Strange Times, My Dear

by Nahid Mozaffari

  I take my eyes from the paper and look at him. “Who? And who’s supposed to say what?”

  His broad forehead wrinkles up. “The government, our leaders,

  the president... I don’t know . . . the people in charge.” “And what are they supposed to say?”

  Saber takes the newspaper from my hand. “You can’t just bury your head underground about things like that. This rumor has been going around for ten or fifteen days now!”

  Shahed takes his glass of tea, gets up, and comes toward us. “It’s not a rumor anymore. By now everyone knows Iraq is up to something at the border . . . everyone but the people in charge.”

  Mina is standing next to Saber with the broom in her hand, reading the paper.

  “You think he’ll dare attack?”

  Shahed scratches his broad bony chin.

  “He might. With the mess we’re in, it doesn’t take much courage. All it takes is being a bastard.”

  Saber folds the newspaper and hands it back to Shahed. “If you think about it, this is the best time for Iraq to attack us.”

  “Right now? Why?” Saber turns to Mina.

  “To destroy the revolution,” he says calmly. “To topple the regime. If he attacks, all of Khuzestan is under his knife. Khuzestan . . . and

  its oil!”1

  Mother gets up from the teapot and comes to the pool to wash and get ready for the evening prayers. Shahed puts the empty glass on the edge of the garden

  “But they’ve got it all wrong this time!”

  I go inside to get dressed. I have dinner plans with some friends at the club, but I’m not in the mood. Instead, I think I’ll go see Mohammad the barber. I’ll get a haircut, take a walk for about an hour, and return home in time for the news.

  Sunlight has pulled away completely from the rooftops, and the streetlights are on. The bakery is empty. Majid the food vendor is sitting by a big pot of rice pudding on the cobblestones next to the bakery, doing nothing in particular. A mellow breeze from the Karun River is pushing back the mugginess, and the air is cooling down.

  I pass by Asad’s bike shop. Amu Haidar is sitting next to the store smoking a water pipe. He waves at me. “How are you?” “Very well.” “What’s new?”

  “Not much, pretty good all around.”

  A bit farther down, some young men are standing on the sidewalk, talking. I pass by and hear fragments of their conversation: “Iraq can’t do a damned thing!”

  “That’s just a slogan. You’re talking out of your —”

  “No I’m not!”

  “Oh yeah? We’ll see. Once they

  I pretend to light my cigarette and stop to hear the rest. “... when they attack, we’ll all have to put our tails between our hind legs and run . . . and hand over Khuzestan!” “Why are you so pessimistic?”

  “It’s not pessimism. The guys who came back from Bustan have even seen their tanks.” I slow down.

  “They can’t do a damned thing!”

  “Sure, if we’re prepared. But what preparation? Where? I haven’t heard

  I drift away. It’s dark. There’s no one in the barbershop. I look around. Mash-Mohammad is standing on the corner next to the pushcart, eating cooked fava beans. I wave to him. The bean-seller is busy pumping his gas lamp. Muhammad waves back at me. He drinks the juice from his bowl, empties the remaining favas in his hand, and scuttles straight toward me.

  “Hi!”

  “Hi, Mash-Mohammad, how are you?”

  “Pretty well. You’re late this time . . . your hair’s getting long.” He opens his fist, full of favas. “Here.” “Thanks, Mash-Mohammad.”

  “You don’t want any? It’s really good. Well, then . . . please, come in.” I sit on the chair. Mash-Mohammad shoves the last favas in his mouth and washes his hands.

  “You weren’t in town, right?”

  He is taking a towel out of the drawer and shaking it open. “Yes, I was.”

  “Well, why haven’t you been by? There’s a forest growing on the back of your neck!”

  He ties the towel around my neck. Through the mirror I see his small television set behind me. It is no wider than the span of two hands. Mash-Mohammad looks at the clock and takes the comb and scissors,

  “What have you heard?”

  “About what?”

  “The Iraqi soldiers.”

  I play dumb to figure out where he’s coming from. “What about them? Has something happened?” The scissors are ringing.

  ” ‘Has something happened?’! They say twenty Iraqi divisions are taking up positions at the border!” I’m surprised. “Twenty divisions!”

  “I heard it from Sheikh Ta’imeh. You know who he is.” “No.”

  He takes his hands off my head and looks at me in the mirror.

  “You don’t know Sheikh Ta’imeh? He’s one of my customers. He’s the Sheikh of Susangerd. The one who owns a pickup truck.”

  The scissors ring once again, and he keeps talking nonstop.

  “You must know him. You’ve seen him here hundreds of times. He was here yesterday, saying that the Iraqis have set up camp at the border. He said that at night they light up the sky with signal flares, get on their boats, and come over to our side through the reeds of Hur al-Azim to reconnoiter. He said they have huge tanks, each the size of a refinery!”

  I look at Mash-Mohammad’s pockmarked face through the mirror. His short hair is the color of wheat. When he talks, his gold teeth flash at you.

  “Cut it short?”

  “Just a little.”

  The comb scratches my scalp. “Their spies are everywhere.” “Iraqi spies?”

  “Of course, the Iraqis . . . damn! It looks like you’re totally out of it.” “No, no. I’m listening!”

  “They say that the spies ride around on motorcycles and figure out distances that way.”

  Mash-Mohammad smiles. Pockmarks have almost eaten away his eyelids. His eyelashes seem to have been burned off, and he has the typical cauliflower ears of a veteran wrestler. Mash-Mohammad used to be a champion wrestler when he was young. And what vigor he had, too!

  Mohammad the mechanic comes in.

  “Greetings!”

  “Greetings.”

  I shake his hand, seated.

  “How are you?”

  “I am well.”

  Mash-Mohammad asks, “Got any news?”

  Mohammad the mechanic lets go of my hand. “About what?”

  “The Iraqis.”

  Mohammad the mechanic hesitates for a second. “No . . . not much more than anyone else. I heard the newspaper even had something about it today.”

  Mash-Mohammad pauses. “The newspaper? See, what did I tell you? Sheikh Ta’imeh saw the tanks with his own eyes. He was here yesterday and said —”

  Mohammad the mechanic cuts him off. “How late are you open, Mash-Mohammad?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to go somewhere and come back.”

  “Sit. Ill be done in a second.”

  “If you’re open till nine, I’ll go and come back.”

  “I am, but sit down and wait for a minute.”

  “I don’t have time to sit.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to buy some flowers and candies. It’s my cousin’s wedding. If you’re open till nine, I’ll come back.”

  “It’s up to you, but by the time you finish a cup of tea, I’ll be done.”

  Mohammad the mechanic shuffles a bit and sits. Mash-Mohammad sticks his head out the door, comb and scissors in hand, and calls out: “Three teas, sugar on the side, extra strong.”

  He then turns the TV on to a Basra television station.2 I look at the fuzzy screen in the mirror. Mash-Mohammad fiddles with the set to try and make the screen clearer. Mohammad the mechanic starts to speak. “It won’t get any better than that, Mash-Mohammad. Don’t waste your time.”

  “Why wouldn’t it get better? I get great reception every time.”

  “That’s only wh
en it’s muggy and humid.”

  “Even with the northern winds, I have good reception.”

  The screen does not clear up. Mash-Mohammad grumbles and leaves the TV set for the comb and scissors. A woman’s meaty face fills the screen. She is singing a song in Arabic. She is so made up that I can almost smell the oils and odors of her makeup, and shudder with disgust.

  The waiter brings the tea. Mohammad the mechanic points to the television and asks the barber, “You like these programs?”

  Mash-Mohammad pours the tea in the saucer and blows on it. “What else can I do? My only entertainment is tea with sugar cubes, and belly dancers!”

  Mohammad the mechanic says, “It doesn’t take much to make you happy.”

  Mash-Mohammad the barber pours the tea down his throat and says, “There isn’t much else going on.” And then he combs my hair and looks at me in the mirror. “Do you want some cologne?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He holds the mirror behind my head. “Looks great. Thanks.”

  He unties the towel from my neck. I leave the shop and turn onto Khomeini Street to stroll down White Bridge Street. The kids are raising a storm in front of the Islamic Bookstore. They’re buying school-books. Their voices blend together.

  “He doesn’t have the biology book!”

  “He doesn’t have geology, either!”

  “Did you get the pens?”

  “Yeah . . . but I still need six hundred-page notebooks.”

  The days go by so fast; it feels as if summer started only two weeks ago. The schools will open in a couple of days, and life will shake off the sluggishness of summer, and the bustle and excitement of young boys and girls going to school will give the town another feel. Khomeini Street is lit up like daylight. People swarm; automobiles inch along slowly in a chain.

  In White Bridge Circle, a milky white car — decorated for a wedding — has jumped the median and crashed into the streetlight. People are surrounding the car, laughing and making wise cracks. The scents of fragrant stock and petunias have filled the square. A group of men and women are sitting on a blanket on the grass in the middle of the square drinking tea. People think they are so entitled. As if it’s their own house, they have lighted their samovars and are just lounging around in the middle of the public square.

  The bridge itself is not crowded. I lean on a pole and light a cigarette, looking at the Karun River. What a flood. For the past couple of days the water level has risen two meters. Motor boats crisscross the river and speed toward the Naderi Bridge and back. A group of people are standing on the bank for their turn to ride the boats. I get dizzy from staring at the water and turn my eyes to the skyline. The lights alongside the Karun are on. Under some of them, kids are playing soccer. Farther down, under another streetlight, girls and boys have surrounded an ice cream cart, eating ice cream. The end of the Karun is buried in darkness.

  I hear the sound of a train. I turn and look at Black Bridge. The train shakes the bridge as it passes. There is no light on the island in the river. More than half of the island and its tamarisk trees are buried under water. In the northeastern part of town, the open flames of the refinery have turned the sky blood-red. With a final glance at the motor-boats and their front lights breaking the water, I start walking. I decide to stroll across the bridge, then go home.

  Behind me two men are walking and talking. They are talking about Iraq and the Iraqi army at the border.

  “I think this is one big joke.”

  “I don’t. I think it’s deadly serious.”

  “You mean you believe Iraq might actually attack Iran?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not feasible. The people of Khuzestan can take all of Iraq by themselves!”

  I stop, lean on the railing and look at the men. They’re both middle-aged, maybe a bit older. One of them is wearing white shirt and pants — very clean-cut — with sleeves rolled up and hair combed.

  “You are not considering an important factor, which is that our military has thoroughly imploded.”

  The other guy is wearing a gray shirt and a dark red tie. “But the military is secondary right now.”

  The man in white is holding his hands behind him, twirling the big yellow beads of a rosary. “How so?” “Simple! Peoples’ militias

  They walk away. It seems the few lines in the newspaper have gotten people worried. I hear the sound of a motorcycle screeching by. A light cool breeze caresses the Karun. The sky is clear and full of stars. I stop at the western end of the White Bridge, next to the juice stand in Three-Girl Garden.

  “What would you like?”

  “Carrot juice, please.”

  Under the streetlights, on the edge of the grass next to the flower beds, people are filling the seats and benches and drinking juice. A traveling ice-cream vendor weaves through the crowd. Farther away, on the edge of the pool in the middle of the garden, a young couple is sitting and eating ice cream as their child plays with a little red and blue plastic ball on the grass.

  “Your carrot juice.”

  “Thank you.”

  I light a cigarette, twirl the smoke in my mouth, and take a long sip, slowly sucking the juice from the cup. The two men in white and gray walk around Three-Girl Garden and pass me by on their way to the juice stand. They are still talking about Iraq and the army and the people’s militias. The air has cooled down. Together, the scent of the grass, the scent of the flowers, and the scent of the night are exhilarating. The glimmering lights on the high ceilings of White Bridge seem like icicles suspended from the sky.

  I am blinded by a pair of car lights at the edge of the park. Then the lights turn off and by the time my eyes get used to the dim light, Ahmad emerges from the car. Hoori and Reza stay inside. Ahmad goes to the juice stand. “Three glasses of apple juice.”

  I call over to him and he comes toward me.

  “Oh . . . you are here? Hello!”

  “Hi . . . how are you?”

  “Well, thank you.”

  Ahmad calls Hoori. They get out of the car and little Reza waddles and stumbles toward us. Hoori is right beside him, guiding his steps. She smiles. “What are you doing here?”

  “Nothing. I have nothing else to do, so I’m just taking a walk.”

  “You aren’t here checking out the girls, are you?”

  “Oh yeah, right!”

  Ahmad takes the three glasses of apple juice and comes over.

  “We were on our way to your house,” Hoori says.

  I take Reza from her arms.

  “It’s still not too late, let’s go together.”

  In the house, there’s a discussion going on. Basra television has been showing the capture of an Iranian border post. As if he has been personally insulted, Shahed pulls in his chin, inflates his chest, and waves his big hands in the air.

  “Pimps . . . as if they have conquered the Khaybar fortress of Arabia. They keep on showing the takeover of the Provisions Register of the local army company.”

  Mohsen, who has just finished his military service, is sitting on some cushions at the far end of the room.

  “They also captured a jeep and a machine gun,” he says bitterly.

  I take the glass of tea from Mina.

  “How did they capture it?”

  Mohsen is chewing the end of his thick black moustache. “How should I know! Basra television was showing it.” Ahmad pours his tea in the saucer, blows on it, and holds it to Reza’s mouth.

  “What a time these bastards have picked!”

  “You didn’t say what ‘Provisions Register’ means,” I say.

  Saber takes a big drag on his cigarette.

  “It seems they overran this border checkpoint and found a small notebook, which apparently had the account of the food and provisions for an army company. The bastards have been holding it like a trophy and beating their drums to it.”

  It seems to be getting serious; it’s not just rumor anymore. If the newspaper is right and if
Sheikh Ta’mieh was telling the truth . . . plus, if the Iraqis have indeed stationed their tanks on the border and have even attacked a checkpoint. . . tomorrow they’ll probably attack others, and then . . . God have mercy on Khuzestan! We’ll be on the front lines!

  On top of the normal drowsiness after a big lunch, the drone of the air conditioner is making me sleepy. I’m trying to take a nap, but the neighborhood kids are raising hell in the alleyway. They have so much energy, these damn kids! Heat and cold make no difference to them — even at noon, in this muggy heat, they keep going. My eyelids are getting heavy when a ball hits the window, jolting me awake. I have a good mind to get up and shout down at them. I barely make it up, however, before I sprawl down again, exhausted. I light a cigarette and flip over to rest my chin on my hands. The possibility of sleep has gone, but the drowsiness lingers. Saber knocks on the door

  “Are you awake?”

  There’s a quiver of excitement in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  He opens the door and says in a rush “They’ve hit the airport!”

  The fatigue rushes out of my body. I spring up. “Where did they hit?” “The airport!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Iraqi planes have bombarded the airport!”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  I turn on the radio.

  “Some friends called me.”

  “Friends? Did you hear anything yourself?”

  “Me? No! I was in my room. We’re too far from the airport.”

  The radio announces today’s news. I ask Saber, “If they have hit Ahvaz airport, then why isn’t the radio saying anything about it?”

  “They just hit it. A couple of minutes ago. I guess it takes a while before the news gets to them.”

  “It takes a while?” I put out the cigarette. “How come we heard about it so soon, then?!”

  I get up. I want to make myself busy. I feel as if I have lost something, as if there is an errand that I’ve forgotten.

  “Where’s Shahed?” I ask.

  “Sleeping. He took a nap after lunch.”

  I call Mina to bring me the phone. Mohsen passes my room quickly on his way out the door.

  “Where are you going?” I call out to him.