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Story with a Result by Sadeq Hedayat translated by Iraj Bashiri copyright 1998 There was an ordinary man named Mashdi Zulfaqar; he had an ordinary wife named Sitare Khanum. No sooner had Zulfaqar entered the house one day than Gawhar Sultan, his mother, ran to him and began complaining about Sitare Khanum, saying,"You cuckold! Are you aware that your wife is carrying on with all kinds of lovers? Be proud of yourself. In my day, when a stranger knocked on the door, the young women of the house put pebbles under their tongues to sound like old hags. Even today things like this are preached from the pulpit, but who listens? Earlier today, for a pennyworth of ice, Sitare traipsed halfway down the street wearing only a petticoat. And this morning, when she was gathering up the bedclothes on the roof, I caught her flirting with Ali the tinker in the lane below. Good Lord, that dead figure of hers--she looks like a ghost out of the grave. I could kick myself for not getting you Ustad Mashallah's daughter. She was like a bouquet of flowers with a thousand skills in every one of her fingers. I wonder whether your wife struts over her wealth or her dowry! I did my best to teach her how to prepare dough; do you think I could? She spoiled a whole bag of flour--it turned sour and had to be thrown out. I prepared the dough again and made the loaves. No matter what I say, she gives me her: 'I got married to pretty myself, not to patch up clothes!'" At this point Zulfaqar, boiling with rage, stormed into the room and, as on every other day, took the whip off the peg and lashed into Sitare, beating her as hard as he could. The serpent-like black leather lengths of the whip coiled around her body, leaving black streaks on her arm. Sitare, shrouded in her prayer veil, moaned but no one came to her rescue. Half an hour later, the door opened and Gawhar Sultan, biting her lip and wearing a cunning smile, entered to intervene. She caught Zulfaqar by the arm and said, "Good God, what are you doing? You haven't caught a Jew! Why are you beating her like that? Get up, Sitare; get up dear! I have kindled the oven pit. Fetch the basin of dough and let's bake..." Sitare took the dough from under the basket. When she neared the baking pit, she saw her mother-in-law bending over it, blowing into the fire. As fate would have it, Sitare tripped over the nearby water bucket and fell; the dough basin landed on top of Gawhar Sultan. The mother-in-law was thrown waste-deep into the oven. Half of an hour later, when Sitare recovered from her fake swoon, half of Gawhar Sultan's body was done to a crisp. The result: this story instructs us never to leave a wife and her mother-in-law alone near an oven pit.

Sadegh Hedayat - Short Storiesl

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Page 1: Sadegh Hedayat - Short Storiesl

Story with a Result by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1998

There was an ordinary man named Mashdi Zulfaqar; he had an ordinary wife named Sitare Khanum. No sooner had Zulfaqar entered the house one day than Gawhar Sultan, his mother, ran to him and began complaining about Sitare Khanum, saying,"You cuckold! Are you aware that your wife is carrying on with all kinds of lovers? Be proud of yourself. In my day, when a stranger knocked on the door, the young women of the house put pebbles under their tongues to sound like old hags. Even today things like this are preached from the pulpit, but who listens? Earlier today, for a pennyworth of ice, Sitare traipsed halfway down the street wearing only a petticoat. And this morning, when she was gathering up the bedclothes on the roof, I caught her flirting with Ali the tinker in the lane below. Good Lord, that dead figure of hers--she looks like a ghost out of the grave. I could kick myself for not getting you Ustad Mashallah's daughter. She was like a bouquet of flowers with a thousand skills in every one of her fingers. I wonder whether your wife struts over her wealth or her dowry! I did my best to teach her how to prepare dough; do you think I could? She spoiled a whole bag of flour--it turned sour and had to be thrown out. I prepared the dough again and made the loaves. No matter what I say, she gives me her: 'I got married to pretty myself, not to patch up clothes!'" At this point Zulfaqar, boiling with rage, stormed into the room and, as on every other day, took the whip off the peg and lashed into Sitare, beating her as hard as he could. The serpent-like black leather lengths of the whip coiled around her body, leaving black streaks on her arm. Sitare, shrouded in her prayer veil, moaned but no one came to her rescue. Half an hour later, the door opened and Gawhar Sultan, biting her lip and wearing a cunning smile, entered to intervene. She caught Zulfaqar by the arm and said, "Good God, what are you doing? You haven't caught a Jew! Why are you beating her like that? Get up, Sitare; get up dear! I have kindled the oven pit. Fetch the basin of dough and let's bake..." Sitare took the dough from under the basket. When she neared the baking pit, she saw her mother-in-law bending over it, blowing into the fire. As fate would have it, Sitare tripped over the nearby water bucket and fell; the dough basin landed on top of Gawhar Sultan. The mother-in-law was thrown waste-deep into the oven. Half of an hour later, when Sitare recovered from her fake swoon, half of Gawhar Sultan's body was done to a crisp. The result: this story instructs us never to leave a wife and her mother-in-law alone near an oven pit.

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Haji Murad by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1998

Haji Murad jumped off the platform of his shop, brushed the dirt off the folds of his dark grey garment, tightened his silver belt, stroked his hennaed beard and called Hassan, his apprentice. Together they shuttered the shop. Producing rials from his large pocket, Haji gave four to Hassan who, whistling and with long strides, disappeared into the crowd. Haji donned the yellow cloak which was tucked under his arm, looked around, and began to walk slowly. His new shoes squeaked with each step. Most of the shopkeepers along the way greeted him, saying, "Salaam, Haji; how are you, Haji? Haven't seen you in a while, Haji!" Haji had heard these salutations in the past; nevertheless, he attached a special importance to the word Haji. He took pride in himself and returned the greetings of his colleagues with a magnanimous smile. The word Haji was tantamount to a title, even though Haji knew that he had not visited Mecca. In fact, his father had passed away when he was still a child and his mother, following her husband's will, had sold their house along with all their other possessions for gold coins. Then, severing all roots in Iran, she had taken the whole family to Karbala. In a year or two, the money had been spent and the family had turned to begging. Only Haji, with great difficulty, had managed to return to his uncle in Hamadan, upon whose sudden death he had come into a great windfall. Since he was the sole heir, he had inherited his uncle's title of Haji along with the shop. The new Haji had taken a wife, but he was not happy with her. For some time now they had been fighting. He could stand anything except the sarcasm she threw at him; in response, and to keep the upper hand, he had taken to beating her. Sometimes he felt badly about the beatings, but every time they soon kissed and made up. What exasperated Haji the most was that they still had no children. Haji's friends frequently advised him to take a second wife, but he would not fall for this idea. He knew that a second wife would only increase his misfortune. So he listened to their advice but disregarded it. His wife was still young and beautiful. After several years of marriage they had acquired a certain intimacy which somehow helped them get through life more easily. As for Haji himself, he, too, was still young. If God willed, he thought, He would grant them a child. Thus Haji was not inclined to divorce his wife. Neither could he give up his habit of beating her; he beat her and she became more obstinate. In short, things had gone haywire, especially since the previous night.

Haji now appeared at the entrance of the bazaar splitting watermelon seeds in his mouth and spitting the shells on the ground before him. He breathed in the fresh spring air and thought ahead to what was waiting at home--the usual struggle with his wife: his remarks, her doubly charged retorts, the subsequent beating followed by dinner, red-eyed glares at each other and eventually bedtime. It was also the eve of Friday, which meant that his wife had cooked rice and vegetables. These thoughts ran through his mind as he looked around. He recalled his wife's exact words, "Now, now, fake Haji! Are you a real Haji? Then why do your mother and sister beg

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under the lights in Karbala? When Mashdi Hussein the money changer asked for my hand, I was a fool to reject him. Instead, I married you, fake Haji!" Several times Haji bit his lip. It occurred to him that he might rip his wife's belly open were he to meet her then and there. He had reached the street called Mesopotamia. He glanced at the green willow trees on the river bank and imagined spending all of Friday entertaining his bosom buddies and playing music in the Murad Bek valley. He thought this would give both him and his wife a respite. He was nearing the lane that led to his house when suddenly it occurred to him that his wife had passed him without offering any sign of recognition. Yes, it was his wife. Although Haji was not like most men who could recognize women behind the veil, his wife had a distinguishing mark which allowed Haji to pick her out from among a thousand women. She was his wife. He recognized the white border of her veil. There was no room for doubt. What puzzled Haji, however, was that his wife should leave the house at such an untimely hour and without his permission! She could not be going to see him at the shop; where was she going? Haji quickened his pace. It was surely his wife. If, however, she were going home, she was going in the wrong direction. His anger had reached its limit. He could not contain himself any longer. He wanted to catch and strangle her. Losing control, he shouted, "Shahrbanu!" The woman turned her head and, as if frightened, quickened her pace. Haji was on fire. He could not distinguish his head from his foot. His wife had not only left the house without his permission, but she did not acknowledge him even when he called her. This touched him to the quick. Again he shouted, "Hey there! I am talking to you. Where have you been at this time of day? Hold it!" The woman stopped and yelled, "None of your business. Who do you think you are, you shabby bum! Watch whom you're addressing. What do you want from a decent woman? I will give it to you straight ... Help! Help! Help me out of the clutches of this drunkard! Do you think this is a lawless town? I will turn you over to the police... Officer!..." One by one the doors of the houses opened and from all sides people began to join them. Haji's veins stood out on his reddened forehead and neck! "What a mess!" he thought to himself. "Everyone in the bazaar knows me. Look at the rows of people!" The woman, still totally shrouded in her veil, continued to yell, "Police!..." Haji's vision darkened. He stepped back, then forward, took aim and struck the woman, screaming, "It's useless... don't try to change your voice on me! I recognized you from the start. Tomorrow... tomorrow I will divorce you. Since when have you been on call? Are you trying to toss my hard-earned reputation to the wind? Shameless woman! Don't force me to tell everything in public. People, be my witness, tomorrow I will divorce this woman. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, restrained myself and swallowed my anger. But now the knife has cut to the bone. People, be my witness. My wife is unchaste. Tomorrow... people, tomorrow..." The woman turned to the spectators and said, "Cowards! Has the cat got your tongues? Are you going to stand there and let this shabby bum molest a decent woman on the street? If Mashdi Hussein the money changer were here, he would teach you. If only one day is left of my life, I will have my revenge! Isn't anyone going to ask this bum why he impersonates people? Now...now ... know who you are dealing with. I will make you suffer for this... Police!" A couple of mediators took Haji aside and a policeman appeared on the scene. People stepped back. Haji, the woman whose veil had a white border, the witnesses and the mediators all set out for the police station. On the way each told his version of the story to the policeman. The curious crowd followed to see what the outcome would be. Haji was wet with perspiration. He passed the people abreast a policeman! Worst of all, doubts began to assail his confidence. A more careful look at the woman's buckled shoes and her

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stockings, different from his wife's, strengthened his doubt. The references she was giving to the policeman, too, were checking out right. He knew Mashdi Hussein the money changer, and she was his wife. Haji realized that he had made a mistake, but it was too late. He did not know what the outcome would be. They reached the police station. The people remained outside while Haji and the woman were ushered into a room in which two lieutenants were sitting at their desks. The policeman saluted, gave a detailed report of the incident, then withdrew and stood at the other end of the room. The chief lieutenant turned to Haji and said, "Your name?" "Sir, I am a life-long servant at your service--an insignificant nobody. My name is Haji Murad. Everyone in the bazaar knows me." "Occupation?" "I am a rice seller. My shop is in the bazaar. I carry out your orders without question." "Is it true that you have been disrespectful to this lady and that you have assaulted her on the street?" "What can I say, Sir? I mistook her for my wife." "On what token?" "The border of her veil is white." "Surprising! Don't you recognize your wife's voice?" Haji sighed, "Sir, you don't know what a mischievous creature my wife is. She imitates all animals. When she returns from the baths, she imitates all the women who have been there. She mimics everyone. I thought she was trying to fool me by changing her voice." The woman, "What impertinence! ... Officer. You saw him slap me in front of the multitude. Now the 'possum's trying to play dead ... What impertinence ... He thinks the city is lawless. If Mashdi Hossein finds out, he will give you what you deserve. With his wife? Lieutenant, Sir!" Lieutenant, "All right Madame... That will be all. Please step out and let us see what we can do for the Haji." Haji, "By God, I repent. I didn't know. I mistook her. Believe me, my reputation is at stake." The lieutenant wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to the policeman. Then he asked Haji to go to the other desk where, with shaking hands, Haji counted out some bills and, in the name of a fine, laid them on the desk. Now Haji was presented in front of the police station. People stood by, whispering. Haji's yellow cloak was removed from his shoulders and a man with a whip came and stood beside him. Haji lowered his head with shame. He received fifty lashes right in front of the people, but he did not twitch an eyebrow. When it was over, he produced a large kerchief from his pocket and dried the perspiration from his forehead. Then he picked up his yellow cloak and threw it over his shoulders. The corner of the garment dragged along the ground as Haji set out for home. His head was lowered and, by walking lightly, he tried to throttle the squeak of his shoes.

Two days later Haji divorced his wife!

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Dash Akol by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Kimberley A. Brown

edited by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1995, 1999

Everyone in Shiraz knew that Dash Akol and Kaka Rostam were such bitter enemies that each would shoot at the other's shadow if he could. One day Dash Akol had crouched contentedly on the dais of the Domil teahouse, his usual haunt. A delicately-wrought bird cage, covered with a fine red cloth, stood next to him. As he sat, he stirred the ice floating in a bowl with his fingertip. Suddenly, Kaka Rostam stepped through the door. With one hand on the sash at his waist, he tossed Dash Akol a contemptuous sneer and stalked to a seat on the opposite dais. He then turned towards the tea-boy and stammered, "Bo..bo..boy, bring me a cu..cu..cup of tea!"

Dash Akol cast a threatening look at the tea-boy who, recognizing his precarious situation, decided to ignore Kaka Rostam's order. Instead, he made himself busy taking the tea glasses off the large brass tray, dipping them in hot water and carefully drying each until it glistened and screeched.

Ignored, and therefore insulted, Kaka Rostam shouted, "A... are you deaf? I'm talking to y..you, boy!"

Hesitating, the tea-boy smiled and glanced towards Dash Akol. Clenching his teeth, Kaka Rostam spat out, "Let those who have the ga..gall to face me come out tonight for a bi.. bi..bit of man-to-man business!"

As he calmly turned the ice in his bowl and viewed the situation from the corner of his eye, Dash Akol burst out laughing, suddenly and loudly. A set of pearly teeth flashed beneath his hennaed moustache.

He said, "Only cowards brag...we'll see if you can put your money where your mouth is!"

Everyone in the teahouse broke out laughing. Not so much because of Kaka Rostam's stammering--they all knew he stuttered--but, rather, because everyone in the city knew Dash Akol was one of a kind. Indeed, it would have been impossible to find a scoundrel in the whole of Shiraz who had escaped Dash Akol's fist.

Every night, after he had downed his usual quart of araq at Isaac the Jew's, he toured the Dozak neighborhood. No one, including Kaka Rostam or his own grandfather, dared challenge his authority. Kaka Rostam knew better than everyone else that he was no match for this man who had injured him twice and who had humiliated him not only by flooring him but by sitting on his chest.

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A few days ago, the unlucky Kaka had come into the neighborhood and, seeing no opponent, had begun to throw his weight around. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Dash Akol had arrived to ridicule him, "Kaka? Where's the man of the house? Did you smoke an overdose of opium? Man, it has affected you! But let me tell you my friend, put these cowardly, dastardly pranks aside. You're behaving like a lout and you are not even ashamed of it! Is this a new method of begging? Why do you abuse people by stopping them on their way home night in and night out? Try it again and, by Pourya the Valiant, I shall teach you a lesson. I'll slice you in half with this cutlass."

Kaka Rostam had put his tail between his legs and had left. But even though he had been licked, he had vowed that one day he would get back at Dash Akol.

Conversely, everyone in Shiraz loved Dash Akol--even when drunk and forbidding, he would allow women and children to cross his path. In fact, he was kind to people; if anyone dared harass a woman, or tried to bully people, Dash Akol made him pay for it through the nose. He could be counted on to help people in financial distress and sometimes even to carry their heavy parcels.

But he couldn't stand the idea of anyone being superior to him--particularly someone like Kaka Rostam who smoked at least three mesquals of opium a day and who was always causing trouble. And now that Dash Akol had insulted him in the teahouse, Kaka Rostam sat back and chewed his moustache, smarting with anger. After a while, the laughter in the teahouse had died down, but the tea-boy, pale-faced, wearing a collarless shirt, skullcap and pantaloons, continued to twist and turn, laughing and making the others in the teahouse laugh. Eventually, Kaka Rostam lost control. He grabbed the crystal sugar-cube container and threw it at the teaboy's head. The sugar bowl hit instead the top of the samovar, where a pot of tea was brewing; the whole thing got knocked over, breaking a number of cups in the process. Bursting with anger, Kaka Rostam left the teahouse.

Anxiously the teahouse owner checked over the samovar and said, "Did he ever disarm Rostam! One old samovar's all we had, and he's done it in." Even though the innkeeper said this in a sorrowful tone, his allusion to Rostam fueled the laughter. Frustrated, the innkeeper attacked his apprentice, but Dash Akol, smiling, pulled out a small money purse and dashed it onto the floor. The owner picked up the purse, weighed it, and grinned.

Suddenly a man in a velvet tunic, large trousers and a felt cap hurled himself into the teahouse. He glanced about frantically. Then he went up to Dash Akol and said, "Haji Samad passed away."

Dash Akol raised his head and said, "May God bless his soul! "

"Don't you know about his will?"

"What do you take me for? A grave-robber! Go tell the ghouls."

"You don't understand. You've been appointed the executor of his estate."

It seemed as though this news shocked Dash Akol. Again he looked the messenger over and rubbed his forehead, pushing back his egg-shaped hat and revealing a bit of the untanned head. Then he shook his head, pulled out his gilded-stemmed pipe, filled it with tobacco, tapped it down, lit it and said, "May God bless the Haji. What's done is done, but he really shouldn't have. This will cause a lot of trouble for me. Anyhow, you go on ahead.

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I'm on my way."

The messenger was Haji's manservant. With long strides he left the teahouse. Dash Akol, puffing the while on his pipe became pensive. It was as though a sudden blanket of dark clouds had descended over the mirth and laughter in the teahouse. After emptying his pipe, Dash Akol picked up his bird cage, handed it into the tea-boy's care, and went out.

When Dash Akol reached the garden of the Haji's property, the service had already finished. Several Qur'an reciters and prayer-book dealers were quarreling over their wages. After a considerable delay by the pond, he was ushered into the main salon. Its stained-glass-doors, which overlooked the garden, were open. Haji's wife came up to the curtain separating the men's and women's quarters. She greeted Dash Akol warmly. Dash Akol sat down on a cushion and said, "We all miss Haji. May you and your children live a long life!"

Haji's wife, choking with emotion, said, "The evening that Haji took sick, the Imam Jom'eh was called and, in the presence of witnesses, Haji appointed you executor of his estate. Did you know Haji from before?"

Dash Akol said, "Five years ago I met him on a trip to Kazerun."

"Haji, God rest his soul, always said, 'There is one man around here and that is Dash Akol."'

Dash Akol said, "Ma'am, I cherish my freedom more than anything else, but now that I've been entrusted to carry out a dead man's last wish, by the light of the sun, I swear that I'll set an example."

As he turned his head, through the slit of a curtain, he saw the flushed face and the ravishing black eyes of a young girl. For a moment their eyes met, but the girl, as if coy, dropped the curtain and left. Could she be called beautiful? Perhaps. In any event, her stunning eyes had worked their magic and had turned Dash Akol's life upside down. His face flushed; he dropped his head. This young girl was Marjan, Haji Samad's daughter. Bursting with curiosity, she had come to meet the town's hero and their protector in person.

From that day forward, Dash Akol got caught up in Haji's affairs. With the help of an expert dealer, two neighborhood toughs and a scribe, he made an inventory of Haji's possessions. He disposed of what needed to be sold, and he locked and sealed the rest in a storeroom. He had the deeds of Haji's estate read to him, collected what was owed the estate, and paid its debts. He took care of all of this in two days and two nights. On the evening of the third day, exhausted, he headed for home. Reaching Seyyed Haj Gharib intersection, he bumped into Emam Qoli, the smith. Emam Qoli said, "For two nights now, Kaka Rostam has been waiting to take you on. Last night he said, 'There's a fine way to keep a deal. It seems he has forgotten his promise."' Dash Akol ran his fingers through his moustache and said, "Don't you worry about that."

Dash Akol remembered quite well that only three days before, in the Domil teahouse, Kaka Rostam had threatened to take him on. But he knew Kaka Rostam well enough to know that the latter, along with Emam Qoli, had plotted to make him lose face; he decided to ignore them. He, thus, went on his way. As he went, Marjan dominated his thoughts. He thought of no one but Marjan and could not erase her from his mind, hard as he tried.

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Dash Akol was a thirty-five-year-old man, robust but rather ugly. Seeing him for the first time, most people would be repulsed. But once they sat and listened to his stories, or heard about his exploits from others, they would find themselves attracted to him. Those who were able to ignore the scars on his face found him a noble and attractive man with coal-dark eyes, black, bushy eyebrows, prominent cheekbones, a slender nose and an ebony beard and moustache. What had disfigured his face were the many wounds inflicted upon it. On his cheeks and forehead were the traces of saber cuts--cuts that had healed quite unattractively, exposing shiny pink flesh. The worst of these had produced a tuck under his left eye, disfiguring the left side of his face.

His father had been one of the notable landowners of the Fars province. When he died, his legacy had gone to his only son. But Dash Akol, carefree and a spender, felt no allegiance to money (or to other worldly things). He devoted his life to heroic deeds, restoration of people's lost freedoms and philanthropy. He was a simple man, attached to none other than these goals. The money that he took in found its way either to those who were in greater need or to his diversions. These were to sit drinking strong brands of araq proclaim his presence at the intersections or haunt local gatherings accompanied by his retinue of followers. So much for his faults and his merits. The unbelievable thing, however, was that he had never had a great love in his life. Several times his friends had tried to set him up and, each time, he had shied away. But from the day he first became the executor of Haji Samad's estate and set eyes on Marjan, his life had taken a new turn.

On the one hand, he had made a vow to a dead friend and was bound by a sense of responsibility. On the other hand, he had fallen under the spell of Marjan. The former responsibility weighed on him more. The man who had squandered away his own property, giving it to the wind, as it were, would now get up early in the morning with the single thought of increasing Haji's income. He moved Haji's wife and children to a smaller house, rented out their home, and hired a tutor to teach the children. He put Haji's wealth to work and, from dawn-to dusk, he toiled over Haji's affairs.

From this point on, Dash Akol abandoned his usual nocturnal rounds and challenges and he ceased to mingle with his cronies. Gradually his sense of adventure died. But the scoundrels and the louts who sought to rival him, egged on by the mullahs who had been deprived of Haji's property, found some breathing space. They were the toughs now. And Dash Akol was reduced to a mere topic at the teahouses. At the Pachenar teahouse, it was rumored that they had ridiculed him saying, "Who? Dash Akol? He is an old windbag! Where is the old dog now? Good riddance! He's taking advantage of the old Haji, thinking he'll come into something. When he reaches his corner, he turns tail and runs."

Kaka Rostam with his venomous, stammering voice cried out, "He has one foot in the g..g..grave, yet he's fallen in love w..w..with Samad's daughter. His sword is hung up for g..g..good! He's pulled the w..w..wool over everyone's eyes and is living off Ha..Haji's wealth. What a lucky d..d.. dog!"

From this point on, Dash Akol lost all his clout. No one would respect him, not even the help in the kitchen.

Everywhere he entered, people began to whisper--they made fun of him. Dash Akol took this all in, but he seemed to ignore it. Marjan's love was in his veins, so much so that his heart and mind were completely absorbed.

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Evenings, to push Marjan out of his mind and to keep himself busy, he drank araq. He'd also purchased a parrot to keep himself company. He would sit in front of the parrot and pour out his heart. If Dash Akol were ever to ask for Marjan's hand, her mother would be delighted to oblige. But on the other hand, he didn't want to be tied down by a wife and family. He wanted to be free as he had been born and reared to be. Besides, he felt that if he married the girl who had been his charge, it would be a betrayal of Haji's trust. Worst of all was his face. Every night he surveyed himself in the mirror: the scars, the tell-tale marks and the permanently disfigured left side. Sadly he would say to himself, "Marjan would never love me. Most likely, she'll find a handsome, virile young man for a husband ... No. This is far from chivalry. She's a mere child of fourteen while I'm forty-years old. What's to be done? This love will be the death of me. Marjan, you're killing me. In whom can I confide? Marjan, your love is killing me."

Tears would gather in his eyes and, one shot after the next, he would down more araq. Then, as he sat with a splitting ache between his ears, he fell asleep. But, in the middle of the night, at the time that the city of Shiraz with its twisting maze of streets and alleys, expansive gardens, and deep-colored wine was sleeping; at the time that the stars calmly and mysteriously twinkled in the indigo night sky; at the time that Marjan with her scarlet cheeks slept calmly, breathing smoothly, dreaming of the day's work; at this same time, the real Dash Akol, the Dash Akol who was at ease and natural with all of his feelngs and whims--a carefree Dash Akol--would emerge from the bondage of traditonal inhibitions and the confinement of beliefs imposed on him since childhood. Freely he would grasp Marjan in an embrace: the slow pulse of her heart, the fiery lips and her warm body. Gently he would kiss her on each cheek. But as he awoke from his sleep, he cursed his wretched life. Like a crazed person pacing back and forth, he spoke angry epithets to himself under his breath. The rest of the day, in order to strangle all thoughts of Marjan, he dashed here and there to attend to Haji's affairs. Seven years passed in this way; Dash Akol would have been ready to lay down his life to protect Haji's wife and family. Not once did he flee from his responsibilty.

If one of Haji's children fell ill, day and night he would hover over the child like a nervous mother. Little by little, he found himself strongly attached to them, but his feelings for Marian were something else--no doubt it was his love of Marjan that helped him remain so calm. Little by little, the children were ready to leave the nest. And then, that which should not have come to pass came about: a suitor asked for Marjan's hand--and on top of it all--who was the husband-to-be but a man older and uglier than Dash Akol himself.

He tried not to let on the depths of his sadness. On the contrary, he tried hard to occupy himself with the gathering together of the dowry. For the evening of the marriage vows, he pulled together a great feast and brought Haji's wife and children back to their home. The large entry hall with stained windows to the yard he assigned as a salon for receiving the gentlemen. And he invited all the important men of Shiraz, including the merchants and the city fathers. At 5:00 p.m. that day, when the guests crowded ear-to-ear in the halls and covered the finest carpets and when sweets and fruit had been laid in front of them, Dash Akol appeared in the same way as before with half-tousled hair. He wore a quilted cashmere tunic that reached below his knees, cut across by the shoulder-strap of his cutlass, a cashmere belt, black-twill trousers, hand-woven cotton shoes and a brand new felt cap. Three men carrying various-sized ledgers followed him. Everyone stared at Dash Akol as with long strides he walked over to the Imam Jom'eh and said, "Your Reverence, Haji--may God rest his soul--made a will and for seven solid years has kept me in no end of trouble. His youngest son who was only five is now twelve." Pointing to the three men with ledgers who had followed him, he continued, "These show Haji's assets and

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belongings. All the expenses to date, including tonight's, I have paid out of my own pocket. Now it is time for each party to go his separate way.

At this moment he could not go on for a sob choked his throat. Without adding anything, nor waiting for an answer, he dropped his head and, with tear-filled eyes, walked out of the house. As soon as he was out, he took a deep breath. He felt he had been set free, that the burden of responsibility had been lifted off his shoulders. But deep down, his heart was broken. With long strides he wandered aimlessly until he recognized Isaac the Jew's house. Without hesitation, he crossed over the damp bricks into the interior of the decrepit, polluted courtyard which, surrounded by filthy hovels and a myriad of small windows, resembled a giant beehive. A coat of green slime covered the small pond in the courtyard. A sour smell hung in the air. Laughing artificially, Isaac the Jew--thin, with a soiled skullcap, goatee and greedy eyes--approached him. Dash Akol, not in the mood for small civilities, said, "Upon both halves of your moustache, give me a bottle of your finest brew to refresh my throat."

Isaac the Jew shook his head and headed down the cellar stairs. After a few minutes, he returned with a bottle. Dash Akol took the bottle from him, dashed its neck against the wall to open it, and quickly downed half the bottle. Tears gathered in his eyes and he began to cough. He stopped himself from coughing and, with the back of his hand, wiped his mouth. Isaac the Jew's son, a sickly jaundiced child with a distended stomach, a gaping mouth and a crusted-over nose, stared at Dash Akol. Dash Akol reached up for the salt jar on the shelf above him and, with his finger, scooped up a bit of salt and licked his finger. Isaac the Jew came toward Dash Akol, tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Lutis take their drinks straight--no relish!"

Then he slipped his hand under Dash Akol's tunic material and said, "What are you wearing? This tunic's completely out of fashion. Whenever you want to part with it, I'll gladly take it off your hands for a good price." Dash Akol smiled sadly; he took some money from his pocket, placed it in Isaac the Jew's palm and left. It was almost dusk. His body felt warm, his mind was muddled and his head ached. The alleys were still damp from the afternoon rain and the smell of the straw in the mud covering the walls blended with the perfume of orange blossoms in the air. Frozen in his mind were Marjan's face, flushed cheeks, black eyes with long eyelashes, and soft curls framing her forehead. His past memories flashed before his eyes one by one. He remembered his trips with his friends to the tombs of Sa'di and Babakuhi. Sometimes a smile touched his lips; sometimes a frown wrinkled his brow. The thing that was the clearest to him was that he was afraid of his own home; his present situation was unbearable--he had lost all interest in it. He wanted to go away, far away. The thought of drinking all night and pouring his heart out to his parrot crossed his mind. All of his life seemed useless--shallow and without meaning. A poem came to mind--in a fit of impatience, he murmured:

I envy the getting together of prison inmates, The sweetmeats of their gatherings are the links of their chains.

He remembered another poem which he recited even more loudly:

I have gone mad, people, Bring a remedy. Bring a madman's only remedy, Bring a chain!

He recited the poem with grief, disappointment and bitterness; then, as though losing patience, or because his mind was elsewhere, he fell silent. It was dark outside when

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Dash Akol reached his usual corner, Sar-e Dozak. Here was the same square he had spent most of his time defending during his youth. No one had dared to come forward to challenge him. Without thinking, he walked over to the front stoop of a home, sat down and pulled out his pipe. He felt that the place had deteriorated; people, like himself who had become old and broken, had changed. His eyes swam in front of him and his head throbbed. Suddenly, a shadow approached him. Then he heard a voice, "C..cowards sneak ou..out at n.. night!"

Dash Akol recognized Kaka Rostam. He stood up and moved his hand to his waist. He spat and said, "Son of a coward! You consider yourself a Luti? Let me tell you, you are about to meet your match now!"

Kaka Rostam laughed jeeringly and stammered, "It..it's been a long t..time since you've been around. Tonight there's a w..w..wedding at Haji's. Didn't they let you in?"

Dash Akol cut him off, "God knew you well when he gave you only half a tongue. Tonight I'll cut the other half out."

He put his hand down and drew his cutlass. Kaka Rostam, who looked like Rostam painted on the wall of the bathhouse, also pulled out his cutlass. Dash Akol jammed the tip of his cutlass into the ground, stood by and ritually lowered his head to his chest saying, "Whoever considers himself a luti can try to pull this cutlass out."

Kaka Rostam suddenly lunged for him. Dash Akol struck Kaka Rostam's wrist with such force that his cutlass flew from his hand. Their litany had drawn a crowd, but no one dared come forward to break them up. Dash Akol laughingly said, "I let you retrieve it this time. But I warn you... hold your cutlass tight. This is the night for settling our account once and for all."

Kaka Rostam approached Dash Akol with clenched hands. Each lunged for the other and began tussling. For half an hour they rolled on the ground, sweating profusely, but neither could claim a victory. In their struggle, Dash Akol's head suddenly struck the pavement and he nearly lost consciousness. Kaka Rostam, too, although fighting for dear life, was losing his strength. Then he saw Dash Akol's cutlass jammed into the ground. With all his strength, he drew the cutlass out of the ground and stabbed it into Dash Akol's side. The force of the act rendered both combatants motionless.

The onlookers dashed up and tried to help Dash Akol stand. Blood dripped from his side. Dash Akol put his hand over his wound and tried to stagger against the wall, but he fell again. Soon after the onlookers carried him home.

The next day, when news of Dash Akol's injury reached Haji Samad's household, Valikhan, Haji's oldest son, came to visit. When he reached Dash Akol's side, he saw that Dash was pale and wan. Bloody saliva dripped from his mouth and his eyes wandered as he painfully drew each breath.

Even on his deathbed, Dash Akol recognized Valikhan. With a trembling voice that choked in his throat he said, "In my life, I had only this parrot, only you... hold him dear... Give him to ..."

He fell silent again. Valikhan took out his silk handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Dash Akol lost consciousness and died one hour later. Everyone in Shiraz grieved for him.

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Valikhan took the parrot's cage to his home. That afternoon Marjan put the cage in front of her and stared at the bird's multi-colored wings, hooked beak and round tired eyes. Suddenly the parrot, in a voice that echoed Dash Akol's, said, "Marjan... Marjan... you've killed me. Whom can I tell? Marjan, your love has killed me."

Tears ran down Marjan's cheeks.

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The Stray Dog

by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1995, 1999

Several small shops designed to satisfy hunger and other primitive needs of life--a bakery, a butcher shop, a drugstore, two cafes and a barbershop--formed the Varamin1 square. The square, with its half-broiled inhabitants, withering under a burning sun, looked forward to the first evening breeze and the cool of the night. For the present, however, men, beasts, shops and trees were all silent and motionless. The heat hovered over the village and a light dust, thickening continually in the traffic, wavered against the azure sky.

On one side of the square was an ancient plane tree that stubbornly spread its crooked and gnarled branches in every direction despite a rotted and hollowed-out trunk. In the shade of its dust-laden leaves sat a large and spacious platform from which two boys hawked their wares, rice custard and pumpkin seeds. The water running in the juy in front of the cafe, clotted with mud and dirt, pulled on ever so sluggishly.

The only building worthy of attention in this miserable hamlet was the famous Varamin Tower, of which half of the cracked cylindrical body and the conical top were visible. Even the sparrows nesting in the crevices made by fallen bricks were dozing the afternoon away, stultified by the heat. The only complaint came from a dog who intermittently broke the silence.

He was a Scottish breed of dog with a blue-black muzzle and black spots on his hind legs. His hanging ears, pointed tail and curling, dirty coat were splattered with mud, as if he had run through a swamp. Two intelligent human eyes shone from his shaggy forehead; from the depths of those eyes shone a human soul with a message as impenetrable as the darkness that shrouded his whole being. Whatever this message was, it was not of the substance of light or color; it was some other incredible thing, like the expression in the eyes of a wounded gazelle. Not only did his eyes resemble those of a human being--they had the same expression. And while these two brown eyes were filled with the pain, suffering and expectation characteristic of the face of a vagabond dog, nobody saw or comprehended his painful, beseeching expression. In front of the baker's, the errand boy beat him; in front of the butcher shop, the apprentice pelted him with rocks; had he taken shelter in the shade of a car, the spiked shoes of the driver would surely have entertained him. When the others tired of hurting him, the boy who sold rice custard took a special delight in tormenting him. Each of the poor creature's complaints, roused by the sting of a rock against his side, was followed by the boy's laughter and the harsh words, "Lousy mutt!" With their raucous laughter, others gladly seconded his efforts. In their eyes, the torture of an unclean dog, cursed by religion and possessed of seven lives, was quite natural and worthy of eternal reward. To please Allah, they beat him.

Today the rice-custard vendor continued his punishment until the helpless animal escaped, dragging his hungry body in the direction of the tower. There he took refuge in a

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sluice, placed his head on his paws, thrust his tongue out and, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, looked out at the lush fields of green. His body was tired and his nerves ached. In the cool and damp of the sluice, a special solace and tranquillity engulfed him. Many smells, the smell of half-dead plants, the smell of a putrid old shoe, the smell of things dead and living, revived confused and distant memories. Whenever he looked at the field, the animal instinct in him revived and with it came pleasant memories of the past. This time, however, the sensations were very strong, as if a voice were whispering in his ear, calling him to get up, move and jump around. He felt an ungovernable urge to run and gambol in the fields.

This was his hereditary instinct; all his ancestors were bred to be free in the lush meadows of Scotland. His body, however, was now so fatigued that he was unable to move even slightly. Pain, mingled with weakness and inertia, overtook him, exciting vague and lost sensations. Once he had been obliged to obey certain needs and requirements. He had felt bound to respond to his master's call, to scare strangers and stray dogs off his master's property, to play with his master's child, to treat those he knew differently from strangers, to eat on time and to expect to be petted at a proper time. But now all these restrictions had dissolved.

In their stead he had learned how to grab something off the trash pile, how to tolerate daily punishment and how to howl and whimper. The latter was his sole means of defense. In the past he had been bold, courageous, clean and vivacious, but now he had become cowardly and pathetic; every noise, every vibration startled him. He was afraid even of his own voice. He had become accustomed to dirt and rubbish. His body "itched, but he did not have the will either to catch the ticks or to lick himself clean. He felt that he had become one with the dirt and that inside him something had died; something lustrous had gone out.

During the two winters since he had entered this hell, he had not eaten a full meal and had not had a good sleep. His passions and feelings had suffocated. Nobody petted him and no one looked him in the eye. It seemed that the inhabitants of this place, although they resembled his master, differed from him in feeling, behavior and temperament. It was as though the people in the past were closer to his world; they comprehended his predicament and sympathized with him. They supported him.

Among the scents that he perceived now, the smell of the rice custard excited him the most. This white liquid, so much like his mother's milk, reminded him of his puppyhood. A feeling of numbness overtook him as he recalled how, as a pup, he had sucked that nourishing, warm liquid from his mother's nipple while her soft, firm tongue had licked him clean. He recalled his mother's pungent odor and then the scent of his brother as they suckled together at their mother's side. Recollection of the strong and heavy smell of his mother and her milk enveloped him.

When he had been fully satisfied with milk, his body became warm and comfortable; a liquid warmth flowed through his veins and sinews. Sleepily he let go of his mother's nipple, trembling throughout his body; then he fell into a deep sleep. What pleasure could surpass such satisfaction? Even when accidentally he pressed his mother's nipple with his paw, without any need for struggle and without difficulty, milk flowed out. His brother's fluffy body, his mother's bark, all these were intoxicating and soothing. He recalled his wooden house and the games he and his brother had played in those lush, green meadows.

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He used to bite his brother's floppy ears and together they would roll on the ground, get up and run. Unforgettable were his master's caresses and the lumps of sugar he had fed him. Later he had found another friend--his master's son. He would run after his new friend at the end of the garden, barking and biting his clothes. He had especially liked his master's son, because the boy was his playmate and never hit him. Later, suddenly, he had lost his mother and his brother; he had remained alone with his master, his master's wife, their son and an old servant. He could distinguish the odor of each quite well and knew the sound of their footsteps. When it was time for their dinner, he walked around the table to smell the food. Sometimes his master's wife, despite her husband's objections, gave him one or two choice pieces of meat. Then the servant would come and call his name, "Pat ... Pat..." His food was put in a special bowl in the corner of his wooden house.

Pat's misfortunes began when his rut came on; his master would not allow him out of the house to run after bitches. Then, as fate would have it, one autumn day his master and two others whom he knew and who often visited their house got into an automobile, called Pat and put him beside them in the car. Pat had traveled in a car with his master several times, but this time he was in heat and felt a special agitation and restlessness. Hours later they arrived at Varamin square and got out of the car. His master and the other two were passing the alley beside the tower when Pat picked up a scent--this scent of a female canine brought him close to insanity. Every few steps he stopped and smelled the ground; at last he entered a garden through an open sluice.

Near sunset, once again, he heard his master's voice calling, "Pat... Pat!" Was this his master's voice or merely an echo of that voice ringing in his ear?

His master's voice, cumbering him as it did with every duty and responsibility, had a special effect on Pat, but a force above and beyond the forces of that alien world pressed him to stay with the bitch. This obligation dulled and deafened his ears to the sounds of that world. Strong sensations awoke in him; the smell of the bitch was so strong and poignant that it made him dizzy. His body and his senses disobeyed him and he lost control. Before long, however, some club wielders discovered him in the garden and drove him out through the sluice.

Pat felt a little dizzy and tired, but at the same time lighter and more relaxed. Confused, he began to look for his master. All he could pick up was a weak scent in several alleys. He followed all the alleys and intermittently left his own sign. He went as far as the ruins outside the village; then he came back, knowing that his master would return to the square. There, however, his master's weakening scent was lost in all the other scents. Had his master gone and left hi behind? A mixture of dread and apprehension seized him. How could Pat survive without his master, his God? His master was like a deity! Surely his master would come back, seeking him out. Terrified, he ran down several roads, but his searches were useless.

At night, tired and beaten, he returned to the square. He found no sign of his master. He toured the village several times more, finally arriving at the sluice where he had met the bitch. Heavy rocks now blocked the sluice. With a special zeal, Pat began to dig his way into the garden, but he made little headway. Losing hope, he began to doze, eventually falling asleep in that same spot.

Near midnight, Pat's own moans and groans awoke him. Terrified, he began to run through the alleys, smelling the walls and searching. He felt an acute pang of hunger. Reaching the square, the smells of many different foods struck him: the smell of leftover

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meat, the smell of freshly baked bread and the smell of yogurt all mingled tantalizingly. At the same time he felt guilty for trespassing on the property of others, for having to beg from these people for food and for expecting, if there were no rivals to force him out, to make this his own locale. Perhaps one of these creatures who resembled his master and who carried food in his hands might keep him as a pet.

Cautious and trembling, he approached the bakery which had just opened its door, filling the air with the aroma of freshly baked bread. A man carrying bread under his arms called to him, "bia... bia!"2 How alien was that voice! Its owner threw a piece of bread to Pat who, with some hesitation, ate it and wagged his tail. The man then put the bread on the platform of the shop and fearfully and cautiously petted Pat on the head. Using both hands, he unfastened Pat's collar. How relieved Pat felt! It was as though all binds, responsibilities and duties were removed from him. But when he wagged his tail again and approached the baker, he was rewarded with a strong kick in the side. The baker walked to the juy and, ritually, washed his hands three times. Pat recognized his collar hanging in front of the bakery.

Since that night Pat had experienced no other attitude from these people. They kicked him, pelted him with rocks and beat him with clubs. It was as though they were his bitter enemies, gaining a particular pleasure from torturing him.

He did not recognize this world he was entering. In it no one shared his sentiments and ways. The first several days were the hardest. Then, gradually, he became accustomed to this new life. Besides, at the corner to the right he had discovered a trash pile in which he could find tasty pieces like bones, fat, skin, fish heads and many other edibles that he could not name. He spent the rest of each day in front of the butcher shop and the bakery. His eyes were riveted to the butcher's hand, but the amount of punishment he received always exceeded the number of delicious pieces. He became accustomed to this new life though, and his previous life was soon no more than a vestige of some smells and the recollection of a series of vague and discolored events. He kept this lost paradise in his memory, escaping to it in desperate moments.

What most tortured Pat was his need for caressing. In spite of being continually beaten and maltreated, his feelings had remained tender, like a child's. Especially in this new life, full of pain and suffering, he needed to be fondled. His eyes begged for love and he was ready to give his life for anyone who would be kind to him and pet him on the head. He needed to convey his love to someone, to sacrifice himself and to show his devotion and loyalty, but it seemed that no one needed such an outpouring of affection; nobody took his side, and in every eye he saw nothing but enmity and malice. The more he tried to attract their attention, the more, it seemed, he excited their anger and rage.

Today Pat slept in the sluice while nightmarish dreams passed before his eyes. He moaned several times, then woke up. He was extremely hungry. The smell of kabob filled the air. A relentless hunger tortured his insides, making him forget all his other miseries. He rose painfully and headed cautiously for the square.

***

Now, amid commotion, dust and dirt, an automobile entered the Varamin square. A man stepped from the car, approached Pat and petted him on the head. This man was not his master. Of this he was sure, because he knew the scent of his master quite well. But how was it that someone should appear and fondle him? He no longer wore a collar for which

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one would caress him. The man returned and petted Pat's head again. Pat followed him. His surprise increased when the man entered a room that Pat knew well, a room from which emanated the aroma of many foods. The man sat on a bench beside the wall. They brought him freshly-baked bread, yogurt, eggs and other foods, and he took pieces of bread, dipped them in yogurt and threw them to Pat. Greedily at first and, later, more slowly, Pat ate the bread. Out of helplessness and a sense of gratitude, he fixed his beautiful brown eyes on the man's face and wagged his tail for him.

Was this really happening or was he dreaming? Pat ate a full meal without interruption or punishment. Could it be that he had found a new master? Despite the heat, the man got up, went to the alley by the tower, halted there a moment, then continued on his way, passing through several other labyrinthine alleys. Pat followed until the two of them had left the village limits. The man then entered some ruins where now only a few walls remained. Pat's master had visited the same site. Perhaps these, too, were seeking the scent of females! Pat waited in the shade of the wall; then both returned to the square by a different route. Once again the man patted Pat on the head and, after a quick stroll around the square, he went and sat in one of those automobiles that Pat knew. Pat, who did not dare enter the automobile, sat beside the car and watched the man.

Suddenly, amid the dust, the automobile began to move. Pat, too, without hesitation, began to run after it. No, this time he did not intend to lose this man. He was panting; despite the pain in his body, he was right behind the car and running with speed. The car left the village and was now passing some fields. Two or three times Pat caught up with the automobile, then again lagged behind. Out of despair, he had given all his energy to this run, but the car was faster than he was. He had made a mistake: his weak and broken body was no match for the speed of the car. He felt queasy and suddenly he was no longer in control of his parts--he could not move, not even slightly. All this effort had been useless. He knew neither why he was running, nor where he was running. He was spent and there was no way out. He stopped. He was panting, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. His sight was darkened. With a lowered head and with difficulty he pulled himself off the road and into a juy by the field; he lowered himself onto the hot, damp sand. He knew he would never leave this place. His instincts had never been wrong. He was dizzy; his thoughts and sensations grew dull. He felt an intense pain in his belly and a sick light glowed in his eyes. Gradually his paws became numb and a cold sweat engulfed his body; it was an intoxicating and comforting, cool sensation.

***

Near sunset three hungry crows hovered above Pat's head. They had picked up his scent. Approaching cautiously, one of them perched nearby and watched carefully. When he was sure that Pat was not yet completely dead, he flew away. These three crows had come to pluck out Pat's two brown eyes.

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Don Juan of Karaj by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Judith Shadzi

edited by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1995, 1999

Why is it that some people achieve an instant and eternal bonding of souls on their very first encounter--they become, as the saying goes, one soul in two bodies--never to forget each other after their first introduction; while two others, who might be repeatedly introduced and who frequently meet, only avoid each other? For them there is no sense of mutual sympathy or of compassion. Indeed, if they came across one another on the street, they might prefer not to acknowledge each other's presence. Is this a kind of friendship--or enmity--without a cause? Perhaps, you may wish to regard this as some kind of sympathy or antipathy, or attribute it to various degrees of spiritual attraction or whatever. Those who believe in reincarnation may go further and say that such individuals have been friends or enemies in their previous lives on the earth-plane and that their cordiality or hatred towards each other stems from that experience. None of these theories, however, solves the riddle. The sudden attraction and eternal bonding of souls seems a result neither of spiritual characteristics nor of physical phenomena.

Anyhow, I had one of these strange encounters a few nights ago. It was the night before Now Ruz, and I had decided to find a nice quiet place in which to spend my three holidays and to avoid the usual routine, the boring "visiting and re-visiting." I wanted to relax and enjoy myself. After thinking the whole situation over thoroughly, I did not find it wise to travel very far. Besides, time was limited, and therefore I decided to take a trip to Karaj. By the time I had gotten a trip permit, it was early evening; I went to the Zhale cafe and sat there. As I lit a cigarette and slowly sipped my milk-coffee, I noticed in the sidewalk traffic a heavily built person approaching and showing me courtesy. I looked closely and saw it was Hassan the night watchman. It had been more than ten years since I had last seen him, and strangely enough we both recognized each other. Some faces change very little, some change more; Hassan's face had not changed at all. It was the same simple and happy face, but I noticed something artificial and unnatural about him and about his clothes. He appeared conceited.

Until that night, I had not known his family name. He told me himself that they used to call him Hassan Khan. In school, during recess, Hassan Khan had had a pale face, a large frame and clumsy movements. He had paid little attention to his clothing or appearance. His collar was always open and his shoes covered with dust. And it seemed now that his earlier "bum" appearance had been more appropriate for him. As he would easily lose his temper and was also easily calmed, other kids tended to pick on him and bother him. And, for some reason, other kids had given him the name of "Porter."

I had always tried to avoid him as though there were an unknown misunderstanding between us. But now his peculiar and casual greeting, as he came and sat at my table,

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eliminated this old and unnecessary bad feeling, or else time had automatically destroyed it. He had grown fatter, happy and sturdy, and he had become one of those who create happiness around themselves.

Upon his arrival, he ordered araq gulping one glass after another; the alcohol gave him a kind of temporary happiness. Because of excessive indulgence in sex, he looked a lot older than his age, and a wrinkle that appeared at the corner of his lips bespoke a bitter disappointment--something unusual. It was clear that he had made every attempt to improve his appearance. Nevertheless, it was highly artificial and quite annoying. He would turn every minute and look into the mirror to straighten his tie. The tipsier he got, the more evident his childish, carefree face became, the face so familiar from before.

Finally, he told me without any transition that for some time he had been in love with a woman. "This woman is a famous star!" he exclaimed, "of a 'European-type' and quite wealthy. I had been in love with her for a whole year but did not dare to let her know--until just recently when somehow we met."

I asked, "Is this a temporary love, or are you planning to marry her?"

He replied, "If she decides to live with me, of course, I'll marry her. The only thing is that the expenses are gonna be too high. Every night that we go to the cabaret, she costs me ten fifteen tumans. But I'll find the money somehow, even if I have to find it under a rock; or end up selling everything I own. I'll pay for her expenses. I just hope that for our love's sake, she forgets about some of her bad habits. You know, I took her to our house to introduce her to my mother. My mother invited her to come and live in our house. She said, 'Your enemy will have to come and imprison herself between these four walls.' Right now, every month I end up paying two hundred fifty tumans for hotel and another two hundred and fifty for entertainment and dancing. Why don't you come here tomorrow night, and I'll bring her so you can meet her and see how she is?"

"I'll be in Karaj tomorrow night," I said.

"Really? Are you going to Karaj for theNow Ruz? Will you be alone? Why don't I bring her along? To tell you the truth, I didn't know what I was gonna do. Besides, it'll be cheaper. Also, we'll get to know each other better on the trip."

I said, "It's fine with me, but what about permits..."

"Permits won't be necessary," he said. "I've traveled to Karaj at least a hundred times without a trip permit. Now, are you gonna start tomorrow night?"

I said, "I'll be at the Ghazvin-Gate at 9:00 a.m. We can start from there."

"I'll be there, too " he replied. "Exactly at 9:00 a.m. We can all go together. All right, then, I'm gonna go and let the broad know, so she can get ready."

I was amazed by his sudden friendship and all the lies that he had told me. Finally we separated and decided to meet the next morning.

***

The next day, exactly at 9:00 o'clock, Hassan and his financee came. She reminded me of

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one of those ladies you find in a miniature story book: slim, short, with mascara-laden eyelashes, and red lips and nails. Her dress was of the latest Paris style, and a diamond ring glared on her finger. It appeared she had prepared herself for a fancy evening party. As soon as she saw the old beat-up Ford, she was horrified and said, "I thought we were going in a private automobile. I have never traveled in a rented automobile before." We finally got in and headed for Karaj.

Hassan was right. They did not ask him for a permit. We got out in front of a hotel called The Contemporary Times. It was chilly and felt good to wear an overcoat. The hotel consisted of a garden with a few patches of flowers here and there, tall white poplar trees, and a long porch that contained a row of uniform white-painted rooms. Just like it had come out of a furniture factory. Each room had three box-spring beds covered by suspicious-looking sheets and quilts; a large mirror had been placed in the niche. It was obvious that they had prepared those rooms for overnight guests, since to imprison yourself in one of them would soon become quite boring. The view from the front porch was a row of gray-looking mountains and a bunch of fat sparrows preoccupied with the spring breeze while surviving the winter cold by puffing up their feathers. They would climb the wall or jump from one poplar branch to the next. It would make you dizzy to listen to them for very long. All in all, the entire scene would give the viewer the sense of a pleasant countryside vacation.

As soon as we settled and rid ourselves of the dust of the journey, I went onto the porch for a walk and to wait for Hassan and his lady. Suddenly I noticed that at the end of the porch someone was trying to get my attention. When he came close I recognized him. It was a young man who hung around the Parvane Cafe; I had met him there. To ridicule him, they called him the "Don Juan." He was one of those nouveaux riches, a young bureaucrat. He wore a gray outfit, with loose trousers of the "Charleston" type, a style about six years out of date. His hair was soaked with hair tonic, and he had an artificial diamond ring and glaring, manicured nails. After greeting me he said, "I've been in Karaj for three days and plan to go back to Tehran tonight." He then lowered his voice and added, "I had come here to see an Armenian girl; she left this morning."

At this point, Hassan and his lady, who resembled a full-feathered peacock, came out of their room. Out of necessity, I introduced Don Juan to them. We then went into the main room and sat around the table. Hassan and his lady seemed to be content with the trip. The lady would tap Hassan on the shoulder and say, "You know we definitely are on the same wavelength! Aren't we? By the way, I haven't told you, I have a brother who looks exactly like Hassan--like an apple sliced in half. But ever since he got married, I don't care for him anymore! You can't believe the thing he has married. I finally had to move out of my house. I love friendship and good personality and sacrifice anything for that."

We raised our glasses to toast the lady. Don Juan went to his room and brought back a phonograph and a few records and began playing them. After that, without any further ceremony, he invited the lady for a dance, quite a few dances to be exact. I was noticing Hassan's scintillating glares as he was grinding his teeth, trying to hide everything inside. After lunch we decided to go for some fresh air. While watching the scenery, we started walking down the Chalus road. On the way Don Juan whispered to me, "I will stay tonight, too," and then, as if he had known the lady for years, he began chatting with her! He knew it all. Filling the lady's ear with stories, he would not allow either of us to throw in our two cents worth!

It seemed as though Hassan had made a sudden decision; he moved next to the lady to

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say something. But the lady snapped at him, "Keep your chin up! How did you get that spot on your clothing?" Hassan recoiled fearfully. Don Juan took off his overcoat and put it around the lady. I approached them. Don Juan was pointing to the muddy water in the river and the trees that had sprung from the ground like brooms along the roadside and was saying, "How nice it would be for a person to come and live in places like this! This air, this river, these trees that will bloom in a month. Think of coming here on moonlit nights and bringing along a phonograph ... It's a pity that I left my camera behind!"

The men from the nearby villages, wearing new clothes and cotton shoes, and children wearing colorful clothing were coming and going. The lady said that she was tired. Don Juan pointed at a place on the river bank. We went and sat on the rocks there. It seemed as though the muddy river was swelling and rolling, it was carrying all the muddy sediments with it. A large hill of dirt and a row of frozen mountains were blocking our view. It had become relatively warm. Don Juan took off his jacket, and all the while we were sitting there he talked about Coty perfumes, his fiancee, love, virtue and Ghafghazi dancing. And the lady was listening to his nonsense with an unjustifiable concentration and wonder. For instance, he was saying, "I had a better pair of trousers before; last week my friends and I decided to ride an airplane. When getting off, I stumbled over a rock and I fell down. The knees were ripped. I had paid twenty-five tumans to the Luxe tailor shop to have those made for me. My entire leg was injured. I rode on a horse carriage and went to MacTowel at the American hospital. He told me, 'God had mercy on you. If it had damaged your kneecap, you could have become paralyzed!' I was hospitalized for three days and got well. But from up there, you could see the tops of houses very well. I even saw our own house from up there. You could also see the dome of the Sepahsalar mosque! People looked like ants. When the, plane comes down, however, you get a funny feeling in your stomach..."

Finally, after resting, we got up and headed for Karaj. Hassan and Don Juan were feeling good and were whistling music in the Ghafghazi style. The lady was about to dance when her shoe heel came off and she kept repeating, "I just bought these shoes at Beta two weeks ago!" Don Juan, standing ready for service, fixed the shoe with a large rock while the lady leaned on him with her hand.

Hassan joined me and, contrary to what he had previously told me in the cafe, said, "This isn't gonna make a wife for me either. I gotta leave her. She is not gonna put up with our house. She also wants to be independent... very independent!"

Near dusk, when we arrived at the hotel, a few bottles of araq, a phonograph and a few other odds and ends had covered the table. Don Juan turned on the phonograph and danced continuously with the lady. Hassan, mad and depressed, was stewing. He made such sarcastic remarks as, "Tell me the truth, have you fallen in love with my fiancee? Come on, tell me. I'm willing to divorce her."

Don Juan put an emotional violin piece on the phonograph. Then he came, sat on the bed and said, "Is that what you really think? I have my own fiancee..." He then took a picture of a sad-looking girl out of his wallet and was kissing and rubbing it on his face. His eyes began to tear. It seemed he could shed tears any time he wished. The lady also became very emotional. She got up and sat close to Don Juan. Hassan asked for some playing cards from the servant in order to keep Don Juan busy and to prevent him from dancing with his lady. The two of them began playing cards. The lady, however, was in the mood. Apparently to bug Hassan, she played a record and asked me to dance. While dancing, I felt her squeeze my hand. Apparently she was expressing her desire towards me, and a

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few times she pressed her face against mine.

Hassan was taking advantage of the situation, and really taking it all out on Don Juan with the cards. Hassan was screaming, cheating and getting madder by the minute. As soon as we had finished dancing, the lady approached Hassan, slapped his face hard and said, "Get lost! What is wrong with you? It's enough to make me vomit. Get lost, you act like a porter."

Hassan looked at her with blood shot eyes and was about to cry. He involuntarily reached to straighten his tie but realized he was not wearing one. Then Don Juan quit his cards and resumed dancing with the lady. I was watching Hassan from the corner of my eye. He got up and left the room. Don Juan put on a record of a tango.

Hassan returned, looked around the room, then grabbed me by the hand and took me outside. I felt his arm trembling. Under the light of the gas lamp on the porch, his temple veins were visible. His eyes were open wide and his lower lip was hanging. Just like that "bum" look I remembered from our school days. While holding my hand, he said, "Last night when we talked, I thought we'd be only with you. It's your fault that you introduced him to me! You are my friend, but he has no right to dance with my lady. Isn't this uncivilized? You make clear he doesn't behave so childishly--he is trying to impress my broad with his false ring. He claims he has spent ten thousand tumans on his fiancee! He falls in love, he cries with the phonograph music. He thinks I'm stupid. Why doesn't he ask my permission when he dances with my lady? I understand all this but I'm smarter than him. I have also been through a lot of these phony love affairs. Please understand that you introduced him to me and you should get rid of him. You know, the lady is overly independent. I knew I could not live with her. I'm gonna leave right now. I can't stick around here any longer."

"What are you talking about? It's not the end of the world. Go and splash some cold water on your face; get a hold of yourself. Araq is making you talk nonsense. Besides, it's the first day of the new year... it's a bad omen."

But my answer worked the reverse. It fired him up. Hastily he went into his room and took money out of the lady's purse, then ordered the hotel servant to charter an automobile for town. He was planning to leave immediately and, incidentally, there was an automobile parked in the hotel courtyard. He looked around himself like a madman, then approached the driver, woke him up and said, "I've got to leave for town immediately, I'll pay you as much as you wish. Let's go!"

Hassan pulled up his collar and went and sat in the Ford. The driver was rubbing his eyes as he approached the automobile. I told the driver, "He is not serious, he is drunk, go back to sleep." The driver was happy to hear that and returned to sleep. Suddenly Hassan's lady, upset, came by the automobile and turned to Hassan and said, "You good for nothing bum! Do you think I consider you a human being? To hell with you and your porter-like physique!"

Then she turned to me and added, "From the beginning I was feeling sympathy for him, not love. He deserved a woman like my brother's wife." Again, speaking to Hassan, "Get up, get up and come to the room. I must settle this one way or the other with you. You want to leave me here in the middle of nowhere? You stupid bum!"

Hassan was quite disturbed. He got up and went into the room and fell on his bed,

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covering his face with his hands. Crying aloud, he was saying, "No, no, my life has become meaningless...I'll go to town...my life has ended ... you drove me crazy... I must go, it's enough, no more! ... until now I thought my life did not belong to me... It's yours, too... No... I'll get off somewhere along the way and throw myself off a cliff... I've had enough!"

Hassan not only was using the usual language of cheap romance novels but had become one of their characters. This stubborn man who had always tried to pretend he was a fulfilled, experienced and strong individual had all of a sudden become a timid, frustrated creature begging love and sympathy from his so-called lover. He appeared an immense piece of wrinkled, tortured meat that had rolled over like a mountain and was suffering! It was a kind of selfish pain and in a way was funny. Whereas the lady, sure of her superiority, was singing her victory song in a loud voice. She had placed her hands on her waist and was saying contemptuously, "Get lost, stupid! I didn't realize you were that stupid." Turning to me, "Oh--look at him--just like a porter! This gentleman, at my insistence, fixed and cleaned-up himself a bit. Now see what has come of him! I didn't know he was that stupid, or I would never have come. What a pity! You get to know people when you travel together! Do you see how he has dumped himself over that bed? This is his natural state. No matter what you do to him, he'll still come out as a porter. What a mistake I made! I'm glad I found this out when I did; I could never live with this!"

She made a move of contempt with her hand which meant "dirt on your head." Hassan was crying aloud. I realized that the situation was serious. I withdrew and left them alone. I went to Don Juan's room. Everything was a scattered mess. The record had reached the end and the needle was scratching. Don Juan, pale and fully drunk, had fallen on the bed. I shook him. He said, "What's up? Are they fighting? What did I do wrong? She was the one who made a pass at me and told me she loves me. She told me we were on the same wavelength. She said that Hassan is just like porters! She was squeezing my hand during the dance and kissed me twice. I honestly did not have any intentions about her. I would never exchange even a hair of my fiancee for a thousand such women. Did you notice me exiting the room before playing cards? It was to clean the so-called lady's lipstick off my face."

"Come on, it's not that simple. I was watching."

"Oh yeah? She is nothing you can brag about either. Her story is probably similar to those of many women who at the beginning are unfulfilled angels, innocent birds or the very epitome of chastity. Then they run into a cruel, stonehearted young man who seduces them. Why is it, you know, that so many innocent young girls who fall for such ruthless men don't teach the other girls a lesson? But coming back to this lady, she is quite the contrary. She can take seventy evil-minded men to water and return them thirsty..."

Don Juan would not give a damn regarding the matters that concerned him; this seemed to be quite a natural thing to him. I realized that his nonsensical statements, coquettish behavior, stupid lies and his unwarranted flattery, even his mockery of intelligence and his self-ignorance, were all involuntary; they were imposed on him by a blind force produced by his environment. He was truly a Don Juan of his own environment without realizing it.

***

Next morning, there was a knock on my door. I opened the door, Hassan's lady entered, suitcase in hand, and said, "I'm going to Ghazvin to stay with my sister. Did you know that

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Hassan took off last night? I came to say goodbye."

"I am very sorry to hear that!" I said, "but let me help you find Hassan."

"Never," she said, "I am no longer able even to look at his face. That stupid face of his! I am going to see my sister. He tricked me and brought me here, then escaped during the night!..."

Then she left the room without even waiting to hear my reply. Five minutes later, Don Juan showed up with a suitcase, apparently containing only his phonograph. He had come to my room to say goodbye. I said, "Now where are you going?"

"I have to go to town for some business. I should not have stayed last night either."

He said goodbye and left. There I was all by myself! But I was in no hurry to leave. The sparrows had awakened again and were chirping at the top of their voices. It seemed as though the spring breeze had made them high. I began to think about the strange events of the past night and realized that those events were also related to the intoxicating spring breeze and that my friends had been intoxicated like those sparrows. After breakfast, I decided to leave the hotel and go for a walk. I saw an old junky automobile, much older than the one that had brought us to Karaj, pass noisily in front of the hotel. Suddenly I saw the passengers: Don Juan and Hassan's lady, sitting next to each other, were lost in a deep conversation. Their automobile was heading towards the Ghazvin road.

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The Water of Life by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Kazem Tehrani

edited by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1995, 1999

Once upon a time there was a cobbler who had three sons: Hassani the Hunchback, Hosseini the Bald and Ahmadak. Hassani, the oldest, was a prayer-writer and a crowd-rouser. Hosseini, the second son, was a jack of all trades and master of none. Sometimes he hauled water, sometimes he shoveled snow, but mostly he just wandered around. Ahmadak, the youngest, who had already established a direction to his life, was the favorite of his father. He worked as an apprentice in a perfume and spice shop. At the end of each month, he brought home his wages and gave them to his father. The older sons, who did not have steady jobs and whose hands were always out for help from their father, could not bear the sight of Ahmadak.

It so happened that famine fell upon their city. One day the cobbler called his sons together and said, "As you know, scarcity and inflation have hit the city and my business is not going well. You are adults now; Ahmadak, my youngest, is already fifteen. Each of you must go and earn his own way. Learn a trade and start a business. Don't worry about me. I'll stay here, and I'm sure I'll survive. If a time should come when you are doing very well, fine; let me know. Otherwise, you can come back to me, and we will find a morsel somewhere and eat together. May God be with you!"

The sons answered, "Yes, father, by all means, we understand."

The cobbler gave each a loaf of rough bread and a jug of water, kissed him, and sent him on his way.

The three brothers set out. As long as they had light to see by and strength in their knees, they traveled until finally, exhausted, they arrived at a crossroads. They sat down under an elm tree to rest. Ahmadak was so tired that he fell asleep. Because Ahmadak was more capable than they, the older brothers envied him and feared he would become an obstacle in their path. They looked at each other and said, "Why don't we just get rid of him?"

So they tied Ahmadak's arms behind his back, dragged him away and threw him into a long, dark cave. Ahmadak begged, but they would not listen. They brought a big boulder and blocked the entrance to the cave. They sprinkled pigeon's blood on Ahmadak's shirt and gave it to a passing caravan for delivery to their father with the message that Ahmadak had been torn apart by wolves. They continued on their way until they reached a fork in the road. After they drew lots, one set out on the road toward the east; the other toward the west.

Hassani the Hunchback traveled on until all his bread and water were gone. At sunset, he

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found himself in a forest; in the distance he saw a blue flame. He walked towards it and saw that it was a witch's hut. He greeted the old woman sitting there saying, "Good woman! For God's sake have pity on me. I am a stranger with no relatives. Give me a place to stay tonight. I am exhausted from hunger and thirst."

The old woman replied, "Who on earth would take in a guest like you; hunchbacked, a transient, a bum? However, I feel sorry for you; if you promise to do some work for me, I will take care of you."

"Of course, I am ready to do anything you ask," Hassani answered hastily.

"Behind my house there is a dry well. And a candle with an undying blue flame is at the bottom of that well. Bring this candle out."

The old woman gave Hassani some bread and water and then took him behind the hut. There she put him into a basket and lowered him into the well. At the bottom of the well, Hassani picked up the candle and signaled the old woman to pull him up. She pulled but, as soon as the basket reached the top of the well, she reached out to take the candle. Hassani, suspicious, said, "No, wait a minute. Let me hand the candle to you as soon as I step onto the ground."

Infuriated, the old woman let go of the rope, and Hassani fell to the bottom of the well--plop! Now he wasn't hurt and the candle was still burning, but what use was it to him, since he realized he must die in the well? He began to think and after a while he took a pipe out of his pocket saying, "My last possession in this world!" Then he lit the pipe with the blue flame of the candle and took a few puffs. Soon the well filled with smoke and Hassani saw a little genie, dark and dwarfed, standing before him in a servile posture.

"What can I do for you?" the genie asked.

"What are you? Are you a genie, a spirit, or a human being?" Hassani asked in amazement.

"I am your humble slave."

"Well, first help me get out of here. Then I want some money and some means of living."

The little genie hoisted Hassani on his back and carried him up out of the well; then said, "If you desire money and a means of living, here is the way. Go to a city in this direction; there you will prosper, but as long as you can, avoid the city called the Elixir of Life!"

So saying, the genie pointed in one direction. Hassani was confused, and the candle fell out of his hand back into the well. He looked and saw that, like water sinking into the earth, the genie, too, had vanished.

Traveling in the dark, Hassani followed the path that the genie had shown him. At the crack of dawn he arrived at a city beside a river and soon discovered that all the people there were blind.

Sitting down by the river, he splashed a handful of water onto his face and drank a handful. Then he asked a blind person nearby, "Hey, sir, where am I?"

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"Don't you know!" the man answered. "This is the Country of Glittering Gold!"

"For God's sake," Hassani said. "I am a stranger here. I come from a remote city. I'm lost. Will you give me something to eat?"

The man replied, "Here we don't give things for free. Give me a handful of sand from the river; then I will give you some bread."

Hassani thrust his hand into the river sand and found that it was gold dust. He was delighted. He gave a handful to the man who gave him some bread. He ate the bread, then filled his pockets with gold dust and continued his journey to the city.

Upon arriving, Hassani saw it was a big city, built dome upon dome like sheepfolds. Because they were blind, the inhabitants lived either in the crevasses of caves or under these domes. They did not distinguish night from day and there was not a lamp to be seen in the city. Government announcements and edicts were printed in raised characters on cardboard posters. All the people were dirty, wore badly cut clothing and had swollen eyes and depressing expressions; they squirmed like entangled worms.

"Excuse me," Hassani asked one. "Why are the people here blind?"

The man answered, "The soil of this country is mixed with gold, and this special property blinds the eye. We are expecting a prophet who will come and cure our eyes. Even though we are rich and powerful, we do not have the sight of our eyes. We would rather be poor but able to see the world. Thus, stricken with shame, we have remained in the corner of our city."

Hassani, who was used to sponging off others, said to himself, "It would be easy to deceive and exploit these people. What harm would it do if I were to become their prophet?" So he climbed up onto a pulpit in a corner of the square and cried, "Hail, people! Know that I am the promised prophet, and I come from God to bring you good tidings. Because God wanted to test you, he took away your sight so that you can search more intensely and by acquiring insight can reach the Truth. Knowing yourself is knowing God. Everywhere, from the beginning to the end, the world is full of devilish temptations, idle imaginings and superstitions. As they say, what the eyes see, the heart desires. Thus you, who do not see, are free from devilish temptations; you live happily and contentedly and can endure any misfortune. So be patient and give proper thanks to God who has given you this great gift! This base world is temporary and transient; the other world is permanent and eternal. I have come to guide you there."

Hundreds of people followed and trusted him, and each day, in order to advance his own affairs, Hassani delivered long orations about genies, spirits, the Day of Judgment, paradise, hell, fate, predestination, the pressure of the grave and other things of this nature. They published his speeches in raised letters on cardboard posters and distributed them among the people. It wasn't long before all the inhabitants of the Country of Glittering Gold came to believe in him.

In the past, the people had revolted several times. They wanted to be cured and refused to work at washing gold. But Hassani the Hunchback was able to convince them to work; in this manner the rich and the powerful earned enormous profits. Hassani's fame spread far and near and soon he became an intimate favorite at the court of the King of the Blind.

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Meanwhile, he ordered all the inhabitants to collect gold and each worker was bound at the waist to a chain from his door to the river bank. Every day before sunrise a bell rang and scores of people, group by group, went to wash gold. At sunset, they handed over their earnings for the day and, clutching their chains, they groped and staggered their way home. Drinking and smoking opium had become their only recreation. Because no one planted and harvested the land, they had to buy their grain, opium, and liquor from neighboring countries with the gold they washed from the river. Thus the land became barren and lay fallow. Filth and disease were rampant.

Hassani's eyes, too, were soon affected by the gold dust, and he became blind. But, in his greed, he never tired of collecting gold. Day by day, like growing onions, Hassani's schemes took deeper root, and his wealth and power grew in the Kingdom of the Blind. Raised likenesses of Hassani were hung on the walls of the houses.

Finally, Hassani began to wear a pair of very beautiful artificial eyes. But to compensate for this infirmity, he slept on a golden couch and ordered his servants to cover his hunched back with a golden blanket. He drank wine from golden goblets and smoked opium with a golden pipe. In his bathroom he used golden pitchers to wash himself. Each night they brought him a concubine. Hassani thanked God that, after all the suffering and hardship he had endured, he had finally achieved his heart's desire.

His father, brothers, former life and even his father's last request had completely left his mind. He occupied himself only with luxury, pleasure and ostentation.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Let's leave Hassani here and see what happened to his bald brother. Hosseini, stumbling, falling and getting up, set out on the road toward the east. He traveled a long way, finally reaching a forest where, dead tired, he lay down at the foot of a tree and fell asleep. Just before dawn he heard three crows conversing high in the tree, "Sister, are you sleeping?" one asked.

"No, I'm awake," the second crow answered.

The third asked, "Sister, what fresh news do you have?"

"Oh, if men knew the things we know," the first crow remarked. "The king of the Kingdom of Shining Moon is dead. Because there is no successor, they will fly a falcon tomorrow, and the person on whose head it lands will become king."

"Who do you think will become king?" asked the second crow.

"The man who has been sleeping at the foot of this tree," replied the first, "but only if when he enters the city he pulls a sheep's stomach over his head. Then the falcon will come and land on it. When the people see that he is a foreigner, they will not accept him at first but will imprison him. He must open the window of his cell; then the falcon will come through the window and land again on his head."

"Absurd!" cawed the third crow. "King of the land of the deaf!"

"Do you know the cure for their deafness?" asked the second crow.

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"The Elixir of Life," said the third. "But if the Elixir of Life is administered to the people and their ears are opened, they will no longer carry the yoke of their masters. The owners of the bodies hanging from this tree tried to cure the people's deafness." Then the crows cawed and cawed and flew away.

Opening his eyes, Hosseini saw two bodies hanging from the tree. Terrified, he got up and fled. On the way he found a kid that had strayed from its herd. He grabbed the kid, beheaded it, took out the stomach, pulled it over his head and continued on his way. Near sunset he arrived at a big city in uproar. In his heart he was delighted and, before entering the city, he stopped in some ruins nearby. He saw a hunting falcon high in the sky. Suddenly it swooped down, alighted on his head, and grasped his head in its talons.

Cheering, the people of the city rushed toward him and lifted him overhead. But as soon as they realized he was a foreigner, they seized him, threw him in a cell and locked the door. Hosseini went to the window and opened it. Two more times the falcon flew to a height, then came through the window to alight on his head. Again the people rushed to him. But this time they seated him in a four-horse golden coach and, with full ceremony, carried him to a magnificent palace. They gave him a luxurious bath, clothed him in magnificent outfits and costly, dignified cloaks. Then they seated him on a throne inlaid with jewels and put a crown on his head.

Hosseini was nearly bursting with delight. While he looked around in amazement, a magnificently clothed blind man came forward, kissed the ground and said, "Oh, my Lord, long live the King. I am your slave and, on behalf of all those present, I greet you."

Clearing his throat and puffing out his chest, Hosseini spoke in an imperious voice, "Who are you?"

"Long live the King! The people of this country are all deaf and dumb. I am a foreigner, one of the merchants from the Kingdom of Glittering Gold, and I have been delegated to convey to your Presence the welcoming formalities."

"Where am I?"

"This is called the Kingdom of Shining Moon," the interpreter said.

"On my behalf," Hosseini said, "go to the people and give them assurances that We are always thinking of them and We hope that, under the shadow of Our reign, the means for their comfort will be provided."

As the foreigner began to say, "Your Majesty, due to the intended goodness..." Hosseini interrupted, cutting him off with, "Tell them to go and tend to their work and you, too, quit talking so much. Do you hear? Have our dinner prepared!"

The blind merchant pointed toward the major domo. Then everyone bowed fawningly and departed through the door. The major domo came forward, bowed and pointed toward another room. Then he backed out. Hosseini stood up, yawned, smiled and said to himself, "What do these baldies think I am!? Am I their puppet? I'll teach them never to forget that they are the puppets and that I pull the strings."

Then he entered the other room along the length of which was spread a long cloth covered with an arrangement of many-colored foods. Hosseini danced with glee around this spread

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and ravenously stuffed himself with different foods as fast as he could, one on top of the other. He gobbled up a turkey, then drank down cups of churned milk and juice one after another. Then he retired to his bedchamber.

The next day Hosseini awoke around noon and held court. All the ministers, commanders, court clowns, noblemen, aristocrats, ambassadors and merchants lined up to greet him. They came forward in groups, bowed and then arranged themselves in a line along the wall. By movements of their hands and eyes and the expressions of their faces, they humbled themselves and professed servitude to him. If the Imperial Signature were needed for an important matter or urgent order, they embossed a memorandum on a pad they carried and thus brought the matter to Hosseini's attention. Since he was illiterate, Hosseini chose as his Minister of the Right Hand and Minister of the Left Hand two blind merchants from Glittering Gold so he could verbally give orders to them and let them, as ministers, worry about how to transmit them.

Thus the people heaped flattery upon Hosseini and went beyond all bounds to abase themselves before him. These flatterers, poets, learned people, clowns and those close to the throne fawned on him, extolling him as a shadow of God even God on earth, so that, little by little, Hosseini became fat and arrogant and forgot who he really was. He felt himself so infallible that no one dared to approach him even with the simplest fact--not even that there were eyebrows above his eyes. Soon he established a policy of unwarranted seizure and imprisonment enforced by his severe and brutal police force; the people began to feel fed up with the harassment. The inhabitants of the Kingdom of Shining Moon were forced to cultivate opium and distill strong liquor to be exchanged for gold from the Kingdom of Glittering Gold. Hosseini and his associates embezzled the money received from the trade while the people lived in poverty. Little by little, the disease of blindness spread from Glittering Gold to Shining Moon and deafness traveled from Shining Moon to Glittering Gold. Hosseini's ears became dulled and finally deaf. With his many companions of court clowns, flatterers and blind merchants, he was so occupied with feasting and drinking that the thought of his father and brothers completely vanished from his mind. He, too, forgot his father's request.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Let's leave Hosseini here and see what has happened to Ahmadak. Ahmadak, with his arms tied, lay unconscious in the cave. Toward morning, a weak light crept into the cave through the crack along the boulder blocking the entrance, and he suddenly realized that someone had seized his arms and was shaking him. Opening his eyes, he saw a gigantic dervish who, wearing a mustache from ear to ear, was standing over him.

"What are you doing here?" the dervish demanded.

Ahmadak recounted his adventures to him--how his father had sent his three sons in search of a living and how his two brothers had brought this calamity upon him. The dervish untied Ahmadak's arms and brought him food. Ahmadak ate and then said to him, "Thank you, but now I would like to go to my brothers and help them."

"The time for that has not come yet," the dervish replied, "because you will unnecessarily reveal yourself and thus be betrayed. If you believe what is in your heart, go to the Land of Eternal Spring. There you will find the Elixir of Life which will enable you to save others."

"Where is the road?"

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"I'll show you. The Elixir of Life is behind Mount Qaf."

The dervish then took a reed flute from the corner of the cave and gave it to Ahmadak, saying, "Let this be a keepsake from me!"

Ahmadak 'took the flute, put it in his inside breast pocket, and together they emerged from the cave. The dervish took Ahmadak to the source of the three roads and pointed to the third, which was very rocky and bumpy. Ahmadak bade him goodbye and set out.

He traveled and traveled, playing his flute as he walked. Birds and wild animals gathered around him. As noon approached, he arrived at the base of an old sycamore tree and said to himself, "I'll nap here and then set out again."

He fell asleep immediately. Soon a rustling sound awakened him and looking up, he saw a huge dragon climbing the tree toward some baby birds in a nest.

As the dragon drew near, the chicks began to cry and shriek and Ahmadak realized the monster was about to devour them. He jumped up, grabbed a rock and threw it at the dragon, striking the beast in the head. The dragon thundered to the ground fatally wounded. What Ahmadak did not know was that each year, when the Great Bird, Simorgh hatched its eggs and the time came for the chicks to fly from the nest, the dragon approached and stealthily devoured them. This year, too, he had appeared on schedule, but Ahmadak had intervened to rescue the infant birds.

Once the dragon lay dead, Ahmadak lay down and again fell asleep. Soon the Simorgh rose from the top of the mountain, bringing some food for her chicks to eat. Seeing Ahmadak dozing under the tree, she bethought herself, "That must be the very one who comes each year to devour my chicks; he must have come again this year for the same purpose. Now I can destroy him."

She flew back to the mountain, placed a large rock on her wing, and prepared to drop it on Ahmadak's head, but suddenly, understanding what their mother intended to do, the fledglings began to shout, flap their wings, and cry, "Stop, Mother! If this man had not been here and slain the dragon, it would have devoured us!"

The Simorgh heard their entreaty, flew off and dropped the rock far away. When she returned, she first gave food to her babies and then, opening her wings like an umbrella, she provided shade for Ahmadak so he might sleep in comfort. In the late afternoon when he awoke, the Simorgh said to him, "Young man, I am so very grateful. I will give you whatever you want from me. Tell me where you want to go."

"I want to go to the Land of Eternal Spring."

"It is very far away. Why do you want to go there?"

"To find the Elixir of Life so I can save my brothers."

"That is a very difficult task. But first pluck one of my feathers and always keep it with you! If a day and time should come when you need my help somehow, climb to a rooftop and immolate the feather. I will appear immediately and save you. Now come; sit on my wings."

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The Simorgh perched on the ground and Ahmadak plucked a feather from her wing, concealing it in his clothing. Then he mounted her back and sat astride her wings, and together they rose into the air. When the Simorgh finally alighted, the sun was setting behind the summit of Mount Qaf. On the plain before Ahmadak loomed a large city with magnificent gates. The Simorgh bid him farewell and flew away.

As far as the eye could see, there were gardens, green and growing fields, and energetic people sowing and reaping. When not working, they played musical instruments or otherwise entertained themselves. The animals were not afraid of people. Gazelles grazed in tranquillity, and rabbits ate from the hand. Birds sang in the fruit-laden trees, which spread, branches entwined, in every direction.

Ahmadak plucked several succulent fruits and ate them. Then he went to a spring that bubbled up from the ground and splashed a handful of water on his face. Suddenly his vision became so clear that he could see the wind three miles distant. Then he drank a handful of water, and his hearing became so sharp he could hear the sound of mosquitoes sneezing. Ahmadak became so intoxicated and filled with life that he took out his flute and began to play a tune. He saw a flock of sheep scattered and spread over the slope of the mountain. They gathered about him, and their shepherdess came toward him like a ray of sunshine instructing the moon, "'Don't shine, I have appeared!"

With scented hair and pearl-like teeth, she followed her sheep. Ahmadak fell in love with her at first glance, not with one heart, but with a hundred, and he asked her, "Where am I?"

"This is the Land of Eternal Spring," the girl replied.

"I have come in search of the Elixir of Life," Ahmadak said. "Where is its source?"

"Everything is the Elixir of Life," the girl laughingly responded. "This Water does not have a special source."

Ahmadak thought for a while and finally said, "I feel ... as if I'm changed. Everything here is like a dream world. I would never have believed what I now see with my eyes."

"But from where do you come?" the girl asked.

When Ahmadak had related his adventures from beginning to end and told her he had come to get the Elixir of Life for his father and brothers, the girl took pity on him, saying, "The Elixir of Life does not have a special source. Only in the Kingdoms of the Blind and the Deaf do they give that name to the water here. If your brothers do not have the feeling of freedom, don't waste your time, because the Elixir of Life will be of no use to them."

"I think I may have made a mistake," Ahmadak replied. "I don't understand much of what you say. Everything here seems like a dream, and I'm really tired and worn out. I think I had better head for the city."

"You are a young man of good heart," observed the girl. "If you like, you may stay at our home and make it your own."

So she took Ahmadak home and introduced him to her mother.

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" You are most welcome," the mother said. "Please be our guest and relax."

Ahmadak spent several days walking about the city. Day by day his love for the shepherdess grew. Soon, however, he grew tired of idleness and went to the girl's mother and said, "I want to find some work."

"What can you do?"

"Nothing special, but I have two arms. What work would you suggest?"

"Well, you choose the work according to your own ability."

Ahmadak thought, then said, "In my father's town I was an apprentice in a spice and perfume shop, and I am familiar with medicines."

"The pharmacy at the corner of our street is looking for an apprentice," the mother said. "If you like, go work there."

"Of course," Ahmadak replied. "What could be better?"

"Since you obviously are not lazy and are willing to work hard," the girl's mother continued, "you may live here with us if you like."

By day Ahmadak worked at the pharmacy, and in the evening he returned to the home of the shepherdess. Little by little he learned to read and write. He took care of the pharmacy customers and his life and affairs prospered. He even learned metal work and carpentry, because his father had advised him to learn a skilled trade. Then he gave a big banquet, and he and the shepherdess were married. Ahmadak lived a free and happy life with his wife and the friends he had made. His only sorrow was that he did not know what had happened to his father and brothers.

He waited anxiously for travelers to come to the Land of Eternal Spring and asked each one for news about his father and brothers. But none had any word until one day, after becoming friendly with one of the blind pharmacy customers from the Kingdom of Glittering Gold, he questioned him. "Bite your tongue. Don't blaspheme!" the blind man replied. "The one you are looking for is not 'Hassani the Hunchback'; he is our prophet. He came to our Kingdom of Glittering Gold a year ago and saved all of us who had lost our way and were suffering from blindness. It was a miracle! He comforted us, promised us paradise, and brought us out of our shame. Now we all wash gold for him with all our hearts and souls. He preaches to us and guides us. I have not come for a cure to my blindness but only to get a pair of artificial eyes. I don't trust this Elixir of Life here so I brought enough of our own water with me from the Kingdom of Glittering Gold," he said, pointing to a small sack hanging from his waist.

Ahmadak suddenly understood, realizing that the words of the dervish had been true. He didn't talk about it any more with the blind merchant, but he made inquiries of other people and learned that Hosseini was also robbing, plundering and killing the people in the Kingdom of Shining Moon where the lust for gold and material things had made all those unfortunate people deaf, speechless and captive. He felt sorry for his brothers and said to himself, "I must go and save them."

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When the pharmacist came in, Ahmadak said to him, "Sir, I have worked for you for over a year, and since my arrival in this Land, I have come to understand the meaning of life and freedom. I was illiterate, but now I can read and write. I had no skills, but now I have learned several. I was blind and deaf, but now I can see and hear. Here I have learned the joy of breathing in an atmosphere of freedom and of working with pleasure. But I must fulfill a promise to my father. Therefore, I ask your permission to leave."

"I'm sorry you must, leave me!" the pharmacist replied. "But because you are a clever young man, and you've been such a good worker, I'd like to give you something. What would you like?"

"I'd like to have medicine to cure blindness and deafness," Ahmadak replied.

"Nothing could be easier," the pharmacist said. "Don't you know the water here is referred to as the Elixir of Life in the Kingdoms of Glittering Gold and Shining Moon, and this water is the cure for their blindness and deafness? Take a bottle of this water with you; with it you will cure all of them. But this work you wish to do is very dangerous, since the blind and deaf people are enemies of the Land of Eternal Spring and would like to kill us all because we do not worship gold and silver and we live freely. Were it not for the deafness and blindness of the people, Hosseini and Hassani could not maintain their power."

"That's hard to understand," Ahmadak mused. "I must go and save them."

"You are an intelligent young man. Perhaps you can. I won't stand in your way."

The pharmacist kissed Ahmadak, and they bade each other farewell. Then Ahmadak kissed his wife and child and set out for the Kingdom of Glittering Gold. He journeyed long until he reached the frontier of the Kingdom of Glittering Gold. Several blind guards, wearing suits of armor and helmets and carrying bows and arrows, were seated in a circle smoking opium. From the distance they shouted, "Who are you, stranger, and what have you come for?"

"I am a slave of God, and a gold merchant," Ahmadak yelled back, "and I have come to be converted to your new religion."

"Bravo!" cried one of the guards. "You're a good man. Welcome to the Kingdom of Glittering Gold."

When Ahmadak arrived at the first city of the Kingdom, he was shocked to discover that all the people were blind, dirty, ill and poor. They sat beside a deep trench by the river, tied with golden chains to their houses. These miserable huts were more like the burrows of animals. With callused hands and mud-stained arms they washed gold from morning until evening under the lash of the royal guards. The land lay uncultivated and neglected, the birds had flown away and the trees had withered. The people's only pleasure was in smoking opium and drinking. Ahmadak pitied them.

He took out his flute and played a tune he had learned in the Land of Eternal Spring. Soon a crowd had gathered around him. They offered him sacks filled with gold dust, and they bowed and prostrated themselves before him.

"I have no need of your gold." Ahmadak said. "Let me give you back your sight. I have come from the Land of Eternal Spring, and I have brought the Elixir of Life."

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A clamor arose among them. Finally one group said they were ready to be cured. Ahmadak applied some of the elixir from his bottle to their eyes and immediately they could see. As their vision cleared and they saw the squalor of their existence for the first time, they turned in vengeance on the rich and powerful who had so cruelly enslaved them. They rent their chains, demonstrated in the streets and burned the speeches of Hassani published in the embossed type. Soon news of the rebellion arrived at the capital, where Hassani and the king received it with alarm--what had gone wrong? Then Hassani remembered the words of the demon in the well, "Abstain from the Elixir of Life."

Immediately Hassani and the king ordered the arrest of all who could see and especially that infidel who had come from the Land of Eternal Spring to lead the people astray. They also ordered that, as an example to the others, he should be dragged through the city and slowly burned alive. The town crier proclaimed in the streets and marketplace that any good and responsible citizen who captured Ahmadak and handed him over to the police would receive five gold mohurs.

It happened that the person who caught him was a deaf slave merchant from the Country of Shining Moon. When he saw that Ahmadak was a robust young man, he felt compassion for him, but his greed prevailed when he realized it would be possible to get much more than five gold mohurs for him. Thus he kept Ahmadak hidden and the next day took him to be sold at the slave market. By chance, another deaf merchant from Shining Moon admired Ahmadak and bought him for twenty gold mohurs. The following day that merchant took his prize and set out with his caravan for the Country of the Shining Moon.

On the way, Ahmadak saw that the caravan was carrying gold dust to Shining Moon and he learned that it also carried liquor flasks, opium pipes and golden chains from Shining Moon to Glittering Gold.

When they entered the Kingdom of Shining Moon and reached the first city, Ahmadak saw that here too the inhabitants were poor, miserable, tormented and trapped in their deafness. The city was isolated and dull and everyone was exploited by deaf, blind, stupid and rich landlords. Everywhere the fields were sown with poppies, and night and day smoke poured from the chimneys of the distilleries. There were no books, no newspapers, no musical instruments an there was no freedom. All the birds had flown away. He saw a group of deaf and speechless people toiling silently and unhappily under the lash of their foremen. Ahmadak's heart was heavy. He took out his flute and began to play a doleful tune. They looked at him with perplexity, but only a thin and dying camel came to listen.

Ahmadak felt sorry for these people, so he gave some of them the Elixir of Life to drink. Immediately their hearing was restored; they could talk and they began to understand. They poured the cargoes of gold into the river and, later that evening, they set fire to several distilleries and trampled the poppy-sown fields.

When the news of the uprising reached the capital, Hosseini the Bald was enraged and ordered that Ahmadak be arrested. Police and guards scoured the city and soon seized Ahmadak and threw him, chained, into jail. They decided to burn him slowly to death while dragging him through the streets and marketplace as an example to the people.

Ahmadak sat sadly in the corner of the dark dungeon, bewildered by his plight. Suddenly his cell door opened, and a prison guard carrying a bright lamp brought him food.

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"Good man," Ahmadak said to him, "I know they are going to execute me tonight. Will you at least let me go up on the roof to say my prayers and repent?"

The deaf jailer paid no attention, but finally Ahmadak made him understand and the jailer took him to the rooftop. There Ahmadak brought forth the Simorgh's feather from his clothing and with the guard's lamp set fire to it. Suddenly the heavens thundered, the earth trembled, and from a cloud of smoke a huge bird appeared, snatched Ahmadak up onto her wings and, in a flash, was gone towards Mount Qaf.

The people of the Kingdom of Shining Moon were amazed. Runners in relays carried the news to the capital. When Hosseini heard it, he became so angry his blood froze. He realized this insurrection had come from the Land of Eternal Spring which was also trying to abolish the gold trade and sabotage his neighbors. And worst of all, Eternal Spring wanted the eyes and ears of the people reopened. Hosseini remembered the words of the three crows--he must abstain from the Elixir of Life if he wanted to rule. Now the Elixir of Life had been brought as a souvenir to his subjects.

Thus enraged, he declared war on the Land of Eternal Spring and secretly allied himself with the Kingdom of Glittering Gold. His factories were converted to production centers for the manufacture of gold spears, clubs, daggers, swords and bows and arrows. The army went on maneuvers.

Hassani the Hunchback in the Kingdom of Glittering Gold also made inflammatory speeches against the Land of Eternal Spring, arousing the people to fight. Finally he made a declaration of Holy War. On the same day, Hosseini the Bald appeared in a red uniform and issued a declaration stating, "We have always been desirous of the peace and well-being of the people. But for a long time now the Land of Eternal Spring has been interfering with and sabotaging our affairs and alienating our people. Last year they sent a measure of the Elixir of Life from their borders to our country. The year before last a cloud from the summit of Mount Qaf floated over and rained the Elixir of Life on a group of people here. Their eyes and ears were opened, they grew insolent and they had to be punished. It is we who should be interfering in their affairs, but instead they interfere in ours--the mouse is not nibbling on a sack of grain; instead the sack of grain is nibbling on the mouse! Absurd! This year Eternal Spring sent Ahmadak to us. They are clearly the aggressor. The Land of Eternal Spring and its people have always been the enemies of money. On the surface they appear to be our bosom friends, but secretly they plot to open the eyes and ears of our subjects, disturbing the peace and tranquillity of the world. We, together with the Kingdom of Glittering Gold, our neighbor and old friend, must uproot the intriguers and troublemakers, destroy the seed of this insurrection and annihilate the enemies of gold.

Long live blindness and deafness which open the way to paradise and eternal life for the people and ease the path to luxury and pleasure for us! We must destroy the enemy of gold."

Hosseini affixed the seal of his fingerprint to the bottom of the declaration.

Following Hosseini's order and Hassani's declaration of Holy War, the combined Kingdoms of Glittering Gold and Shining Moon attacked the Land of Eternal Spring by night. The blind and deaf armies invaded on all sides.

To prevent their soldiers from drinking or washing in the Elixir of Life, the warring kingdoms

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erected storage tanks in conquered cities, filling them with the worst fetid water for their soldiers to drink. Each soldier carried a leather flask of this putrid water with him at all times. This flask protected him, for if he lost it he was convicted of drinking the Elixir of Life and executed on the spot.

The Land of Eternal Spring had no warning of what was happening. Only the day before the neighboring ambassadors had encouraged friendship with them. They hastily assembled and equipped an army and sent it forth to meet the blind and deaf invaders as they swarmed like ants and locusts into the cities of Eternal Spring. The invaders killed, pillaged and plundered, reducing the cities to rubble. They forced opium, liquor and gold on the people and took them as slaves back to their own cities.

Ahmadak armed himself with bow and arrows and went to war. From where he lay in ambush, he could see that the commanders of the blind and deaf were sitting in pairs side by side so that the deaf could see for the blind and the blind could hear for the-deaf. Ahmadak took careful aim and pierced their water flasks with his arrows. Then by night, with several of his companions, eluding the blind and deaf guards who watched from the tower and the ramparts, he stealthily destroyed the water storage tanks, draining the armies' water supply.

The war dragged on, producing such a carnage that blood flowed and carried off the corpses. But the weapons of Glittering Gold and Shining Moon could not withstand the morally superior steel weapons of Eternal Spring and finally their armies scattered. Since their water tanks were destroyed, the invading armies had to drink Eternal Spring's Elixir of Life and their eyes and ears were opened. Now they realized what miserable lives they had been leading, mere instruments of a handful of stupid, deaf and blind moneylovers, deprived of even a whiff of life and freedom. They tore off their chains, killed their leaders and pledged unity with the inhabitants of Eternal Spring.

Then they returned to their own cities where they took revenge on Hassani the Hunchback and Hosseini the Bald and their mobsters who kept them enslaved to gold.

Ahmadak, with his wife and child, went to his father's house, where he applied the Elixir of Life to his father's eyes which had been blinded. The eyes cleared and Ahmadak, his father, his wife and his child lived happily ever after.

As they attained their wishes, may you too attain yours!

Our tale has come to an end, but the crow has not reached its home...

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The Patriot by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1995, 1999

For seventy-four years now Seyyed Nasrolla Vali had had a monotonous life; four times a day he had walked to and from work down the alley called the Wazir's Bath. Now, for the first time, he had an opportunity to travel abroad, to India.

So far he had not traveled within the country; he had not even seen Kashan, the birthplace of his ancestors. The only traveling he had ever done had been a three-day trip to Damavand. That trip had proved exhausting and had made him quite uncomfortable. Besides, when he got home he found that his house had been burglarized. And this had made him apprehensive of traveling.

Since Seyyed Nasrolla's life had been dedicated to the acquisition of the arts and sciences as well as to spiritual enhancement, he had married late--at the age of seventy-two. Within the short span of two years, however, he had added two "little philosophers" to the human race. Seyyed Nasrolla, although he had not documented his erudition in any concrete way, was an exemplary master of Persian, Arabic and French literatures as well as of Eastern and Western philosophy, mysticism, and ancient and modern sciences. He was a breed apart, especially from those scholars and men of letters who had gained prominence by writing lengthy articles in their own defense, or by capitalizing on their lucrative political status, their trips abroad, their unrevealing interpretative notes in the margins of worm-eaten manuscripts, or by plagiarism or flattery or all the above.

How could Seyyed Nasrolla condescend to pen a book when he pronounced Arabic words so well that his eloquence and learning could not escape the audience. Even though he spoke softly, enunciating each word, there was no philologist on the face of the earth who could find fault with his logic, rhetoric or syntax. Indeed, Seyyed Nasrolla was an advocate of the saying which goes "If speech is golden, silence is a jewel." When having to say something for the benefit of others, one should examine his thoughts at least seven times before uttering the first word!

And this had made the Seyyed famous. So much so that one day His Eminence, Hakim Bashipur, the Minister of Education, summoned the Seyyed to his room to discuss some urgent and important affair. After interminable greetings, exchanges of pleasantries, and praise of the Seyyed, and after countless promises of future promotions and the like, he said, "It would be a pity if we did not attempt to bring to the attention of the Indian people the miraculous strides that our ancient land has made in the field of education, strides that indeed have claimed the attention of the world at large. India, after all, is the cradle of the Aryan race and is populated by millions of Moslems whose language is Farsi. They must be apprised of our dazzling educational system, especially of our newly invented lexicon."

Then, in order to argue with concrete proof, he handed the Seyyed a booklet filled with

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words newly coined by the Language Academy. The booklet was signed by His Majesty and sanctioned by the finest savants of the age. He also gave the Seyyed a generous supply of his own photographs--photos taken in various positions: profile, frontal, sitting, standing, serious, etc.--and carefully instructed him to distribute them among the Indian journalists so that they could reproduce them in the pages of their newspapers and journals.

Hakim Bashipur's kind words affected the Seyyed greatly. Nevertheless, shaking his red, bald head, smiling knowingly and citing old age, innumerable factitious health problems, and the separation from his family on the one hand and the distance to India and sea voyage on the other, he rejected the offer. He then advised that this mission must be delegated to another important propagandist. Mr. Hakim Bashipur, however, insisted that the mission at hand, being strictly confidential, could not be doled out to just anyone and that the Seyyed embodied the age, the fame and the erudition that this high office required. And so, after hearing the minister out, willy-nilly, Seyyed Nasrolla acquiesced to the will of the higher authorities and agreed to undertake the mission gladly.

Leaving Hakim Bashipur's office, Seyyed Nasrolla recalled the difficulties and the discomfort of his short trip to Damavand. Then he visualized the distance between Tehran and India. The comparison brought a vague but so terrible anxiety into his heart that he felt giddy and began to shake. When he reached his desk, he rang the bell and asked for a glass of water. Then, his anxiety subsided, he began to think. He placed separation from his family, confusion caused by temporary dislocation and pounds of weight that he would lose on the one side of his imaginary scales. On the other side he placed capital gain, fame, invitations to parties and tours he could take on government funds. None of these, however, could calm him. Because, more than to anything else, he was dedicated to his own well-being and the pursuit of a carefree life. It did not seem wise to jeopardize his current situation for some hoped-for gain. As a result of these thoughts, he developed a nasty hatred for Hakim Bashipur. But hatred was useless. The mission had been imposed on him as an official duty. He could not renege on it. Besides, he could not give up the cash involved--Seyyed Nasrolla, who was something of a miser, would receive double salary, travel and lodging expenses as well as compensation for performance of duty in an unsuitable climate. There was an additional incentive to all this: perhaps, like the medieval physician Borzuye, he could uncover a book like the Kalile va Demne and bring that back with him from India. That, he thought, would immortalize him. Then he heard himself murmuring:

The Persian candy that is being carried to Bengal, Will sweeten the songs of Indian parrots.

Time went by, but these thoughts remained. Soon the news of his upcoming travel was made public. And groups of his friends came to congratulate him and wish him bon voyage. In response to all this, Seyyed Nasrolla acted as though he were being victimized. Shaking his head, in a serious tone he would say, "What am I to do? We have to serve our Motherland!"

Eventually, after a month of consulting with the astrologer and with the Unseen, at an auspicious hour Seyyed Nasrolla ceremoniously passed under the Qur'an and the mirror. And then, amidst a commotion of reporters who took countless pictures of him, he set off. Before leaving, however, he handed his wife his will and testament.

He did not enjoy the trip between Tehran and Ahwaz at all. So he seized an opportunity to

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inspect the education office in Ahwaz and briefly to test some of the pupils. And, in spite of the fact that Arabic was their mother tongue, he severely criticized their pronunciation. Then there came the directors of the various governmental offices in Ahwaz, each trying to outdo the other in extending invitations to the Seyyed. He, being fatigued, accepted none. He knew that all these pleasantries were artificial and ordered from the top. Besides, he was tired of delivering standard good-will lectures and of hearing standard flattery in response--all these made him feel sad and melancholy. Deep down in his heart he wished nothing would disrupt his calm and monotonous life. Moreover, he had decided to pen a lengthy article in praise of Hakim Bashipur and to suffuse it with real Arabic words, scientific notes, and philosophical as well as theological points. But he had not had a chance yet. And now the anxiety and the worry arising from the voyage interfered with his decision. Every time that the car passed a dangerous ravine, he would feel death upon him--he would recite appropriate verses from the holy Qur'an and wipe the sweat from his brow with a folded handkerchief produced from his pocket.

He was well received in Khorramshahr; the ticket for his voyage and everything he needed were waiting for him. He stayed the night at the education director's house. He had some nasty dreams. In the morning the education director accompanied him to the river. Although he had come under the pretense of seeing the river, the Seyyed had really come secretly to study the sea. With a special curiosity he surveyed the palm trees flanking the river, the small boats and several large boats anchored in the distant sea. So far he had seen the sea only on maps and palm trees in geography books. Now he was seeing these in person! Quickly he recalled the praises of travel cited in ancient lore. The world appeared large and mysterious. He murmured to himself, "Much travel is required for a greenhorn to become a master!" Then he felt a kind of philosophical conceit. But, as soon as he recalled that he had to board the ship that evening, his heart began to pound and he felt tired.

Until late afternoon, when the ship was scheduled to leave, Seyyed Nasrolla spent his time at parties. But, like those who are scheduled to go to surgery, he felt anxious. He continued his queries about sea voyages until, at sunset, like a cry of disappointment, the ship's whistle was heard. Seyyed Nasrolla's heart sank. The stewards quickly took Seyyed Nasrolla's luggage from customs and placed it in a small boat. Then they had him sit among them in another small boat and headed for the ship. On his lap close to his body, Seyyed Nasrolla had placed the briefcase into which he had put the notebook and Hakim Bashipur's photos. The small boat rocked, the waves on the sea shone under the silvery moonlight and the dark green trees stood motionless on the sides of the river. Seyyed Nasrolla viewed all this with disdain and felt like a camel selected for sacrifice --decorated with the best ornaments available. He felt that all these ceremonies were undertaken to deceive him. The small boat rocked from the attacking waves. Feeling completely vulnerable but masking his dread, Seyyed Nasrolla decided to speak to the boatman in eloquent Arabic. But the boatman did not understand the eloquent speech and responded in an Arabic that tortured the Seyyed's very ears. Seyyed Nasrolla then deduced that he would not be able to find even one Arab to understand him!

In the distance, the ship's lights shone brightly. The one bound for India was the most beautiful and the brightest. The sea breeze bore the salty smell of decomposing fish, moss and those decrepit odors not yet dispersed by the storms. The first boat to leave for the ship was the ship's doctor's. There followed other motorboats carrying the ship's cargo. The commotion, the shouts and cries of the Arab porters and the noise of the engine made the Seyyed absolutely uneasy. Finally, when the crowd was cleared, like a pregnant woman, they lifted the Seyyed by the arms and helped him; trembling with fear he went up

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the ladder. When he set foot on the ship, a philosophical smile crossed his pale lips. His friends placed his belongings in his cabin, bowed, said goodbye and left.

Seyyed Nasrolla felt giddy. He sat on the narrow bed of the second-class cabin and put the briefcase containing the lexicon and the photos at his side. Of course the government had arranged for him to travel first class, but the Seyyed, parsimonious as ever, had preferred second class. Could he have traveled third class without censure, he would have done so. The voices of the passengers and the noise of the crane came in through the window. He got up and looked out of the window: shore lights twinkled in the distance. Along the ship's corridors, Arab porters were going back and forth in groups. This scene only quickened Seyyed Nasrolla's heartfelt remorse. Several times he decided, before the ship set sail, to pretend that he was sick and to disembark. He even thought of resigning. But he felt that by now he had gone too far. Deep in his heart he said goodbye to his wife and children and the quiet life he had led beyond those lights on the shore. Then he bit his lip, turned and viewed his new room. It was a small white-washed room of steel and wood.

The room had three beds, two of them forming a double bed. There was also a sink, a wardrobe and a small table. It appeared to be a clean, sturdy and fail-safe room. But then some stories from his reading--about the creatures of the sea, Sindbad the sailor and mythical tales of India--whelmed up in his mind. At the same time a tall, black, Indian orderly in an immaculate white uniform entered and said something in English, something that the Seyyed did not grasp. Feeling ignorant, he blushed. He realized that the limit of his knowledge had been the four walls of his house; there were other languages, peoples and lives in the world to which he had been oblivious. Then, without any cause, he directed his hatred towards the Indian orderly, as if that person there had been instrumental in his undertaking this journey. The orderly brought sheets and blankets and fixed them on the beds.

Eventually the outside noise subsided. Tired, Seyyed Nasrolla lay down on the bed. The bed was narrow and uncomfortable. The orderly knocked on the door again, entered and with hand gestures communicated to him that dinner was being served. Then he led the way, climbed a flight of stairs and ushered Seyyed Nasrolla into the ship's restaurant. At the Seyyed's table were two passengers speaking in Persian. Seyyed Nasrolla inspected and tasted every food item to make sure that it met his standards and that it was not cooked with Indian spices. He believed, along with the ancients, in the hot and cold aspects of foods. He had brought some cold spices with him to restore the balance in his body were he to need such treatment.

One of the Iranians at the table gave his order in English and called the Indian waiter "chakra." Seyyed Nasrolla was sure that he had found one who could speak English to him; thus, using "chakra" as a means to break the ice, he joined the conversation saying, "The Hindi language is a child of the Persian. In their consecutive invasions under Darius the Great, Alexander, Sultan Mahmud and Nader Shah, the Iranian armies took Persian into India. Your word 'chakra' is, in my opinion, the same as the word 'chaker' in Persian. Furthermore, 'chatni,' the Indian spice, is also taken from the Persian word 'chashni.' In general, in the same way that all races of man stem from Shem, Ham and Japheth (or is it Salm, Tur and Iraj?), all world languages draw on Persian, Arabic and Turkish. For instance, take the word samovar. Everyone thinks of it as a Russian borrowing. Well, I have discovered that it is a compound of three words: the Persian se (three), the Arabic ma' (water), and the Turkish ver (bring). The word, therefore, means 'bring three waters'. Languages abound in such words!" And thus the Iranian passengers were left in awe of Seyyed Nasrolla's knowledge of history and philology. In the course of the conversation,

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Seyyed Nasrolla learned that the youth who knew English had been in India before and that now he was traveling to Bushehr for official business.

After his coffee, Seyyed Nasrolla returned to his room. He was tired. He looked into the mirror; his face was pale. Reciting a verse from the Qur'an, he lay down on the bed and went to sleep. At dawn, partly because of the soft movement of the ship and partly because of the noise of the motor, he woke up. He opened his eyes in astonishment as if he had not expected to wake up in a ship. His head ached. After breakfast a roster of instructions in red attracted his attention. He approached the wall and read:

B.I.S.N. Co. Ltd. Emergency Instructions for Passengers

There followed a long description in English and three pictures of a man. One showed how to fit the floating device to the chest; the others showed how to tie the straps.

Looking at this sheet, Seyyed Nasrolla confirmed his view that English was indeed renegade French, misspelled and mispronounced. He thought to himself that the English word emergency must stem from the French word "emerger." Thus he translated the heading of the instruction sheet as follows: "Instructions for Retrieving Passengers." Just then he looked up at the ceiling. Two compartments caught his eye. One held two flotation devices and the other one. Seyyed was overtaken with fear. These very devices were proof enough that one could not depend on Western technology. This ship, in spite of its apparent majesty, might sink. He searched for a dictionary. He could not find one. He tried to read the instructions in English; he did not get much for his effort. He could only guess the meaning of some of the forms. One thing, however, was clear to him. The sheet discussed the manner of saving one who is already in the water and is drowning.

Quickly he put on his clothes and went onto the deck. Two Indian natives were sleeping by the smoke stack and an Indian orderly in a greenish uniform was running to some destination. And as far as the Seyyed could see, water was rolling on water. A vague trace of the shoreline was barely visible in the distance. He surveyed the side of the ship. The word "Valro" appeared on the white straps attached to the top railings. Since he had seen the same word on the ship's menu as well, he concluded that the ship's name must be Valro. An Indian lady, clad in a sari and adorned with golden rings in her ear and nose, passed by.

A thousand unpleasant memories revived themselves in his mind. Hadn't he read two years ago in the newspaper that a gigantic ship had sunk in the Atlantic? Hadn't he seen, not long ago, the picture of a French ship burning on the Red Sea? The odds could be two billion to one that something like that could happen to this ship. But why should he have taken that chance and jeopardized his life? He thought and thought.

Then he recalled Hakim Bashi whose neck got thicker by the day and who helped no one but himself. Yet he was an illiterate charlatan. Weren't the letters that left his desk full of morphological and syntactic errors? Besides, he was known to be a Jew who, for the sake of securing a diploma at "The American School," had converted to Christianity. Recently he had been chummy with the mullahs. He would borrow an error-ridden translation of Carlyle from his Jewish son-in-law and lecture on it. On the one hand he would uncover anti-Islamic tracts and on the other would get in line with the Westernized infidels. He would have the newspapers print his name along with those of Plato, Socrates, Avicenna, Ferdowsi, Sa'di, Hafez, and the others! Why should I have jeopardized my life for the sake

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of a base individual like Hakim Bashipur who would soon be bragging and say, "My picture has appeared in the Indian press." Why did I allow myself, thought Seyyed Nasrolla, to be manipulated by a selfish fool? Who, with my substance and status, would take a bunch of ridiculous and meaningless words--words which are neither Persian nor Arabic--to India as a sign of progress? What if I encountered a couple of scholars who were really in the know! What would their reaction be? Why, instead of one of his young and up-coming disciples who scratch each other's back and who, under the pretense of education, roam Europe so that they can become his future propagandists, why did he commission me? Each one of these students in Europe receives at least two or three thousand tumans to write a book like "St. George and His Teachings to the World," then to be published by the government. Why couldn't I, Seyyed Nasrolla thought, stay home with my wife and children and write works like that or worse yet, publish erroneous translations of French texts under my name? Why should I become the vagabond adventurer and have to undergo perils to promote a bunch of Hakim Bashipur's propagandists? Why should I make a spectacle of myself? Couldn't they send a more viable educational project? Then, suddenly, Seyyed Nasrolla realized that he was allowing his feelings to rule his mind. During his life's experience he had learned that the hype and the propaganda promoted by a bunch of nouveaux riches who mock people and rake in the money have been the only way to make bread and butter. Besides, didn't they force him to deliver lectures on the "Dazzling Age?" And he had accepted partly to show himself and his eloquence and partly to tell the others who is boss. And what a subject I chose, Seyyed Nasrolla thought! Comparing the Motherland to a dying woman saved by Reza Khan who appears at her deathbed carrying a suppository and a cupper's bowl! This recollection, in spite of his depression, brought a smile to his lips. Others could never deliver such weighty words and pleasant phrases. He had dealt with all these scholars and knew them fairly well. He knew the Westernized and the modern ones as well as the old ones--they were all the same; only their titles differed. Before this they used to go to Najaf and become Hojat al-Islams; now they went to Europe and returned with a doctorate. Their main business was deceiving the masses; their main concern was their belly and lower. Everyone thought of three-storied houses, cars and official residences abroad. Seyyed Nasrolla had not been abroad himself, but he had mingled with the majority of medical doctors and scholars who visited Iran. For instance, while an Iranian doctor's wish was to become a director, an advocate and a minister, the late Dr. Tuluza had spent every minute of his time studying. Why was he himself less successful than the others? Because he was given to learning. He recalled how his audiences swallowed his every word and how often after lectures they congratulated him on his performance. His Majesty himself had shown favor towards him! But the next time they had forced him to deliver a lecture, he had refused! Was he being sent on this perilous journey because of that? He shook his head and murmured, "Those who seek peacocks must suffer the perils of India." When Seyyed Nasrolla left the restaurant after lunch, he bumped into the Iranian man who knew English. He acknowledged the man and complained about the weather. Then, without any prior discussion, he asked, "Are you traveling alone?"

"Yes."

"If you like Isfahani gaz, please come with me to my cabin."

He led the man to his room. With great difficulty he produced a box of gaz from the suitcase, placed it before him and began to speak softly, "No matter how much of his life a man dedicates to learning the sciences and the arts, it will never be sufficient. Isn't it a pity that we cannot freely spend all our time on learning? The smallest change of inspection is sufficient to uncover new unknowns. Were we to scrutinize the most minute of things, my

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assertions would be confirmed. For instance, if we put a dry leaf under the microscope lens, we would discover a new world with its own system and rules. A grain of dust might set off great philosophical discussions, much thought and searching the soul! As the mystics have said, 'If you could open the atom, you would observe a sun within it.'

Today's speculative science has proved that what the ancients considered a continuum is a universe unto itself. And if we look at the sky and observe the unchangeable rotation of the heavenly bodies, we become so perplexed that we cannot but admit, 'I have learned enough to know that I know nothing.'

We are surrounded by mysteries and unknown things. I agree with Hermes Terismazhist who says, 'Whatever obtains here below, obtains up there as well.' However, the reason for this lengthy discussion is this: the mystery of the many--too many--tribes, clans and languages in the world is too deep for us to fathom in our short lifetime. My regret, however, is that during my youth I did not learn the English language. Now I have difficulty sorting out words and phrases. The reason could be that Anglo-Saxon roots are not the same as Latin roots or that I am not familiar with English words and phrases. Take that instruction sheet on the wall. I could deduce the title. Apparently, it instructs us how to retrieve drowning passengers."

The newcomer, who had a piece of gaz in his mouth, listened perplexedly to the Seyyed's weighty philosophical assertions and without understanding them agreed, "Of course, certainly. It is as you say."

"Is there a real danger of sinking?"

"No air, never. Simply a precaution. It shows how prudent the Europeans are. Of course, one cannot deny the possibility of accidents."

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. We are talking about accidents as possible, not absolutely avoidable."

"of course."

"But have they found any means for avoiding accidents?"

"But of course."

"Can I impose on you, briefly of course, to translate this instruction sheet for me?"

"Gladly. "

The man who knew English got up, read the instruction sheet and translated for Seyyed Nasrolla its directions for using the life jackets. The sheet emphasized that passengers should test their flotation devices to acquaint themselves with the jackets.

Seyyed Nasrolla listened very carefully. Then he wiped the perspiration off his forehead and said, "What if the ship is on fire or sinks for some other reason? Such a thing is possible, isn't it? Only last year, for instance, a French ship caught fire on the Red Sea. And I recall reading in a Latin newspaper that a gigantic ship sank in the Atlantic while its passengers were dancing and playing music right up to the time that death overtook them."

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"In a Latin newspaper, did you say?"

"Yes. Of course, I refer to French as Latin. I am sorry to bore you, but I am a born learner. I like to use every opportunity for enhancing my knowledge. What if, when the ship is sinking, someone has not mastered the art of swimming?"

"As you said, there are large boats on either side of the ship. Those boats are put into the water. They put the passengers--children first, ladies next and men last--into those boats and wait for a rescue ship."

"But aren't there dangerous fish in the water? They might inflict harm!"

"Yes, of course. Accidents may happen. It's a possibility. For instance, it is possible that the telegraphic apparatus of the potential rescue ship catches on fire when the ship is away from the shore. In that case, even if they put all the passengers into the life boats, they may die of starvation and thirst before a rescue ship arrives. Many accidents are possible in life--none is imminent though."

Seyyed Nasrolla shook his head thoughtfully and murmured, "Accidents are possible but not imminent."

Then he asked, "Did I hear you say there are large boats on the side of the ship?"

"Yes, haven't you seen them? Come on, I'll show them to you.

"Thank you. One last question. Does this ship anchor in other ports?"

"This is an express. It stops only at Bushehr, Karachi and Bombay. It will anchor for a couple of hours in Bushehr."

Seyyed Nasrolla, deep in thought, said, "Thank you so much for taking the trouble..."

Then he fell silent. A special hush descended on the cabin. The man who knew English said goodbye and left.

Seyyed Nasrolla produced a handkerchief and wiped his burning brow. Then he got up and cautiously went to the ship's deck. He looked carefully. Two large, black boats which he had not noticed before were hanging on the sides of the ship. The word "Oxford" appeared on the boats. Seyyed Nasrolla read the name on the straps of the flotation device once more and repeated the word "Valro" several times as if he were familiar with that name. He thought to himself that Valro must be one of the gods of Assyria or Greece. Then the sea attracted his attention. The waves roared, attacked the ship and receded only to attack again. He gazed at the greenish, almost black color of the water. The sea looked like a living liquid or a living, slippery entity which twisted and turned in pain and which was ready to swallow hundreds of these ships without even considering the learning and the knowledge of those on board! He felt that he hated the blind forces of nature. Besides, under the sea there were creatures waiting for something to happen. Hadn't he heard in Khorramshahr about children and women who had approached the water to wash clothes? Sharks are known to have dragged them into the water and cut them in half. He felt the ship's soft tremor under his feet. Then he heard the metallic roar of the engine. As far as the eye could see there was water attacking and reattacking the ship. The ship cut

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into the water and left in its wake a stream of foam resembling the pus in an open wound. Two small birds flew behind the ship, their nesting places unknown. All this appeared strange, singular and incredible to the Seyyed. Then he thought of those who lived under the deck. What kind of human beings were they? Strangely enough, none of the other passengers was worried or, if worried, knew quite well how to mask it. But the fact that others were not worried was not sufficiently soothing for Seyyed Nasrolla--he was a breed apart from the others; he was the pride of mankind!

Seyyed Nasrolla was of the opinion that the ascription of cowardice to the Kashanis was an injustice. Hadn't Herodotus written that the ancient Iranians dreaded the water and the sea? Besides, wasn't Hafez from Shiraz and was he not afraid of the sea? He recalled reading in a book that the Indian sultan Akbar had invited the poet Hafez to India. Hafez, balking at the ship and the sea, gave up the trip saying:

Dark night, fear of waves, awesome whirlpools, What would know of us, shore-bound, carefree fools?

The Indian woman with golden rings in her ear and nostril passed him without noticing him. All the ship's passengers appeared dreadful, conniving and mysterious to the Seyyed, as if they were all part of a conspiracy to take him by surprise, torture and kill him! He felt giddy. He was tired of thinking. He took refuge in his cabin. He took off his clothes and lay down on the bed. A thousand thoughts milled around in his head. He could feel the monotonous tremor of the ship better now, as if his senses had become keener. He felt that the tremor was resonating with his heartbeat. Gradually, his eyelids closed and he went to sleep.

He dreamed that a group of Arabs wearing life belts were standing on the deck. They were putting on the flotation devices and shouting, "Valro!..." Another group already wearing their devices replied from the water, "Valro!..." The Seyyed himself was wearing a flotation device over the Bushehri cloak that he wore in the house. He was carrying his children on his shoulder. When he wanted to jump into the sea, his wife pulled on his cloak. Terrified, he jumped and woke up. A cold sweat covered his whole body. His head ached and a bitterish taste hung in his mouth. He saw the cabin, he heard the metallic roar of the ship's engine and felt the ship's tremor. He closed his eyes again as if trying to escape from this hell. Involuntarily he began to think about his family and his home. He recalled their korsi and the red embroidery that covered its top. He yearned for the pillows and the soft mattresses that were placed around the korsi. His child who had just begun to babble enunciated the words so correctly. He recalled his wife separating pomegranate seeds from the pomegranate skin and putting the seeds onto a plate. He recalled his office and good things associated with it. But now, suddenly, all these were hazy and distant, as if they belonged to some mysterious and magical world. He promised himself that when he returned from India he would choose the safer means--he would travel on land and by train.

He cursed Hakim Bashipur from the bottom of his heart. The latter had sent the Seyyed on this perilous mission while he himself sat at his ministerial desk smiling, exploiting young boys and girls--straightening out the affairs of the State. He gave his cronies--thieves, liars and propagandists--the lucrative positions and created new titles for them. He assigned them to the Farhangestan to coin ridiculous words and shove them down people's throats. Seyyed knew that elsewhere in the world new words are accepted into the lexicon only after the public has used them and authors have adopted them. Why should he, peerless in the science of philology, have to be the bearer of these childish and tasteless words! Doubtless they were getting at him. They meant to get rid of him. He had refused to obey

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orders and had denied some youth their high school diplomas, youth who thought they were sanctioned by Venus. So far he had chewed the cud partly because he had an easy life and partly because he, too, could catch a fish or two from the muddy water. Recently, however, for no reason at all, they were going for the jugular vein. He sat up. It seemed that the direction of his thoughts had changed. He remembered that his pajamas had lost a button. To busy himself he began sewing on the button. He thought how, if his wife were there, he would never have to undertake this menial, womanly chore, completely incompatible with his learning and erudition.

At this time the captain sounded the siren and the ship stopped. The commotion of traffic in the corridors picked up. Seyyed Nasrolla's heart sank. He thought something unusual had happened but soon realized that they had reached Bushehr. Hurriedly he put on his clothes and went into the ship's vestibule. The port could not be seen. Only a faint distant light was visible. A couple of motorboats and a dhow were on the water. The porters' clamor reminded him of his dream. He felt that now he had submitted to a waking nightmare. The seashore was so dark and distant that the thought of going ashore seemed meaningless. He looked at his watch. It was time for dinner. He went to the restaurant. Perhaps there, he thought, he could find some useful information. But everyone there, even the man who knew English and the waiters, seemed reserved and low, as if they were trying to hide some ominous news from him. He lost his appetite. A few spoonfuls of soup and a banana were all he ate. He intended to keep his stomach in order. The man who knew English waved goodbye to him and left. The man hurried out as if someone were waiting for him. Disappointed, Seyyed Nasrolla returned to his room. He was pensive.

In order to muffle the commotion outside, he closed the door and the curtain. Although the air was damp and warm, he thought he should not turn on the electric fan. He brought out pen and paper to jot down some notes for his forthcoming philosophical lecture. But he could not concentrate. He had written a few things on the paper, but he did not like what he read. He scrutinized the note. Then, as if "reading between the lines" of his own writing, he read, "Whenever they say the nation, they mean themselves. All this is in order to aggrandize their fabulous leader--the one who used the cupper's bowl and drew the people's blood. By mandatory education they don't mean making the people literate, rather they mean enabling them to read so that they can read his praises and those of Hakim Bashipur, the Minister of Education. They want the people to think in journalese and to speak the same. They want the native languages, the most noble heritage of the Persians, to be forgotten--neither the Arabs nor the Mongols could accomplish that. They wish to impose on the people an artificial lexicon, one which represents neither the language of Xerxes nor that of Mashdi Hassan. Fabrication. It's his fabrication. He treats his own gains as if they were the nation's holy gains. What qualifies him to decide the fate of this nation?..."

He read that again and asked himself if he were not going crazy. He grinned. Never before had he thought about such sentences or uttered the same. Was he under the sway of some outside force, or was this a result of a sea change? Or perhaps it was the lack of sleep and rest? He tore up the paper.

The monotonous noise of the crane had stopped. And the ship was moving again. Seyyed Nasrolla got up, put on his clothes and went on deck. To see the rest of the passengers calmed him because he had thought he might have been left alone on board the ship. Large, dark masses of clouds moved threateningly to and fro and the lights on shore dimmed. The water of the sea was the color of tar. On the other side, where there were no

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clouds, Seyyed Nasrolla spotted the big and the little dipper. The moon was low in the sky, almost touching the water. A silvery reflection, like a river coming from below the moon, crossed the dark waters and joined the ship. The lack of wind was suffocating.

All this seemed to constrict Seyyed Nasrolla's heart. But now his anxiety subsided. Without being able to account for it, he felt a special calm within... as though, for the first time, he felt reconciled with nature. His entire life appeared to him to have been a distant, useless and shattering dream. Feelings from childhood awakened and combined themselves with feelings of loneliness and separation. And so he felt an unbearable sense of pity for himself. Taking long, heavy steps, he returned to his cabin. He picked up the pen, thought for a moment, then wrote, "India has continuously been the cradle of Persian literature. Now, under the auspices of our crowned Father, ever-growing educational programs..."

Then he ran out of ideas. So he tried to describe the moon in literary language. He picked up the pen and wrote, "Tar-colored water with a thunder-like roar challenges the ship. From the corner of the sky the moon, wearing a silvery coat of arms, smiles upon the waves without taking sides!" This, too, did not gain his approval. It was as though some unknown force had sapped him of his spiritual and philosophical knowledge.

Then he decided to write his wife a letter. His head ached. Suddenly he caught sight of the ceiling and in it the flotation device. He got up and closed the door of the porthole. Then he pulled the curtain closed. When he was sure that he could not be seen, he cautiously took one of the devices out of its compartment and tried it for heft. The device consisted of four pieces of light wood put together in the form of an oblong. The whole thing was covered with a canvas grey, gunny-like material. Carefully he put his head through the cork oblong, the sides of which were connected with material. Two of the pieces rested on his chest and the other two rested on his shoulders, just like a back pack. He then walked over to the instruction sheet and tied the straps as shown. The flotation device was just the right size for him. Then he went to the mirror and looked at himself.

His pale face frightened him. He looked like a murderer on death row, one who had suffered sleeplessness and hunger for months in prison. He remembered his dream and thought of how terrible the moment of falling into the water would be. He began to tremble. His knees were like water and his teeth chattered loud enough for him to hear. He took his own pulse and involuntarily murmured, "Valro... Valro..." His voice was hoarse. He had a splitting headache. In his heart he said goodbye to his wife and children; tears appeared in his eyes. He turned his back on the mirror so that he would not see his own face. He decided to undo the flotation device; then, on second thought, he decided against it. Should danger threaten, he thought, it would not be easy to get into that contraption. Erring on the side of caution, therefore, he preferred to sleep while wearing the flotation device. A cold sweat ran all along his body. He felt that he was seriously ill. He took two aspirins and then, reciting a verse from the Qur'an, he went to the bed and lay on his side. He was uncomfortable and he could count his heartbeat.

Closing his eyes, he began to dream. He dreamed that the ship was on fire. He was standing on a pulpit on the deck, but he was wearing a woman's sari, a sari similar to the one worn by the Indian lady with golden rings in her ear and nostril. He was delivering an exciting lecture about the use of flotation devices. The ship's siren and the chiming of bells made him raise his voice louder and louder. Then, too, every now and then, he would put his briefcase, produce some pictures and strew them over people's heads. Disappointed, the passengers were throwing themselves overboard and huge fish, with angry shining eyes, tore them into two pieces. The surface of the water was filled with chewed-up

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bodies. Suddenly he noted that his children were sitting in a black boat on which was written in white letters "Oxford." The man who knew English was rowing and taking them to an unknown destination.

The moment the flame touched him, he threw himself into the water. A huge, terrifying fish with fiery eyes attacked him and caught his chest between his four blunt teeth which were like four bricks. Then the fish pressed his jaws together so hard that Seyyed Nasrolla fell unconscious.

In the morning the Indian servant found Seyyed Nasrolla's lifeless body in his cabin. The strap of the flotation device had strangled him.

***

Two months later, in the Wazir's Bath alley, a large crowd had gathered around Seyyed Nasrolla's statue. The Seyyed had been sculpted as holding a briefcase close to his body with one hand and pointing in the direction of India with the other hand. Under his feet he was crushing a bat, the symbol of ignorance. Mr. Hakim Bashipur, sad and affected, was standing on a pulpit and delivering a lecture in praise of the departed. Repeatedly, in the course of his lecture, he referred to that unforgettable calamity and the vacuum created by the demise of that eighth wonder of the world--the philosopher of the time and the ocean of knowledge. Then, addressing the children of the Motherland, he concluded, "You must emulate the words, deeds and thoughts of this patriotic genius who evinced a unique sense of valor and dedication for his country. And he persisted in upholding his standards until martyrdom. It is incumbent upon every patriot to place a statue of this savant on the mantle or at least a likeness of this peerless scholar on the wall of his house. You must take pride in the existence of such patriotic individuals amongst you and must try hard to dedicate yourselves to the aims of the Motherland and of the educational..." (he choked). After a three-minute pause, he continued, "I shall suggest to the Language Academy to change the name of Wazir's Bath alley to 'Patriot Street'. And out of my devotion and love for my homeland, I shall change the departed's name from Seyyed Nasrolla to 'Piruz Yazdan' with the additional title of 'Patriot'.

Let no one be mistaken. Our departed, loved one is not dead; he lives in our hearts because of his incessant work and his dedication. As the poet said:

Seek not, after death, our dust on the ground; We dwell in the hearts of the mystic and wise.In conclusion, let me ask the benevolent to collect some funds to purchase the ship Valro, the battlefield of that Paradise-bound soul, from the company and to place it permanently in the museum of the Ministry of Education." Then he put his hand in his briefcase and produced some of the photos that had been taken before the Seyyed's departure. He strewed the pictures on people's heads. People grabbed the pictures from each other and placed them on their hearts. Then the children of the Motherland dispersed. Their eyes were tearful, their hearts broken.

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The Dark House by Sadeq Hedayat

translated by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 1995, 1999

The man who boarded our bus one night on the way to Khunsar had carefully wrapped himself in a dark blue raincoat and had pulled the broad brim of his hat clear down to his eyebrows. It was as if he intended to insulate himself against the outside world and the people therein. He carried a parcel under his arm and he sheltered it with his hand. During the half-hour ride he took no part in the conversation between the bus driver and the other passengers. His aloofness cast a pall on the group. Whenever the light in the bus or an outside light permitted, I stole a glance at his face: it was pale. He had a small but straight nose and his languid eyelids looked all but closed. A deep wrinkle at each side of his lip bespoke a strong will, as though he had been carved out of stone. At times he would wet his lips with the tip of his tongue; then he would rejoin his ruminations.

Our bus stopped in Khunsar in front of the Madani bus terminal. Even though we were to travel throughout the night, the driver and all the passengers disembarked. I surveyed the inn and the terminal; they did not seem particularly hospitable. Then I approached the bus and, to make sure that we were here for the night, said to the driver, "Apparently we are staying here for the night!"

"Yes," he said. "The road is not good. We will stay here for the night and will leave early tomorrow morning."

Then suddenly I noticed the man in the raincoat approaching me. In a deep but calm voice he said, "I doubt that you can find a suitable place in which to spend the night. If you do not have any acquaintance around here, why don't you come and spend the night at my house?"

"Thank you. But I don't want to inconvenience you."

"Nothing of the kind. I hate ta'arof. I don't know you and I don't wish to know you. There is no favor involved. Recently I built myself a new room, and since then my old room has been unoccupied. I thought it would be more comfortable than the inn."

His simple and unceremonious words affected me and made me realize that I was not dealing with an ordinary man. I said, "Fine. Let's go!"

And, without any hesitation, I began to follow him. He produced a flashlight from his pocket and turned it on. A column of bright light appeared before us. We passed through several alleyways winding amid mud-brick walls. Everything was still, still enough to penetrate one's being. Often we heard the murmur of the water and could feel the breeze on our faces. Then I noticed the lights that were burning in a couple of houses in the distance. I did not say anything for a while and walked with him in silence. Then, in order to make my unknown friend talk, I said, "This must be a pretty town."

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He seemed to have been startled by the sound of my voice. After a while he said, "I preferred Khunsar to all the other cities that I have visited in Iran. Not so much because it has plenty of fields and orchards, but because it has retained much of its ancient charm. It has retained this medieval atmosphere in its alleyways, among these mud-brick walls and underneath those tall trees. It is so tangibly hospitable that, in its byways, one can feel the comfort felt by its past inhabitants. The whole area is secluded--a factor that assures it a poetic flavor--and it is away from the newspaper, the car, the airplane and the train which plague this century--especially the car that, along with its noisy horn and the dust it raises, carries the conductor mentality to the tiniest hamlets of the land. It pushes all these new, albeit half-baked, thoughts, skewed opinions and stupid imitations right into every conceivable hole in the wall."

He threw the light of the flashlight onto some of the windows of these houses and said, "Look. This place has windows with beautiful woodwork and independent houses. You can smell the ground, the newly harvested alfalfa as well as the less palatable odors. You can hear the sound of the birds chirping. The simple but cunning way in which its inhabitants go about their work recalls a lost world--a world away from the hubbub of the nouveaux riches."

Then, as if suddenly remembering that he had invited me to his house, he asked, "Have you had supper?"

"Yes. We supped in Golpaygan."

We passed several streams until eventually, near the mountain, he opened the gate of a garden and we entered. We reached a newly-finished building. We entered a small room which had a rollaway bed, a table and two armchairs. He lit the kerosene lamp and entered the adjacent room. A few minutes later he returned wearing a pair of pink pajamas. He brought in another lamp and lit that. Then he unwrapped the parcel he had brought with him. It contained a red lampshade which he placed on the lamp he had brought in from the other room. After a long pause, as if he were not sure whether he should say something, he said, "Would you like to come to my private room?"

Picking up the lamp with the red lampshade, he passed through a labyrinthine, dark corridor with an arched ceiling and a floor covered with dark red, cloth mats. Then he opened another door. We entered a room that resembled the inside of an egg. It did not seem to have any openings to the outside world except, of course, for the door that gave onto, the corridor. Devoid of any geometrical configurations, the concave inner walls, the ceiling and the floor were covered with deep red velvet. Inhaling the dense perfume that permeated the room, I felt somewhat lightheaded. He placed the lamp on the table, sat on his bed which was in the middle of the room and motioned for me to rest on the chair by the table. On the table there were a glass and a pitcher of duq. Astounded, I looked around me thinking that the man must be a mental case and that this room must be his torture chamber. The walls were the color of blood, I thought, so as to camouflage the blood of his victims. Thus he could not be easily caught. Besides, the place did not have any opening to the outside world. No one would know about what transpired in there, let alone come to another's assistance. I was waiting for a club to hit me on the head from nowhere or for this man to attack me with a knife or a hatchet, but with his usual calm tone he said, "What do you think of my room?"

"Room? I am sorry. But this is more like being inside a plastic bag."

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Not paying the slightest attention to what I had said, he went on, "My diet consists of milk. Want some?"

"No. Thank you. I have had dinner."

"A glass of milk will do you good."

He said this and placed the pitcher of milk in front of me. Although I did not feel like having any, I poured a glass and drank it. Then he poured the rest of the milk into his glass and began to sip it. Every now and then he would wet his lips with his tongue. His lips were glistening and his eyelids were almost closed--he seemed to be searching for some distant memories. Under the red light, his pale, young face, his short but straight nose and his meaty lips were lustful and attractive. A large dark vein stood out on his broad forehead. His long brown hair covered his shoulders. As if talking to himself he said, "I have not shared the pleasures of others. A disturbing feeling, a feeling arising from misfortune, has always placed itself between happiness and me. This feeling of misfortune arises from the pain of living, the difficulties of coping but, most importantly, the perils of dealing with people. The plight of a degenerate society, the need for food and clothes, these are the things that have suppressed the blossoming of our true existence. In the past I entered the ordinary man's world and imitated his miserable ways, but soon I realized that I was making a fool of myself. I examined all their pleasures but found them quite unpalatable. I felt throughout that I had been abandoned--left alone--an alien to their world, you could say. I could not create any meaningful relationship between myself and them. I could not make my life compatible with their lives. I constantly told myself, 'I shall leave this society and I shall live in a hamlet or a distant place in seclusion.' But I did not intend to use seclusion as a means for fame or personal gain. Neither did I want to place myself under anyone's guidance or imitate anyone. All I wished was to find a place in which I could explore myself, a place where my thoughts would not dissipate. I was born lazy. And I believe that work belongs to the unfulfilled--to those who wish to fill out a lack they feel within themselves. Work belongs to the beggarly, the ignoble. My forefathers, too, felt this emptiness. But they worked hard, thought hard and observed events. Since these wants no longer beset them, the burden of their accumulated laziness fell squarely on my shoulders. I do not take pride in my ancestors. Beside, the people in this country do not fall into the distinct ancestral lines that encompass the people of other nations. Analyze the genealogy of any of these dowla's and saltana's and you will see that only two generations ago they were thieves, highway robbers, court jesters or money-changers. And if we were to insist on digging into my ancestry, like everyone else's, would we not reach the gorilla and the chimpanzee? The thing is that I was not born to work. The nouveaux riches seem to be the only ones who can lay claim to existence. They have created a society compatible with their own greed and lust. To take even the smallest of steps, the others will have to swallow their imposed rules, just as they would swallow a pill. The nouveaux have named this servitude 'work,' and everyone has to earn his living by begging at their gate. Only a bunch of thieves, shameless fools and sick people are allowed to live in this environment. Those unfit for thieving or baseness and those not given to flattery are pronounced 'unfit for living!' They cannot fathom my pain; they cannot feel the burden of the inheritance under which I bend! My ancestors' fatigue is in me and I can feel their nostalgia.

I wanted to find a hole in the ground and, like a hibernating animal, get lost in my own self. In this way I could discover myself. There is much in human beings that is gentle and hidden--suppressed by the weight of daily concerns and the bustle of life. But given a

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chance the same aspects can surface and, like a picture that takes shape in the photographer's pan, appear to us in the dark. This darkness was within me; yet in vain I was trying to make it dissipate. I regret that I should have mingled with people at all --even for a short period. Now I realize that the most precious part of my life has been this same darkness and its accompanying silence. This darkness is part of every living being, but it does not appear to us until the time when we abandon the phenomenal world and sink within ourselves. Ordinary people, of course, try to escape this loneliness and darkness. They try to cover their ears so that they will not hear the call of death--they try to annihilate their being amid life's clamor. I am not like the Sufis, who are expecting 'the light of truth to dawn'. On the contrary, I am expecting the devil to descend on me. I want to awake in myself as I am. The bright but empty speeches of the enlightened repulse me. I do not wish to lose my dignity by begging a bunch of thieves, smugglers and gold-worshiping fools for a living.

It is in this room that I can live within myself so that my energy is not spent in vain. I need this darkness and this red light. I cannot sit in a room with a window behind me. In such an environment my thoughts disperse; besides, I don't like light. In the sunlight, everything appears frivolous and ordinary--whereas fear and darkness are the real source of beauty. Take the cat, for instance. During the day he is familiar enough, but at night his eyes glow, his coat shines and his movements become mysterious. A sickly, flowering bush littered with spider webs likewise assumes a special and mysterious aura at night. Light awakens all beings and makes them alert; they become cautious. It is at night and in darkness that all ordinary things develop a mystery. Then latent and lost fears awaken. One can sleep in the dark, yet hear things. One is awake. Real life begins then. Base instincts and foolish whims are left behind, and man enters a spiritual dimension. He recalls things he had never known or even imagined."

After this eloquence, he fell silent. It was as though with this lecture he meant to exonerate himself. Was he the bored child of a rich family, tired of living, or was he afflicted with some strange malady? In either case, he did not think like an ordinary human being. I was perplexed. How to react to all this? The line at the side of his lip had hardened and a dark vein had appeared on his forehead. When he talked, his nostrils flared. Under the red light, his pale face looked tired and melancholy--quite at odds with the face I had seen in the bus. When he lowered his head, a fleeting smile would touch his lips. Then, as if suddenly realizing it, and throwing me a sarcastic look, he said, "You are traveling and must be tired. I monopolized the conversation!"

"We all talk about ourselves. We are the only truth that ever existed. We talk about ourselves quite involuntarily, even when we express our feelings and observations in someone else's words. The most difficult thing is to express oneself in exactly the terms one should."

I wished that I had not ventured a reply. What I had said was quite meaningless, useless and out of place. I don't know what I was trying to prove. Perhaps I was indirectly flattering my host. But he, without paying me any attention, gazed painfully in my direction. Once again his eyelids closed. And, as if in a different world, ignoring me altogether, he continually rubbed his tongue along his moistening lips. He was saying, "I always wanted to design and build a place of my own. Houses and rooms built by others did me no good. I wanted to be by myself and delve into myself. To this end I turned all my wealth into hard cash. Then I came here and had this room built according to my own specifications. I brought all these velvet curtains with me. I have personally attended to every detail in this room. The only thing that I had forgotten was a red lampshade. I sent the design and the

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size to Tehran. They made me one, and today I went and picked it up. That's why I was traveling; otherwise I don't leave my room and try not to mingle with people. As for food, I have placed myself on a milk diet. Since I can drink it sitting or lying down, I'm spared the trouble of preparing meals. I should also say that I have vowed to take my life the moment I run out of money or the moment that I feel a need to return to society. This is the first night that I will sleep here in my own room. I am that lucky man whose every earnest wish is fulfilled. A lucky man! How difficult it is to envisage such a being. I could never have imagined this state. Yet, right now, I am a lucky man!"

Once again all became silent. To break the silence I said, "The state you are seeking is that of the fetus in the mother's womb where, without need for struggle, flattery or coping, one can lie in the red, cozy organ, feed on the mother's blood and enjoy the fulfillment of wishes and needs without any effort. Or perhaps you are seeking that lost paradise which rests in every man's subconscious, that place where everyone lives by himself and in himself. Then again, perhaps you are looking to make a voluntary death?"

As if he didn't expect anyone to interrupt this private discussion, he cast me a sarcastic look and said, "You are traveling. You'd better go and get some sleep!"

He picked up the light, accompanied me as far as the end of the hallway and showed me the room in which we had first arrived. It was past midnight. I breathed the fresh air and felt that I had just left a cold and sickly spot. The stars twinkled in the sky. I was wondering whether I was dealing with a man obsessed with cleanliness or with an homme extraordinaire.

***

The next day I woke at about ten. To say goodbye to my host, I went into the corridor and, like an infidel approaching a temple, gently rapped on the door. The corridor was dark and silent. Stealthily I entered the room. The light on the table was still burning. My host was still in his pink pajamas. He was lying in the fetal position and his hands covered his face. I approached him and shook him by the shoulder. He had become petrified in this position. Terrified, I left the room and went to the bus terminal--I did not want to miss the bus. Had he run out of money, as he had said? Or, afraid of the loneliness he had so eloquently praised, had he, for that last night, wished to have someone with him? Or perhaps he was a lucky man who had wanted to keep his good luck to himself and this place was his ideal room!

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Three Drops of Blood

bySadeq Hedayat

translated by Iraj Bashiri

copyright 2000

Just yesterday they moved me to a separate room. Am I completely cured and they ’ l l release me next week, as the supervisor has promised? Have I been sick? For a whole year now I have been pleading for a pen and some paper but they have refused my requests. I thought that, as soon as I got my hands on a pen and some paper, I could write about so many things... Then yesterday, without my asking, they gave me a pen and some paper--the very thing I had yearned for, the very thing for which I had waited so long!... But what ’ s the use. I have been thinking since yesterday about what to write. Nothing comes to mind. I feel as if someone stops my hand or that my elbow goes numb. I scrutinize my writing, in between the illegible lines is this phrase: "three drops of blood."

* * *

The sky is blue, the garden is green, and the flowers on the hilltop have bloomed. A gentle breeze wafts the fragrance of the flowers all the way down here. What's the use? I have lost my zest for joy. All these things are attractive to poets and children and those who remain a child at heart. I have been in this place for a year. Every night, until dawn, I remain sleepless because of a whining cat. Its frightful moans and hoarse throat are the death of me. In the morning, what is waiting for me? A devastating injection...I have passed many long days and many very horrible hours in this place. Wearing yellow outfits, during the summer we gather in the cellar, and sit under the sun by the garden in winter. I fail to see any commonality among us. I am as different from them as the earth is different from the sky. However, their moans and groans, their silences, curses, cries, and laughter will continue to populate my nightmares for ever and ever.

* * *

In an hour we will be served dinner. But what dinner! The same old run of the mill yogurt soup, rice pudding, cooked rice, and bread and cheese. Even not enough of that. Hassan's wish is to eat a whole pot full of broth along with four loaves of sangak bread. Perhaps when it's his turn to be released, he will be given a pot full of broth instead of access to pen and paper. He, too, is one of the lucky individuals here. With his short stature, foolish laughter, thick neck, bald head, and callused hands, he is a born porter. His whole constitution, including that foolish look, testifies to his being a born porter. If Muhammad Ali does not stand guard by us at meals, Hassan would blow us all to kingdom come. Then again, Muhammad Ali himself; he, too, is a denizen of this same world. No matter what name they give this place, I say it is a different world than the ordinary. Additionally, we have a resident doctor who, by the grace of God, does not know a thing. If I were he, one night, I would poison the food and, in the morning, arms akimbo, would watch the dead being carried away. In fact, when I first was brought here, this very thought

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frightened me. I was afraid of being poisoned. I would not touch my lunch and dinner before Muhammad Ali tasted them. At night, I would jump from deep sleep, dreaming that they have come to kill me. All that is very distant and vague now.... only a monotonous memory remains: the same people, the same menu, and the same blue room the bottom half of which is painted in deep blue.

Two months ago they put a lunatic down there in the yard. He ripped his own belly open with a piece of shard, pulled out his guts and played with them. They said that he was a butcher and that he was used to ripping bellies open. Then there was another patient who pulled his own eye out of its socket. His hands were tied behind him. He kept hollering. Blood had dried around his eye. I bet the supervisor is in on all this.

The residents here, of course, are not all like that. Many of them, if they were to be cured and released, would perish. Take Sughra Sultan in the women's ward, for instance. She has made two or three attempts at escaping and, each time, she has been caught. Besides, even though a hag, she adorns her face using whitewash and geranium "rouge." She imagines herself to be fourteen. If she were cured and looked at herself in the mirror, she would suffer a heart attack. The worst case, however, is our own Taqi who intended to turn the world upside down. He faulted women for the world's problems and thought they all must be summarily killed. Then he goes and falls in love with this same Sughra Sultan.

All these, I believe, are of the supervisor's making. He is the lunatic par excellence. With his large nose, squinty eyes, and the mien of an opium adict, he paces up and down at the end of the garden under that pine tree. At times he bends and investigates the place at the foot of the tree. Were those who don't know him to look at him they would pity him. They see a nice, harmless fellow who has fallen victim to a bunch of lunatics. But I know him well. I know that out there, under the tree, there are three drops of blood. I also know that a cage is suspended in front of the supervisor's window. It is an empty cage because the bird it held was caught by the cat. The empty cage is a decoy to lure cats to their death.

Just yesterday, the supervisor chased a tabby cat up the pine tree. As soon as the cat climbed up, he ordered the guard at the gate to shoot it down. These three drops of blood belong to the cat; but, if you ask the supervisor about them, he would attribute them to the screech owl.

The one who takes the cake, however, is my friend and neighbor Abbas. Even though it is less than two weeks since he was brought in, he has become my real buddy. He imagines himself to be a prophet and a poet. He says that achieving everything, especially prophethood, depends on luck. The lucky individual, even if extremely stupid, will eventually climb the ladder of success. The unlucky, even if a most accomplished scholar, will end up to be someone like him. Abbas also imagines himself to be an accomplished tar player. He has built himself a contraption, a tar according to him, by pulling a piece of wire over a plank. He also has composed a poem that he reads to me eight times a day. It seems that this same poem has been the cause for his incarceration. A strange poem or ditty, it goes:

"Alas, the night is upon us again, "Engulfing the world in utter darkness; "Everyone has found solace and comfort, "Save me, whose suffering and sorrow know no bound. "Joy is alien to this world's temperament, "Death is the sole cure for my sadness;

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"But in that corner, beneath the pine tree, "Three drops of blood have dripped onto the ground.

Yesterday, as Abbas and I strolled in the garden, he sang this very song to me. Then a man, a woman, and a young girl came to visit him. Since this was their fifth visit, I had seen them before and, therefore, knew them. The young girl, who carried a bouquet of flowers, smiled at me, indicating that she liked me. In fact, she came to see me. Abbas's pockmarked face cannot attract girls. In spite of all that, when the woman was busy discussing something with the doctor, I saw Abbas take the girl aside and kiss her.

* * *

So far this year, no one has come to visit me and no one has brought me flowers. The last person to visit was Siyavosh. He was my best friend. We were neighbors. Every day we went to the Dar al-Fonun school together and together we returned home. We discussed our assignments together and when we had some free time, I taught Siyavosh how to play the tar. Often, Rukhsareh, Siyavosh's cousin and my fiancee, also joined us. Siyavosh was planning to marry Rukhsoreh's sister. It so happened that just a month before their engagement Siyavosh took sick. I paid him a couple of visits to ask after his health, but each time they told me that the doctor has left strict word against visitations. I insisted on seeing him several times but, when they did not change their answer, I gave up.

I recall it perfectly well. It was one late afternoon around exam time. I returned home, threw my books and notebooks on the table, and went about changing into my other clothes. Then I heard a gunshot. The closeness of the sound terrified me, partly because our house was located behind the ditch and partly because of reports of burglaries in the neighborhood. I picked up the revolver from the desk drawer, entered the yard and listened. Then, from there I climbed the stairs and went onto the roof. Everything seemed fine. On my way back, from up there, I looked into Siyavosh's house. Siyavosh was standing in the middle of the yard in his pajamas. Surprised, I said, "Siyavosh, is that you?

He recognized me and said, "Come on in. I am alone."

"Did you hear the gunshot?"

"He put his finger on his lip as a sign of silence and with his head nodded to me to come over to their house. I went down the stairs quickly and knocked on their door.

Siyavosh himself opened the door. With his head lowered and his gaze fixed at the ground, he admonished me:

"Why didn't you come to visit me?

"Two or three times I asked for you," I said. "I was told that the doctor had forbidden visitors."

"They think I am insane, but they are wrong."

I asked again, "Did you hear the gunshot?"

Without responding, he took me by the hand, led me to the foot of the pine tree, and

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pointed to something. I looked closely. There were three drops of fresh blood on the ground.

Then he took me to his room and closed all the doors. I sat on a chair. He lit the lamp, then came and sat by the desk across from me. His room was simple, blue with the bottom half painted in deep blue. In the corner of the room there was a tar. Several books and a school notebook were strewn on the desk. Then Siyavosh produced a revolver from the desk drawer and showed it to me. It was one of those old pearl-handled revolvers. He placed the revolver in his pants pocket and said, "I used to have a female cat called Nazi [pronounced naazi, "fluffy"]. You must have seen her. She was one of those ordinary tabby cats with two large eyes that seemed to have been adorned with collyrium. The regularity of the design on her back reminded one of inkblots folded and unfolded. Every day when I returned from school, Nazi would meet me at the door, meowing and rubbing herself against me. When I sat down, she would climb all over me, sniff me and, with her coarse tongue, lick my forehead. She persisted that I kiss her. It seems that female cats are more cunning, more kind and, overall, more sensitive than male cats. Besides me, she liked the cook; perhaps because she identified him with the source of her food. But she did not like Kiyabia, the elderly woman in the house. She prayed and, necessarily, avoided cat's hair. It could well be that Nazi had figured out that human beings are smarter than cats, that they have made all good foods and warm spots their own, and that cats must flatter them to be allowed to share some of their amenities.

However, Nazi's natural instincts came to the surface every time she was given the bloody head of a rooster. She would be transformed into a wild beast. Her claws would emerge and with wide flashing eyes and loud hissing, she threatened anyone who approached her. Then, as if deceiving herself, she acted out her aggressions. Using all her powers of imagination, she would make a live creature out of the rooster head, touch it to make it run, flash, hide herself, sit in ambush and attack again. In short, she would exhibit all the dexterity and the agility of her species with repeated lunges, attack tactics, and modes of retreat. When she felt tired, she would devour the bloody head with a full appetite; she would even spend several more minutes looking for the rest. Then, for a couple of hours, she would forget her artificial civilized ways. She would neither approach anyone nor be coquettish or flattering.

While feining friendship, Nazi was sure to remain wild and secretive, not allowing the secrets of her life to become known. She regarded our house as hers. If ever a strange cat happened to pass by, especially a female, her growls and moans went on for a long time.

Nazi's voice for announcing the time for dinner was different from her voice when she was being petted. Similarly, her growls in cat fights, and her meowing when she was in heat were different in tone. The first was a heart-wrenching yell, the second was a cry of vengeance, while the third was a painful moan indicating a response to natural instincts. It was Nazi's looks, however, that were most meaningful. At times her looks were so human-like that one would ask: What kinds of thoughts and feelings lurk in that woolly head and behind those mysterious green eyes?

That terrible incident occurred last spring. As you know spring is the time when animals go into heat and seek their mates. Perhaps it is the spring air that breathes frenzy and insanity into all living beings. Our Nazi, too, was stricken by the love bug; her whole frame shook and she emitted sorrowful moans. Male cats from all around the neighborhood heard Nazi's moans and came to meet her. After much struggle and many cat fights, eventually, Nazi chose the strongest and the most boisterous of the suitors to be her mate.

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Of prime importance in love making is the animals' special scent. That is why males that are tame and clean do not move their females. While alley cats, cats on the prowl, thieving cats, emaciated cats, stray cats, and famished cats; in general those cats whose hides have retained their primordial scent, attract the females most. All night long Nazi and her mate sang love songs to each other. Nazi's soft and fragile body undulated against her mate's body, which was, at times, as tight as a drawn string of a bow. This went on all night. Then, in the morning, tired and disheveled, Nazi would return to the room.

Night after night, Nazi's love making deprived me of my sleep. Eventually, I had enough. One day, working in front of this same window, I saw the lovers strolling in the flower garden. Three steps away from them, with the same revolver that you saw, I took aim and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Nazi's mate. I think it broke his back. He jumped up in the air and then, noiselessly, escaped through the corridor. Later I found him dead at the foot of the garden wall.

There was a stream of blood all along the way where Nazi's mate had run. Nazi searched for him for a while until she came upon the traces of his scent. Sniffing the blood, she went directly to the body and, for two days and two nights stood guard over it. Often she would touch the body as if saying, "Get up. Spring has sprung. Why are you sleeping just at the time for making love? Why don't you move? Get up. Get up." Nazi could not fathom death. She could not know that her lover had died.

The next day both Nazi and the carcass of her mate disappeared. I searched everywhere and asked everyone about her; but it was useless. Had Nazi decided to stop being my friend? Did she die? Did she find a different lover? In any event, what happened to the carcass of the dead cat?

One night, I heard the meowing of that same male cat. He whined all night and yelled all the next night. Then, in the morning, all became quiet. The third night, I picked up the revolver again and just shot into this same pine tree in front of my window. His eyes shone in the dark. He let out a long moan and fell silent. In the morning, three drops of blood had dripped under the tree. From that night on, every night he comes here and moans. No one else, however, hears him. They are heavy sleepers, and when I tell them about it, they just laugh at me. But I know. I know that this moaning belongs to the cat that I killed. This meowing has really deprived me of sleep. Everywhere I go, and in whatever room I sleep, all night long, this merciless cat with his horrible throat moans and yells for his mate.

Today the house was empty. I came to the same place where the cat sits at night and moans. I took aim. I could recall the exact place because of the spark of her eyes at night. When I pulled the trigger, I heard the cat moan and three drops of blood dripped from up there. Didn't you see that with your own eyes? You are my witness, aren't you?

At this time the door of the room opened and Rukhsareh and her mother entered.

Rukhsareh was carrying a bouquet of flowers. I rose and greeted them. Siyavosh smiled and said, "Of course you know Mirza Ahmad Khan better than I do. There is no need for introduction. He testifies that he has seen the three drops of blood at the foot of the pine tree with his own eyes.

Yes, I have seen them.

Siyavosh stepped forward, laughed aloud, and pulled the revolver out of my pocket. Then,

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placing the revolver on the desk, he said, "You know, Mirza Ahmad Khan is not only a good tar player and a poet, he is also a good hunter. He is a marksman.

He then urged me to say something. I got up and said, "Yes, this afternoon I came to borrow a notebook from Siyavosh. Meanwhile, we took some shots at the pine tree over there. But those three drops of blood do not belong to the cat, they belong to the screech owl. You know the story. The screech owl eats three grains of wheat from the property of a minor. At night it screams until three drops of blood fall from his throat to the ground. Otherwise, they might belong to a cat that had stolen the neighbor's canary and had been shot. He could have passed by here. But wait. Let me read my newest composition for you."

I then picked up the tar, tuned it for the lyric, and sang this poem:

"Alas, the night is upon us again, "Engulfing the world in utter darkness; "Everyone has found solace and comfort, "Save me, whose suffering and sorrow know no bound. "Joy is alien to this world's temperament, "Death is the sole cure for my sadness; "But in that corner, beneath the pine tree, "Three drops of blood have dripped onto the ground.

When I reached this point, Rukhsareh's mother left the room in a huff. As for Rukhsareh, she lifted her eyebrows and said, "He is insane." Then she took Siyavosh by the hand and together, laughing, they left the room and closed the door behind them.

In the yard, as I watched from behind the windowpane, Siyavosh and the girl embraced and kissed each other under the lamppost.

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Tomorrow

By Sadeq Hedayat Translated by Iraj Bashiri Copyright, © Iraj Bashiri, 1984

I. Mehdi Zaghi

What terribly cold weather! Although I have spread my overcoat over my feet, it seems to make no difference... It really was freezing in the alley! It is not colder than last night though. I wonder whether last night the cold air came in through the broken window or through the crevice in the door. The smell of the kerosene was even worse. Abbas began to complain, "We are catching our death of pneumonia!" He was by the window distributing types into the cubbyholes. No, it doesn't bother me. I don't give a damn that I resigned. A smoke-laden room, Asghar's bragging, sticky, black ink all over my hands, the constant clatter of machines and a stagnant pond with water so dirty that it refuses to freeze. Then there is my fellow workers' back-biting, talkativeness and flattery, the Haqdust kabob shop and a cold bed. No, I haven't lost a thing. Wherever I go, these will follow me anyway.

Why can't I go to sleep? Perhaps because the moonlight is in my eyes. I shouldn't toss and turn like this. I got angry. I must forget everything, even myself, so that I can get some rest. But what am I before I forget everything? What will I be when I forget everything? I don't know exactly who I am... I don't know... It's always "I.... I!" This damn "I!" Last night I went to sleep as soon as I hit the pillow: I forgot everything. Could it be that I am like this because I am going to Isfahan tomorrow? But this is not the first time that I've traveled. Indeed, even when my friends and I planned to go to Evin or Darakeh, I suffered from insomnia. This trip, however, is not an ordinary excursion, nor is it temporary. I wonder if I am excited or afraid. What is there to be afraid of? What am I leaving behind? Reza Saruqi, my co-worker at Badakhshan Prints, was promoted to compositor; he has a good future. Whereas I am constantly jobless and deep in debt. Even when I do have a job, I squander my wages. I see now: this chill is not due to the weather. There is another reason for it. This cold is inside me. No matter what happens, this chill is there. Even when doubled up with age, I shall have to carry this load. I have to carry my load home...but what home?... I have strong arms. Warm blood circulates in my veins; I feel its warmth at the tips of my fingers: I am alive, I can continue this kind of life even at the other end of the world. In a different town... The world must be quite large and attractive! These days, according to the newspaper reports, it doesn't seem so attractive. War, too, has become an amusement, like soccer. At least it creates fear and the jitters... Even water, when it remains in one place too long, deteriorates...

What if I go to Saveh and sponge off them! Never... I don't miss my father or my step-mother. They are not eager to see me either. How many more brothers and sisters have they made for me, I wonder?... It makes me sick. Not because of his second wife, but because of his nose which constantly runs over his moustache and of his beady eyes twinkling beneath his thick eyebrows. Why does he, like children, carry goodies in his pocket and eat them secretly without offering them to anyone else? I am not like my father. He has a nauseating mud house with crooked niches and a low ceiling. It is filled with the noise of children, cows, sheep, chickens and roosters, all living under the same roof. Not to mention how he puts on airs as he stands, his hands on his hips, watching his serfs being flogged! From dawn to dusk he curses and finds fault. Any living earned there is

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laced with poison. I don't belong anywhere. My father owns land and water rights. He has his roots in that soil. He owns the place. What? He owns property? Property is very important! He lives. He has memories. But nothing can be mine, not even memories. Memories belong to those who have business and property, those with some substance in their lives. Those who enjoy making love under the moonlight and who enjoy spring showers. They recall their childhood. But moonlight either hurts my eyes or makes me sleepless. Memories, too, slide off my shoulder and fall to the ground. All alone... so much the better! My father has many such memories, but I have no desire to recall my childhood. Last year, when I was sick and in debt, why didn't he answer my letter? Let's not think about it.

Now, after six years of work, I have nothing to show. I am back to square one. It's my own fault. I worked with my cousin for four years, although I haven't heard from him since he went to Isfahan two years ago. He is a serious and clever fellow. Now I'll go look him up, too. Who knows? Maybe I'm going to Isfahan hoping to see him. Otherwise, if I were going there to find a job, why not go to some other town? I always think of places where I can sponge off a family member. Self-reliant man! ... What a tasteless joke! Anyway, I have made a decision. Let's leave it at that.

While enjoyment and a good life are limited in this world, poverty and suffering are everywhere. These limited opportunities, however, belong to a special group. Last year, I worked at the Giti Cafe for a few days. The cafe had fat customers who spent easy money. As though cars, parks, beautiful women, excellent wines, comfortable beds, warm rooms and good memories were selectively set aside for them. They own those commodities and they carry them even into the next world. After all, one can't buy blessings without money! If we lose our job for one day, it means we'll have to go to bed without dinner; but if they are not amused for one night, they'll destroy the world! That night, in the corner of the hallway of the cafe, a stoned American soldier with beads of sweat on his fat brow was severely knocking the head of a woman in a dark blue dress against the wall! I felt dizzy and lost control over myself. The poor woman, as if trapped in the claws of the Angel of Death, was screaming at the tope of her voice! No one dared approach them to mediate; even the policeman at the gate watched nonchalantly. I tried to help the woman, but I was struck by some object. When I opened my eyes, I was at the police headquarters. My side, where I was kicked, still hurts. I was in jail for three months. Did anyone argue my case? Did anyone care? No. As you see I, too, have my own sweet memories!

What is this thing poking my shoulder? Oh, it's the brass knuckles. Why was I pressing the brass knuckles in my hand all the way this evening? As if someone were chasing me, I was struggling with someone in my imagination. And now, why did I put it under my pillow? Who wants to rob me? My bed is warmer, then why can't I go to sleep? I spent a sleepless night the evening of Rostam Khani's wedding because I drank coffee. But tonight, as usual, I had two cups of tea. I shouldn't have gone the long way to Golbandak. Damn this Haqdust kabob shop! They always charge twice the regular price. I went there because it's my friends' gathering place. Perhaps, if I had downed a couple of shots of araq I could sleep better. Gholam did not show up tonight. I had said goodbye to everyone else, although they didn't know I wasn't going to work on Saturday. I wanted to tell Gholam that I was quitting. This morning he looked quite jittery and pale. It could have been the light. He was standing at the type-setting stand. It was very early for him. I never thought he likes his work that much. He's a simple fellow and he knows it; he is undecided as to his own existence. And can't forget things when it's time to go to sleep. The thought of quitting his job or of gambling never enters Gholam's mind. Like a robot, he changes feet as he goes about arranging the type in the composition tray, and he has the disturbing habit of either

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talking too much or reading the news aloud! He shatters one's concentration. The appearance of his peach-fuzz moustache makes him look more serious and, of course, he has an attractive voice. He drawls out the end of every word. When he drinks a shot of araq he loses control of his chin and talks continuously. He says whatever strikes his fancy. For instance, why should I care if his maternal uncle's wife had a stillbirth. No one believes what he says, of course. Everyone knows that he lies. He tried hard, but he couldn't get even one word out of me. I am not used to gossip. Every time that he turns and says, "Guys!", Mosayyebi becomes nervous; his nose can't take that. And what a nose! With that nose he can pollute the air in the room for five people. Yet his lips are always wide open and he breathes through his mouth. I don't like Yusef Eshtehardi. He is a villainous war-monger. Eshtehard, too, must be a place like Saveh and Zarand, perhaps a little bigger or smaller, but covered with mud houses and inhabited by people stricken with malaria and eye infection. For example, what business is it of him that he should whisper into my ear, "Abbas has contracted VD?" Can I forget that, when he sold me that silk shirt, he really ripped me off! I wonder if his red eye is because of too much work or because of a disease. If it's the latter, then why doesn't he wear glasses.

Abbas and Farrokh are bosom buddies. Evenings they take violin lessons. They may have involved Gholam, too. Wait, I forgot. They accepted Gholam into their own party. That's why he didn't show up this evening at the Haqdust kabob shop. The day before yesterday when Abbas was telling me about the party, Gholam nudged him and said, "Leave him alone. He has chalk between his ears." Wouldn't it be better if Abbas would shut up rather than show his boar-like teeth? No matter what he tells me to do, I do just the opposite. He, his boar-like teeth and twitching eye, can't involve me. If he knew what's good for him, he would cure his VD. He joined the party to compensate for his physical shortcomings. Gholam was right when he said I didn't understand their intent correctly. Perhaps this too is a kind of amusement... But why, from the beginning, did I cut such a poor figure in Asghar's cross-eye? He finds fault with everything I do. Perhaps Yusef has said something, although I don't recall having said anything in Asghar's absence that could offend him.

None of the printing establishments at which I worked in the past were as disorganized and crowded as this. They don't know how to manage, and individuals get lost. Gholam said that Asghar, too, holds shares in this publishing company. Perhaps that is why he is aloof. He also said something strange about Mosayyebi. Apparently there had been a celebration at the party headquarters. They asked Mosayyebi to go along with them, but Mosayyebi continued setting type and said, "Damn this life! Who then is there to feed the kids?" Who is there to feed the kids? What a seriocomic life! He works this hard just to fill the bellies of his children. At least I am single, no strings attached. I cannot understand their situation. Perhaps they too draw some kind of amusement and joy from their life, while pretending that they are poor and unfortunate. I don't share the happiness of the others. I am not the same as they. I need fresh air. Six years is a long time. I am tired. I must relinquish all these comical engagements and free myself. I need a change of scenery.

I sized up all my friends and acquaintances during a long, nightmarish dream. I felt like one who, confident that someone is following him, passes through a waterless desert for hours, then turns to hold that person's hand, but finds that no one has been there. Then he slides and falls into a pit that he had not seen before. Life is a long, frozen corridor. One must press the brass knuckles in the hand lest he confronts a ruffian. I had only one understanding friend, Hushang. When we were together there was no need for words; we understood each other. Now he is confined to a sanitarium. He used to work by my side at

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the Bahar Danesh printing shop. Suddenly he lost control and fell to the ground. The fool was fasting. He was famished. It all began when he vomited blood. He spent a lot of money on doctors and medicine and remained idle until finally, after much hassle, he was admitted into the sanitarium. Perhaps his mother made him suffer like this so that she could kill two birds with one stone: to please God and to economize on meals. The customers of Giti Café--they have created this life for us so that while we vomit blood they can dance and have a good time! At the gambling table each one wins and loses enough money to last me for seven generations ... In this world everything depends on luck. Asadolla's sister used to say, "If we were to pick up after donkeys for fuel, then they would choose water to relieve themselves!"

For six years now I have gone from one stinking hole into another, working amid commotion in crammed, noisy rooms. My jobs have been mostly last minute "hurry-up" jobs. It was as though, if it didn't get done right then and there, it would be the end of the world! Now I have nothing to show. Perhaps it's better this way. Last year I was in prison. No one bothered!

My bed is warmer. It seems that the cold spell is over... I can hear the clock chime in the distance. It must be late... Early tomorrow morning... The bus depot... but I don't have a clock... Which depot did he say? ... tomorrow I must ... tomorrow...

2. Gholam

My mouth is dry. There isn't any water at my side. I should get up, light a match and find the water jar in the hallway. Will there be water in it? No. It's not worth the effort. It will fuel my insomnia. Then again, after a few shots of araq water is delicious. How about smoking a cigarette? The hell of it is I can't sleep. Should all my concern be my sleep, even though he died... I mean was killed? My T-shirt is soaking wet, it's stuck to my body. The girl who was crying is Shokufe, Qodsi's daughter... I was really feeling down tonight. I drank too much. I still feel dizzy and have a splitting headache. It feels as though someone has poured lead into my neck: dizzy and numb... I like it this way... what a short sheet! Maybe it's a shroud... I am dead... I am buried under the ground... The animals are around me... There goes Shokufe screaming again! ... Poor kid, she must be sick... I forgot to buy her some cookies.

What a pity! He was a nice guy. His green eyes were always filled with laughter... He was a clean guy. What a scene! Poor dear... poor fellow... poor. I must breathe deeply to keep myself from crying. My insides feel like they have been taken out, as if I have lost something. A rooster is crowing. It must be late in the night. So much the better that I jumped up from sleep. I wasn't asleep. I was dreaming that I was awake, but I couldn't see or feel anything; I couldn't tell who I was. I had forgotten my own name. I didn't even know that I was thinking about whether I was awake or not. I knew one thing; I knew that something had happened. Perhaps the wind blew and struck my face. No. Now I recall. There was a large tombstone and someone was praying there. I don't know who; he had his back to me. I placed my finger on the stone--it entered the stone. I felt it penetrate into the stone and suddenly burn, as if it had entered a fire. I jumped up. The tip of my finger is still throbbing. I am afraid it may get worse and become a problem. I was peeling cucumbers. The tip of the pocket knife cut into my finger. When Seyyed Kazem was washing his hand, he was really short of breath. If my finger festers, I'll lose my job.

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I feel very uneasy. I wish I could find a companion. That night when it was late and I didn't have a pass, I slept in the type-setting room under the stand for distributing type. I felt better: there were people to talk to. It seems that dawn is breaking... Is that the top of the neighbor's cypress tree shaking? For a moment I thought it was a person. It must be windy then. Mosquitoes ate me alive, though, and that made me mad. The night before last our neighbor's house was quite crowded. They had so many lights turned on in their house that it also lit up our house. He celebrated his son's wedding for three nights. Haji Gol-Mohammad Ayyubi is so dignified! He is amiable. He greets people with sincerity. He has so much wealth, yet he still hasn't changed. Why does he always wear hats that are too small? Qodsi said that Haji spent 25,000 tumans a night. He could spend that much during these trying times! But Yusef--he is so very uncouth --said, "I know the groom. He is a shameless thief! People are dying of starvation, and he is showing off his wealth! They haven't worked as much in their whole life as one of us works in a day." Why should he say this? Well. His son is young; he has hope and desire. It's their lot! God has chosen to make them rich. It's no one's business! Then Qodsi added that the bride is dark-skinned and ugly. What was it he said she is like? Yeah, "She is like mama khamireh." Apparently they had dolled her up quite well.

But Zaghi died young and discontented. I feel sorry for his parents! I wonder whether they were told. Poor folks, they will read about it in tomorrow's paper. Or perhaps his parents are dead... I will find out... What a secretive character he was! Mothers don't easily forget the death of their children... Khojaste, whose son died of smallpox oh so many years ago, still screams and howls at the rowzes!.. Accepted, everyone has a destiny ... but does that mean to be killed like this?... By Allah! What did it say? Abbas, setting the type for the item, was reading it with feeling. Abbas, too, knew Zaghi. But he knew him as a party member, not as a friend. Why was he reading it with such a laudatory tone, "The funeral of three heroes..." No. He said, "the splendid funeral for three freedom-seeking workers..." I'll buy and read the paper tomorrow. The name "Mehdi Rezvani known as Zaghi" headed the list. They were workers at the Zayandeh Rud printing shop. This Mehdi Rezvani couldn't be some other person, could he? Could it be a misprint? A mistake that gross? Then again worse mistakes than that are possible. His whole life has been an error in printing. It couldn't be a printing error anyway, especially if the item which came here was in handwriting. Could the man in the telegraph office have made a mistake? Perhaps the other two were also young... It seems that they had gone on strike collectively, good for them!... Then the government goons shot them point blank. The bullet must have been intended for him, it couldn't have just struck him by chance. They must have been in charge of the march and they must have been in front of the crowd. The government goons knew whom to shoot. Right there is your reason for "a splendid funeral."

He was working with us four or five months ago ... but it seems like it was only yesterday: his eyes expressed such a sense of joy. His curly blond hair covered most of his forehead; he had a short nose and thick lips. All in all he was not handsome, but he had an attractive face. Being amiable, he encouraged one to get to know him and talk to him. When he entered a room he would bring a special warmth with him. He never used the apprentice; rather he always put the compositions in the ranga and took it to the press room himself. At that time we worked in a small, stuffy room. It was filled with the heavy muffled noises of type being placed in the versat or distributed in the garse. Zaghi's whistling through his teeth alleviated a lot of our fatigue. Then I used to think of the movies. What a pity Zaghi is not here to see our spacious and dignified room! Perhaps if we had worked in a room like this, he wouldn't have left us to go to Isfahan. No, he did not shun work, but he didn't give work his all either. He worked for his own amusement, you could say. He was humble and content--had no complaint against anyone. He was a friendly and vivacious person. How

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he could whistle through his teeth! He always whistled those same tunes that one hears in movie theaters. All the time he was either at the movies or reading books. He never tired! I like only the movies of Jeanette McDonald and Dorothy Lamour. Laurel and Hardy, too, aren't bad; they make you laugh.

It was Zaghi's untimely whistling that got him into trouble with Asghar Aqa. Why are some people so self-centered? As soon as they make a little headway, they forget who they were! Before becoming a compositor he was the proof reader in our room; he did what Mosayyebi does now. He used to be one of us. Suddenly he changed and became aloof. No wonder Farrokh calls him a "pest." Is friendship a lie? That day I gave Asghar what he deserved. I confronted Asghar Aqa for Zaghi's sake. It's a good thing that Zaghi was not present. He had gone to buy cigarettes; otherwise they would have become physical. I dislik fights. That short, chubby writer who changes the proofs fifty times must have complained. He had complained that the reports in his book had been mishandled. He is one of those who create mistakes where there are none. I wonder why Zaghi accepted doing it? He worked in our room; technically, he was not supposed to work on books. Perhaps he accepted because Hossein Gabi had refused to do it. In any case, it gave Asghar Aqa an excuse.

He came to our room and began to bad mouth Zaghi about the incident. After all, we all were friends.

Basically a whimsical fellow, Zaghi got carried away with work very easily. Did he join another printing shop in Isfahan? He didn't have any interest in joining political parties and the like, so why was he killed in the workers' strike? That day, at lunch, he and Abbas were quarrelling. Zaghi was saying, "Leave me alone, I don't want to be hunted down. I have only one mouth to feed." Abbas answered, "It's assertions like these that have caused our backwardness. As long as we are disunited our condition will remain the same. There is only one right way, not a thousand ways! Are the workers all around the globe more foolish than you and I?" Zaghi stopped eating, he lit a cigarette and muttered, "You are not men of action." But Zaghi's trouble at the office was because of his birth certificate. Now, if he didn't have a birth certificate, how did he go to Isfahan? Yusef was really not right when he said Zaghi used to sell American cigarettes and newspapers on Eslambol avenue. Why is it then that I should be blamed for gossiping? I suggested, "Fellows, how about arranging a Qur'an recitation for a service for him? After all, he defended our rights; he sacrificed himself for us." No one said a word. Only Yusef turned and said, "May his soul rest in peace, he was a tightwad." No one laughed. Yusef hurt my feelings. He was out of line.

I regret that I did not treat him as well as I should have. The poor fellow became depressed. No. It really wasn't my fault. He could have interpreted it differently: first he told me, "I'll sell my watch for twenty-tumans." His watch was worth more than fifty tumans, I said, "You need it yourself." He said. "Then lend me ten tumans. I'll return it tomorrow." I didn't have ten tumans myself, but I got it for him. That same evening he invited all of us to the Haqdust kabob shop. It cost him fourteen tumans. The following day, when I came out of the printing room, I saw a fat lady standing by the pond. She asked me, "Is Mehdi Rezvani here?" I asked, "What business do you have with him?" She said, "Tell him Hushang's mother has brought the remainder of the money for the watch." I realized that he had sold his watch. I said, "Don't tell me that he sold his watch?" She said, "What a nice young man! May God bless his family! He has helped my son every month since he became consumptive and was confined to Shahabad." When I entered the room and looked, the watch was not on Zaghi's wrist. I said to him, "Hushang's mother is here to see

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you." He left the room and returned shortly thereafter. He returned my ten tumans. I asked him, "Who is Hushang?" He sighed and said, "Just a friend." May his soul rest in peace! What an amiable chap he was! ... I cannot quite pinpoint it, but something bothers me... What is it that I don't know?... I don't know if it hurts or not... Will I be able or not? I don't know. No, he shouldn't have died. He should not have... should not have... should not ... I'm tired. But his friend should not know that he is dead. I will go to Shahabad on Friday, and I will find Hushang's mother in the sanitarium... I will talk to her. No. I should help Hushang in such a way that he won't find out about it. Consumptive people are very touchy; he may feel insulted. Perhaps it is the lead that has caused his illness... He is Zaghi's friend. I must help him. I'll do what I must to help him... I'll work overtime I wonder if I can cry or not... I don't know... Ah... Ah how terrible! I must stop my tears... It is not good for the deceased... My face is wet... I must take deep breaths...

This time it's not a mosquito, it's a louse. It's walking in the middle of my back. It wriggles. Just went higher... It's a souvenir from the Haqdust kabob shop that I've brought in with me. I shouldn't have scratched my back. It didn't help. Damn it, it changed its place... Last night there was sand in the rice and the eggplant sauce, too, was not done. After dinner the sharp point of the knife pricked my finger. Now that I thought of it, it felt worse. This Haqdust fellow, too, has sized me up quite well! If Abbas had not come to my aid, I would have died. It was out of my control, I was drunk. As soon as he realized that I was not feeling well, he took me with him. I blacked out. When I came to, I saw that I was at Abbas'. I was ashamed to look into Abbas' eyes the next day. How dirty! I had vomited everything... Ah, how awful! ... Man, if the hay is not yours, the barn is!... I kept saying, "Cheers!" and I downed the glassful. I had lost control. Next time I should be careful. Abbas was a real gentleman. He even washed my bleeding finger and disinfected it. Then he took me to my door. He is an intelligent fellow and plays the violin so well! He wanted to play for me, but I wouldn't let him. "No, no," I said, "Our friend was killed. Put your violin away. You shouldn't play the violin for a while. We are all mourning." If he had played the violin I would have cried.

This news shocked everyone. Even Ali, the apprentice, had tears in his eyes; he sniffed and left the room. Only Mosayyebi remained untouched. He continued proof reading. The light had reflected the shadow of his nose on the wall. I blew up and said to Mosayyebi, "My dear fellow, friendship is not a lie. This Zaghi worked with us for fifteen days. He had himself killed for us. He defended our rights." He did not react; instead he asked Yusef for a Kuwadrat. I know what he was thinking. Perhaps he was saying to himself, "You fellows are secure. If I lose my job, who will feed my kids? Damn this life!" Damn this life indeed!...

Tomorrow, I must change my clothes. They all got dirty and bloody last night. Perhaps Shokufe was crying for her kitty who suffocated under the quilt... Why is the top of the cypress tree still moving?... There is a breeze, perhaps... Today the package carrier of Yusef's bike got caught on a tree and broke... Yusef's lips were covered with fever blisters... Kuwadrat. Yesterday I drank seven bottles of lemonade and still felt thirsty! ... No. I am certain that it has been a printing error. Will they correct it in tomorrow's paper?... In any case, I will wear my black shirt. Why don't they call Abbas, who has a twitching eye, Abbas the Twitch? Kuwadrat ... Ku-wad-rat ... Ku-wad-rat ... tomorrow, newspaper... my black shirt... tomorrow...

Notes:

1. araq Iranian (homemade) equivalent of vodka back to text

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2. ranga (also ramga) galley back to text

3. versat device for arranging types back to text

4. garse case where types are kept back to text

5. kuwadrat types back to text

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The Requiem

by Sadeq Hedayat

Translated by Loghman Zaiim

Edited by Iraj Bashiri Copyright, © Iraj Bashiri, 1984

It was late in the afternoon. Azarasp, the mobad, chanted a few verses from the Gathas over Zarbanu's body, then closed the book and walked heavily to the cemetery gate. He descended the stairs with difficulty. The caretaker rushed to the gate and, with a bone-chilling noise, closed the iron door on Zarbanu and locked it. Zarbanu's body remained in the tower of silence among the bones and the decomposing flesh of the dead. Azarasp wiped the sweat from his brow; then he accompanied three of Zarbanu's relatives and a sobbing girl back to the city.

A profound hush filled the cemetery and the rising moon gradually lit the interior. The round yard was divided by rectangular slabs of rock. On each slab there rested a dried up or a decomposing body. Now the white shrouds which draped the bones and the flesh became visible. Next to Zarbanu lay a corpse; its eyes had been plucked out. His head higher than the ground, he lay with one hand athwart his ripped abdomen and with brown, sun-burned flesh, a grey beard and dried sockets, he viewed the empty sky. His face was attractive and cheerful. In spite of his beard, with a shaved head and crossed legs, he looked just like a fetus in the womb. The stench of rotten and scorched flesh and the suffocating odor of decaying corpses permeated the gentle evening breeze. Shin and leg bones, skulls and broken ribs shone in the moonlight. Locked teeth and fists bespoke the owners' painful last moments.

Zarbanu, the newly-arrived guest, occupied one of the stone rectangles. She had a calm face; her eyes were closed, her hair was brunette and her eyelashes were long. A painful smile had frozen into the corner of her lips.

Her white and delicate hand with its slender fingers had been placed on her chest. Within her neat white dress her small breasts were apparent. Her face lay toward the sky as though counting the stars or pleasantly dreaming. This mute assembly looked like a get-together. Far from the city, its people and its tumultuous life, the guests had gathered here for a mysterious purpose. It was only during the day that a group of vultures, with hooked beaks and strong claws, tore their half-baked bodies and, wings flapping, poked their beaks into them. Dripping with blood, they filled their stomachs with dead flesh. When satisfied, out of joy and pleasure, they would scream.

At night, from afar, the howl of the coyote terrified even the other animals. Later they would approach the cemetery and circle it but, since they could not enter, their howl would become the soft mew of a kitten kept from her morsel. The vultures, on the other hand, sure of themselves, cleaned their beaks with their wings and scorned the coyotes. Apparently these were the only activities disturbing this otherwise silent tribunal, activities that told of the continuous history of thousands of years passing over this cemetery built of lime and plaster--this silver ring thrown up on the side of the mountain. Indeed, it looked

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like an unchanging cauldron into which would be redeposited all the matter borrowed from nature by human flesh.

Looking more closely, however, one could see white shadows in human form; they sat on the stairs inside the cemetery or glided around it. For three days and three nights now a white shadow, hand under her chin, had sat murmuring something over Zarbanu's body and stared at the cold, decomposing corpse, at its limp hair on the forehead and its still supple breasts. But another shadow near a neighbor's corpse moved constantly and talked to itself; it said things that Zarbanu couldn't comprehend. Other shadows would approach these and go away. Then suddenly, for the first time, Zarbanu's shadow understood her neighbor's incoherent words as he alternately addressed the Godhead and the embodiment of his own evils on the earth-plane, "Oh, Ahura Mazda. I take refuge in You ...Oh what a calamity I can see all my sins before me. Everyday lasts as if it were a thousand years... What a stench! ... Go away. Get away from me. You wicked whore, you evil one, go away. Who are you? I have not seen anyone as ugly as you! What do you want from me you infernal Satan? You cannot be the embodiment of my bad thoughts, bad words and bad deeds. How did you change my sins into this form? No, never... Why?... I took care of the poor, never worshiped any one but God, and avoided anger and injustice. I took care of the water and the fire and was generous. I had never told a lie, so why am I here? ... Oh, how frightening ... Go away, get away from me..."

Zarbanu's shadow trembled with fear. She turned to her neighbor and said, "What are you saying?"

But he, now crossing the Bridge of the Separator, did not notice her. Twisting and turning, he exclaimed: "Oh what a bridge! What an awesome bridge! There is the golden-eared dog; and there comes Soroush-Rashnu. They are going to weigh my sins. Look at the demons, so many of them. Where did they come from? ... I can't breath. There is no one here to help me... I smell sulphur ... the wind, too, is cold. My bones are splitting. How wicked, dirty, putrid and filthy this place is! It is dark, the road is covered with rocks. It is horrible. How dark. What a scary way! Look at those crocodiles..."

Then he collapsed on top of his own corpse, causing Zarbanu to rise up in fear. At the same time, one of the more curious shadows approached her and said, "Why are you shaking? Come, we are over there. There is no use looking. Come, join us."

Zarbanu answered, "You are an upright girl. Who are you?"

"I am not a girl and I am not upright! I am Nazpari."

"Nazpari! ... Tell me, am I a sinner, I who have suffered all my life?"

"How do I know?"

"Then tell me this. Are we in hell or is this heaven? This man," she pointed at her neighbor, "was screaming and talking about the torture of the Chinevad Bridge, about the golden-eared dog and about the smell of sulphur. Are we hell-bound? That can't be! I know nothing about life but pain and suffering. Aren't you an angel?"

Nazpari smiled and said, "How simple you are! I am a soul like you. This man is crazy. For more than a week he has entertained us with his words and deeds. Sometimes he thinks that he is in seventh heaven, sometimes he finds himself in the way station and sometimes

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in hell. Couldn't you see that he is crazy?"

"I see that now. But earlier I was reciting Afarinegan to myself..."

"Now you have seen the bad," Nazpari interrupted her. "But, let me tell you this. Don't tire yourself with reciting prayers. There are better things to talk about."

Zarbanu suspiciously asked, "You are not from Satan? You are not here to trick me, are you?"

"Don't be childish. How many nights is it that you have been here?"

"Three nights."

"Isn't this the night when we go to your roof top? Isn't anyone reciting the Afarinegan prayer for you?"

"But you said it is useless!"

"It is amusing. We have made a habit of visiting the roof of everyone who dies... Oh, if only you knew how boring our existence is!"

"You are not saying that the holy immortals, the lower gods, the angels, hell, the way station and heaven are all lies?"

"I am not saying anything ... except that we, too, at some point, believed all this just as you do. But the universe, unlike people's imagination, is unlimited. Do you think that the life and death of a low, weak being like man would affect the universe by as much as an iota?"

"So what do I make of all the pain and the suffering that I have experienced? Has that all been for nothing?"

"Hope, that ever-present mirage, kept you going. What else do you want? I wish we, too, could fool ourselves What are we who are experienced to do when a newcomer joins us! His thoughts make us laugh."

"Oh, then was that it?"

"I didn't mean to depress you. I just came to help."

"What kind of help?"

"To put you straight. Then to talk about things."

"I only wanted to see Nahid, my adopted-daughter, and comfort her."

"Worry about yourself; the living are not like us; they are happy and free."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they are happy and free, unlike us who are a handful of aimless shadows, falling on each other, full of dull thoughts and weak perceptions."

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"So what do you do here all this time?"

"We wait... Some say we will return to the earth-plane... But, is that possible? On the earth-plane there is one hope for escape ... there is death. But here even death does not exist. We are doomed. Do you hear, doomed by a blind will. After you have been here for days, months, even years, and during long summer days, dark, cold winter nights, and gray autumn days--after you've seen your own corpse gradually decompose in the sun and the snow storms while the vultures fight each other over it--then you will recall my words."

"What a painful life, or death! You must think the way you do because of watching rotting bones and disintegrating human flesh."

At this time five other shadows joined them. Nazpari said to Zarbanu: "You don't know my friends. This is Javanshir, this is Azin, this is Vandan, this is Mehiar and this is Nushafarin. Each of the five has an idea different from those of the others and they are constantly debating. And that, of course, entertains us."

Zarbanu said, "You mean there are differences of opinion here, too?"

Nazpari said, "What a mistake! People don't change. These are the same earthlings with the same ideas drilled into their heads. If they changed their ideas then they would feel responsible for their past thoughts, deeds, and words."

Zarbanu said, "So there is reward and punishments!"

"Don't jump to conclusions yet," said Mehiar. "Nazpari said that everyone comes to this world with the same ideas that he has had on the earth-plane, meaning that no one becomes an angel and no one a devil. This, however, doesn't mean that there is a reward. Were our lives on the earthplane based on logic?"

Zarbanu said, "I still don't know whether you are serious. Or are you joking? Do you know my mother, Vehafarid? I would like to see her and ask her."

Shahram, who had just joined them, said to Mehiar, "She is new here. She doesn't know."

Javanshir said to Zarbanu, "You are really naive. People don't know each other here the way they did there!"

Nushafarin said to Zarbanu, "Let me put it this way. Twelve years ago I was on the earth and I loved Sinar. And he loved me. After his death I committed suicide, hoping to see him in this world. Now our shadows evade each other. There we were attracted to each other out of lust. But lust doesn't mean anything here. It is good only for the living, on the earth-plane. For the rabble."

Zarbanu said, "So how can you live here without any fear, hope, joy, desire or amusement?"

Nushzad, who had joined them, said, "You still cannot fathom the torture and the mental anguish of passing time. After you have spent days and years on top of the rocks of this mountain and after you have walked aimlessly by the rivers, you will learn to cope."

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Zarbanu said, "All these are new to me. Do you mean that there is no God or creator?..."

Nushzad interrupted her saying, "Away with all these childish stories. They are good for putting idiots to sleep. If there were a God and if I could lay my hands on Him..."

Zarbanu said, "Now I understand. We are all sinners and we are in hell."

"You will get used to it," Nazpari said. "What kind of hope did we have on the earth-plane? We deceived ourselves with stories and tales. Nobody ever asked us about our opinion. We have been doomed from the beginning."

Shirzad, who was tall, strong and cheerful, came forward, "What's the matter now? Don't you know how to spend your time? Why are you cursing the universe? Learn from me. I used to be drunk all the time there and now, too, I have found a good place to spend my time. I spend the day in our cool cellar by the wine barrel. The dampness of the place and the fragrance of the wine remind me of my past life. You people expect too much."

Hoshdiv, who had just arrived, said, "Shirzad here has had a happy life and continues being happy. He is carefree. But me, what did I do? I suffered all my life, made money and put it into a piggy bank and buried it under a tree. Now my daily chore is to go by that tree and watch that no one takes my money."

"You just put your finger on my problem," said Mirangle. "Every day I go to the bazaar and sit beside Firuz, my partner. I am afraid he might cheat my heirs."

"Then why do you come back here at night?" asked Zarbanu.

Mirangle said, "Because we have to return to our bones. Besides, I am used to this place. We gather together and talk about our problems. It is better this way. We are not happy alone. You will see." "Here, too, everybody has a theory," Kohzad added. "We have to wait and see for ourselves. I have tried, but I haven't seen anything. Just a dark spot. Did we know on the earth-plane that we would be wandering around here like this?"

Zarbanu said, "Without joy, without amusement!?"

"Don't feel bad," said Nazpari. "You will get used to it; here we gather around and talk about our past life. Badness, goodness, shame--all are the same here. Each time a new body arrives we amuse ourselves a few days with its shadow. Often we visit the dead in other cemeteries and they tell us about their beliefs and customs. We exchange information. A couple of days ago one of them was with us. Her name was Za'faranbazi. She didn't want to leave here. She was a pleasant woman. But there are others who are quiet and who don't like to mingle with us. They are always thinking, walking around on top of the mountains. Take, for example, Azarnush, sitting on the stairs. When the new shadow arrives, she comes and looks at him with curiosity and then goes back and sits there, quiet and sad. Another one, Sohrab, walks around the wells with the soul of his dog. How nice it would be if the living were to play songs for us and to enjoy life closer to us. It would be nice for them to know that some day they, too, will die. That way they would enjoy life more."

Zarbanu asked, "what do the other dead say--the ones you bring from other cemeteries?"

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"Well," said Nazpari, "we have it good here. Just like kings. Others are buried under dirt. How dirty, dark and eerie that is! Snakes and ants eat their bodies; they struggle. Some of them take refuge in our cemetery. We are free here like a ship on a stormy sea. We are together and can talk to each other freely beyond the weeping and the moaning and the lamentation. We can watch our bodies as they decompose in front of our eyes. I would never agree to be buried under all that dirt."

"I am going crazy," Zarbanu said. "I have suffered so much."

Kohzad said, "There is no doubt about that. And don't forget it. We are doomed. If you can, do change things. With our limited intelligence, we are trying to rationalize everything. What is rational? On earth, material things blinded us to reality. And from up here human beings' lives look like a game devised by a lunatic."

Zarbanu said, "I feel sad. Do we remain like this for ever?"

Rashn, along with other shadows, had approached them. Now he spoke, "We have to wait until such time as we are annihilated in the godhead."

"Don't listen to him," said Azin. "He is crazy. He repeats whatever they taught him on the earth-plane."

Rashn said, "Then you don't believe that we were reincarnated as animals or as human beings so that we could abandon matter."

"For what purpose?" asked Azin.

"To become independent souls," answered Rashn.

Azin asked, "Wasn't the soul independent in the beginning? Suppose it becomes independent, so what? Or suppose that on the earth-plane, there is a factory which manufactures souls. Come on. These ridiculous thoughts are the brainchild of small earthlings."

"You always doubt the obvious," said Rashn.

"And you always believe in the obscure," retorted Azin.

"Is all the pain and suffering on the earth-plane, or over here, pointless?" questioned Rashn.

Azin responded, "You philosophize with your emotions. You are deceiving yourself. Open your eyes. Look at Shirzad over there. All his life he has been drunk; now, too, he goes and sits by the wine barrel and enjoys himself. Hoshdiv, on the other hand, hoarded his money like the Jews. Now he watches over it and thinks about it day and night. Why is this? Neither you nor I know, so we had better drop the subject."

Rashn asked, "Do you think everyone shares your thoughtlessness? If, as you say, all the dead remain on earth, why aren't there thousands and thousands of dead people here? This cemetery has been here for hundreds of years. Where are the shadows of all its dead? Are they all annihilated in the godhead? No, only those who have a strong attachment to material life remain. By entering children's bodies these souls return to the

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world. This process repeats itself until they lose all material pollution. Those who no longer succumb to material inclination join the natural forces and are absolutely annihilated."

Azin said, "In your opinion, therefore, the number of human beings should be on the decrease!"

"No," replied Rashn. "While ascending animal souls enter human bodies, it is entirely possible that the souls of lustful human beings descend into the bodies of beasts. I know a painters soul, for instance, which has assumed the body of a butterfly. He avoids people and spends his time with wildflowers."

"Who told you all this?" asked Azin. "You are mistaken. Souls die, too. Those with more substantial material force will remain longer and then die slowly. How would it be possible to live independent of a body? Everything on the earth and in the sky is transitory and doomed. Why do we delude ourselves with the hope of an eternal life? These are all theories." Rashn replied, "So you are denying our very existence?"

"Not only this," said Azin. "I also deny the life of those living on the earth-plane. Do the living really exist? Are they more than mere thoughts? A handful of shadows created by the dread-inspiring nightmare of an opium addict? From the beginning we have been no more than just a trick and now, too, we are nothing but wandering shadows."

Nazpari intervened, "Rashn and Azin are arguing again. They give me a headache. Let's ask Zarbanu about her pleasures on the earth-plane. We have exhausted what the rest of you have to say."

Zarbanu, who was staring at her corpse, lifted her head and said, "More about the earth-plane?"

"Yes, of course," said Nazpari. "On the earth-plane there is music, there is money, there is wine, there is sleep, there is oblivion, there are love, hard work, hunger, heat, cold, thirst, picnics and even a hope to commit suicide, but we don't have any hope here. We were happy with the life of the living and we entertain ourselves by talking about it."

"And we do not interfere with each other's affairs!" said Zarbanu.

Nazpari said, "Not so. Not so at all. Whenever the living think about us, it makes us happy. That is why they recite the Afarinegan prayer for us and cook for us. What they do reminds us of our own life on the earth-plane. Our only fun is to accompany our friends to the roof of our houses and listen to the living reciting the Afarinegan for us. If they didn't, we would complain to Ahura Mazda through Mehr Soroush. Next week is the anniversary of my death. We will take you along. By the way, don't you have anybody to recite the prayers for you?"

"I have an adopted daughter," said Zarbanu. "Her name is Nahid. I found her on a doorstep. She recites prayers for me."

"What kind of pleasures did you experience on the earth-plane?" asked Nazpari.

"My only pleasure was in death. I hoped that I would see Farhad here, " replied Zarbanu.

Nazpari sympathized, "Poor you! ... You did say that you had suffered."

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"Both my sister, Nushabe, and I fell in love with our paternal uncle's son, Farhad. Farhad loved me very much, but since Nushabe had told me about her love for Farhad I had resisted his love and when he asked me to marry him, I turned him down. Then Farhad took sick. Two months later he died before our eyes. Standing next to his corpse, my sister and I took an oath never to marry. We donned black dresses and thought and thought of nothing but Farhad. Then last year, Nushabe, too, died and I was left alone. Out of loneliness I adopted a girl. Her name is Nahid and she is thirteen years old."

Nazpari said, "But these don't count as pleasures!"

Zarbanu continued, "Well, one night, and only one night, I had fun and enjoyed myself. The rest of my life revolved around that night and sustained me. That was the night when I was alone at home and Farhad entered unexpectedly. He insisted on leaving but I wouldn't let him. Our house has a big yard and three rooms and a balcony on the far side as well as a garden in front. In the middle of the grass there is a pergola made of grape vines. It so happened that that night the weather, too, was mild and agreeable; the moon was out and a nice breeze was blowing. Farhad and I sat on a log in the pergola and he told me of his love as he squeezed my arm. I will never forget that night."

"Then you don't have anyone to recite the Afarinegan prayers for you?" asked Nazpari.

"But yes," Zarbanu answered. "I told you that my adopted daughter will do that for me. She loved me dearly."

"So let's go up on your roof and watch her. Will you take us with you?" asked Nazpari.

Zarbanu said, "Let's go."

The neighbors all got up and held hands. Nazpari took Zarbanu's hand and they glided into the air. When Zarbanu pointed at her house, they landed on the roof. In the balcony a light was burning. A bottle of wine and a basket of cherries, too, had been put there. The garden in front of the balcony had been swept and sprinkled with water. And under the light of the moon the dark green grass resembled velvet. The air was balmy with the fragrance of jasmine, violets and roses. Trees had spread their shadows on the grass; a deep silence covered everything.

Nazpari said, "Apparently no one is at home."

Hoshdiv commented, "The living have no concern for the dead."

Shahram said, "Wine and a basket of fruit instead of prayers!"

Nazpari asked Zarbanu, "Is this the daughter you thought loved you? She is out on the third night of your death!"

Azin said, "It was a long way!"

Nushzad said, "You can't expect more than this from an adopted child."

"How do you know she is a Zoroastrian?" asked Azin.

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Mirangle said to Zarbanu, "Does she have a fiancé?"

"You mean Nahid?" asked Zarbanu. "Never. She is a good girl; don't accuse her."

"Then, where is she? "asked Mirangle.

Zarbanu said, "She is a single girl; maybe she has gone to buy something. She will be back."

Mirangle said, "The living: lucky they who can think about us."

Zarbanu turned to Nazpari and said, "Look, that moonlit night was just like tonight. Do you see that pergola? Farhad and I sat right there. Farhad held my hand and said, 'Why are you so sad? What is happening to you? You weren't like this before. Do you know what will happen to me if you refuse me? ... No, I can't bear it. Do you love someone else, Zari? Tell me, I only want your happiness in life. If you want to marry someone else, just tell me.' My head was lowered and I was listening to him. If you only knew how I felt!"

Nazpari said, "Each of us has a thousand of these stories. What happened to the recitation of the Afarinegan prayers?"

"We are wasting our time," said Hoshdiv.

Shahram said, "We shouldn't have been fooled this easily."

Rashn said, "We will complain to the godhead."

"To Whom did you say you will complain?" asked Azin.

"She must know that we don't need her Afarinegan," said Rashn. "If she had prayed for us, we could easily reciprocate by cleansing her body and soul."

"Don't be childish," said Azin. "If we didn't need it, then why did we come here. And now, why do we want to complain? Besides, if we could avert evil, why didn't we avert it from ourselves?"

Hoshdiv said, "Let's go back. Waiting is useless."

Everyone was ready to leave. Although she had come eagerly, Zarbanu, too, now ashamed and crestfallen, rose to go. Suddenly the door opened and two shadowy figures clad in white entered the garden. It was Nahid accompanied by a young man. They whispered and laughed intermittently. Nahid closed the door; the young man put his arm around her waist and together they glided towards the pergola. Their shadows grew longer, merged into one, separated, and merged again. The shadows on the roof watched their every move. Unaware of the shadows, they went into the pergola and sat on the log. The trembling leaves of the trees covered them. The moonlit jasmine bushes and large yellow sunflowers also trembled in the gentle breeze. This event was so unexpected that it petrified the shadows on the roof.

Azin said, "They didn't say the Afarinegan prayers!"

Nazpari suggested, "Let's get closer so we can hear them better!"

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But Zarbanu grabbed her saying, "No, don't spoil it! Let's go back. This is enough. It reminded me of a happy moment in my life and I am afraid that getting closer will destroy that happy memory. Love, you see, is an enchanting melody, a distant, pleasant song sung by a hideous singer. You mustn't get too close or accost him. That would destroy the pleasure and the joy of his song. So this is enough. This reminded me of the best moment in my life and I enjoyed it more than any Afarinegan that could have been recited for me."

Then they all went back. Zarbanu returned to her corpse and sat there propping her chin in her hand. She refused to speak to the others. Absolute silence returned. The shadows sat around astounded. The howls of the coyotes and the jackals could be heard from afar.

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Lunatique

By Sadeq Hedayat

Translated from the French by Mary K. St. John

Edited by Iraj Bashiri Copyright, © Iraj Bashiri, 1984

A torrential rain, one like those that must have fallen during the earth's formation, lashed the defenseless ground. The wind moved a fine spray of water along the asphalt road. Meanwhile the sea, silent and passive, full of profound, mute and distant love, lay plunged in a leaden fog. Everything was humid, sticky, viscous. The humidity gnawed, penetrating the body and aggravating the soul.

A vague shiver of desire went through the creatures, a breath of "folie" or of drunkenness hoping for oblivion, for tiredness. A desire to abandon everything, even existence itself, awoke. In this passionate lewdness flowed the water, the furious water of some angry God. The rain smothered all outside sounds. Suddenly it stopped.

The room, which I had recently rented on the first floor of a building, seemed comfortable but I had not yet been able to get used to the objects in it. The furniture had a bizarre, enigmatic, animate air: there were a short and sturdy commode; a tall and slender, yet hard and mocking, armoire with a practical air and a round stocky table; and a dainty mirror--all of which surveyed me with a menacing vigilance. An acrid, spicy odor typical of Hindu natives was floating in the air.

Half naked, an old Hindu shoemaker in a red turban had taken shelter under the lintel of my window where, in a holy and resigned pose, he contemplated the mingling of the crowd. Wasted almost to the point of emaciation, he had olive skin and black, sunken eyes. His unkempt beard covered most of his face. An old box and some worn shoes were spread out in front of him.

All afternoon I was glued to my phonograph. A Hindi record, bought at random, obsessed me. I played it and replayed it without interruption, while sitting in the armchair watching the rain and the few passersby who ventured outdoors. My window faced the sea, a grey and lazy mass that merged with the horizon.

Suddenly someone knocked on my door. I opened it. I saw a slender woman, pale, her forehead lined with pale veins, of regular features, with big green eyes and straw-colored hair. With a distracted air she said, "For God's sake, stop that record. It makes me nervous; it grates on my nerves."

"I'm so sorry," I replied.

She thanked me and went back into the next room.

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I stopped the phonograph, thinking that she must be a foreigner even less familiar with Hindi music. Or perhaps she hated it by prejudice. I lay down on my bed to look through a local magazine.

At eight o'clock, I went up to the dining room on the third floor. The manager, a bronzed half-breed who came from Goa but who said he was Portuguese, introduced me to a half dozen persons of dubious nationality. The soup was being served when the door opened loudly and I saw my neighbor make a triumphant entrance. She was wearing a long blue and yellow flowered crêpe dress, tightly fitted and low cut. She wore it with a natural elegance that heightened her beauty and added a rustic gaiety to her slim silhouette. She acknowledged the guests with a nod of the head and sat down at the last vacant place at our table.

After supper, I asked the manager about the woman. He, with his simian physiognomy and a glint in his eyes, told me, "Her name is Felicia, an adventuress tormented by tropical crises." Then, smiling, he added, "A bit of advice: don't play with fire."

I was very much intrigued by this woman of bizarre allure, she who had so cruelly deprived me of my musical orgy.

On leaving for my evening walk, I saw Felicia in front of my window conversing animatedly with the Hindu shoemaker.

Between stray clouds, the full moon, pale and phosphorescent, like the eye of a dead fish, cast its weak light over "Bombay at Night." The whole sky seemed to have been sprayed with a luminous, milky liquid. The buses and taxis moved with a melancholy clanking noise. I took the road leading to the jetty amidst a throng of people wearing long tunics and enormous multicolored turbans. The women in brilliant saris seemed to float softly. The teaming masses, the strange mix of the lower class, the perverts, the foreigners and Hindus of a million faces, gave me the impression of a costume ball.

On my return along the jetty from Apollo Bunder, I saw Felicia sitting on the breakwater stairs, hands clasped, eyes dilated. She was staring fixedly at the full moon's reflection in the sea. Her diaphanous pallor and the trembling of her lips betrayed her deep emotion.

Lost in her dreams, she paid no attention whatsoever to the passersby.

When I returned to the pension, the heat was overpowering. I turned on the fan and lay down but the dry cough of the old shoemaker kept me from sleep.

The next evening she wasn't present at dinner. Afterward I went to the elevator and pressed the button. A click. The docile apparatus slid along its cables and stopped. I pulled open the door and pushed aside the gate. To my great astonishment, there was Felicia, motionless as a marble statue; a soft and provocative perfume surrounded her. It was she who spoke first, in French, with a strong English accent.

"Are you free this evening?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"Do you want to escort me as far as Green?"

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"With pleasure."

She had changed. Her attitude and facial expression were subdued. On our way out she stopped before the Hindu shoemaker.

"Tabiat tik hey?" she said.

In a gesture of respect, the Hindu pressed his hands together and raised them to his head, bowing ceremoniously.

"Saheb salom parmatma tamara balakareh, bal batche sonkira ke!" he replied.

She opened her purse and slid some coins into his hand. He bent to the ground saying, "Bhagvan marguia, Bhagvan marguia."

"I hate this guy," I said. "He coughs all the time. Last night I couldn't even close my eyes. I don't know why he has chosen to sit in front of my window."

"Poor Bhagvan," she replied. "He is my protégé. At times I feel great pity for him. At times I'm afraid of him, and at other times he disgusts me. And, although he obeys me like a dog, he has an extraordinary power over me. He is very ill now; I have to take him to the hospital. Tomorrow I'll arrange it."

She wasn't looking at me; she was looking through me as if I were made of glass. We made our way towards Apollo Bunder, while the shoemaker, folded up, coughed incessantly.

The moon, rosy like a well-polished brass plate, was sitting on the horizon. Dressed in a white sari, Felicia seemed as indifferent to the spectacle as if she were a sleepwalker. Her beauty was dazzling. She was humming a jazz tune in a frail, pretty voice, a weak voice, full of breaks, yet sad and haunting. The brim of her hat threw a shadow over her green eyes.

Then, without my having asked any questions, she told me she was originally from Calcutta and had been raised in Europe. She added, "I traveled a bit in Europe and Asia, but never did a country attract me like India. I was always homesick. Its only in the weighty atmosphere of this country that I can live. It is not snobbism that makes Europeans see only fakirs, snake charmers, rajahs and temples in India. The first to visit a country or a people return to tell their stories and all the others follow blindly, seeing only that which has been described. Mysterious India, its fasts, its poverty and its miracles, have been exploited to exhaustion. I hate these miracles. For me, the biggest miracle is that I exist." She spoke as though trying to persuade herself.

"With your acquaintances and your experience," I ventured, "you could easily become a good reporter."

She listened distractedly, eyes fixed on the people around us, not even seemingly interested in what I was saying.

"Oh how I hate that profession!" she said. "All that I seek is to enrich myself. I hate to share the best part of my life experience with curious readers. I have no desire to bare my soul or seek fame. What for?"

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With a dreamy air, she stopped a moment in front of the "Gate of India."

"Do you smell this flammable gas?" she asked. "That smell reminds me of the flammable gas that's hidden in us all."

A moment later, she added, "I'm invited out this evening." Then she said goodbye and left. She stopped again, suspicious, then suddenly turned around and left me. Her silhouette, thin and white, slipped through the bizarre crowd promenading toward Green. But the waves didn't bring in the pure salty breath of the ocean to sweep away this heavy noxious atmosphere. Several dinghies struggled hopelessly among the capricious waves.

So I was abandoned in the humid road, in the opaque night, fed up with Bombay. I was overwhelmed by a mad but powerless wish to escape here, to travel to the ends of the earth--a wish that could not be fulfilled. A bitter wave of regret, desire, sadness swept over me. It so engulfed me that my whole life, past, present, and future, seemed as empty as that road, full of boredom, solitude, and aggravating hallucinations.

I had been asking myself, since last night, why I mingled with this capricious, eccentric woman, this brazen, dangerous adventuress? It was as if a mysterious force had endowed her with charms and bestowed on her an incomprehensible attraction. Why did she act as though I were the center of her attention yet, moments later, become distant and reserved? And her attachment to that poor devil of a shoemaker was inexplicable, given her connections with Indian and European society and those rich, foreign businessmen. Every Sunday, luxurious cars pulled up in front of our pension to take her to Djouhou, Bombay's most fashionable beach, but she would often reject the offers, going instead to the Taj or Green with some unknown youths--just to demonstrate that she was not interested in people of distinction. Even more puzzling was her vague job selling Parisian fashions in a boutique.

She surely was spoiled and blemished. Were not her complexes the result of incompatible marriages or even of marriages among the next of kin? I certainly couldn't resolve these complicated problems.

In returning to the pension, I saw old Bhagvan folded in half like an empty envelope on the sidewalk, snoring away.

The next morning, I saw her speaking to Bhagvan in front of my window. I waved a greeting and she came to my window. Extending to me her hand in which she held a fawn-colored glove, she asked, "Do you have ten rupees I could borrow?"

I gave her my wallet. She took out a five-rupee note and gave it to Bhagvan. Then she added, "Until this evening."

At dinner she gave me the five rupees. The other guests exchanged meaningful smiles. As we went out together, she said, "Could we take a walk in the Hanging Gardens?"

I hailed a taxi and we drove off

"I had Bhagvan taken to St. George's Hospital today. He's not in good condition. I went twice to the hospital to see how he was."

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Then she lapsed into a dreamy mood. I was more or less used to her fantasies now, but I could not understand her attachment to this poor shoemaker. I thought it was perhaps a mania, an indulgence of the very wealthy who are sometimes charitable to the poor, but only to show off their magnanimity. But, to be really charitable, shouldn't the source of such deeds remain unknown?

As we rode, she kept an obstinate silence, looking at the deserted streets, the native quarters and the teeming marketplace.

I didn't want to annoy her. The taxi dropped us in front of the Hanging Gardens. We followed the well-lit paths through tropical vegetation, then crossed a splendid garden from which we could see the sea and the lights of the sleeping city. We walked side by side and her dress brushed against me. I could smell her soft and light perfume.

For a moment, she leaned against the cement balustrade that ran along the ravine, gazing into the darkness at the Tower of Silence. From afar, the unpleasant scream of a vulture disturbed the stillness of the night. The heavy sky was menacing. The damp trees gave off exciting odors. Felicia turned towards me.

"It's going to rain soon. We'd better go back," she said.

She wasn't wrong. Just as we got into the taxi, the sky burst and the rain came down in sheets. The city was engulfed in the rain and darkness. She was right next to me. I was almost touching her bare arm and was intoxicated by her perfume. She was more at ease, calmer, and the atmosphere was very intimate. Suddenly a flood of confidences sprayed from her lips.

She told me about a Hindu myth in which a vase of Soma represents the moon. The Soma is depleted as the gods drink it, only to be replenished again by the sun. Then she confided that her own emotions were affected by the phases of the moon. She felt as though she were a toy belonging to some strange force, foreign, yet part of her. She was directed by it and couldn't help but obey.

"It's stronger than I," she added. "I know the moon decides my destiny. I am its slave. I don't know, maybe in a past life I committed some grave sin? What I have to live with is terrible--two divorces in Europe and now living here in India. I can no longer live anywhere else. I don't know if it's the poetry or the philosophy of India that draws me. You know, the line dividing the three states of nature, where life and death disappear. The Indians are the only people in the world who have based their morals and customs on abstract philosophy. One day in Benares I was at the side of the Ganges. Suddenly, the grandeur of Hindu philosophy dawned on me. With total indifference one for the other, a marriage was being celebrated on one spot, nearby the dead were being cremated and, not far away, holy men performed their ablutions. For thousands of years, the Hindu soul has remained the same. In spite of modernization, nothing has really changed and nothing in this country can be considered ordinary. Thanks to their atavism, these people have a great richness and force."

The taxi stopped in front of our pension. Her limpid eyes rested on me for an instant without seeming to see me and, with an easy air, she said, "Let's go to your room."

I took her to my room. She looked troubled. Her eyes were full of supplication. I was bemused by her anxious gestures, her sickly white color and her rambling speech. At the

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same time I was trembling with desire.

Her cold, yet aggressive, manner on the first day I'd met her and her subsequent resigned submission fueled my desire.

The rain still fell, less violently but with the same mercilessness, surety and blind will. I played a few records. She listened distractedly and was obviously bored; then suddenly she said, "I have a premonition that something bad is going to happen to me."

To sooth her, I got next to her on the bed and tried to take her hands in mine. And, I should add, I was burning with passion. But, irritated, she withdrew her hand.

"Ah! Let go of me! Who do you take me for?" She said this with a sarcastic laugh that rang oddly through the room, "You are mistaken, my friend. You disgust me, do you hear me? If I confide in you, it's because outwardly you seem serious, even timid, and because you are a foreigner and a traveler. How much I dread the people here. They mock me and treat me as if I were a madwoman. But, be assured, I would not give one of Bhagvan's hairs in exchange for you."

I was astounded; on the one hand I was disconcerted and humiliated at the role I had played in this masquerade; on the other, I deeply resented the old shoemaker.

Then she left, slamming the door.

The rain came down in buckets. I undressed in haste. Her incoherence, bizarre behavior, and scornful, nervous laugh had quite upset me. I decided never to speak to her again and plunged into a book, although I didn't know what I was reading. Despite my every effort, Felicia filled my thoughts. My whole being yearned for her, her words, her smiles, her gestures. The sadness of this was exquisite.

At meals the next day, I was careful to ignore her, and she me. After supper, someone knocked on my door. There, wearing a beautiful robe appliquée with Chinese designs, was Felicia. She entered the room with a smile. Her transparent pallor, her lovely body and her soft perfume affected me. She spoke to me in the familiar, "Do you attach any importance to what I told you the other night? I was expecting something evil to happen. Did you hear the horrible news?"

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"Well, this afternoon the hospital telephoned that Bhagvan died."

"It's not possible. No, I didn't know."

"So, can I ask you a favor? Come with me to claim his body and send it to Soummatpur. I'm afraid they'll send him to the medical school to be dissected."

"Now let's be patient. The hospital is closed at this time of night. We'll take care of it in the morning."

Dissatisfied, she stamped her foot sulkily, "We must, we must go right away. I'm so afraid. He had confidence in me. It's a sacrilege, don't you understand?"

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She burst into tears and fell on my bed.

"I'm so alone," she babbled, "so unhappy. I counted on you. Come here, I have something to say to you."

I approached hesitantly as she offered me her delicate hands and then confided, "I've never dared tell anyone but-- I am extremely partial to these humble lives, these simple people whose lives vanish as do the waves in the ocean. This poor devil Bhagvan came into the world, then departed without leaving a single trace. He never even tried to indicate that he had been a speaking, moving, thinking entity. Now he is no more. His death was as meaningless as his life. And there are millions just like him. Surely he believed in his karma. He accepted his fate with resignation and he was convinced that after death he'd be reborn perhaps to a better life.

And I was familiar with his world. I often noticed, even the first time that I took him my shoes to be shined, that he loved me. He admired me and desired me. Mostly he desired me. In my dreams I saw him burning with passion. But whether it is he or someone else who loves me I am not sure. These Hindus are incredibly secretive; it's in their blood. But at the same time they are very quiet; they never talk about their secrets. His extremely respectful manner exasperated me. If I helped him, it was to satisfy myself. He didn't need me any more than he needed the others. The Hindus can tolerate death itself. It was more that I needed him. Although I have many rich admirers, they are maybe less intelligent and less humane than Bhagvan. All they have is money, and it's the money that gives them their prestige and impudence. They indulge themselves in anything and give themselves airs of intelligence. Oh! How I hate them! I've always hated them from the bottom of my heart. So, he withered away, dissolved in front of this window, and now he's dead. He'll be cremated and the wind will carry away his ashes. He suffered in spite of his desires and passions. He, but no one else, knew that desire and passion are blown away by the wind. Isn't his our fate as well?"

She spoke as though trying to convince herself. Her pupils were dilated, her lashes were long and blond and a bluish vein swelled her forehead. Her severe manner had changed. She was simple, almost naive. She leaned against me; her uncanny expression was a combination of fear and passion. I felt her skin and could count her heart beats. A dull rhythm began to beat in my veins, at first slow, then faster and faster. I asked myself why she wanted to visit me and why she confessed so much.

She gestured towards the window, "Please close the curtain."

It was hot and muggy, heavy with a coming storm. The air stuck to the skin like a shirt full of sweat. The crescent moon, bathed in red, was setting onto the horizon. I drew the curtain and hesitantly remained at the window.

"Come closer," she murmured.

She talked for a long time, from time to time raising her head to me as if for approval. Then she fell to her knees, put her arms around me and, pleadingly, leaned her extraordinary blond head against me and murmured softly. She spoke words of love, trembling with secret tears. Her words had the resonance and gravity of magic charms.

I was just going to embrace her when I heard wings beating and saw a bat, a harmless animal which comes out at night especially during the rainy season. Frightened, it flew

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around my room.

Felicia, frozen with fear, huddled against me and cried, "Do you see? It's his soul, Bhagvan's soul! He's come to punish me. He's come to catch us together. I must leave you immediately."

I, too, lost much of my enthusiasm and a special sense of fear overtook me. She got up with difficulty and, without saying goodbye, bolted out. I didn't know what to do. Vaguely uneasy, I turned out the light and lay down. Soon I fell into a deep sleep.

I got up early the next morning and dressed hastily. I knocked on her door; no response.

I saw the manager in the corridor. Indicating Felicia's room, he said with his shifty smile, "She didn't tell me in advance, but she left last night. I don't know where she's gone. Fortunately, she had already paid. I told you that you shouldn't trust such an adventuress. The people of the tropics are like that!"

Notes:

1. How are you feeling?

2. Peace be upon you. May God protect you and your children.

3. Bhagvan died.

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The Last Smile

By Sadeq Hedayat

Translated by Iraj Bashiri Copyright, © Iraj Bashiri, 1984

In this world nothing is permanent. Life is like a flame produced by rubbing two pieces of wood against each other; it glows momentarily and then it dies out. We are cognizant neither of its origin nor of its destination.

the Buddha

In a splendid chamber lit by countless, fragrant candles, its floor covered with rare carpets and its walls draped with valuable silks, the Barmecides Ruzbehan, Azadbakht, Gushwad, the commander of the Khorasan regiment, and Barzan, the Minister of the Treasury, had gathered to discuss the recent events at the court of the Caliph. They wore long, leather hats and printed silk robes. Before them stood cups of wine and priceless vessels filled with sweets and fruit. Their gestures, clothes and views were harmonious; in its dignity and majesty, the assembly was so exalted that it seemed that a piece of the devastated Sassanian aristocracy had been resurrected. Azadbakht, with a graceful gesture of his hand, was saying, "You name it and the Caliph will do it! I suspected his sincerity from the beginning. He no longer needs us, and you will see that soon he will begin his opposition."

Gushwad added, "The most damaging thing for us is this rift between Ja'far and his father and brothers. Ja'far, in his insanity, has ruined our plans. Just consider his affair with that forty-year-old bitch, 'Abbaseh! Or consider his cooperation with 'Abd al-Malek Saleh, an enemy of the Caliph, or the enormous sums he embezzled from the treasury to give Saleh, only to be double-crossed in the end! Ja'far's deeds have sown seeds of suspicion in the Caliph's mind, turning him against the Barmecides. Both Yahya and Fazl, on the other hand, have been behaving with sound and logical minds."

Barzan notes, "For a while now, the Caliph has been disinterested in Ja'far. These days his boon companion and guide in pleasure is Zarat ibn Mohammad. Furthermore, Musa writes me that recently Harun turned Yahya ibn 'Abdollah, Ja'far's accomplice, over to Ja'far for execution, but Ja'far released the culprit. Fazl ibn Rabi', of course, informed Harun of this. As you can see, the rift between the Barmecides and the Caliph widens."

Azadbakht, "But is this reason enough for Harun's anger at all the Barmecides?"

Barzan, "You are right to wonder. But this is only part of its cause. Let us not be oblivious to the opposition of 'Isa, son of Mahan. This same man who became governor of Khorasan, with Yahya's aid, now informs the Caliph that the Barmecides are attached to the faith of their ancestors, that they promote irreligion, Magism and Zoroastrianism. Otherwise, why should Harun appoint an individual to oversee our every move! Furthermore, Musa is being accused of inciting rebellion. One of the Caliph's relatives writes him, and I quote, 'Many of the inhabitants look upon Musa as the real Imam and pay their religious dues to him,' and Abu Rabi'a writes Harun as follows, 'And what will the

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Caliph's answer be when, on Resurrection Day, he must defend entrusting the lands of the Muslims to the irreligious, Zendiq Barmecides!?"'

Azadbakht, "This morning I received a messenger from Bamiyan who says that Balkh is struck with the plague and that the newly Islamized inhabitants, attributing the disease to the anger of God, are returning to Buddhism. Of course when this news reaches the Caliph, he will assume it is a Barmecide prelude to revolt."

Barzan, "In addition, are you aware of the fact that Harun, for reasons unknown, has had Ja'far's secretary, Ans ibn Abi-Sheykh, beheaded? Fazl considers this event a bad omen and feels it is the beginning of the Caliph's war against the Barmecides."

Gushwad, "We made a mistake when we showed the Arabs the ways of government, but we didn't stop there. We wrote a grammar for their language; we devised a philosophy for their religion; we fought their battles; our own youths were killed for them; we offered them our thought, soul, industry, music, science and literature on a silver platter, hoping to tame and civilize their wild and restive souls. But alas! Their race and their thought patterns are essentially at variance with ours. And they should be! These ferocious individuals with sunburnt skin and ugly calloused hands are mere highwaymen whose minds are rooted in camel dung. Can they be any better? Their whole bodily constitution confirms an inclination to theft and treachery. How can we expect more from Arabs who just yesterday ran after lizards barefoot, who dwell in miserable black tents? Harun's kindness and congeniality were mere artifice; inside he nourished a deep hatred for us and plotted vengeance against us. He thirsted for Iranian blood. Now, of course, the Arabs have achieved their goal. Arab thought, like a ripe, open boil, has polluted the entire civilized world, and there is no more use for us."

Azadbakht, "Like pebbles, Khaled, Yahya, Fazl and Ja'far have bestowed the valuable jewels and the fortune that had been gathered at the Nowbahar temple for centuries on these mouse-eating Arabs; every punk poet has received a treasure. And what have our brothers achieved? They have bought themselves the anger, the hatred, the vengeance and the envy of a bunch of camel drivers. Harun envied us from the beginning. He envied us for our court, for our thought and for our dignity. He envied us even for our customs and way of life. And he is not the only one; these Arabs who work around us and flatter us are our bitter enemies, too. They are simply awaiting a gesture from above before they revenge their race."

Ruzbehan, "No. You are wrong. Barmak and his sons joined the Caliph and Islam intentionally. They meant to influence the events; they intended to weaken Islam and gradually do away with it so that they could rebuild the Nowbahar temple, invite the people back to Buddhism and eventually rebel against the Caliph. That is why they tried so hard to assure the Arabs of their good intentions, and they have succeeded. In the past the Arab caliphs have been nothing but puppets, manipulated by the Barmecides. The Barmecides are the real rulers. As for holding the empire together, if the Arabs think the Barmecides have worn out their usefulness, they are gravely mistaken for, were the Barmecides to abandon their positions today, the very fabric of the empire would be torn asunder. If there has been any material or spiritual aid from the Barmecides to the Arabs, it has been for the promotion of the Barmecides' own interests. What does an Arab aspire to? Gold, silver and a harem full of women. This is the zenith of an Arab's desires. This is why they prospered; and now they have arrived at their promised paradise. The Barmecide plan has been implemented and must continue. We must pursue our people's efforts and those efforts must culminate in the desired objective: the massacre of the

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Arabs and the independence of Iran."

Barzan, "In his recent letter, Fazl warns us to be careful, cautioning that we must decrease our association with the Arabs--we must keep our distance. His whole hope rests upon Khorasan because in Khorasan the Barmecide influence is felt more strongly than in any other place and because Khorasan is far from the court. He says we must find a way to rouse the people against the Caliph from Khorasan to Balkh. The Caliph will send one of us to quell the rebellion. Then we can incite the Caliph's army to mutiny, kill the Arab commanders and gain the independence of Khorasan. This plan must be executed perfectly; it is our only hope. Everything is now in readiness. But Fazl has warned us not to act until we hear from him again; the situation is perilous and uncertain and he has not yet made his final decision."

Azadbakht to Gushwad, "Are you sure that your regiment can be trusted to follow orders when the time comes?"

Gushwad, "Rest assured. At my bidding all the commanders will rebel against the Caliph; the massacre of the Arabs will be accomplished in short order. For the present, however, I wait for Fazl's messenger, Firuz."

Azadbakht, "Then the massacre must be finished before 'Isa, son of Mahan, returns."

Ruzbehan, "And before Harun issues the order for the massacre of all the Barmecides!"

Azadbakht, "What if the Caliph's order arrives before Fazl's message?"

Barzan, "That is impossible. Our messenger regularly arrives two days before the Caliph's. We have the best messenger service around."

Suddenly Ruzbehan opened a golden box and removed a pill. He put it in his mouth and washed it down with a cup of wine. Then he rose to leave. The others needed Ruzbehan's further advice but, accustomed to his mysterious and sudden departures, they dared not prevent him from going. Despite the importance of the subject, and though he was instrumental to the discussion, Ruzbehan thus walked slowly to the door and left. Beyond the door, two slave boys carrying lanterns met him.

The city of Tus, its mosques, gardens and mansions, was shrouded in darkness. Only the sound of a camel's bell and the voice of a distant singer intermittently broke the silence. A light breeze filled the air with the fragrance of acacia flowers.

Ruzbehan, who seemed not to be in a natural mood, passed through a couple of dark, narrow alleys. He did not look around him but gazed steadfastly at the trembling light of the lantern. He arrived at the door of his house, and his escorts bowed as the door opened. From inside came the sound of a waterfall and the whisper of a cool breeze. Zarrin Kamar, Ruzbehan's special slave, met him and, without uttering a word, handed him a sealed message. Ruzbehan took the letter and, barely seeing it, shuffled through the house like a somnambulist, Zarrin Kamar following close behind. The pair had passed through a labyrinth of corridors when Ruzbehan stopped at a steel door adorned with Indian designs. Zarrin Kamar opened this door and Ruzbehan entered the chamber. Zarrin Kamar followed, closing the door behind him.

The chamber was a spacious one with a small pool in the center. It was lit by chandeliers

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of ivory and colored glass whose subdued and mysteriously colored lights made this a very splendid place. At the end of the chamber reposed a statue of the Buddha in the lotus position. Of metal, it stood about two yards high. The eyes, made of ruby, glowed as if on fire. The face was cunning; yet it retained the regularity of features noteworthy in Indian sculpture. He had a fat belly; his hands rested on his knees. His eyebrows were narrow, his nose small, the eyes expressionless. A mocking, philosophical smile played across the lips, as if the Buddha recalled some memorable moments of a previous life. Two deep wrinkles creased the corners of his mouth. The face expressed at once serenity, confidence, mockery and contempt. A thin silk curtain was drawn before the statue while incense burners, emitting rings of fire which filled the air with fragrance, flanked its sides.

The walls were lavishly decorated with representations of the Buddha, the angels and companions. There were other, curtain-like paintings depicting "the life of the Buddha," Buddha's meeting with Gupa, his fiancée, his meeting with the beggar, with the yogi, with the dead and so forth. The lower part of the wall was a dark crimson, the color of liver or gums. From the middle of the chamber a small spring gushed, trickling into a shallow pond finished with colored marble. Beside this pond, near the spring, was a large mattress filled with swan feathers and adorned with colorful, embroidered silk pillows.

Ruzbehan sat down on the mattress, assumed a lotus position and stared at the statue of the Buddha. He seemed to be concentrating his thoughts. His throat was dry; his mouth tasted like gum extracted from a pine tree. Suddenly his mind became active and the deep crevices along his mouth formed an unmistakable expression of happiness. A tall girl of tender age, like a shadow or a genie, with large eyes, bare arms and dark hair stuck to her temples, entered carrying a jug of wine. Wearing a large earring, a white dress and soft slippers, she put the jug beside the mattress and sat down. Pouring a cup of wine, she handed it to Ruzbehan. Zarrin Kamar removed the thin veil from the statue of the Buddha; then he brought a delicate musical instrument resembling a sitar and he, too, sat down at the edge of the mattress.

The girl, Golchehr, and Zarrin Kamar were both from Soghdia; they were like two creatures born from cloud and smoke. In this mysterious subterranean dwelling, beneath the subdued light of the chandeliers, they appeared even more magical. Their faces were beautiful, pleasant and polite. They were like two angels, like two of the angels painted on the wall.

As Zarrin Kamar began to play the musical instrument, a transient smile crossed his half-open lips, as if some distant and memorable moment were awakened in his imagination. He played a Soghdian tune which began quite low, soft and staccato, and built gradually to a fast and exciting crescendo followed by a sudden cadence. This song had no particular meaning for the casual listener; only basic notes were being played. But every pluck at the instrument conveyed a world of sensation and meaning to Ruzbehan. It was as though a lengthy song had been condensed to a few notes, highlighting the basics while leaving the details to the listener's imagination. Repeatedly Golchehr filled the cup and handed it to Ruzbehan and he drank the wine without stopping. The music became unusually soft and mysterious. It was as if this music had been invented for celestial rather than terrestrial ears.

Ruzbehan's gaze centered on the face of the Buddha, at times glancing aside to the waves on the water. It appeared that the music had imparted a special soul to the pictures on the wall, that now they had come to life. The trembling of the strings of the instrument saturated the air with this soft and mysterious music and even the water from the spring,

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the statue of the Buddha and the pictures on the wall moved in time with the music. The distant, celestial notes mingled the atoms of Ruzbehan's being with the waves, making them one. During such moments it seemed that his life was becoming one with the waves. He experienced a new and mysterious awareness, enabling him to discern the secrets of creation. He gazed at the waves on the surface of the water as they undulated with every note and disappeared. He was engrossed in his own thoughts as if in purgatory, hovering between existence and nonexistence. Oblivious of the future, time and space, he plunged into a limbo of the mind where everything, even life and death, is unthinkable. Golchehr followed her master's every move as she served the wine, watching for familiar signs to indicate that he had had his fill, that she and Zarrin Kamar should leave. But this time, to her astonishment, unlike other evenings, Ruzbehan kept on drinking. Seductively and repeatedly she filled the cup and handed it to Ruzbehan, each time pressing her body closer to his. Suddenly the breaking shoulder strap of her garment uncovered her chest and one breast. Though it seemed that Ruzbehan paid no attention, this time, instead of taking the cup, he grabbed Golchehr by the waist, dragged her close and brought her lips close to his. Then, with an extraordinary effort, he pushed her away, grabbed the cup and dismissed the girl and Zarrin Kamar with a wave of his hand. Once they had gone, Ruzbehan produced a powder from his pocket, poured it into his cup, drank the wine and resumed his concentration on the face of the Buddha.

* * *

Ruzbehan the Barmecide and his family were all Buddhists. His grandfather, Barmak, son of Jamasp, belonged to one of the noble Iranian families who since the Parthian era had been entrusted with the hereditary guardianship of the Nowbahar temple in Balkh. Ruzbehan was also the grandson of Khaled the Barmecide's brother, Hassan; his mother was the daughter of the Magus, the king of the Chaghaniyan. The Nowbahar temple, known in Sanskrit as "noweh vehara" or new temple, was a major Buddhist sanctuary visited by pilgrims from India and China. Even some of the kings of Khorasan had made pilgrimage there: standing before the towering statue of the Buddha, they prayed and kissed the hand of the guardian of the temple. In the year 24 A.H. (646 AD), 'Abdollah ibn 'Omar ibn Qoraysh dispatched Qays ibn Haytan Aslami to Balkh to capture that domain and destroy the temple. In this raid the temple was robbed of all its valuables including four doors: three steel and one silver. When finally the Barmecides returned to prominence, they repaired the Buddhist temple, identifying it to unsuspecting Muslims as a fire temple. During these dark days, the Barmecides made a show of adherence to Islam, but covertly they remained faithful to their own creed, secretly plotting against the Arabs and biding their time until they could rid Iran of Arab domination. Gradually they gained influence, bringing all major military and civilian administrations within their control. In the past Harun had offered Ruzbehan several lucrative positions, but the Barmecide had made excuses to the Caliph. Instead he had worked during the day making most crucial decisions and, at an appointed hour, about midnight, he had left for his underground retreat, leaving the tiring routine of daily meetings behind. In the morning he emerged to face another full day of administrative tasks and difficult resolutions. His task was particularly awesome because he was the trustee of Yahya, Fazl, Musa and Mohammad and because he shouldered the responsibility for implementing the Barmecide plan to gain the independence of Khorasan, a province which extended from Balkh and Bamiyan to the gates of Iraq. Moreover, as a scholar he participated in many learned discussions organized by Muslim, Brahman, Buddhist, Zoroastrian, Manichean, Mazdakite and Christian theologians, legislators, poets and physicians who came from Gondishapur. At night, however, after taking a pill sent to him by the guardian of the "Noweh Sangha Rama" in Balkh, his mood changed and he

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would head for his personal, subterranean mansion. It was as though his life were drawn between two poles: his days were filled with the challenges of life, his nights with rest and tranquility in his own "mute mansion". The title "mute" indicated that no one was allowed to utter a word within the bounds of this sanctuary.

At night, when a second being like a shadow or a spirit obsessed him, Ruzbehan sank deeply into his own philosophical world. His involvement in Buddhism was both intellectual and artistic. He had made certain compromises to give his version of Buddhism an Iranian flavor. One could say he had softened the Buddha's strict rules of self-mortification and abstinence. He had relaxed the pledge of self-mortification, allowing himself wine, for instance, and had special ideas with respect to abstinence. A lack of pleasure tied to the absence of temptation did not, to his mind, constitute a case of yogic abstention; rather he believed that one should be able to abstain while placed in the midst of the pleasures and amenities of life. For this reason he had created this "mute mansion," incorporating in its delights every possible means of pleasure. It was amid the beautiful faces, the most delectable wines, to the lament of the saz and the fragrance of rare perfumes that he would close his eyes and plunge into philosophical dreams. This, for him, was the true yogic experience. Ruzbehan's goal was to annihilate all personal desire by closing his eyes to the needs and pleasures of the flesh. He performed this exercise repeatedly in the hope of attaining the elevated spirituality achieved by the Buddha. Surely such achievement would be the key to happiness, a key unknown to ordinary man! But what most attracted Ruzbehan to Buddhism was the statue of the Buddha and especially the firm, mocking, cunning, indescribable smile. It was a smile resembling the vibrations of the strings of the saz or the shining waves of the shallow pond upon which the colored lights of the chandelier played. Ruzbehan's philosophy, in the main, was inspired by these waves and by the smile of the Buddha--his was the philosophy of the "wave." In every being, form or thought he discerned a passing wave. The whole creation resembled the still surface of a pond like the pond before him which, if disturbed by an untimely breeze, produced countless passing waves. When the breeze stops, thought Ruzbehan, everything will return to its original form--to Nirvana or the everlasting nothingness. Life and death, happiness and misfortune, he concluded, are all waves, passing whims, or gateways to the nothingness of Nirvana. They are the whispers of a breeze lilting whimsically over the surface of the water. Life seemed a pitiful spectacle, and so he sought the remedy for his sorrows in drinking and in the abandonment of desire. And he intended to put an end to his own desire for living, since according to the teachings of the Buddha, desire nourished the reincarnation of the soul, enabling it to persist on earth. Whoever could do away with desire, he thought, could achieve annihilation or eternal bliss.

Ruzbehan believed that the Buddha's smile confirmed his wave theory; the Buddha's smile, too, had formed on his lips like a passing wave. For a long time now Ruzbehan had attempted to pose like the Buddha; every evening he practiced that happy, sorrowful, cunning and noble smile. Were he to imitate this smile properly, he thought, he would experience the state of bliss and Buddhahood. But this night, because he had licentiously desired Golchehr he added some powder to his wine, drank it and resumed his singular concentration upon the face of the Buddha. Was this a sleep-inducing drug, or was it the elixir of life?

* * *

That very night, the 13th of Safar, 187 A.H. (809 AD), before Ruzbehan's plan could be implemented, the Caliph's messenger arrived with the order for the massacre of the Barmecides. That night twelve hundred Barmecide women, children, relatives, friends,

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slaves and sympathizers were put to death.

The following day, several Arabs broke the steel door down and entered the mute mansion. They found the chandelier extinguished but the fire still burning, lighting the Buddha's mocking smile. Ruzbehan, leaning somewhat but still seated in the lotus position on the mattress, had become petrified. At his side was a saz resembling a sitar and a jug of wine. In his left hand, he held a crumbled piece of paper. One of the intruders approached and pulled it from his hand. Emblazoned with the seal of Fazl, son of Yahya the Barmecide, the note ordered the massacre of all the Arabs to gain the independence of Khorasan. Ruzbehan's lowered face was reflected in the pool, a dark glow in his motionless eyes. The Buddha's philosophical smile had dried on his lips. Reflected darkly in the waves of the shallow pond, the ominous and mysterious smile appeared to say: This too, like the waves on the water, like the smile of the Buddha, is no more than a wave--a humorous, passing wave.