The Killing of an Arab a Novel-The Start- Hooshang Danesh

8/9/2019 The Killing of an Arab a Novel-The Start- Hooshang Danesh

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The Killing of an ArabA Novel

Hooshang Danesh


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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


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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!

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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.

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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

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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 up 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

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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

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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 Walmarts, 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 relation have become torn

apart, like stars, planets nudged out of motion.

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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 to

cut the video off, I have another video-chatinvitation.

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, 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.

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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 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

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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

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same French 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.

I probably like 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

always 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

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as extensions of some vague filament of

happiness. When I finally have her alone in my

hotel room, in a clear day you can see acrossmiles 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 ofterror in her eyes. Is it real? I take heed though.

Had I not taken notice of this impression, 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.

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She said she lives in Tamanrasset. A town on theborders 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-must -approval -racket. But all the

while thinking: do religions 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 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.

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What?

Do you like my dress? She repeats it as though

I can be hard of hearing.

She stands in front of camera now.

Its what happy careless women would wear if

they were strolling down a beach somewhere. Itsornamented 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 connubial 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, and

lyricism in them. Binding. Movements away

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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 her, teaseher- 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 tremble, shifting weight.

The orchestra would be missing major footsteps.

But she must know I desire them. I am

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

felt their nipples harden, like theyve been

frozen.

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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 thefoundation of family/religion? Has this religion

existed for the cold indefinite solitude of

appearances only?

Are they all the same?

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 blueness. 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 will.)

I say Ill see her again tomorrow?

She nods her head.

She blows kisses, as we sign off.

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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 likebeing infected by the pure essence of objects. I

know 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.

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Chapter Two: The Eyes Have it.-17-


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She calls back the next day. Its almost midnight

there in Tamanrasset. And its the beginning of

evening here in Los Angeles. The blanket of light

here must give in to night time soon. We will

almost share darkness together soon.

I hear the rapid Spanish dialect of the neighbors

in my headphone. The world is hushed on herside of the world-except the occasional barking

of a lonely dog , and the sounds of roosters, or

are 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?

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 finger.

This is strange I think.

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I want to be empathic.

I am sorry, who was he?

No, its past-why go to the past?

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:

How about you, you arent married yet, why?

You havent found anyone?

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.

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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 magicianand 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 being 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.

A clear wind from near my Pacific ocean to her

silent Sahara, How quickly my mind has turned

on itself. Im changing my thoughts, restraints..

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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

subject. Her willfulness is in every dress she

changes for days. The florid flows, naked hands

and feet. In how she texts: I am going to take ashower, 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 on the right and

turns the lock clock-wise.

We are co-conspirators now..

.Can I see more of you-I think were ready.

No, we cant-we have to be married first.

But how can we know if we can be married?

I dont understand?

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Pause.

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?

Only the spirit can move this distance alone,

and only spirit makes the call!

I seem more vague to myself.

Yes, I know.

Pause.

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

of words someday, and then what?.

I want to fall into some dream of silence, and

take root.

I want to say, but cant. Though it isnt vague to

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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 rightness of your reflection.

Are you falling in love with me?

I think Im falling into all possible, thats

something.

There is no way she can understand the meaning

of each word I know-but she might catch their

scents of solace.

Your voice is so nice.

Pause.

Votre voix.

I see the swaying tower.

And then her bare skin begins to cover the

camera, the whole of the solitude. If Shed

waited for another night, we would have been

derelict fugitive ships.

But everything remains still, and persists at

another limit.-23-


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Her breasts look the way theyd felt. But its like

they are covered by the essence of light. She rubsher nipples round and round, like Id done. Her

fingers are slimmer than mine. And for a time,

for all time, she looks absent, neither there nor

here. 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

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

things are. But I think and dream of nothing

else but her for hours after, until she connects

again. And we barely talk except:

I ask her to marry me.

She agrees.

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Chapter Three: The Shape ofmy 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 mygrandmothers diamond ring. I know Ive always

had it. Always assure of its existence, though not

looking for it often. Its always sat there,

somewhere, like a nice rare treasure. Oh, not

because of its price, its only half-a-carat

diamond, princess cut on white gold.. Its an

antique. Shed said before she passed away:

You only give this to a woman you are going tomarry.

She had looked at me as though, the thought had

suddenly invigorated her. It must have meant

continuity. Endlessness to her. She must have

known that it exists, then and there. Shed died

two days later in sleep at the old peoples home

in Tehran.

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Not really a nursing home. Shed never been ill.

But where shed been surrounded by people her

own age. 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 havethought of these places themselves. Orderly,

clean rooms, rituals, tea afternoons, newspapers,

and talk of poetry and of classics.

Id been there many times. Shed liked to show

me off. No one had ever seemed depressed, or ill.

Just aging well, and social in the Persian way:

like everyday is Nourooz, presents, eloquence,

the strict symmetry of things, like the Persian

rugs. Their satellite shows. The Voice of America

in one room, BBC in the other. Arguments over

the outside distant world of politics. And always

poetry. Everyone would nearly read you a poem.

And the saddest thing for me: the remembrance

of things past.

CONTINUED

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Documents

The Killing of an Arab a Novel-The Start- Hooshang Danesh