But today they all stood before him, as real in his mind as they had been in life. He softly rapped on Trianant’s door. His friend opened it. “My God!” he said. “Where have you been? Are you all right?”
“I am sorry to disturb you,” Shazdehpoor said. “May I come in?”
Trianant led his friend into his study, switching on the desk lamp. Shazdehpoor sank onto his sofa. Trianant poured the cognac. He handed Shazdehpoor a glass and placed his on the table between them. Then he crumpled some newspaper and shoved it under the logs in the fireplace. The small twigs caught quickly and spread to the thicker logs. The fire began to rise, flooding the room with a warm orange glow, crackling and snapping.
“Tell me what happened,” said Trianant. “I waited for you for hours. I went to your apartment.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Shazdehpoor. He turned his face to the fire, his feet planted on his son’s carpet. Every morning, he thought to himself, when I begin to shave, there is a moment when I look down at my hand and feel it as if it’s not my hand, and when I open my mouth, I speak in a voice that I know is not my voice—
But still he said nothing.
“What’s going on with you, my friend? What has happened?” Shazdehpoor abruptly stood and walked over to the radio and, without asking Trianant’s permission, slid the dial through the stations. Until, at last, he heard the first three notes on the violin. Beethoven, the Adagio ma non troppo e molto espressivo. On the twelfth note, just as the second violin began to weave through and echo the notes, he closed his eyes and backed away from the radio, standing on the medallion of his son’s carpet, softly conducting the strings in the air, now joined by a viola and cello as the four instruments wrapped their notes around him.
The music, only in that moment, was a perfect expression of what couldn’t be expressed by the sound of words. His melancholy, his regrets and reticence, his bitterness, his alienation—his loss. If he could exist solely in its notation, nothing in this world would ever be unbearable.
And then, as it had to, the Adagio ended and went straight into the Allegro. Shazdehpoor shut off the radio. The only sound was the crackling of the fire. His friend was staring at him, bewildered.
“Shazdehpoor?” said Trianant.
Shazdehpoor sat on the sofa and took a swig of his cognac. “I want to tell you a story,” he said. “It begins in an orchard, just before the first Friday lunch in spring.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to extend my gratitude to Cecile Barendsma for her unwavering dedication to the book and to Leigh Newman for her transformative edits. And to the Catapult family for their care and enthusiasm in shepherding this book out into the world. I would also like to extend my gratitude to both readers and friends along the way who have enriched my life and work: William O. Beeman (Amoo Bill), Frank Farris, Zohreh Shayesteh, Shirin Neshat, Shoja Azari, Phong Bui, Nazzy Beglari, Peter Scarlet, Salar Abdoh, Houra Yavari, Irakli Gioshvili, Angela Levin, Esther Crow, Cara Gorman, Sophie-Alexia de Lotbinière, Nariman Hamed, and Sherry Haddock. And in memorium, Hassan Tehranchian and Assurbanipal Babilla. And finally, my deepest gratitude to my mother, Soraya Shayesteh, my father, Mohammad Ghaffari, and my family, both in New York and Iran, for always giving me a home in the world.
Author photograph by Angela Levin
RABEAH GHAFFARI was born in Iran and lives in New York City. She is a filmmaker and writer, whose collaborative fiction with artist Shirin Neshat was featured in Reflections on Islamic Art, and her documentary, The Troupe, featured Tony Kushner. To Keep the Sun Alive is her first novel.
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