the Killing of an Arab- a Novel--First 4 Chapters- Hooshang Danesh

8/9/2019 the Killing of an Arab- a Novel--First 4 Chapters- Hooshang Danesh

1/43

The Killing of an ArabNovel

Hooshang Danesh


2/43

Copyrights 2010 by HooshangDanesh

All rights reserved. No part of this bookmay be reproduced or transmitted in anyform or by any means, electronic, ormechanical, including photocopying,recording, or by any information storageand retrieval system, without permissionin writing from the copyright owner. Thisis a work of fiction, any resemblance to

actual people is coincidental.

First Edition


3/43

Chapter One: Contact

We are video-chatting, my friend and I. He is

married and lives in Amsterdam. He is not

Dutch, but were both rootless, and restless--

doctors, we can go anywhere.

He is amazed by the on-line availability of

medical texts in States. He is picking my brains,

like hes suddenly been dropped into a virtualtoy-store, and theres no way out of there.

What else you got?

Nothing, that would interest you!

Just tell me what you got, will you?

Look: I have Atlas of Endometriosis, 3rd

Edition!

-1-


4/43

Send the file, Ill take it.

Youll take it? You are a Psychiatrist for Gods

sake!

Im married though, you never know!

Send her to a gynecologist, are you mad ?

Look , I like to collect text-books, they are free,arent they?

Theyll sit on your hard disk forever!

Let me worry about that.

Ok, its sent.

He looks exasperated, sitting in front of the

webcam. His hair standing upright on his head,

been slept on . Its a Sunday, he looks disheveled.

I can hear his kids in the background.

You should see the way you look--like a

frenzied mad dog!

Just because I like to keep up with

information?

He just likes to hoard things. A genuine pack-

rat.

What else you got?

He is relentless. Its getting comical.

This one couldnt possibly interest you at all-so

dont bother me about it.

Let me be the judge of that-you act like you

own these files.

I should let him have it, its like a Greek tragedy.

-2-


5/43

Back in med-school, hed started collecting

antiques. He would, in the middle of term drive

to some far-out county for the thin promise of

finding a 19th-century table lamp.You want to know what its called?

Go-ahead, try to humiliate me! Chuckles. He

is incensed, I can hear it in his tone.

Its: Oxford dictionary of clinical dentistry, 430

pages.

I cant stop laughing now, its hilarious.

Ill take it.

He cant back down. His forehead is stuck in the

shadows of the camera, pale and immobile. I

cant make-out his face anymore. He is

dissolving in the shadows, unrecognizable,

Coming right up!

I like to be able to talk sensibly with my

dentist! He offers as an explanation.

He wants to rationalize things: but hoarding is

absurd..

The whole planet is afflicted with what you

got. I want to say, but I dont. Instead I say:

It took you too long to come up with that

explanation, it

-3-


6/43

doesnt count--remember: your mothers house?

Once he took me home to meet his mother, the

house stank of cats, and defeated carpeting.

Card-board boxes of all sizes, were piled from

floor to the ceiling, and there was this thin

narrow passage, right in through them, you hadto tip-toe your way through, or fall flat on your

ass. And where there were no boxes, there were

piles of yellowing old news papers, some of them

dating back to 60s. Hed looked curiously at me

and asked:

It looks pretty bad, ha? Like he wasnt quite

sure.

And Id mumbled: Yes. Not sure, whats

expected of me, and also in a shock.

Ive seen worse! Hed said flatly, dismissingly,

but with a tinge of anger.

And wed left it at that.

Few years later, he casually told me his uncle

and wife were being evicted from their Long

Beach home by the department of Health

services.

But why?

A neighbor reported them-they had collected so

-4-


7/43

much junk, all the windows were shut up, there

was no light coming in through the house, and

the house stank the neighborhood.

How could they live like that, I mean what do

they do for a living, how do they support

themselves?They both work for the post office.

Pause.

Theyve been working for the post office for

twenty-five years!

Oh.

I am not sure what--but something is thinly

logical about that explanation. I mean: post

office, order, sorting things out, and its

malignancy: never letting go of anything.

The picture from Amsterdam breaks. He moves

out of its field chasing one of his kids out of the

room. He apparently closes the door to his study.

Because theyre just faint obscure noises now ,

like they were thrown down a well.

How is life there?

We like it here, theres so much going on, and

then theres a peacefulness here too, living isnt

-5-


8/43

So diluted. I dont think we could live in States

anymore, we would probably need a house three

times this.

Remember my uncle and his wife?

The pack-rats?Yeah.

I think I finally know why?

Why?

Its all the Wal-marts, and the Chinese.

No, its deeper than that. I think,

but let it go.

The door to his study must have been opened,

tiny voices rise like birds in thorn-they want

attention-and I see two of them behind him, on

the ground directionless, running in small rapid

circles. Like toys on fresh battery.

You better go.

He is reluctant.

Ring again, if you have something for me.

It occurs to me that he uses hoarding to make

contact, human contact.

I want to say: object relations have become

torn apart, like stars, planets nudged out of

motion.

-6-


9/43

But I must dash-off. Im chasing objects as well.

Life is a lot busier here in Los Angeles.

We both wave goodbye, and just as Im about tocut the video off, I have another video-chat

invitation.

I dont recognize the signature. Its vague. But

my memory is inefficient these days. There is

just so much I can store in my cells: so to cache

anything new, something else must always be

reduced in significance-Im not sure what I can

afford to condense anymore. Everything seems

vital.

I type:

Hi, do we know each other?

Yes. Response is in English.

Where?

Pause.

She is typing a response.

Nous avons recontre de la conference!

I have to think. Translate. Conference?

Quest conference?

She is typing.

Medicins san frontiers-a Paris.

-7-


10/43

Doctors without borders.

Oh, oui.

I connect the video, and there she is: Samar Ben

Mahmoud..

Just as pretty as when we met in Paris. Onlyolder, something vague building around her

eyes--no hijab (head cover), smiling wide with

that familiar innocence, same pearly white teeth,

and cracks in her eyes like pools of light. Back

in Paris shed stood out like something wild and

uncommon. With a full-length black skirt that

didnt quite match anything else she wore, or

match Paris for that matter. And her briefcase,

like something unexpected, thrown in the mix,

and shed looked worn by its weight--and its

unfamiliar language of close-fisted masculinity. I

remember I noticed her feet first. She was

wearing a strappy open-toed pair. I was struck

by how pretty, and milky they were. And then

the hands she stretched out to meet mine, soft,

long, exquisite. Why was she there?

What are you here for. She must know some

English. Everyone pretends to, a bit.

Etes-vous un medicin?

No.

She isnt a doctor. Doctors dont carry

briefcases.

Je suis un avocet.Quest-ce avocet? No English at all? I

-8-


11/43

probably look disappointed.

Lawyer, lawyer, danglais. She repeats in a

happy tone, like shes just discovered it in a

giddy corner of her brain. She has very bright

expressive eyes. I want to tell her she looks like

Juliette Binoche-but Ive forgotten what she

looks like-its just a beautiful name. And only anexcuse for a complement.

We exchange eye contact again. Her eyes are

dipped in jars of honey.

Je travaille sur l'obtention de l'eau des

villages diffrents en Afrique.

votre franais n'est pas bonne?

aucun.

votre niveau d'anglais?

Pause.

Ecote?

Pavillon de la Finlande est proche

Voulez-vous y aller pied?

I want to take her away. To a tourist spot next

door. She stands out here, conspicuously

splintered. The Finnish woods might have her

scents. Scents of roots and foliage with nests.

We walk to the pavilion de Finland, its almost

next door-its a modern piece. I am exhausted

with French architecture. They all have the

-9-


12/43

same autocracy, everything repeats itself like a

knock-knock joke. She walks along me. She has

a funny child-like walk. She swings to the left

and right, it reminds me of a windshield wiper.

And she smiles uncontrollably.

She is either playful naturally, or my curiosity

has made her coquettish. I seem to stare afterher, with fondness, and with a look like Im

making an arrangement of her in mind.

Like I plan to put her in a vase.

We have a great deal of fun that day, she likes to

try French pastries and chocolate. And likes to

beg me to share some with her. There is

something matronly, willowy about that. But I

have strict rule against sugars and cholesterol.

She doesnt mind showing she disapproves of my

rules.

We come to have these forays into Paris every

day, for the next seven days of conference. We

are attracted to each others company. Nothing

around us exists directly during these dates, but

-10-


13/43

as extensions of some vague filament of

happiness. When I finally have her alone in myhotel room, in a clear day you can see across

miles of rooftops. She refuses to make love.

Though she is very aroused. She trembles at

every touch. Her face reposes with discovered

new feelings ? I cant tell. She says she is a

virgin!

I have to be married first. She says coyly,

reserved, while panting with sexual excitement.Or my father will kill me. There is a look of

terror in her eyes. Is it real? I take heed though.

Had I not taken notice of this expression, we

might have gone all the way-but the severity of

that thought! She is a Muslim. She would have

been killed? In retrospect, I think the thought

must have both excited and trapped me there

and then in a way I am yet, unable to explain.

We exchanged e-mails next day. It was the last

day of conference, and it seemed the

appropriate, modern thing to do. Though

I couldnt have imagined the thought of wanting

to murder her someday then, as now.

-11-


14/43

She said she lives in Tamanrasset. A town on the

borders of Sahara-- 2000 kilometers south of

Algiers.

You should come, and talk to my father.

Her English had improved a lot in seven days.

I think she meant I should marry her-that is if I

want: her love (or does she mean sex?)

I meant to tell her we dont do things that way.That there are many factors in love.

That things arent quite as common or concrete

as the father -approval -racket. But all the while

thinking: does her ways turn

father-abstinence, -- marriage into

complicated mysterious, and pleasure-finding

things ? I Know her temperature was higher

pitched than most girls Id met. Perhaps hijab

was invented by women after all? I know women

who would pay dearly to have their libido

pitched this heavenly sharp.

And now, after two months, here she is on

skype. Without a hijab-her hair is dyed a

brownish color. Its short and looks attractive

around the symmetry of her face. She is wearing

a summer dress, something with straps over her

shoulders and her breasts are large winged

objects inside. I know how they feel. How they

can tremble like sea in desert, I know the rotund

shape of her nipples. Something had to be chased

out of my brain to preserve the memory of their

geometry.-12-


15/43

What?

Do you like my dress? She repeats it as though

I can be hard of hearing.

She stands in front of camera now., showing off

the dress.Its what happy careless women would wear if

they were strolling down a beach somewhere. Its

ornamented with tiny flowers. Its stylish. She

has good taste.

I say its pretty. I mean it.

She says: I have good taste.

I say approvingly like a husband: I know

azizam.

Azizam is an affectionate Persian term, it means

honey, dear. Its like habibi in their language.

Is the dress a glimpse of what she is like inside?

Carelessness of summer-unguarded, indifferent.

There and then I begin to think of her as a wife.

There is something very unexpected, and calm

about her.

I see her fit anywhere in the world. Our world.

I feel happy, privileged by her existence?

You look great.

Thank you honey. I like that word honey.

It occurs to me that words of affection like:

azizam or honey must have certain sounds, andlyricism in them. Binding. Movements away

-13-


16/43

from the remote- into smoother hoards of life.

It feel as though with honey her pretty dress

will come off her body the way it never did in

Paris. Though I was allowed to touch, and tease

her- Ive never seen her naked.

But here, 10,000 miles or more away--She looks

ready to throw them down like feathers in the

wind. Is it the rebelliousness of internet?

Or is this the reunion of a river that began in

Paris? Or million years ago?

I dont know quite want to say:

Can I see your breasts? Im sure I cant say

that. Even distance doesnt reduce how unusual

that sounds to me. I know Id really have to want

her first.

And I know Ill be saying it for her sake. To me

seeing them from here is like conducting a

mantle of music far away in an attic. Their scents

are out of reach, their shifting weight. The

orchestra would be missing major footsteps. But

she must know I desire them. That I am

speechless. Id felt them-- made them sway, and

felt their nipples harden in between my fingers,

like frozen things.

-14-


17/43

But that terror in her eyes: My father will

kill me. I want to ask: is it easier here. Is a

simple webcam enough to shake away the

foundation of family/religion? Has this religionexisted for the cold indefinite solitude of

appearances only?

I notice her room. Its small. The webcam is

slanted to her right to show her thinly profile.

Behind her is a dresser, painted white like the

rest of the room, it absorbs light in goblets and

drops them around her in fits of grey. She wears

a headphone with a microphone, she whispers

carefully, everyone in the house must be sleep.

She lives with her parents of course. And the

door to her room is closed. And her clothes are

piled orderly and neat on the dresser.

I know I dont wish to see her naked. Touching

her in Paris had almost meant love, this here

could drive me into insanity. (And it does.)

I say Ill see her again tomorrow?

She nods her head.

She blows kisses, as we sign off.

-15-


18/43

A taste remains just under my skin. Something

subterranean, something from some other world.

Later on I dream of her breasts stirred. Of their

terrifying wind.

In the morning, I try to forget her, it feels like

being infected by the pure essence of objects. Iknow I want her scattered warmth. But I know

seeing them without touch is a soliloquy,

touching them without love is object-less, empty.

It will be like the thick fruit that breaks and

falls. And no ones to pick it.

But Id underestimated her. Underestimated

myself. And underestimated the threat of being

submerged in the sterile sorrow of aloneness.

Objectless.

-16-


19/43

Chapter Two: The Eyes Have it.-17-


20/43

She calls back the next day. Its almost midnightthere in Tamanrasset. And its the beginning of

evening here in Los Angeles. The day will settle

in dark mountain hollows soon. We will almost

share the night together.

I hear the rapid Spanish dialect of the neighbors

in my headphone. The world is hushed on her

side of the world-except the occasional barking

of a lonely dog , and the sounds of roosters, orare they chickens? No one would know around

here.

I like to ask her personal things like does she

have a boyfriend. And why a pretty woman like

her is yet unmarried. In fact I do ask that.

Comment etes-vous pas marie?

She looks shocked by the question. They are

unused to directness, or is it reality?

Vous netes pas marie ni.

She means I am not married either.

I want to say: but Im not an Algerian Muslim

woman aged thirty. But its all too obvious.

Il ya quelquun?

Speak English please.

did you have someone?

Yes, but he married a girl with money. I loved

him.

And just as she says this, tears come out of her

eyes. She is quick to dry them by a lonely finger.

Its so solitary, I think.

-18-


21/43

I want to be empathic.

I am sorry, who was he?

No, its the past-why go to the past, why?

I like to say: but its you who is crying about it!

But then Im neither a woman, nor a romantic.

There are gender and cultural issues here.

I murmur mutant to myself.

She wants to change the subject again:

How about you, you arent married yet, why?

You havent found anyone?

She asks almost accusingly.

I dont have anyone?

I think sadly to myself: But I want to say we

have something called: fuckbuddies. People who

like each other, go for casual sex. But I know this

fuckbuddy thing is neither in the zeitgeist nor in

the collective consciousness. And never been

practiced by me. Ive just heard of it. It cant

really talk about something Ive only heard of!

You look beautiful tonight.

I want to say you look like a silent territory-like

your Sahara-like pure water has slept in you.

-19-


22/43

But I can neither translate it, nor her English

can pick it up. We have to fall on something

terrestrial, something not words but with their

potency and tenderness.

And I think this is where her pale, pale skin

comes in, like a trick of waving silt by a magician

and doves will fly out.

Its inevitable that her clothes will come off.

I think.

If we sit her and there, night after night for

weeks, in wrathful peace, nothing would stir us

as much as her pale flesh seen. Nothing in her

world can forbid it yet, religion always play

catch up to the majesty of thirst.

We should sit in our own blue bonfires, and

watch the passing of blood over our extended

wings.

I want to express. Should I tell her Im a poet

too?

A clear wind from near my Pacific ocean to her

silent, solitary Sahara, How quickly my mind has

turned on itself. Im changing my thoughts,

inhibitions, restraints.

-20-


23/43

The thing really needs my perusal, her daring,

and the rightness of our reflection.

Its all there. I think.

So I begin to softly seduce, the most willing

object. Her readiness is in every dress she puts

on for the next few days. The florid flows of tiny

colors in the distance. They all want to bedropped in her 30-year-old hands and slap the

moon in the face. I would have said.

In how she texts: I am going to take a shower,

and be with you in ten minutes. In the way she

turns the camera to show the whiteness of her

bare legs. The slope of her eyebrows in the view.

The silent agreement of the universe.

. One night I ask :

Arent you sleepy?

No.

You sure!

Yes, Im sure, I want to talk to you more,

everyone in the house is sleep?

Are they?

The door to your room closed?

Yes, see.

She walks to the single door and turns the lock

clock-wise.

See?

We are co-conspirators now..

-21-


24/43

.Can I see more of you-I think were ready.No, we cant-we have to be married first.

She repeats it like a mantra.

But how can we know if we can be married?

I dont understand?

Tomorrow night?

May be!But you have felt me in Paris-you know me

already!

But we are 10000 miles or more away- we

almost have to become closer or die apart?

Die?

Alright Im exaggerating a bit but only the

spirit can move this distance alone, and only the

spirit makes the call!

I seem more vague to myself.

Yes, I know.

Tomorrow night.

What do you want to see?

Everything at once,

I think were just desiring to be close. I say

convinced.

We have talked so muchand we will run out

-22-


25/43

of words someday, and then what?.

I want to fall into some dream of silence, and

take root.

I want to say, but cant, even if she knows

English well? Though it isnt vague to meanymore.

She is silent. I know she repeats the words to

herself for understanding. But listens more to

the music, so it reaches her. She moves the

microphone closer to her mouth.

I think her hands are so pretty.

Yes?

Pause.

And yours, your skin?

In the rigthtness of your reflection.

The poet in me.

pause

Are you falling in love with me?

I think Im falling into all possible, thats

something.

I repeat, hoping she catches their scents.

-23-


26/43

Your voice is so nice.

Pause.

Votre voix.

I understand. I say, and see the swaying

towers, like spiders, they will turn the moon into

a star.

Then her bare skin begins to cover the camera,

the whole of the solitude.

They look like roots of water.

Everything remains still, and persists at another

limit.

Her breasts look the way theyd felt. But its like

they are covered by more mystery, and made

even more voluptuous.. She rubs her nipples

round and round, like Id done. Her fingers are

slimmer than mine. And for a time, she looks

absorbed in some memory.

It cant be mine?.

I think a voice might have been brave enough to

say that in my head.

And she sways under my skin this way, a

subterranean river. And its not like I get goose-

bumps, erection, or rapid heart beat. Whatever

this is, its more stealth. Its as much a mystery

-24-


27/43

to me, as movement, stillness, or the geometry of

things are. But I think and dream of nothing

else but her for hours after we sign off, until she

connects on again. And we barely talk except:

I ask her to marry me.

She agrees.

-25-


28/43

Chapter Three: The Shape of

my Heart.

Moments after we wave goodnight, and only an

hour after our engagement is set final. I go

looking through drawers , and old boxes, for my

grandmothers diamond ring. I know Ive always

had it. Always assure of its existence, though notlooking for it at all. Its always sat there,

somewhere, like a rare unguarded treasure. Oh,

not because of its price, its only a half-carat

diamond ring, princess cut, on aged white gold..

Its an antique . Shed said before she passed

away:

You only give this to a woman you are going to

marry.-26-


29/43

Like shed suspected I might be careless with its

allegiance, and then looked at me as though, the

thought of my marriage had suddenlyinvigorated her. It must have meant continuity,

endlessness to her. She must have known that it

exists, then and there.

I often wonder if she was the one who poisoned

me with these thin innocent thoughts of love,

marriage?

Never mind that now.

Shed died two days later in sleep at the oldpeoples home in north of Tehran.

Not really a nursing home. Shed never been ill.

But where shed been surrounded by people her

own few generations. Women and men she

talked to often. People who had lived lives

similar to hers. Old doctors, college professors,

inventors, nurses.

I know their society had been rich and

confirming. Their own generations must have

thought of erecting these places themselves.

Orderly, clean, spacious rooms with views of

Persian gardens, rituals: tea every hour, word

puzzles, and talk of poetry and of classics.

-27-


30/43

Id been there many times. Shed liked to show

me off. I liked to do the same. She looked healthy

vibrant, and sometimes energetic as a little girl.

No one had ever seemed depressed, or ill there.

Just aging well, and social in the Persian way:

like everyday is Nourooz (new yesr): presents,

eloquence, the perfect symmetry of things, like in

Persian rugs, like the universe somehow makessense and geometry is its testament.

And their earned luxuries: their satellite dishes

like little deflated things arranged conspicuously

asymmetric on balconies. (they werent allowed

by the illegal government who frightened, would

naturally jump at the sounds of birds chirping.)

The Voice of America in one room, BBC in the

other. They trusted the state run TV and radio,

even less than the young people did.

Silent agreement over the outside distant world

of rape and mayhem. Silent prayers for the

extinction of akhunds as they called the clerics

(the enemy).. And always poetry at the

beginning, and in the end. Like destiny is like

geometry too, and somehow it must always

repeat and rhyme in one form or shape. Only

then they weaved and sang like young boys and

girls the truth about the world, and everyone

trembled then before this swirling mystery.

-28-


31/43

And the saddest thing for me then as now: the

remembrance of things past. That inevitable

sense of nostalgia.

The nostalgia had always wanted me to run out,elsewhere, elsewhere. But one by one they had

picked up this revulsion in me, they seemed to

have the keenest senses, and left the nostalgia out

of our conversations. Like it was an uneven

number in the grace of our meetings.

But where did I pick up these thoughts of love

and murder?

It couldnt have been the religion in them. None

was a devout Muslim . They may all have been

born into it, but with all the hardships of present

Iran. These people were sick of this new-old-

religion-racket.

My grandfather, God bless his soul, had upon

moving into the big city, ages ago, been

persuaded by a friend into Bahaism, a

-29-


32/43

perfect peaceful nave branch off Islam, I dont

know much more about them. But their

ritualistic meetings and socializations been

too autocratic and ceremonial to be

comprehensible to me as young boy. I was

reading Crime and Punishment then, and was

content with that sort of meaning. Everyone else

seemed to take things too seriously, or do I meansuperficially? My dear grandfather, after

taking me to a Bahai meeting (which had lasted

a ghastly 3 hours) looked me in the eyes, and

there and then abandoned thoughts of

converting me, I think in my 14 year- old eyes ,

he must have clearly seen the natures beast in

me. He must have seen that no amount of talk

about love and peace could drive the beast

out.

And with the same rebelliousness, I assume, my

grandmother had defected from Bahaism after

his death. No, shed remained respectful to him,

all through his love and peace phase of life, she

must have been a beautiful pretender. But

shortly after his death, she went to India and

became a devotee of a 70-year-old Indian guru

named startlingly: Sri Sri Baba. And she

remained a devoted follower, until hoards of

grown young

-30-


33/43

men, his eminences former followers, came out

of closets in numbers and accused him of having

had raped them in their childhood. Their stories

entirely believable. She left this guru feeling

indignant and confused.

And she never mentioned this period of her lifeto anyone. And if I were slightly playful, joking

about this pedophile. She would stare at me

hurt,, with her round black eyes, pleading me

silently to stop. And I would.

-

But for different reasons, everyone in the

fashionable old peoples home was a silent

objector to the religion scam. Though none ever

really warned me about the deception, the

conceit, or I wouldnt have become the perfect

murderer I slowly am.

-31-


34/43

Chapter Four: Surprise.

I said I have a surprise for you. I think I was

more excited than Id ever been. More excited

than the time I got my first bike-more so thananytime Ive bought roses or presents for

anyone.

The ring laid perfectly still on the Persian rug in

its velvety box, I thought the world of it-strident,

thin and lugubrious, it whistled hurry at me.

What surprise.?

She sounded tired like always. She said she

worked 8 hours at her job, and came home towash and cook, and help her mother with

chores.. She never was free before 10:30 at night.

Its a wonderful surprise. I said.

Whats a surprise? I think the eagerness in

my voice, and the mysterious word: surprise,

frightened her.

A surprise is a good thing.

Oh. She exclaims, a tired timid smile lights her

eyes for seconds, like she is ready to put up with

-32-


35/43

this surprise business. It occurs to me that the

surprise notion may be an entirely alien thingto her. That nothing suddenly thrust upon you

can be that welcome in her world. And that

perhaps somewhere inside her she is expecting

bad news?

No, I assure you, youll really like this!

I feel I have to really convince her with this.

Ok, what is it?

She clasps her hands in that childish way shehas. It reminds me of her walk, the playfulness;

shes taking her time to mature.

Its a ring, an engagement ring, for you!

You have it already?

Yes its right here, look!

I take it out of its velvet bed. It sparkles with

blueness. Like Ive lit a lantern in the room. She

stares at it, asks me to hold it close to the

camera. She is awake, restful, measuring things.

For me?

Who else , why, we are engaged now.

But you said you cant come to Tamanrasset for

another 2 months?

I know Ill mail it to you.

How? Theyll steal it!

No, I know a courier service, theyll deliver it to

your door.

Make sure I have to sign for it.

-33-


36/43

she says with legal authority.

Ok.

Its beautiful. How did you get it?

Its a long story.

Perhaps I dont want to remember my

Grandmother at this point.

Perhaps she ought to have warned me with not

just her eyes,. But words, even tears, aboutrecklessness, treachery, love.

And perhaps she ought not have left me with a

jewel to plan a future, but a strapping dagger,

something ominous and intimidating.

Samira is over the moon that night. Every few

moments she asks me to put the ring right back

in front of the camera and turn it like its on fire,

and the rings reflection looks condensed, in her

attentiveness, like its become the union of nights

elements, and you feel as though an assumption

is posted behind every object in the universe, and

this ones clearly sustained by a minor star.

And her clothes dont just come off her body

that night, they vanish like a spell and everything

becomes a curve that circles us into the closest

distance. And I, an intelligent being myself,

survive a night of worship?

-34-


37/43

She doesnt ask me to make any promises, she

doesnt even ask whether or not I will post the

ring later or sooner. By the dawn there in

Tamanrasset, she falls into sleep. With the lights

and the camera left on. Her legs far apart, like

shed been interrupted in the middle of a dance.

I jump into bed myself, assured that love or a

religion has taken over me entirely. And I dream

of a great forest surrounding us. Of objects

incomprehensibly inseparable and lost. And of

their union, and collective echo, somewhere,

where Im not allowed.

As soon as I wake up, I instantly recall past

conversations at the old peoples home in

Tehran. Someone or other had on more

occasions tried to explain the foreign religion

of Islam. They liked to do that. To blame it all on

Arabs. The history apparently went something

like this: Arabs spiritual impulses before

Muhammad were entirely absent or lukewarm.

That they worshipped idols, their objects of

devotion had to be seen by eye, and touched by

hands or it couldnt exist at all!!

They couldnt imagine God , can you believe

that?

-35-


38/43

Well what does that mean?

You ought to learn more, before you ask

anything,, thats all were saying.

I read.

The different nomads had different idols, And

they performed ceremonies in nude around

these idols. A famous object was known as Al-Lat, she was a cubic rock!!

But the current object of worship in Mecca is a

huge cubic rock!

Old Muhammad, may he rest in peace, really

tried.

She (Al-Lat) was venerated by Qurayshies.

Muhammad changed a great of that, I tell you

son, but that a meteor hitting the desert

venerated as a larger holy object?

The old folks raised their eyebrows in a tight

circle of empathy! As in:

The mysteries you dont know boy!

Do you know as we speak an Islamic republic is

arresting women not too far these walls for

dressing not constrictively enough. I mean they

want the scarf tight enough to literally

strangulate us.

-36-


39/43

That was the voice of my own grandmother.

What does have to do with the price of rice?

My grandson is not an idiot, he just pretends tobe.

Look, old Muhammad had his hands full. I

mean some nomadic Arabs worshipped stones

made in the shape of phallus, and do you know

most frequent appeal to their object-gods?

What?

Guess.

I cant.

Their most frequent appeal to stone idols was

to settle the legitimacy of their children.

You mean they slept with one another a lot?

Call it what you like, but it sure sounds like

they fucked each others wife or concubines and

frequently.

Frequently?

They come home, after a long trip, and the wife

or whatever is pregnant, they would go to the

stone god temple, and draw arrows.

-37-


40/43

At the time I had pointed out that if they

performed their ceremonies in nude, around

object gods, and childrens legitimacy were

frequently questioned, then Freud, would call

Hijab: Reaction-Formation. I had exclaimed

this with great enthusiasm. But the old folks

cared less for Freud than for Islam or Arabs.

I read on.

In: Kitab al-Asnam (the book of idols)

everything the old Persians murmured is

supported: the old Arabs worshiped objects

created, rather than the creator.

This by sidelines reminded me of my friends

exile to Amsterdam and his family of pack-rats,

his moms house, the postal workers being

evicted for hoarding etc.

Arabs called these object-worship temples:

Kabah. And they circumbutated the Kabah in

a state of nudity?

You must tell them.

Tell who?

-38-


41/43


42/43


43/43

Documents

the Killing of an Arab- a Novel--First 4 Chapters- Hooshang Danesh