes some food, and goes back to his
desk with it. She holds her tongue and swallows
something.
Later, having spent the whole afternoon studying for her
final exam, she feels exhausted. “It’ll be over soon.”
She tries to be positive. In a month, she’ll have the
degree and find a full-time job as a professional. This
means more space, more money, and peace of mind. She
collects her books and papers and piles them on the
bookcase. She doesn’t know what to do. She can go
outside to wander around the margins of the ravine, as
she does whenever she’s free. She wonders what keeps
her from doing that.
“Why
don’t you go out for a walk?” asks her son, without
turning to her, annoyed by her restlessness.
“You
saw that sitcom before.”
He
doesn’t answer. She continues, “Instead of watching TV
maybe we can go see a movie.” He changes the channel.
She says, “I forget you don’t like crowds. How about a
quiet place?”
“Like
the ravine?” He turns to her.
“Well
…,” she feels nervous that he’s read her mind.
“The
only time I like to go there is at midnight,” he stares
at her for a second, “when it’s dark, quiet, wild,” he
continues with a mysterious smile.
“But
it’s not safe then,” she says, bewildered. He shrugs
and turns his head.
The
alarm clock rings at midnight. She quickly turns it off,
hoping that he won't wake up. But he gets up and dresses
as quickly as he did when he went hiking with his
father. In a few minutes she’s following her son
towards the ravine. He has a flashlight in his hand and
his Swiss Army knife in his pocket. He has asked her to
promise that she won’t say a word; otherwise, he won’t
go with her.
Down
the slope, the path is narrow and dark. He goes ahead
of her, pushing back hanging branches. Once in a while
he pauses to make sure she catches up with him, or to
explain where they are now, or describe what bushes
these dark shapes around them are, or what animals are
now watching these freak intruders. She listens to him,
without getting what he says. She’s afraid, not only of
animals or dangerous strangers who might lie in ambush,
but also of an inability to remain silent. She draws on
all her strength to keep her promise.
Her heart is beating hard. Something squeaks,
something croaks. Sweating, she counts the seconds and
steps. The ordeal will soon be over. All she has to do
is to keep going in the dark silently, trying to trace
the thin trail of light ahead of her. On and off the
flashlight captures the lurking shadows. Their
footsteps echo in her ears. She trusts this echo and
lends herself to the sweet dream of reaching the end of
a journey.
Toronto, September 2005
First published in
Maple Tree Literary Supplement (online magazine)
[Originally written in
English]
CORRESPONDENCE
[Short
Story]
Letter # 1
Dear
friend,
I am
indeed thrilled I’ve finally found a friend I can write
to, if not talk to. I hope that you don’t mind if I
number my letters to keep track of them easily. I trust
this letter will find you well. I’m OK too. People say
that life isn’t perfect, but I have to admit that I’m
really fine. I don’t have any serious health problems.
I have enough monthly income to live modestly. My new
place is also fine – not as big as my house in Tehran,
but enough space for a widower like me. It’s a bachelor
on the first floor of a low-rise building. My son says
I’m lucky he’s found such a nice affordable place where
I can keep my privacy. He is absolutely right.
Although my son and his wife were very nice with me
while I lived with them, I didn’t feel comfortable and
happy. That’s what he says, and he’s right about that,
too. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and he
always says the right things. That’s why I didn’t say
no when he said, “Dad, you’re alone in Tehran, sell the
house and come to Toronto to live with us.” My new
place has a window that opens to a narrow alley at the
back of the building. A room with a window facing an
alley, exactly like what I had in Tehran, when my son
was a baby. He always wanted me to hold him up so that
he could see the alley. “Isn’t it what you wanted?” my
son said on the day I moved in. He can read my mind.
Across from my window one sees the back yard of a big
house with a very old tree and a wooden fence. Opening
the window, my daughter-in-law said, “Look, Dad, here is
your garden, but you don’t have to worry about
collecting leaves.“ I nodded. She’s such a smart
woman! An old plane tree like this produces tons of
leaves in autumn, I said approvingly. My son commented
that it was a maple, not a plane tree, and my
daughter-in-law smilingly reminded me that I was living
in Toronto. You know, I’m very happy to have them
refresh my memory. How about you? Do you have a good
memory? Or do you too have someone refresh your memory
for your benefit? The family doctor, who my son took me
to once, said that I had to work on my memory. That’s
how my son interpreted his words. I promised to do
that. I asked my son to tell the doctor how I’ve always
been proud of my memory. I still remember clearly how
many nests of crows were in the plane tree beside my
father’s house. My son nodded and said a few words to
the doctor, who nodded and smiled back at me. Canada
has such understanding doctors, my daughter-in-law
commented the other day. Now, every morning after my
breakfast, I sit back on my armchair and think about my
files. Believe it or not, it’s never tough for me to
remember where to find one file and where to find
another. My letters of appreciation, of which only a
few are framed and hung on the wall in front of me,
prove that I was the best archivist in Tehran’s birth
registry. The one that I received in my first year of
service had golden decorations in the margins.
Moreover, my clients were happy when they noticed that
I recalled details about them and their families. “Hey,
man, you’re lucky to be the father of seven daughters –
don’t tell me you’re here for the eighth one!” Or, “My
friend, I’m so sorry you lost a baby son again.” Or,
“Look, old man, are you going to kill your wife with
non-stop babies?” Well, I didn’t make a big effort.
You know, I just did my job and my brain did its job.
That’s it. How about you? Do you have a rewarding job
too? Does your boss appreciate your faithful work? I
don’t expect you to write me long letters. We’re both
busy, just like other people. It’s nice, though, to
have a line once in a while from a dear friend like you.
Yours,
A.
Letter # 13
Dear
friend,
Interestingly, you are as well-organized and punctual as
me. That’s why I receive your letter every other
Monday. Certainly, you get my letter on time, too.
You’re so important to me that, on the appointed day, I
sacrifice my morning memory exercise and go out after
breakfast to mail my letter to you. Such has been my
routine since we started to correspond. Sometimes, on
my way back, I get off the bus one stop ahead to have
tea in a coffee shop always full of elderly men
discussing world affairs or playing backgammon. Well,
my son thinks that it’s good for me to socialize with my
peers. They are immigrants too, so you shouldn’t be
ashamed of your broken English. That’s what he says.
Obviously, he has no idea of the time the Allies’
soldiers were hanging around the streets in Tehran. Who
was ashamed then? A school boy like me who spoke French
fluently, or those tall lads who couldn’t understand
Farsi or French? This aside, what do I have to say to
these talkative old folks who think they know how to
solve the world’s problems? Occasionally, I play
backgammon with a quiet Greek man who never joins the
others’ political discussion. Otherwise, we might have
argued about our ancestors’ wars. To make my son happy,
I’ve told him about this Greek guy. You can practice
English with him, my son says. Do we need English to
play backgammon with Greeks or to fight with them? What
about grocery shopping? my daughter-in-law once asked.
I certainly don’t like to disagree with her, because
she’s really nice. That’s why I didn’t say no when she
encouraged me to go to an evening dance class for
elderly people. But you know how these old women are.
To know your life story doesn’t make them happy enough.
They want to know the whole history of your tribe. And
when you talk about history, obviously you step on their
toes in a way that no apologies can make up for. You
become ashamed. My daughter-in-law agreed with me and
gave up the idea of the dance class. What about you?
Do you have to go to any classes? “No matter how old
you are, it’s wonderful to go to classes, either to
learning something useful, or just for the fun of it,”
she used to tell me when I was living with them.
Certainly, I have no doubt about things like this. You
should know that I’m not fanatically trendy; I simply
want to avoid stress. Tell me, honestly, isn’t it
stressful to be a gentleman? Or worse than that, to face
non-stop challenges to show that you’re up-to-date?
Anyway, you surely know what I mean. That’s why we are
very willing to communicate with each other. You may
know that nobody writes me, other than you. How about
you? Do you have any relatives or friends to write
you? Are you a widower like me? I wonder if I already
told you about the day of my wife’s funeral. A bright
winter day, exactly like today, the sun in the sky, the
snow on the earth, and the house was as crowded as if
all the people who she had ever met were there. The
week after, I found myself as alone as Adam was in
Paradise. To tell the truth, I was not unhappy at all.
The only problem was that I didn’t know what to do.
When my wife was alive, she assigned me duties, either
outside, like shopping, or inside, like changing light
bulbs. I found myself a man without duties, as if she
had taken along all the errands with her into the
underground. Such a considerate woman she was! There
are so many things one can do. That’s what they say – I
mean my son and his wife. Of course, there are so many
things to do. But does a wise man bother himself doing
so many things? Surely you would say no, for you are a
wise man too. Anyway, I’d better end this letter now.
You’ll forgive me for being so wordy.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours,
A.
Letter # 27
Dear
friend,
I
hope this letter will reach you on time and find you
well. In fact, I should have written you yesterday, but
I didn’t. You don’t think that it happened because of
my memory is dysfunctional, do you? For some reason I
was simply absent-minded. What did I do? Well,
probably, the same things I do every day. For sure, I
had breakfast because I don’t remember being hungry
before lunch. Maybe I had my lunch in the morning and
my breakfast at noon. I have to confess that this
happens sometimes. To me it’s not a big deal, despite
the fact that my son takes it as a serious proof of my
decline. Anyway, in the evening, I watched TV in my own
style, which means with the mute button on. If my
daughter-in-law found out that I watch TV but I don’t
listen to it, she would blame me for not taking this
opportunity to improve my English. You don’t think like
her, do you? Please, don’t ask me which channel, or
which program, or what time. I don’t pay attention to
things like these. My son insists on convincing me that
I should work on my short-term memory. He says that I
can’t remember what I’ve just done or seen or heard. I
don’t argue about things like this, but I tell you he is
wrong. What problems do I have now? Well, anybody may
forget what he is supposed to do now or where he put his
key or which bus stop he should get off at. These are
all trivialities. Anyway, what’s up in your world?
Nothing special? Are you bored? This is how I easily
amuse myself: I collect all flyers, catalogues,
brochures, and free newspapers. I categorize and file
them in the used binders I buy at garage sales or the
Salvation Army shops. I tag binders and shelve them
beside my books on the book case. This is something,
though my son and his wife think it is a useless hobby.
My policy is not to argue with them. Otherwise I could
prove to them that it’s no more futile than all the
other hobbies. Needless to say, one may do all the
things people do to amuse themselves, like reading
best-sellers, listening to the news, watching soap
operas, etc., etc. But tell me, do we have to follow
others? Sometimes, I put my armchair close to the window
and look out. But despite what my daughter-in-law
thought, I don’t enjoy watching my neighbour’s garden.
This old tree hardly ever attracts crows. It might be
because crows like Tehran more than Toronto and planes
more than maples. No wonder if such is the case. So,
why do I sit next to the window? Well, occasionally I
like spying on the squirrels running up and down the
trunk or jumping from a branch to another, though they
are not as amusing as the stray cats parading day and
night in all the alleys and streets of Tehran. What I
enjoy most is staring at a point, each time a different
point, either in midst of the foliage, or on the pointed
tops of picket fences, or at the edge of one of two big
trash bins and letting my mind go wherever it wants to.
Definitely you won’t ask me what’s the use of it, as
they would if they noticed me sitting by the window for
hours. They think whatever I do is useless. Well, it
might be true, though I doubt what they do is useful
either. You know what I mean, don’t you? You may say
that it’s a matter of different generations. I would
say it’s a matter of … anyway, let’s change the subject;
I forgot the word I meant. Thank God you don’t have
such problems with your children. But tell me if you
have any children at all. Please pardon my ignorance.
It’s not that I’m not concerned about you.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours,
A.
P.S.:
My
son came by this past Monday to bring the cheque for the
landlord. As it happened, he ran into the mailman in
the lobby and took your letter from him. He was
surprised that I had a letter from a Toronto friend.
Letter # 30
Dear
friend,
I’m
hoping to find a way to get out and mail this letter to
you. You should know that they keep a close watch on
me. Can you imagine that one day your son forbids you
to go out? He is not alone; his wife is his
accomplice. They’ve threatened me to send me to a
nursing home. Shame on them! Don’t tell me to be
patient with them. How can I ignore their malicious
behaviour? They say they do this for my own good. Is
it good for me to stop communicating with you? Do I
have any friend other than you? My son suspects your
letters just because they’re sent from Toronto. I wish
you were in Tehran. But then, how could I correspond
with you? Moreover, I don’t remember if I ever heard
from you when I lived in Tehran. Maybe it was my wife’s
fault that never left me without errands after my
retirement. I know it’s not good to badmouth a former
wife, but I can’t help my mouth shut while I see that
her son and her daughter-in-law are intriguing against
me. Yesterday, no, the day before yesterday, I don’t
remember if it was in the morning or in the afternoon,
anyway, when I was leaving home, the superintendent
barred my way and gave me a piece of paper with a note
in Farsi saying, ”Dad, if you need to buy anything or
mail a letter, please call me. I’m worried in case you
get lost. Love, your son.” Can you believe it? As if
I’m a kid, not knowing what to do or where to go. Isn’t
it insulting? What does the guy, the superintendent,
think about me? Thank God, he doesn’t know Farsi. You
ask me what I did? Well, I smiled and nodded and
thanked him. In order not to raise more suspicions, I
didn’t leave the building. Yet my daughter-in-law
called me later and asked if I needed anything. Then
when I was in bed, my son called and said he just wanted
to be sure that I was OK. How nice they are! They poke
their nose into my life and claim they care about me.
In fact, they are obsessed with our letters. They can’t
stand that I have a relationship with someone other than
them. Remember how many times I wrote about their
insistence on my socializing with others? Dad, you
should be more outgoing! Dad, isn’t there any nice
woman in your ESL class? Dad, it’s not bad to have a
drink and chat with friends. Well, now you see how
hypocritical they are. The first time he noticed I had
a letter from you, he said, “Very good, so you have a
pen pal friend now, but why don’t you meet each other?”
How did he know that we hadn’t met each other? He was
suspicious from the very first moment. I may forget my
address, or my phone number, but I’m sure that I never
ever said anything indicating we hadn’t met each other.
Honestly, I doubt we hadn’t. I mean not in Toronto, or,
maybe even not in Tehran as far as I can remember. But
in the very past, perhaps, somewhere I don’t recall, I
guess I met you. Don’t you think so? And then we lost
track of each other. I, myself, got swamped – with
duties and errands. Well, that’s life. I’m happy I
found you again. This time, I’m not going to lose you.
I’m not saying that I regret I was a good employee or a
good family man. One may say that I was this and that
by nature. What I regret is that I didn’t have any
secret for myself. You know what I mean. I’m sure you
value our secret too. No matter how my memory works, we
write letters and we mail them. I take enough
precautions. What else do they want me to do? By
living on my own I’m proving to them I’m not crazy or
incapable of taking care of myself. Why should I live
in a nursing home? I don’t deny that sometimes I make
mistakes. However, it has nothing to do with my
intelligence. Yesterday, or the day before yesterday, I
had no plan to go out to mail the letter. I did that to
cheat them. Moreover, on my last phone conversation
with my son, I said to him, “One would have to be an
idiot to write to oneself. You don’t think your
father’s an idiot, do you?” What did he say? Well, he
believed me. Now it’s time for you, my dear friend, to
believe that I will mail this letter to you soon, in
good time. Don’t ask me how! I’ll tell you in my next
letter, if I don’t forget.
Yours,
A.
New Haven, 2006
Published in TOK: book
2, 2007
[Originally written in
English]
AN ABSURD REPORT
[Short
Story]
In my
serial nightmares there is a border crossing that takes a different name
each time. When I wake up, I don’t remember this name. What comes to me
first is a huge wave of horror – my fear of the next nightmare. It swallows
me and for a while I get lost in the deep down of an unknown ocean. Then the
daylight pushes it back, and I find myself alone on a deserted sandy beach
with my skin exposed to the viscous bodies of tiny bugs – the remains of the
past. I recall lines and shapes, frames and faces, images and hallucinations
- all vivid, all without a proper name, but each labelled.
Down there
I’m called "the female", as an officer refers to me in his report to his
supervisor. I see the officers’ nametags on their chests and I recognize the
letters. In no- name territory, they don’t produce a name. I cannot summon
names - either their names or even mine, or of my son, my daughter, my land,
and you. This is an unwritten law, and I know that I am appearing before the
law.
It is not a
court, but a scene. No accusers, but a bunch of dutiful guys doing a great
job in the midst of the never-ending comings and goings of grotesque aliens
from some freakish planets. No accused, but an actress in the role of an
interviewee. To get through the ordeal, she must suppress her voice. She
employs all her energy not to utter a word. But she imagines what she might
have reported to you about just one episode of many:
The other
evening my daughter phoned to talk to me. My son said to her that I had gone
with you to have dinner or lunch. She told me later that she had laughed. At
that time, somewhere around the ravine, we were having our breakfast – mine
toast and an omelette called something that sounded strange to me; yours
pancake and maple syrup, bacon and potatoes, and coffee, an ordinary course
for you, I guess.
A few days
later, at noon, in the familiar customs investigation room, I had my next
breakfast – dark coffee without any taste or aroma, in a half-full,
half-empty Styrofoam cup. It was my treat, offered by the officer after the
detective had left me alone. I sipped my coffee and thought that we would
have had our breakfast, noonish, somewhere around the ravine, if I hadn’t
had my birthplace in my passport, or if I hadn’t been born with a special
label pasted on my forehead.
A couple of
hours ago, before the check-in booth, once again, as sleepy as I was during
all the past episodes or as I would be in all the future ones, I had stared
at the black back of the desktop – uninterested in what was on the screen
before the goggle-eyed officer, I was thinking about the call I hadn’t given
you early that morning and the hug my son hadn’t given me.
"So it
appeared again," I said to myself when the officer rushed to the other room
with my passport in her hand. Avoiding a Kafkaesque interpretation, I
recalled a satirical story about an elephant hidden in a file. Any elephant
in my file could amuse these officers. Maybe in one of my previous lives I
was a dinosaur.
Waiting on a
bench, I began to watch passengers of the bus that was supposed to take me
across the border: they were called, inspected, and admitted one by one.
Then the next bus, the next line, the same process. This time, one was
sorted out – another female, with a light brown complexion, could have been
only a small elephant in her previous life. She sat beside me and smiled. In
order not to break the rule of muteness, I didn’t return her smile. Instead,
I furtively put an almond in my mouth and began to chew. She asked about my
case. I looked at her in the way a meat-eating dinosaur might look at a
small mammal. She kept talking to me about a baby shower on the other side
to which she had been invited.
While the
officer led me to the investigation room, she wasn’t terrified, but
confused. When a tall man, in a casual suit, appeared on the threshold, my
skin swarmed with what had remained of my previous presence in the room –
like the tiny bugs of a sandy beach. He greeted me, introduced himself, and
showed his ID – in the twinkling of an eye and with full courtesy. I only
heard one word: "detective."
If those bugs
hadn’t given me a creeping sensation, I might have reacted differently to
such a charming detective. "Again another investigator!" I suffocated the
furious groan that was about to roll out of my throat. The detective began
to apologize sincerely, explaining his agency’s mission and how it served
the Immigration Office, and said that since his colleagues knew me, there
was no need to another interview. However, "they" had asked his agency to
send a detective. He kept talking sympathetically, apologetically, and ended
up advising me to speak to "them" and ask "them" to stop the process. He
paused, stared at me as one might look at a saint, and continued, "Any
questions?" I felt a burning desire to say, "Are you here to ask me or to be
asked?" But I didn’t. When he left the room, I let my tears run over my
face, and my laughter echo in the void.
Hours passed.
The officer had switched from being horrified to confused to sympathetic to
apologetic. She spoke with "them", called "them", and explained to "them" to
help me not miss the last bus. Finally she rushed toward me to take me to
the booth for the last phase of the ritual – repeating the oath after her,
being fingerprinted, and the rest of it. The fast-forward part made the
officer sweat and get out of breath.
Aboard the
bus, I was looking at the name of my birthplace on the passport in my hand
when the officer pantingly rushed up and told me to get off. She reclaimed
my passport and left me alone in the corridor to watch the driver start the
bus. Another wave, another swarm, of tiny bugs! When she returned and handed
my passport to me, I swatted my labelled forehead. "What’s the problem?" she
asked softly. I looked at her mutely. My stomach rose. There was a big lump
in my throat. "Nothing, other than that I have to swallow my…" I stopped.
"Pride," she finished for me.
New Haven, 2005
First published in
idea&s [the arts & science review, University of
Toronto], autumn 2006
[Originally written in English]
Excerpt
from
“Lady Without Lapdog”, short story
[Originally written in Persian]
Neither
ch>dor
and burka in the style of the Qajar period, nor even a
headscarf in the manner of Hezbollah, this thin cotton
scarf still bothers her, half its trail hanging straight
down, half of it hanging loosely over the shoulder so it
doesn=t
tighten up beneath the chin or stick to the scalp, an
insignificant cloth rectangle folded in a triangle that
controls and covers head and rebellious hair and
sometimes when she goes to a court, her workplace,
becomes an actual veil, fixed just so with pin, hair
pin, and paper clip, pressing the top of her veiled body
like a load of lead, sometimes forgotten in the daily
routine, or in the fear and bewilderment of
unpredictable events, this plain headscarf, which once
was the mark of undesired but accepted respect in public
demonstrations and then became an insulting humiliation
in another demonstration, a flaming badge of Islamism to
the foreign public and, to devotees of the regime, an
undeniable proof of opposition to it, keeps hurting her.
Excerpt
from “The House of Cloud and Wind”, novel,
1991
[Originally written and published in Persian]
White,
red-cheeked, and chubby! The molla, Aased Saaleh,
was reluctant to leave the house, maybe because the
inner court yard of Haji Aaghaa Alaa was so
spacious and pleasant. He could still see the edge of
the Sun over the high roof of the house. There was no
sign of the next mullah arriving in the corridor
either--either the sound of clearing the throat, or
words such as besmellaa or yaa Allaah.
Moreover, he was in doubt, wondering whether the
religious recital of Sheikh Yahyaa was supposed
to be done on the third day of the month or on the
fourth day. He had just finished the recital about the
newly married Qaasem. Weeping and groaning of
women had decreased. Shortly the sharp and shrill waves
of laughter would emerge from the big wave of whispering
and rumouring. He knew that an expert mullah would
quickly leave the pulpit before the subsidence of
wailing. By doing this, he would avoid observing his
audience changing their mood. Besides, the audience
would assume he was a busy preacher rushing to his next
preaching. Aased Saaleh was not at all ignorant.
He knew well that his audience would like his sweet
voice, a remnant of his youth, rather than his skill in
making them weep and wail. He had entered upon old age;
however, he was still handsome, elegant, witty, and an
ogler of women. White, red-cheeked, and chubby! He was
able to make women cry by reciting the tragedies of
saints and also to make them laugh by his hilarious
anecdotes. It was no surprise that he rarely did
religious recitals for men. The antique Polish chair
was cracking under his weight. The small glass of tea,
held by his short white fingers, had become cold. The
last cube of sugar, picked up from the silver sugar-bowl
placed on the ground next to his feet, had melted in his
mouth. Nevertheless, he didn’t feel like leaving the
place. That teenaged girl behind the foliage of the
short, curved trees of the berry garden, whose white
chador had slipped down from her head and fallen on her
soft shoulders; the good smell of the newly watered
earth of the gardens; the heavy and mixed fragrance of
Jasmine and Geraniums; the strong acrid smell of
tobacco--Aased Saaleh felt his body had become
numb and languid. He had already two legal wives and a
few concubines. His son had already married. Yet it was
not too late. For if any of your desires had not come
true you couldn’t have any hope of salvation! All his
wishes had come true except one. So content was he; so
satisfied with whatever made God satisfied! He was
pious and patient. His wives and concubines were happy
with him for he was generous, good-tempered, and
fair-spoken. Having a fourteen-year old rival wife
could be fun for them. Furthermore, she could meet his
sexual need. Then he could be free to easily save
something for the life after death. Oh God, thou art
merciful! Thou art merciful and generous! Thou… The
sudden loud laughter of women interrupted his
contemplation on the divine magnificence of God. His
donkey, whose bridle had been fastened to the handle of
the door in the corridor, was imploringly braying. His
modest quadruped was a good animal for a lame man like
him to ride. Having moved, he rearranged his turban.
He shook his short fat legs hidden under his neat long
garment. His smiling green eyes were looking for his
mustard-coloured Damascus slippers. White skin, red
cheeks!
