by Salar Abdoh
Rafik ran. But not to Edvin and Kamran. He ran all the way home.
The next day he tried again. His mind was only on one thing: 12 + 1. He didn’t know at what point yesterday he had noticed the house number to the dead woman’s place. It was like someone was playing a joke on the neighborhood. Thirteen! Why that unlucky number? So unlucky that the municipality let you use 12 + 1 on your door instead. Curiosity impelled him back to the place. The door was closed today. But when he peered through that window he could still clearly see the bloodstain. No one had bothered to clean it up.
“Don’t let the oil get on you, boy!”
Rafik glanced around to see the door-to-door oil vendor pushing his decrepit little cart past the house. From across the street people were watching them curiously.
Rafik started running again.
Of course, neither Edvin nor Kamran believed him when he told them the story. They imagined he’d just gotten lazy yesterday and didn’t want to get wet in the rain. But Rafik insisted.
“So, let’s go see it then.”
“I don’t ever want to see that thing again.”
“A dried pool of blood can’t hurt you.”
“But if you’d seen the dead body . . .”
So they ended up with their original plan to visit Intersection 62. And it turned out to be true what Edvin’s father had said: the thoroughfare looked really good, like someone had taken high-quality paint to the facades of all the buildings and planted fresh trees along the boulevard. That day Rafik listened to his friends go on about how nice that intersection had become. But his mind was not with it and he said almost nothing until they pressed him.
“Yes, it’s pretty here. I haven’t seen anything so pretty in a long time.”
* * *
From then on Rafik made it a point to avoid the 12 + 1 house as much as he could. Some time passed and the next occasion he found himself on that street, he saw that the place was already being worked on. There were laborers there instead of police this time around. And when he went and peeked through the window he saw that they’d laid new tiles on the floor and painted the walls. Soon somebody else would be living there and they’d have no idea of the house’s past.
More than a year went by. A lot of Christians were moving abroad, especially to America. And one day Edvin told Rafik and Kamran that his family’s papers were ready and they would be moving too.
Then Edvin was gone. Just like that. And with him leaving, neither Rafik nor Kamran had the heart to bring anyone else to replace him. But their own friendship grew tighter. And as the years passed, so did their fixation on a neighborhood girl called Hengameh. The curious thing about Hengameh was that she too lived in a 12 + 1 house, though on a different block. Rafik tried to put that little fact about Hengameh out of his mind. But there was another thing: in the fifteen years since Edvin’s leaving, not once did he or Kamran work up the courage to say two words to the girl. Then at some point Hengameh’s brother was sent abroad too and her parents followed. This left only Hengameh, who had recently gotten married. She took the bottom floor of the 12 + 1 house and had tenants living on the top floor.
Before long, Hengameh got tired of her famously lazy husband and sent him packing from that house. She had studied management in college, but her heart was in photography and soon she started taking it seriously enough to be able to make some money from it. She came and went, seeming to pay little attention to anyone or to the vicious rumor mill of the neighborhood about a beautiful divorcée. She was her own woman now. Which made Rafik and Kamran more crazy about her than they’d been when they were all teenagers. They imagined her firm yet deliciously ample body, with that long, flowing black hair they recalled from before she was old enough to have to wear a headscarf. When they were not working, the two of them would sit hours at a time at the same old traffic circle she passed through every day. She’d become their habit. A habit they could never get close to. With that perennial shoulder bag and camera dangling from her side, she seemed to them like a character from the classic foreign movies they were both addicted to.
Kamran had his own ideas about which characters Hengameh reminded him of:
“She laughs like Anouk Aimée in La Dolce Vita.”
“She walks like Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”
“She moves her head like Rita Hayworth in Gilda.”
“Her glances are like Brigitte Bardot’s in And God Created Woman.”
“Her seduction is like Marilyn Monroe’s in Some Like It Hot.”
“The way she traps men is like Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind.”
Of course, Rafik saw Hengameh in a completely different, much softer light. And he’d say things like:
“No, she’s more like Greta Garbo in Ninotchka when she laughs.”
“Grace Kelly in Mogambo when she sits.”
“Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday the way she holds her bag.”
“Kim Novak in Vertigo when she puts on her gloves.”
“Anna Karina in Vivre Sa Vie when she watches a movie.”
“Judy Garland’s innocence in The Wizard of Oz.”
One thing was for sure—a lot of people in the neighborhood were jealous of Hengameh. She was independent and that rubbed folks the wrong way. But for Rafik and Kamran she had become a stand-in for all the things they didn’t have and all the places they hadn’t gone. Sometimes the ache of desiring her seemed to break them and they could not figure why neither of them made a move. It was as if getting rid of her husband had made Hengameh even more inaccessible than before.
Kamran would say, “Man, this girl is so doable. If I just sleep with her one night, I’ll never grow old.”
Rafik would squirm when he heard his friend talk like that about Hengameh. “That’s stupid!”
“Why stupid?”
“If you sleep with her one night, you’ll have to serve her forever.”
“You think it’s not worth it then?”
“I don’t know. She’s too much of an angel.”
“Then if she ever gives you the green light, just send her my way. Please! Tell her there’s a poor bastard called Kamran who’s been dying for her for over a decade.”
“She’s a work of art. You can’t talk about a work of art that way.”
“So what am I supposed to do with Mona Lisa over there? Just stand by and look at her? That’s all we’ve been doing since we were kids.”
But what Kamran in fact did was to finally get married. His family forced a distant cousin on him. Nevertheless, even the marriage of one of them could not cure either man’s itch. Every day, after Kamran was done driving his food distribution truck around town and Rafik was finished at his picture-framing workshop, the two men would go right back to the same bench and wait for Hengameh to pass by. It was a sickness that finally caused Kamran’s mother to speak up.
This turned out to be a wake-up call. Their hunger had turned them into the butt of the neighborhood’s jokes. Things happened fast after that: An uncle of Kamran’s wife offered to give the newlyweds a discount for an apartment well away from Hengameh’s block. Kamran had no choice but to accept. And barely a year later he had a daughter and told Rafik he was working double shifts to support his family. Rafik also tried to lose himself in work at the picture-frame shop. Gone were the languid afternoons on the bench where they killed time waiting for Hengameh to pass—Hengameh who often would smile but never, ever said a word.
It was another life. It was another time.
Then it happened. One day Rafik was walking down the same old streets minding his own business when he ran smack into Hengameh. They were standing inches apart. Face-to-face. This wasn’t like all those times in the past when he and Kamran would stand to the side and watch her glide by. Rafik felt like he’d stuck his fingers in a wall socket. He couldn’t move.
Hengameh broke the ice: “Rafik, say something. Are you mute?”
“Um, yes. I’m here.”
She smiled. “H
ow come you’re always running from me?”
He could barely talk. “I don’t run.”
“You know what I mean. All these years . . .”
Rafik’s mouth was dry. He stood there gaping.
“All right then. Tomorrow night come visit me. Nine o’clock sharp. I know you know where to find me.” She smiled.
She left him there in the middle of the street disbelieving his own ears. Hengameh inviting him to her place? How would he break this news to Kamran? Should he even tell him about it? Kamran was married now; this would just mess with his head. But then . . . wasn’t this the same as not sharing a meal with your best friend? Though Hengameh was not something two people could share, was she? In his frustration, confusion, and excitement, Rafik had to keep reminding himself that Kamran was married. And I’m not.
From the moment he ran into Hengameh until nine p.m. the next evening, it was as if a lifetime passed. Rafik had no idea what to do with himself. By seven p.m. he had showered, shaved, donned his fresh clothes, and dabbed a good amount of cologne. He was ready, with two more impossible hours to spare.
It was the end of spring and it got dark late these days. As he was coming out of the house, Rafik’s mother gave him a once-over. He knew she could tell he was going out to meet a woman, but if she knew who she’d raise hell about it! He had to calm down. He didn’t want to walk too much and start sweating. Maybe he’d smell bad and Hengameh would be turned off. No, he’d just go sit on the benches at Baharestan Park until ten minutes before nine and try to clear his head a bit.
The walk took him by a place he hadn’t passed in a long time, the 12 + 1 house of old. The place that woman had been murdered in all those years ago. But had she really been murdered? The papers had written several pieces about it back then, but a culprit was never announced. Maybe she had just slipped and fallen. Rafik couldn’t remember anymore if they had even identified a suspect.
He found himself just standing there and staring into that same window he’d peeped through back then. Before long a woman approached the window and gave him a quizzical look. She didn’t say anything, she just stood there watching him watching the house. He could see they had carpeted the entire floor. Only the edge of that single stair was still visible from beneath the carpet. Now the woman finally palmed his hand on the window as if to push him away. This jolted Rafik out of his trance.
He murmured under his breath, “I beg your pardon,” and turned away.
Eight p.m.
He’d thought he’d only stood there for a minute. It had nearly been a whole hour.
He sat in the park, not thinking about Hengameh now but about the house and the woman who had stared back at him. He felt completely disoriented.
“Agha, buy a fortune from me, won’t you?”
It was one of those dirty little kids you usually saw at traffic lights selling fortunes of Persian poetry. Without thinking, Rafik took some money out of his pocket and handed it to the kid. Then he did something inexplicable to himself: while the kid held out the paper fortunes, Rafik deliberately counted through the envelopes and took the thirteenth one from his hands.
“Won’t you read it, agha? It’s good to read it right away.”
“No, son. I’ll read it later. I promise.”
He knew he wouldn’t read it later either. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to connect Hengameh and that lady in the 12 + 1 house and this paper fortune together. He suddenly wished he hadn’t bought the thing.
At exactly eight fifty p.m. he finally got up. To reach Hengameh’s house from the park he had to pass by the Bridge of Simon again. He lingered there and watched the rough spring current rush underneath him. He thought of his dead brother. If only Razmik hadn’t acted so recklessly years ago. Rafik stood there gazing until he felt light-headed and unsteady on his feet. A hand pulled him back from the edge.
“What are you doing? You almost fell over the rails.”
It was a woman talking to him. She was looking at him like he was crazy. He apologized several times and thanked her. She looked at him doubtfully again and then was gone.
What if all this was a game? Why would the prettiest woman in all of Narmak and Zarkesh want to see him? And in her own house? Rafik began to doubt himself. He wished he hadn’t let go of that paper fortune in the rushing water. Would the fortune be able to tell him if this invitation from Hengameh was real? He doubted that.
Most of the streetlamps in Hengameh’s street were off. He stood in front of the door to her building and saw that it was already ajar. He passed into the hallway and was about to knock on her unit when she opened the door.
“How punctual of you,” she said quietly, and let him in.
The lighting was dim and Rafik couldn’t quite see where he was stepping. On the walls he could make out framed photographs. Probably Hengameh’s own work. The sound of her high heels followed him. He was excited by that sound. She caught up to him and they faced each other. Now things came into focus. That sleeveless black dress she wore. The red lipstick and polished red nails. The delicate necklace and the little red earrings against her fresh white skin. She smiled and he felt his knees wanting to give. He was giddy and wished to hold onto this feeling forever. She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the love seat in the living room.
“Watch out for that step. I keep the lights low on purpose. I like it better this way.”
“Me too.”
She had a lovely scent. He wanted to take it all in.
She said, “So if I didn’t come up to you that day, you would have never made a move on me?”
“I’d kill to have you notice me.”
“Then why didn’t you come forward?”
It wasn’t much of an excuse but Rafik pointed to his right eye. “I have a little problem here.” There was a small spot on his eye and all his life he had been self-conscious of it. Just like Kamran who still worried about the little mark from the cleft lip of his childhood. “I just didn’t believe you’d be interested in someone like me,” he added.
Hengameh sighed. “When someone has something unique, they should be proud of it.”
“Proud?”
“Yes. Your little problem makes a woman want you more.”
She stood up and caressed Rafik’s shoulder. “How about coffee? I know you Armenians love a cup of coffee. No?”
“I don’t drink coffee at night. But tonight—it’s a special night.”
“Special? You mean you only want to see me this one night?”
She didn’t wait for his answer and headed toward the kitchen. Rafik followed her with his eyes.
* * *
“Name?”
“Rafik Mahmudi.”
“What kind of name is Rafik?”
“Armenian.”
“Then how come you have a Muslim last name?”
“My ancestors were from the Salmas area of Azerbaijan. A lot of the Armenians there had my last name.”
“Listen, Mr. Armenian, I want to help you. But it looks like you want to play with me.”
“I’m not playing with anyone, officer.”
“Do you admit you murdered Hengameh Farahbakhsh?”
Rafik stared blankly at the detective. If he felt anything, it was numbness—if even that.
“She was still wearing clothes. I don’t suppose you got very far with her.”
“We were about to have coffee.”
“And?”
“I already told you.”
“Tell it to me again.”
Rafik took a deep breath. “Hengameh went to the kitchen to make coffee. She came back out saying she’d put it on low heat. Then . . . then the doorbell rang. She seemed scared. Said she hoped it wasn’t the tenants from upstairs. She checked through the keyhole, then ran back to me and made me hide behind the sofa. I asked her who it was. Uninvited guest, she said. She told me to close my eyes and ears and not make a move. You can imagine how I felt. It was horrible. After a while I could hear arguing, but couldn�
��t make out what they were saying. I felt like I had to do something. I felt cheap. Stupid. All I could do was pull myself up a little. I could see the light from the kitchen and two shadows in there moving. Hengameh came out first. She was carrying a tray. I wanted to believe she was bringing me my coffee. The man, he had something in his hand too. Like a small statue or something. I’m not sure. Then he . . . he just bashed her over the head with it. I saw it with my own eyes. Slammed it down on her head. Hard. The tray flew out of her hand and made a horrible noise when it hit the floor. Horrible! Really loud. I heard doors opening on the second floor and neighbors running downstairs calling her name. I made myself small behind that sofa. I have no idea how that man left the building. I swear it. I couldn’t move from there until the police broke down the door.”
“Well, well, Mr. Rafik. Rafik the Armenian! I told you I wanted to help you. But this fairy tale you’re feeding me—maybe you’ve been watching too many movies.”
“I told you all I know.”
“The windows to that building all have metal guards. And you yourself said as soon as the tray fell, there were people from upstairs banging on the door. You don’t ask yourself how this ghost you’re talking about managed to get out of the house? If you were me, would you believe yourself?”
“No.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I only know I’m innocent.”
“Maybe you were drunk and didn’t know what you were doing.”
“I’m not a drinker.”
“Really? An Armenian who doesn’t drink? That’s a first.”
“We were supposed to drink coffee and talk. I was in love with her.”
“The woman is laid out on those stairs. Her head smashed in. Blood everywhere. Just like that scene you saw when you were a kid. Remember? That house at 12 + 1?”
“How do you know these things?”
“How do I know? Are you sure you’re not still drunk? You told me all this just a half hour ago. First you told me about one 12 + 1 house, then about another 12 + 1 house, the victim’s.”
“Officer, I’ve loved Hengameh since I was fourteen.”