Everyone who knew him believed Soleiman was a good listener. Many witnessed the hours he spent by the lake at the south end of the city, listening to the waves or the sea gulls that careened and screeched over the lake’s rocky shore. When he strolled in the lush parks of this city, he sometimes stopped walking to listen to bird songs or to the gentle whisper of the breeze. At those moments, there was ecstasy in his eyes, excitement at the sounds of the day that enveloped him. So Soleiman wasn’t deaf or mute; many had heard him speaking, many had listened to his stories as well.
So why did Soleiman choose silence? It was a mystery. Even though people didn’t know why, they wouldn’t admit it. They considered their own lack of knowledge a fault, so every one claimed that they knew why, everyone had their own reasons to explain the mystery; reasons that might have had nothing to do with Soleiman’s silence at all.
Some believed Soleiman was bored by living in exile, that he was homesick. These people had strong reasons for their own silence, but not for Soleiman’s silence. They believed that exile pushes people into isolation, seclusion, and finally, and inevitably, to silence.
More than a few believed Soleiman chose to be silent because he hadn’t been able to learn the new language. These people attributed their own problems to Soleiman, and cried sincerely for him. But a wise person knew these were crocodile tears.. Soleiman’s problem, if he had one at all, wasn’t that he didn’t know the language. He could speak the language before he left Iran; in fact, he had started learning it in kindergarten. On arrival, he had a little trouble understanding the language because of the common accent, but when he heard the words clearly, he had no problem with comprehension. Soleiman’s enigma wasn’t language. Furthermore, Soleiman had lived in this country for years. He had attended school, learned new skills, and worked in this country. He had relationships with people of this country. There’d also been TV—his companion, night and day. Many remembered that Soleiman had listened carefully to the news, and read the newspapers. Soleiman wasn’t illiterate in English.
But if Soleiman chose to be quiet, other people, people who liked to comment on everything, spoke too much. They made such a fuss, filling the air with busy words, so that even the most patient became impatient and urged them to be quiet. These busy bodies talked and talked about Soleiman’s silence. Sometimes they spoke of it right in front of him. He heard them and, strangely, didn’t react.
Some people believed Soleiman needed to see a psychologist or even a psychiatrist. He might have a complex of some kind, something that forced him to be silent. A psychologist or a psychiatrist might help. Perhaps Soleiman was mentally ill; maybe, he couldn’t assimilate in the exile society. But these people forgot that Soleiman had been living in exile a long time and that he had suddenly chosen to be silent. In answer to these people, others claimed that Soleiman was an egoist and too proud. They said words are the only way to forge relationships among human beings. If someone doesn’t answer questions, or remains silent around others, it means he doesn’t respect them. For these, there is no viable reason to leave questions unanswered. These people believe human beings are talking animals. One who doesn’t speak denies humanity. These people ignored Soleiman. They were hurt by Soleiman’s silence. They even wished him dead because Soleiman’s silence was an insult to all people who liked to offer their opinions on every aspect of life.
One thing was clear, no one really knew the real reason for Soleiman’s silence. Soleiman, like all immigrants, left his own homeland and landed in this city, thousands of kilometres away from the place he called home. Soleiman once spoke like others did. He laughed, cried, joined in discussions. Some said he told good jokes and made people laugh, that he talked about his memories and his family. Now, nobody knew what had happened to them, really, and they gossiped about this in different ways because Soleiman said nothing about this either. What had happened to Soleiman? Why had he suddenly become quiet?
Iranians in the city didn’t stay quiet about Soleiman’s silence. They continued to express their opinions on his silence at any gathering. Sometimes this discussion would become so heated the even the most patient people became impatient and annoyed. Interestingly, if Soleiman was present, he said nothing and showed no reaction.
Soleiman became a constant topic of discussion. As if the people around him had nothing better to do but argue about Soleiman. Strangely, Soleiman became more sullen, more reserved, more determinately silent. There were people among the immigrants who had pity for Soleiman and wanted to cure his illness, if he had one. And they kept the discussion about Soleiman heated.
It is said, that once the argument was so heated that it ended in cursing, kicking, and fighting. Soleiman had been present, watching the people fighting without reaction, when he suddenly burst into flame and in an instant was turned into a handful of ashes piled onto his chair where he had sat just a moment before. The flame lasted only a few seconds and many hadn’t seen it, especially those busy fighting and disputing. Only a very few saw Soleiman transform into a ball of fire and then a clump of ashes. Those who didn’t see the flames didn’t believe the witnesses. These people trusted only what they saw with their own eyes. They saw the ashes, but doubted they were Soleiman’s.
Again, there was much discussion. But, as the majority agreed that Soleiman had indeed been burnt to ashes, and as Soleiman was no longer ever seen at any other gathering, they thought it best to bury Soleiman’s ashes. They believed if the ashes were really Soleiman’s, they should be buried in the soil, as all the deceased are buried in the soil for their eternal sleep. As usual, there were different opinions on this matter. Some people said the ashes shouldn’t be buried in soil, because they already had been changed to soil. According to them, it was better to scatter Soleiman’s ashes in the lake at the south end of the city, the lake that gave the city its historical identity should be Soleiman’s eternal home.
Others had different ideas. They said that Soleiman had spent most of his spare time in a park located in the heart of the city. They said Soleiman was familiar with all the trees, bushes, and flowers in this park, all the paths through the high and low lands of the park. They said he had spent long hours on a particular bench, dissolving his presence and memory into the trees surrounding it. They insisted Soleiman was close to the swans, ducks, geese, squirrels, and the hundreds of birds that made the park a magnificent place for him. So, they argued, it was fitting that Soleiman’s ashes be spread throughout the park, some of them left on the leaves of trees, or on his favourite bench, and some strewn over the park’s lake to mingle with the swans, geese, and ducks that lived there.
As no one could agree on this matter, the jar of Soleiman’s ashes was left intact, moved periodically from one house to another. There were many meetings held to discuss Soleiman’s ashes, and a great deal was discussed at all the meetings, but no decisions were ever made.
The presence of Soleiman’s ashes bothered the residents of each house like a difficult question. For that reason, the residents of the city invited the new immigrants, who felt responsibility for any problem in the community, to attend the meetings and discuss this issue with them over the long hours of the meeting. The endless speaking and sharing of ideas had become a way of life for them, the result of an unwanted immigration to an unfamiliar land, and struggling with problems that seemed to have no answers, but appeared in different shapes and sizes, forced people to try to find solutions.
The guardian of Soleiman’s ashes began to change after every meeting and each new guardian felt more responsible than the last toward the ashes. The presence of Soleiman’s ashes disturbed the guardians and made them feel guilty. So each looked for a solution harder than the others and invited even more people to yet another meeting. And again, after hours of discussion and exchanging ideas, the meeting would end without agreement and sometimes with fighting and kicking. The ashes would be moved to another house.
This didn’t last
forever. One evening, while the ashes were being transported through the downtown, through a busy, crowded intersection where all the world’s races crossed, and where many a skinny old man played trumpet on the corner, the jar of Soleiman’s ashes dropped to the ground and shattered into a thousand little pieces. On each corner of the intersection there was a huge high-rise, and the wind, which always whipped through the city, was always at this corner more unbridled, slapping the faces of the pedestrians without mercy. This savage, cruel wind grasped Soleiman’s ashes and dispersed them in an instant throughout the big city.
The guardians of Soleiman’s ashes hurried to collect them, but they were not able to retrieve them. Some of the ashes stuck to the soles of pedestrians from all around the world, pedestrians of different races and different nationalities, who walked away unaware of the spirit they carried under their feet. And then, a heavy rain pelted the sidewalks and washed away the ashes that had stuck to the street into the sewer, then to the lake, the symbol of life in this city.
Those who had been carrying Soleiman’s ashes breathed easily. They described the accident to all the immigrants in a big meeting. They believed that Soleiman’s spirit had dissolved into the heart of the city, the heart of life in the city, and the heart of all races and nationalities. He was in the lake, in the high-rise apartment buildings, in the parks, and in the fields around the city. He travelled to the Pacific, to the Atlantic and to the Arctic oceans, all of which surrounded the three sides of this country, his ashes flowing in the world’s waters, some perhaps even becoming frozen particles encased in ice atop the world’s mountains.
Yes, it was like that. And the story of Soleiman and his reasonable or unreasonable silence is still a mystery to our immigrant community.
The original version of this story appeared in a collection of short stories, Let Me Tell You Where I’ve Been, published by the University of Arkansas Press in 2006.
Flecia
IT WAS A YEAR AGO that Kiumars introduced Flecia to us. We were three single men who got together every Friday night at Happy Hours Restaurant, where we enjoyed spending a few hours together. Kiumars had separated from his wife a few months before. I had been living by myself for a year since Mahnaz had left me. Ahmad, too, was living separately from his family, and his wife had filed for divorce. We had sworn not to marry again or have families. We seemed happy and our lives were full. I had my job in government administration and it wasn’t bad compared to Kiumars’s and Ahmad’s. Kiumars was still working as the superintendent in a large apartment building in one of Toronto’s rich neighbourhoods. He claimed they paid him like they would an engineer; actually, he was an engineer. Ahmad was a chief economist and had worked for the government in Iran, but here he drove a taxi and always complained about the nature of his job— dealing with people who had come from all around the world and didn’t know how to speak English properly. Well, I took some computer courses after I arrived in Canada, and even while I was employed, I continued to upgrade my skills. This is what you need to do in this society. Thanks to Mahnaz who worked the night shift in a coffee shop and supported me. Yes, one must improve one’s knowledge and skill in order to integrate into this society and get what one really deserves. If Kiumars and Ahmad fell behind, I believed it was their own fault. Unlike them, their wives learned quickly what to do and got what they were looking for. And perhaps because of that they couldn’t get along with their husbands and chose to go their own way.
For me it was different. I can say for sure it was Mahnaz’s fault. First, she didn’t want children. She wanted to finish her education, then think about whether she wanted to have children or not. If she’d had children, she wouldn’t have bothered me so much: she’d have been busy with one or two children so I could have spent my free time outside the house as I liked. Instead, when we arrived in Canada, she not only found a job in a donut shop, but she also went to school to learn English. Then she was accepted at the university. I said, “What’s the use of going to university? If you had in mind to continue your education, why did you marry me?” She said, “There’s no contradiction between marrying you and continuing my education.”
Anyway, my problem is different from Ahmad and Kiumar’s. They have children and therefore they have responsibilities. Yes, it’s the women’s fault, too. Though the men aren’t flawless. For example, Kiumars’ wife, Soori. She was an obedient, contented woman, and she loved Kiumars for sure. He complained that she didn’t get along with him. But, I believed Soori when she said Kiumars wasn’t an easy man to get along with.
I wondered how and when Kiumars got to know Flecia. One Friday, Kiumars didn’t show up, and he didn’t call either to tell us he wasn’t coming. Ahmad and I waited for him for more than an hour. We drank two bottles of beer and smoked several cigarettes, but there was no sign of him. We had our dinner, paged through the Iranian newspapers, read a few articles, and commented on them. We exchanged community and world news. I asked about Taraneh, Ahmad’s wife, and his children. Ahmad said Taraneh had gotten a full-time job and now he had to pick the children up after school and take them home.
I asked, “Don’t you want to go back to your wife?”
“No,” he said. “Taraneh isn’t the same person anymore. We are like two strangers now.”
“Not even for your children?” I said. “Don’t you think that your children suffer when other children talk about their fathers?”
“Don’t worry about my children. More than half of their classmates have separated parents; this is not unusual.”
“I’m happy that I don’t have children,” I said. “I mean, Mahnaz didn’t want to. She’s going to the university and wants a degree. It’s different here. We can’t understand our women anymore. My sister was pregnant two months after her marriage and she gave birth to three children in four years.”
“I also don’t recognize my own wife anymore,” Ahmad sighed. “She’s changed a lot. I wonder what happened to her. She used to love me dearly. If I didn’t get home till two o’clock in the morning, she wouldn’t have dinner or go to bed. She used to wait up for me. And now she’s somebody else—she’s a stranger to me.”
“It’s because of this society,” I said. “This society gives them too much freedom.”
“But this society is not bad for you,” he said. “You take advantage of your freedom.”
“I am a man,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Well, women probably think the same. Here, women know about their rights and don’t feel they’re less than men.”
“You mean we should give our wives permission to take advantage of the same freedom as we have?” I asked.
“They don’t need permission from us,” he said. “They know their rights better than we do.”
“Taraneh, too?” I asked.
“She has a boyfriend from the Ivory Coast.”
“A boyfriend? I can’t believe it.”
He sighed again and said nothing.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I wondered what I would do if Mahnaz got involved with another man. Well, yes, she had filed for divorce and we will be going to court in three months. But still. It doesn’t feel right to me.
During the week I called her several times and asked her if she was seeing another man. I knew that she was not interested in dating Iranian men. She told me many times that she would flee from Iranian men because she considered them perverts; as soon as a woman says hello, they want to drag that woman to their beds, even if only in their imaginations.
I said, “Do you believe the way these civilized Canadians think or live is better than our way? They go to bed and have sex, even when they’ve only just met each other. At least we Iranians make love in our own minds.”
She interrupted me, “But Iranian men all have a complex and they are difficult to deal with.”
Our arguments always reach a dead end. She usually says that I am taking ad
vantage of the freedom I have here, and will go to bed with any women who is available. Her proof is the time she found out about my affair with one of my colleagues. We had a big fight about that and she left me soon afterward.
To tell you the truth, I was fed up with Mahnaz. It’s true that a married man has more prestige in the community and is accepted among his peers better than a single man, but family life should have some rules. My wife didn’t get home till late at night. Whenever I asked her where she’d been, she said she was either in the library or that she’d been in a class. I asked her why she couldn’t study at home. She said she couldn’t concentrate at home, what with the housekeeping, cooking, cleaning, and then me, and the damn TV. These things would not let her focus on her reading. Well, think about it: I had a wife but she either wasn’t home and, when she was, her head was in a book. So when she said, “We’d better separate,” I agreed without any hesitation, even though it was hard for me to learn to deal with the chores. I mean, although my wife had to go to school, I always had a hot meal, my clothes were washed and ironed, my bed was made, and the apartment was clean and everything was in order. I can’t deny it—she looked after our home well. You should come and see what a mess it is now.
“What about your girlfriend?” Ahmad asked. “Doesn’t she help you with housekeeping?”
“Are you kidding me? My girlfriend won’t bother herself to clean my place. And if it isn’t in tidy when she visits, she makes fun of me.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“No girlfriend for me. I am not in a mood to have a girlfriend.”
“Let’s see…” I teased, “you’re waiting for Taraneh.”
“Don’t talk about Taraneh anymore. She’s finished for me.”
Well, it was hard for him that his wife was friendly with another man. It was hard for me, too.
The Street of Butterflies Page 5