The Blind Owl and Other Stories

by Sadegh Hedayat

  When night fell he returned to the square, tired and exhausted. There was no trace of his master. He circled the village a few more times, finally going to the water channel that led to the bitch, but the entrance had been blocked with rocks. With peculiar enthusiasm, Pat dug at the ground with his paws in the hope of being able to enter the garden, but it was impossible. Disappointed, he napped there.

  In the middle of the night Pat jumped awake at the sound of his own moans. Frightened, he got up. He prowled about in the alleys helpless and perplexed. At length he felt very hungry. When he returned to the square, the odour of different foods reached his nostrils. The smells of leftover meat, fresh bread and yoghurt were all mingled together, but at the same time he felt guilty for trespassing. He must beg from these people who resembled his owner, and if another rival shouldn’t turn up to drive him out, little by little he could obtain the right to this territory. Perhaps one of these beings who had food would take care of him.

  Trembling with fear, he went cautiously towards the bakery, which had just opened and from which the strong smell of baked bread diffused in the air. Somebody with a loaf of bread under his arm said to him, “Come… Come!” How strange his voice sounded in Pat’s ears! The man threw a piece of warm bread in front of him. After hesitating a moment, Pat ate the bread and wagged his tail. The man put the bread down on the shop bench. Fearfully and cautiously, he laid his hand on Pat’s head. Then, with both hands, he undid Pat’s collar. How comfortable Pat felt: it was as if all the responsibilities, obligations, and duties were lifted from his shoulders. But when he wagged his tail again and went towards the shop owner, he met a heavy kick in the side and retreated, moaning. The owner of the shop went and carefully dipped his hands in the water of the ditch. Pat still recognized his collar hanging in front of the shop.

  From that day on, aside from kicks, rocks, and beatings from the club, Pat had earned nothing from these people. It was as if they were his sworn enemies and took pleasure in torturing him.

  Pat felt that he had entered a new world which didn’t belong to him and in which no one understood his feelings. He passed the first few days with difficulty, but he adjusted by and by. On the right-hand side of the alley, where it turned, he discovered a place where rubbish was thrown. In the refuse many delicious titbits could be found, such as bones, fat, skin, fish heads, and many other things which he couldn’t identify. After scavenging he would spend the rest of the day in front of the butcher’s shop and the bakery. His eyes were glued to the butcher’s hands, but he received more blows than delicious morsels. Eventually he came to terms with his new way of life. Of his past life only a handful of hazy, vague memories and some scents remained, and whenever things were particularly hard for him, he would find a measure of consolation and escape in this lost heaven of his, while involuntarily the memories of that time would take shape before his eyes.

  But the thing that tortured Pat more than anything else was his need to be fondled. He was like a child who had always been cursed and made a scapegoat, but whose finer feelings had not yet been extinguished. Especially in this new life full of pain and torment, he needed to be caressed more than before. His eyes begged for this fondling, and he was ready to lay down his life for the person who would be kind to him or stroke him on the head. He needed to display his kindness to someone, to sacrifice himself for someone, to show someone his feelings of worship and loyalty, but it seemed that no one would take his part. In every eye he looked at he saw nothing but hatred and mischief. Whatever movement he made to attract the attention of these people, it seemed to rouse their indignation and wrath still more.

  While Pat was napping in the water channel, he moaned and woke up several times, as if he were having nightmares. Presently he felt very hungry. He smelt grilled meat. A treacherous hunger tortured his insides so much that he forgot his helplessness and his other pains. He arose with difficulty and went cautiously towards the square.

  * * *

  At this time, amid noise and dust, a car entered Varamin Square. A man got out of the car, walked towards Pat and patted his head. This man was not his owner. Pat wasn’t fooled, because he knew his owner’s scent very well. But why had somebody come to caress him? Pat wagged his tail and looked doubtfully at the man. Hadn’t he been tricked? But there was no longer a collar around his neck to pat him for. The man turned and patted him once more. Pat followed him, his surprise increasing, because the man went inside a shop that Pat knew well, from which the smell of food came. The man sat on a bench by the wall. He was served warm bread, yoghurt, eggs and other things. He dipped pieces of bread in the yoghurt and threw them in front of Pat. At first hurriedly, then more slowly, Pat ate the bread, his good-natured hazel eyes full of unhappiness riveted to the man’s face in thanks, his tail wagging. Was he awake, or was he dreaming? Pat ate a full meal without being interrupted by blows. Could it be possible that he had found a new owner? In spite of the heat, the man got up. He went down the same alley to the tower, paused there a bit, then passed through winding alleys. Pat followed him, until he went out of the village. The man went to the same ruin, which had several walls, to which his owner had gone. Perhaps these people, too, followed the scent of their females? Pat waited for him in the shade of the wall. Then they returned to the square by a different route.

  The man laid his hand on Pat’s head again and after a brief walk around the square, he went and got into one of those cars that Pat knew. Pat didn’t have the courage to jump up. He sat next to the car and looked at the man.

  All at once the car started in a cloud of dust. Without hesitation, Pat ran after the car. No, this time he didn’t want to let the man get away from him. He panted and in spite of the pain he felt in his body, he leapt up and ran after the car with all his strength. The car left the village behind and passed through fields. Pat reached the car two or three times but then fell back. He had gathered all his strength, and his despair forced him to run as fast as he could. But the car went faster than he did. He had made a mistake. Not only was he unable to reach the car, but he had become weak and broken and suddenly he felt that his muscles were no longer in his control. He was not able to make the slightest move. All his effort had been in vain. He actually didn’t know why he had run or where he was going. He had come to a dead end. He stood and panted, his tongue hanging out. It had grown dark before his eyes. His head hanging, he pulled himself laboriously away from the road and went into a ditch beside the field. He lay on the hot moist sand, and with his instinct, which was never deceptive, he felt that he could not move any more from this spot. His head was dizzy. His thoughts and feelings had become vague and dark. He felt a severe pain in his stomach, and his eyes looked glazed over with sickness. In the midst of writhing and spasms, he lost control of his legs little by little. A cold sweat covered his body. It was a mild, intoxicating coolness…

  * * *

  Near dusk three hungry crows flew over Pat’s head. They had smelled him from afar. One of them cautiously landed near him and looked carefully. When it was certain that Pat was not yet completely dead, it flew up again. The three crows had come to tear out his hazel eyes.

  The Broken Mirror

  (from Three Drops of Blood)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  Odette was as fresh as the flowers that blossom at the beginning of spring, with a pair of alluring eyes the colour of the sky and blonde hair which always hung in wisps by her cheeks. With a pale, delicate profile she would sit for hours in front of her window. She would cross her legs, read a novel, mend her stockings or do embroidery. But it was when she played the Garizari Waltz on her violin that she pulled at my heartstrings.

  The window of my room was opposite the window of Odette’s room. How many minutes, hours, and maybe even whole Sundays I would watch her from my window: especially at night when she took off her stockings and got into bed.

  In this way a mysterious relationship
had developed between us. If I didn’t see her for one day, it was as if I had lost something. Some days I would look at her so long that she would get up and close her window. We had been watching each other for two weeks, but Odette’s glance was cold and indifferent. She did not smile or make any move to reveal her feelings towards me. Basically her expression was serious and self-contained.

  The first time that I came face to face with her was one morning when I had gone to the café at the end of our alley to have breakfast. When I came out, I saw Odette. Her violin case was in her hand and she was going towards the metro. I said hello and she smiled. Then I asked if I could carry her violin case. She nodded her head in answer and said “Thanks”. Our acquaintance started with this one word.

  From that day on, when we opened our windows, we talked to each other from afar with hand motions and gestures. But it always resulted in our going down to the Luxembourg Gardens and meeting each other. Afterwards we would go to a film or to the theatre, or spend several hours together in some other way. Odette was alone at home. Her stepfather and her mother had gone on a trip, and she remained in Paris because of her job.

  She spoke very little. But she had the temperament of a child: she was wilful and stubborn, and sometimes she infuriated me. We had been friends for two months. One day we decided to go that evening to the Friday market at Neuilly. That night Odette wore her new blue dress and seemed happier than usual. When we came out of the restaurant, she spoke of her life all the way on the metro, until we came out opposite Luna Park.

  A large crowd was coming and going. All kinds of amusements were spread along the street. Entertainers were performing. There were shooting games, lottery games, sweet-sellers, a circus, small electric cars that went around a track, balloons which revolved around themselves, rides, and various exhibits. The sounds of girls’ screams, conversation, laughter, murmuring, and the noise of motors and different sorts of music were mingled together.

  We decided to go on a car ride. It was a train of cars which went around in a circle and when it was moving, a cloth would cover it, making it look like a green worm. When we wanted to get on, Odette gave her gloves and purse to me so they wouldn’t fall during the ride. We sat close beside each other. The ride started and the green cover slowly rose and hid us from the eyes of the onlookers for five minutes.

  When the cover fell back, our lips were still pressed together. I was kissing Odette and she was not holding back. Then we got out, and while walking, she told me that this was only the third time she had come to the Friday market, because her mother had forbidden her. We went to look at several other places. It was midnight when, tired and worn out, we finally started to return. But Odette didn’t want to leave. She stopped at each show, and I was obliged to wait. Two or three times I dragged her by the arm, and she was forced to come with me, until she stopped in front of the stand of somebody who was selling Gillette razor blades. He was delivering a speech and demonstrating how good they were and inviting people to buy. This time I became really infuriated. I pulled her arm hard and said, “This has nothing to do with women.” But she pulled her arm away and said, “I know. I still want to watch.”

  I went towards the metro without answering her. When I got home, the alley was deserted and Odette’s window was dark. I went into my room and turned on the light. I opened the window, and since I wasn’t sleepy, I read for a while. It was one in the morning. I went to close the window and go to sleep. I saw that Odette had come and was standing in the alley by the street light beneath her window. I was surprised by her behaviour. I slammed the window shut. As I started to undress, I realized that Odette’s beaded purse and her gloves were in my pocket and I knew that her money and door key were in the purse. I tied them together and dropped them out the window.

  Three weeks passed and during all that time I paid no attention to her. When her window opened, I closed mine. In the meantime it happened that I had to make a trip to London. The day before I left for England, I ran into Odette at the end of the alley, going towards the metro with her violin case in her hand. After saying hello and exchanging a few pleasantries, I told her about my trip and apologized for my behaviour that night. Odette coldly opened her beaded purse and handed me a small mirror which was broken in the middle. She said, “This happened that night you threw my purse out of the window. You know this will bring bad luck.”

  I laughed in answer and called her superstitious, and promised her that I would see her again before I left, but unfortunately I couldn’t make it.

  After I had been in London about a month I received this letter from Odette:

  Paris, 21st September 1930

  Dearest Jamshid,

  You don’t know how lonely I am. This loneliness hurts me. I want to say a few words to you tonight, because when I write to you it’s as if I am speaking with you. If I address you familiarly please excuse me. If you only knew how much I am suffering!

  How long the days are – the hands of the clock move so slowly that I don’t know what to do. Does time seem so slow to you too? Perhaps you’ve met a girl there, although I’m sure that your head is always in a book, just the way you were in Paris, in that tiny room that is always before my eyes. Now a Chinese student has moved in, but I’ve hung a heavy curtain across my window so that I won’t be able to see out, because the person that I loved isn’t there. It’s just like the refrain in the ballad says: “A bird that’s gone to another land won’t come back.”

  Yesterday Helen and I went walking in the Luxembourg Gardens. When we got to that stone bench, I remembered the day we sat on the same bench and you spoke of your country, and how you made me all those promises and I believed them. And now I’ve become an object of ridicule to my friends, and people talk about me. I always play the Garizari Waltz to remember you. The picture we took in the Bois de Vincennes is on my table. When I look at your picture it reassures me. I say to myself, “No, this picture doesn’t fool me!” But alas, I don’t know if you share my feelings or not. But ever since that night my mirror broke, the very mirror that you gave me yourself, my heart has been warning me of some unfortunate event. The last day that we saw each other, when you said that you were going to England, my heart told me that you were going very far and we would never see each other again. And the thing that I worried about has happened. Madame Burle asked, “Why are you so sad?” and she wanted to take me to Brittany, but I didn’t go with her, because I knew that I would get worse.

  Never mind – what’s over is over. If I’m sounding cross, it’s because I’m feeling depressed. Please forgive me, and if I’ve harassed you I hope you will forget me. You’ll tear up my letters, won’t you, Jimmy?

  If only you knew how much pain and sorrow I’m in at this moment. I’m tired of everything. I’m disillusioned with my daily work, although it wasn’t like this before. You know, I can’t bear to be left hanging any longer, even if it becomes a cause of grief to others. All of their sorrow can’t equal mine. I have decided to leave Paris on Sunday. I’ll take the six-thirty train and go to Calais, the last city that you passed through. Then I’ll see the blue water of the ocean. That water washes all misfortunes away. Every moment its colour changes, and it laps the sandy shore with its sad, enchanting murmur. It foams. The sand nibbles the foam and swallows it and then those very same waves will take my last thoughts with them, because when death smiles at someone, it draws him to it with this smile. Perhaps you will say that she couldn’t do such a thing, but you will see that I don’t tell lies.

  Accept my distant kisses,

  Odette Lasour

  I sent two letters in answer to Odette, but one of them remained unanswered and the second was stamped “Return to Sender” and came back to me.

  The next year, when I returned to Paris, I went as quickly as possible to Rue Saint Jacques, where my old house was. From my room a Chinese student was whistling the Garizari Waltz. But the window of Odette’s room was
shut, and a paper had been stuck on the front door which said “To Let”.

  Davoud the Hunchback

  (from Buried Alive)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  “No, no. i will never follow this path. I must completely close my eyes to it. It brings happiness to others, while for me it’s full of pain and torture. Never, never…” Davoud was talking to himself, striking the ground with the short yellow-coloured stick which he had in his hand, and with which he struggled along, as if he kept his balance with difficulty. His big head was sunken between his thin shoulders onto his protruding chest. From the front he appeared hollow, terrible, and repulsive: thin withered lips, thin curved eyebrows, drooping eyelashes, sallow colour, prominent bony cheeks. But when someone looked at him from a distance with his coat covering his hump-back, his long disproportionate hands, his big hat pulled down on his head, and especially the serious attitude he assumed, hitting his stick with force on the ground, he seemed rather more laughable.

  From the intersection of Pahlavi Avenue he had turned into a street out of the city and was going towards the Government Gate. It was near dusk and the weather was slightly warm. On the left, in the vague light of the sunset, the mud-covered walls and brick columns thrust their heads towards the sky in silence. On the right was a gully that had just been filled and next to that at intervals, half-built brick houses were visible. Here it was fairly empty, and sometimes a car or a droshky would pass which raised a little dust into the air even though water had been sprinkled on the road. Saplings had been planted on both sides of the street, by the gutter.