IN ANOTHER PLACE
The quiet and untroubled life of Amir-Ali was turned upside down one night for some unknown reason, which may be attributed to a mysterious disease — a bout of successive yawns and vomiting — or to the onslaught of some psychological disorder (even though Amir-Ali possessed a fully sound mind). The date, and even the exact hour, of this occurrence can be determined: Friday, October 9, 1998, eleven minutes after midnight.
His diaries, letters, and miscellaneous writings are in my safekeeping. The reason for this intimacy and trust is simple. Amir-Ali and I grew up together and were always with each other. Those who knew us from afar thought we were brothers or close relatives. There was indeed some resemblance, an acquired one. Our mannerisms, the way we walked and laughed, and especially the way we talked were very similar. I was the one who unconsciously imitated him. Ever since the beginning of our friendship — that of two young classmates — Amir-Ali was someone important to me, someone special, different from all the others.
Life had made a gentle and rational being of him, a civilized man, an obedient husband, vice president of a prestigious company, capable of all the necessary wheeling and dealings and the customary negotiations. Yet I, who had known him from way back, knew that another Amir-Ali lurked behind that presentable and sane facade, imprisoned in the silent depths of his being, waiting to escape. I have had no news of him for years, but I am sure wherever he is (and God knows where that is) — at the end of the world, at the North Pole, on a turbulent ocean, in some obscure jungle, or in a small village hereabouts, near or far — he is well and happy and will one day turn up.
What I mean by “happy” is a certain type of happiness that pertains to Amir-Ali’s mentality and his world. It is not our type of happiness, yours and mine. I mean you and I and all the rest of us conservative and farsighted people, the domesticated and docile lot. I have laid out his writings, his letters, and his notes, and I am trying to sort out my memories of him: the childhood days, the summers he spent with me and my family in the country, his sayings, his wishes, his strange fantasies, his love of celestial happenings and cosmic mysteries (the little astronomer), and his secret war against his father, his teachers, and all those who wanted to mold him into a model son or student, the day he left Iran to continue his education abroad, the day he returned, the night of his wedding, the last time I saw him. I am putting all these moments together in an attempt to reconstruct his life. I want to know him, to know the real Amir-Ali. By examining him, his relationship with others, his hit-and-run tactics, his concealed anger, his obstinate silences, the mask he wore for the world and the way he deceived himself and others, and by taking apart the nuts and bolts of his personality and his past, I want to discover something new about him — and, if you will, the truth about myself. There is much for me to learn. The “whys” are many.
I will start with that particular evening, from that party and the emergence of that mysterious being, yes, that invisible shadow that is so hard to describe, the second Amir-Ali.
It is as though we are watching a movie, sequence by sequence: Amir-Ali is asleep; he goes to bed early and is a sound sleeper. He hardly ever dreams and rarely has a nightmare. When he closes his eyes, a white and translucent veil descends upon his thoughts and memories, like heavy snow silently blanketing the city, the snow of oblivion. He is among that rare group of men who do not snore. He does not get thirsty in the middle of the night and he does not go to the bathroom at the crack of dawn. He feels lazy in the morning and likes to snooze. Or lie half awake with his head under the sheet and think of things he is fond of: imaginary expeditions in empty deserts, snow-covered steppes in arctic regions, cosmic happenings and the off chance of discovering life in a distant galaxy, in another form, in a better place. But where? He doesn’t know. Perhaps right here, in this very city, in his ancestral land, beyond the pale of industry, somewhere in harmony with his thoughts and beliefs, in proximity to things he loves and in tune with his psychic ebbs and flows and his internal pulsations, somewhere near to him, to his true self.
But Amir-Ali cannot allow himself this luxury. He knows he must be at his desk by eight o’clock. And this “must” is written on his brain in red capital letters. If not, he may forget. And he will forget. At the behest of his wife, he works out before breakfast, and with her resolve he watches his weight and his figure. He is a handsome man and looks at least twenty years younger than he really is. Women flutter around him, and his wife (Malak-Azar) has her little jealousies, but her mind is at ease. She knows that this man is hers, like her children, her identity-card, her house, and all her belongings and antiques, and that without her he is incapable of asserting himself. And this is more or less what everyone believes. Everyone except me.
Malak-Azar is sleeping next to him like a bouquet of flowers — delicate, beautiful, and fragrant. She breathes gently and smiles even as she sleeps. She is probably dreaming of her husband and her children, and she is happy. Sometimes, as she lies half awake and half asleep, she reaches out and touches Amir-Ali’s shoulder or the side of his neck with her fingertips, as though she wants to reassure herself of his presence beside her. During the night she often opens her eyes and stares at her husband. She snuggles up to him and in a tiny voice whispers sweet little nothings in his ear. Sometimes she wakes him up to hear his voice, to make sure that he is well, that he is happy, that he is satisfied with their conjugal life, and that he loves her as much as he did when they first met and fell in love.
Amir-Ali is a sound sleeper. He wakes up, rolls over, mutters something incomprehensible, caresses his wife’s bare shoulder, and falls asleep again. And yet he doesn’t like to be awakened and talked to in the middle of the night. He could say, “Leave me alone, darling, let me sleep. Can’t it wait till morning?” But he doesn’t. Perhaps he is too kind or isn’t in the mood for it. He knows that opening his mouth and uttering something like “Don’t bother me, dear. I want to sleep,” is too dangerous. His words could be interpreted in a thousand and one ways. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble.
Malak-Azar loves this man more than the entire world. This is what she says — to everyone, to me, even to strangers — and she enjoys this confession. Her pleasure is accompanied by anxiety and apprehension, by a muted stress hidden behind her triumphant smile and the apparent composure of her voice. She is bent on convincing me that she loves Amir-Ali more than ever. I don’t mind. No contest. But she will not give up. She must plunge her invisible dagger deep into my heart and with feminine cruelty reopen the scars of my old wounds. (She is right. I understand. It is an old story, which is of no concern to others, and there is no place for it in this story.) She avoids looking at my face, because she is frightened of detecting the smallest flicker of doubt in my eyes. She knows that I can see through the multiple layers of her countenance and that I am well acquainted with all the different faces hidden behind her many masks, like the progression of an oil painting from a faint penciled sketch to the final layers of paint, apparently complete, but never quite finished.
Amir-Ali is also the name of one of Malak-Azar’s maternal uncles, who died many years ago. No one talks about him or mentions his name. His photographs have been removed from the walls, and a collective effort has been made to dim all memory of him. His name is a reminder of a painful loss and saddens the family. It would be best to call Amir-Ali by some other name. Malak-Azar is enamored with ancient Persia. She would love to call her husband by some noble name going back to Achaemenid or Parthian times, but Amir-Ali is not familiar with the names of antiquity. He likes his own name and considers it a part of his body, his soul, and his destiny — just like the date of his birth. Like the color of his skin or even his height. He is accustomed to his name and knows that without it he will be someone else. He doesn’t even like Amir and Ali to be separated and that he be called by one or the other. When writing his name, he joins the two parts with a hyphen (Amir-Ali), and this connecting line attaches his name to him like some li
fe-sustaining umbilical cord.
Malak-Azar thinks her husband’s innocent face and timid eyes resemble those of a gazelle (ahu in Persian) and calls him Malak-Ahu. Thus she bestows half of her own name to him, the better half of it, in fact, making him an integral part of her own ancestry. She would, if it were possible and if she had the nerve, give him the whole of her name. They would, the two of them, be shaped within the mold of a single name and become inseparable.
Amir-Ali laughs at his wife’s words; he has submitted his will to hers. His life and destiny are in her hands and he shows no initiative of his own. Others believe that Amir-Ali’s absolute submission to his wife emanates from his fervent love for her. But I, who know him like the back of my hand, know that his birth coincided with the appearance of a comet in the sky, and that he is in fact an elusive and unattainable creature. He does not belong to anyone. No one. He has a secret world of his own that he does not reveal to anyone. I was able to peer into this inner world because we were childhood friends and grew up together. I am aware that he does not have the will to oppose his wishes. wishes. He gives in easily because he wants to be left alone. For instance, his job was chosen for him by Malak-Azar. Sitting behind a desk at a commercial company must be deadly and boring for a man like Amir-Ali. But he puts up with it because he has become lazy and indifferent and prefers his decisions to be made for him. He is unable to take a big step and change his life. Why? I don’t really know. All I can make out of his letters and diary is that Ami-Ali has different selves: one for public show, an infantile one devoted entirely to his mother, and a secret self whose clandestine existence is hidden in the depth of his inner life. He puts a mask on his face and his apparent happiness is a big lie. He detests his name being changed. Whenever his wife calls him Malak-Ahu, the image of a captured gazelle, shaking with fright in anticipation of being slaughtered and roasted over fire, appears before his eyes and his heart sinks. He could protest, disagree, say no. But his lips stay sealed and his delusive smile deceives all.
Malak-Azar is a sensible and farsighted woman. She has a good sense for the right measure and limit of things. She thinks before she speaks and she is always calm and collected. She appears cold and conservative and cannot laugh wholeheartedly, nor does she know how to make others laugh. She restrains herself and does not dare give in to her heart’s desires. Or to what her body needs — such simple needs as stretching a leg that feels numb for lack of movement, or relaxing and leaning back in a chair, or closing her eyes when she is too sleepy or tired. Her body and her mind are restrained by two thousand rules, two thousand considerations, precautions, and doubts. Two thousand scruples and fears. She cannot even tell her husband that she loves him madly. In her cautious mind “madly” and “madness” are taboo words that should be rejected. An inherited pride ties her hands and feet and restricts her movements. She knows that her husband is made of different stuff and he has to be constantly controlled. In her hands Amir-Ahu has become a sensible and docile man who appears to be satisfied with his life. I watch him from a distance. I am waiting. As always. Perhaps there will be a miracle. Perhaps something will happen. But what? I don’t know. Or I don’t want to discuss it, not yet. Where were we? Oh yes, we were observing the husband and wife sleeping next to each other. For the first time, Amir-Ali tosses and turns freely in the king-size bed. He is restless. He is thirsty. He feels hot and the soles of his feet burn, as if he has a fever. A pesky mosquito flies persistently around his face and then goes away. Half asleep, Amir-Ali waits for the mosquito’s return and its vicious attack. There is no sign of the insect and he sighs with relief. He pushes the sheet away from his face and at that very moment the mosquito’s horrible buzz explodes in his ear and he is bitten on the forehead and neck. Amir-Ali is so angry that he wants to hurl something to the floor and smash it, like the enormous and ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling with all its crystals and prisms and umpteen pendants, or that expensive porcelain bowl sitting on the bedside table. He hates this ancient bowl that reeks of old age and bygone days. There is one similar to it at his grandmother’s home, and it reminds him of death and mourning.
Amir-Ali has a simple and sensitive nature. He loves all types of flowers and houseplants, things that are alive and grow. He loves the open air and the sky and wide-open horizons. He loves to sleep on the rooftop or in the garden. He hates overcrowded rooms with their low ceilings. He wishes he could remove all the antiques — all those expensive jars and bowls and Qajar period paintings and unearthed prehistoric objects — from the tables and walls and replace them with flowers and plants. He wishes he could draw aside the curtains, place his bed next to the window, and fall asleep gazing at the moon and the stars.
But Malak-Azar is, well, a princess. She was brought up with silk rugs and velvet curtains, and she is afraid of empty spaces and austere rooms. The intimidating portrait hanging from the bedroom wall — the one facing the bed — is that of Malak-Azar’s great-grandfather, who looks down at her all through the night with his glaring and piercing eyes. Malak-Azar feels safe in the midst of the old chinaware, which is a part of her ancestral heritage. The continued presence of these centuries-old objects is comforting to her. She maintains a tender relationship with them and considers them her own property. Her very own.
In the middle of that night, Amir-Ali has forgotten the flowers and plants; his only concern is to fight the damned mosquito. He slaps himself hard on the forehead and the neck. He feels something slimy and blood-soaked under his fingers and a big smile spreads over his face. He stretches. He yawns and presses his face to the cool edge of the pillow. Sleep hovers behind his thoughts and in between his eyelids. One half of his brain has been switched off, but his body is alert and anxious. His hands are awake and fail to find their natural position. His eyes are closed, but he can see the chandelier overhead and can feel the weight of all those shades and bulbs and glass pendants on his chest. He thinks of the sky beyond that thick plaster ceiling, of open spaces, of wide-open horizons, and of the possibility of life in another form. In another place.
Malak-Azar rolls over. The tip of her icy toes touches her husbands leg and makes him shiver. The neighborhood cats shriek and begin to fight, and a she-cat calls out to her mate, caterwauling painfully. Amir-Ali sits up. His heart is pounding. He cannot breathe. He thinks he has eaten something that didn’t agree with him and that the strange tenseness of his body is due to overeating and fatigue. That evening they had had a dinner party and Amir-Ali had started yawning from early in the evening. One yawn had followed another until the guests were called in to dinner. His yawns were something unusual, wide and endless, originating deep in his gut and causing him to arch his back and stretch his limbs while his eyes teared profusely. These yawns, like those of a monster, were hardly expected from a polite and civilized person such as he, and not one but ten in quick succession while the guests were talking. They were watching him from the corner of their eyes, and Amir-Ali, embarrassed, was covering his mouth with his hand, trying hard to keep it closed. If he were left alone, he would have laid his head down on the table and fallen asleep. But how could the host justify dozing off right in front of his guests?
Amir-Ali could sense his wife’s anxiety and her reproachful gaze from afar and struggled to control himself. Once or twice he forced himself to laugh — an awkward and lifeless laughter — and at one point he made an irrelevant remark in the middle of some serious discussion. In spite of his every effort to look sober and fully alert, his eyelids would unwittingly drop. He stared at people (meaning “I am awake, I am with you”) and he nodded in agreement to whatever was being said. He was in a strange state. It seemed as though the objects around him, the plates on the table, the barbecued chicken on the serving platters, the chandelier’s glass pendants, were all multiplying, and he felt a curious angst in his heart. He felt like someone who has drunk a bad wine or taken the wrong medication. He closed his eyes and dozed off for a second. His head fell forward on his chest and h
is body curved to one side. He was about to fall off his chair when he suddenly woke up and stared about him with vacant eyes. “My God!” exclaimed a lady, and someone laughed. Malak-Azar’s reproachful look shot toward Amir-Ali like a poisoned arrow, flying in between crystal glasses and over the heads of the assembled company, hitting him in the chest and piercing his heart. This was the first time that her well-mannered and refined husband was behaving irrationally and contrary to the rules of etiquette. To cover up the incident, the guests attacked the barbecued chickens, and someone embarked on narrating lengthy and inane jokes that everyone had heard a hundred times. The storyteller, holding his sides, laughed loudly at his own jokes, while the others forced themselves to smile.
The doorbell rang. A young woman rushed in, agitated and distressed, shouting and complaining loudly as she made her entrance. She threw her head scarf and long overcoat to the side and began blaming her spineless and incompetent husband for anything and everything that was wrong with the world. It turned out that the lady had been stopped right in front of her home, as she was about to get into her car, for failing to observe the proper Islamic dress code — a common occurrence. She rings their own doorbell several times, but no one answers. Her husband, who was busy cleaning a crate of grapes to make wine, refuses to open the door. The lady resorts to her neighbors. The neighbor to the right opens the door a crack and gestures with his eyes that he has company and that his guest is busy smoking opium and he hastily closes the door. The neighbor to the left (God knows what he was up to) pretends he has not heard the doorbell. Luckily an acquaintance arrives at the scene and talks to the revolutionary guards. He hands over his own ID card and the title to his car as bond, and the lady’s case is deferred to a later date.
Strange Times, My Dear Page 27