The male guests sided with the wise and farsighted husband. “Anyone else would have done the same thing,” they said. This further angered the lady, and she became infuriated. “I would have opened the door,” she retorted. “Even if it meant my own arrest. This revolution has forced a lot of people to show their true colors, especially you yellow-bellied chicken-hearted men.”
The yellow-bellied chicken-hearted men laughed, winked at one another, and went on eating. The women seized the opportunity to attack their husbands. And this led to a host of accusations and complaints.
The wives argued, “We are the ones who work.” (They were right. One of them sewed children’s wear; another baked pastries, translated books, and wrote film reviews; and the third gave private English lessons and offered a bridal hair and makeup service.) “We are the ones who run the household and bear the responsibility of raising our children. You honorable gentlemen chickened out from the very first day. You suffered from a thousand psychological disorders and sought solace in the golden pipe.”
The men smiled without defending themselves and nodded at one another as a gesture of union and sympathy.
Amir-Ali used this opportunity to leave the room. He went to the bathroom and held his face under a stream of cold water. He unbuttoned his collar and took several deep breaths. He felt better, opened the door, and peeped out. There was no one around. He sneaked out without making a sound. He went out into the courtyard and stood behind a tree. The heavy lethargy of a few minutes ago that had numbed his body like an anesthetic lifted from his brain, giving place to a gentle and sweet hum. A leaf dropped on his head, slid down his face, and fell off the tip of his nose and onto his shoe. A humid breeze touched his face, and a pleasant aroma reached his nostrils from the neighboring garden.
It was a bright night, and the seven stars of the Big Dipper dazzled his eyes. As a child, he used to sleep outdoors, on the rooftop, and he would count the stars until, in a trancelike euphoria of lightness, he imagined that his body was floating in space.
The first gift I gave him was on his fourteenth birthday. It was a small telescope, which became a permanent fixture at his window for many years to come. Despite his tender years, he was already something of a philosopher. He was head and shoulders above other children his age and a thousand miles ahead of them in intelligence and knowledge. He had the look of an adult, capable of thinking things out. His head was always buried in books, history books — the history of ancient Egypt, the history of early civilizations, the history of the origins of the universe, and the emergence of human life.
He was a year my junior. Only one year, and yet he behaved as though we, the older boys of our street and soccer champions of the neighborhood, were incapable of understanding his important pronouncements, and were not endowed with much brain power. He did not put on airs. That was Amir-Ali — reticent and reclusive — and that was the way we had accepted him. He was kind and handsome and minded his own business. He was engrossed in his own world and in this world he traveled to the farthest reaches of the earth. He had pinned a world map to the wall of his room. He knew the names of all the cities, ports, and even small islands in the midst of distant oceans. With a red pencil he had drawn circles around certain cities, ports, and islands.
We would close our eyes, and Amir-Ali was our travel guide. He was the one who would decide which route we should take. From Tehran we would drive to Turkey. We would imagine the dusty roads, the mountains, the roadside teahouses, the minarets. Greece was across the border, and Amir-Ali knew all its tourist spots, all its temples and historical sites. He would say, “Look there, look carefully.” And I would run, stumbling behind him without really seeing anything, merely getting tired and sleepy. I preferred staying where I was, in my own country, where people spoke my own language. Amir-Ali would travel alone all over Europe by rail or on foot. He would hitchhike or bum a ride on trucks until he got to the Cote d’Azure in southern France. There he would board a ship for North America. His imaginary adventures continued, taking him to South America and then to Africa. He did not bother with me. He knew I was a wary and cowardly traveling companion. He would not let me go.
From behind the windows, a concoction of sounds could be heard: loud peals of laughter, the clatter of silverware, the sound of a door repeatedly being opened and shut, and a sentence that sounded as if it would go on forever. Amir-Ali could not bear the idea of returning to the drawing room and rejoining that crowd. He was sure the moment he set foot back in the room he would start yawning and feeling drowsy again. But he had to go back. He knew that Malak-Azar was impatiently waiting for him and that she found his behavior unacceptable. He waited a while longer, then walked around the courtyard, collected his scattered thoughts, went back inside, and forced himself to smile at the guests — with his lips tightly pressed together. He pretended to be interested in the topic being discussed and nodded in agreement or shook his head in disagreement (meaning, “I have heard all your arguments, I have been here with you”). The guests realized that Amir-Ali was not feeling well and refused to engage in conversation with him. They quickly accepted his contradictory remarks and agreed with him on every point.
Let us return to where we first began. Malak-Azar is sleeping, and her sweet restful slumber pains her husband. Amir-Ali tosses and turns. He feels terrible and doesn’t know how to interpret this bout of illness. Never before had he experienced such nausea and anxiety. Insomnia also is a novel experience that terrifies him; especially when his wife is sound asleep and unaware of his condition. He wants to open the window. He needs fresh air, and he loves to sleep in a room bathed in strong light. But Malak-Azar wakes up with the slightest noise or the first ray of light, despite the soft wax she puts in her ears and the black scarf she uses as a blindfold. Amir-Ali’s petulance grows by the minute. A small wound gnaws at him from within. The heat, the mosquito, and that evening’s overeating are all mere pretexts. He knows in his heart that the reason he feels ill and nauseated is the letter he wrote the previous morning — in spite of himself and after being coerced — to an influential person in the government. It was a letter full of false flattery, containing a pack of lies, proposing in veiled terms a bribe, and expressing his obedience. The company’s state of affairs is not brilliant, and he knows it is necessary to write such letters.
Even worse was his hypocritical participation in Friday’s congregational prayers. Malak-Azar’s brothers had insisted that he make an appearance in such a gathering. It was irrelevant that he did not know the Quranic verses by heart. It would be enough for him to get up and down on his knees in sync with the rest of the worshippers. This was what so and so and such and such did.
Malak-Azar’s brothers wore black, fingered their prayer beads, and went up and down on their knees. Their movements were synchronized with the others. It was evident that they had good practice. They looked angrily at Amir-Ali and, with their glaring looks, asked what the hell he thought he was doing. Why was he standing motionless as though in a daze? Who was he staring at? Why wasn’t he paying attention? Bend down, you idiot. Kneel. Say your prayers. Move your lips. What are you doing? Why are you frozen in that pose of prostration with your head stuck to the prayer stone? Get up. What the hell are you doing? Are you asleep? Face the crowd! Why do you have your back to them? People are looking at you. They have noticed, you fool. Move.
Looking deathly pale and perspiring profusely, Amir-Ali was squirming and fighting his body. His actions were not deliberate. He simply could not force his limbs to move in time with the others. His back, his legs, his head did not respond to his will. It was as though his limbs were tied to invisible strings that were being maneuvered by an invisible puppeteer. Had he gone mad?
At the end of the prayers, his angry brothers-in-law cornered Amir-Ali and subjected him to a barrage of questions. Have you gone mad? Why did you behave that way? Did you want to get yourself arrested and dragged off to jail? Did you want to put your own life and our reputation at ris
k? Amir-Ali was dazed and exhausted, and his head was spinning. He did not know how to defend himself. A heavy cloud shrouded his mind, and he could not remember what had happened. From the moment he had entered the crowd of worshippers to the time he left, Amir-Ali felt that everything — all the words, sounds, movements, and genuflections — was part of a timeless and surreal dream, far from the reality of that morning. He was in a strange state of mind (Amir-Ali’s notes at this point are very confused. It is clear that he cannot explain himself). The only thing he could remember and kept repeating was: “I couldn’t help it.” And this is the explanation he offered Malak-Azar. But I am sure that the painful significance of this apparently simple statement, which nobody took seriously at the time, marked the beginning of later episodes.
The worst thing to do is to think in the dark. Amir-Ali breathes gently. He lies still. He is sure he will fall asleep in a few seconds. Malak-Azar’s hand is resting on his shoulder, but unlike other times it feels cold and obtrusive. The sounds of the previous evening — all those people talking and laughing and their glasses clinking and clanking — are fresh in his memory. God, how he hates these boring parties, always the same people, the same talk of politics, the same dishes, the same stale anecdotes — like an old gramophone needle stuck at the end of a record, making its final absurd sound.
Unlike her husband, Malak-Azar loves parties. She cannot bear the idea of being alone at home. The frightening weight of the minutes and the tangible presence of time torment her. When she thinks of the future, her heart aches. Old age terrifies her more than death. She likes to wear heavy makeup, to hide her real face. She likes others to look at her and admire her eternal beauty and what little is left of her youth. Their flattering lies give her encouragement. The reality of her existence depends on the admiring looks of others.
Once again Amir-Ali hears the persistent drone of the mosquito and seethes with anger. Where is it? His hand is ready to strike. With his eyes closed, he listens for the blood-sucking insect in the dark. He has pulled the sheet up over his face and is about to fall asleep when he feels a sharp burning sensation in the heel of his foot. His feet have been exposed and the enemy has attacked him in that sensitive spot. It is nothing important, just the bite of a miserable mosquito. But trivial incidents are sometimes the beginning of major events. And Amir-Ali, in that darkness, in that chaotic situation and mental confusion, feels that an invisible enemy has assaulted him from behind.
The itch in his foot soon becomes a burning sensation that spreads under his skin. He sits up. He is bathed in sweat. A ray of white light penetrating the heavy velvet drapes illuminates the sheets and Malak-Azar’s face. He looks at his wife, and his heart sinks. He does not like her gaping mouth. She does not look like her usual self, the way she always does when she is awake. Another face, a much older one, has replaced her face, and this new impression is unfamiliar to him. Everyone looks different in their sleep, in darkness or in white moonlight. It’s simple and natural. But that night, all the world’s simplest incidents seemed absurd and unnatural to Amir-Ali. Pangs of anxiety pass through his heart, and he feels inexplicably distraught. In the wake of his anxiety and confusion, something strange happens.
Suddenly his right arm begins to rise, all by itself and seemingly under the command of someone other than himself, until it stands erect above his head like a dead branch. What is the meaning of this? He does not understand. He is confused. He tries to return the arm to its original position. No use. The arm seems to no longer be a part of his body. The hand is clenched into a tight fist, and a throbbing vein has appeared on one side of the wrist. Once again he uses all his strength to force the arm back to his side, but again he fails. Then as he watches helplessly and in utter amazement, he sees this dubious arm, this foreign body, make a strange move. The arm stretches up even higher, moves back, pauses, turns, and then, against Amir-Ali’s will and free of all control, it descends like a heap of rubble on his wife’s fragile and beloved head.
Malak-Azar is jolted awake; she leaps out of bed with a loud scream. She switches on the bedside lamp and calls her husband. Amir-Ali is even more frightened than she. He is panic-stricken and cannot understand what has happened. Dazed, he looks at his wife. He has lost his power of speech, and his body temperature has suddenly dropped. Malak-Azar has had a terrible fright and feels weak, her eyesight has dimmed. She thinks perhaps a piece of wet plaster from the ceiling fell on her head, or perhaps an earthquake shook the house and a book fell off the bookshelf. Or maybe a wild cat pounced on her head. Or perhaps her own hand somehow struck her face as she slept. She imagines a thousand and one incredible explanations, and her heart continues to pound.
She catches sight of Amir-Ali. She is horrified and becomes even more frightened. Malak-Ahu’s face has turned deathly pale, his mouth is gaping, and his eyes are about to burst from their sockets. Her questions turn to anguish for her husband. She holds his hand (the same damned hand) and shakes it. She calls his name. She notices that her innocent gazelle cannot speak and that his hand is as cold as that of a corpse. He cannot answer her questions.
“Oh God, he has had a stroke,” she tells herself. And she gently lays his head back on the pillow. She feels his forehead. Takes his pulse. Listens to his heart.
“He has suffered a stroke. He is dead,” she thinks, and trembles like a leaf. She is about to call a physician, who is an acquaintance, when Amir-Ali — stuttering — regains his speech. He reaches out and takes the receiver from her hand. He mutters something incomprehensible under his breath and tries to explain, but only manages a confused and incoherent jumble of words. He racks his brain for a convincing lie. His confusion is no less than his wife’s. He is too terrified to think. He cannot believe it. He must explain. He must calm her down and prevent her from making a racket. He wants to cover up the incident. At least for the time being.
Hesitantly, he begins a sentence, then gives up. He is frightened of himself. What if his limbs begin to move on their own or his face becomes distorted? He touches his teeth and thinks for a moment that his two upper incisors have grown into fangs, like Count Dracula. He looks at his wife’s white neck and covers his face with his hands. He must look at himself. He must make sure. Perhaps he is dreaming. He may have a fever. He may be delirious. He gets up and runs to the mirror on the wall. He fumbles for his glasses. Malak-Azar cannot understand what he is up to. She is confused and screams. It is an old habit of hers. When she is at the end of her rope and feels that all the doors are closed on her, she screams. Amir-Ali looks intently in the mirror. His face has undergone no particular change. His teeth are where they should be, in their normal size and shape. He calms down.
Malak-Azar’s scream jolts him. He goes back and takes her trembling hands in his and kisses them. All the while his brain is churning like a machine. He is searching for a plausible explanation. He must make up a story and cover up the whole thing. They must while the hours away and allow the night to pass. In the morning, he might find a way out. In broad daylight, things can be viewed more rationally. For now, he must calm his wife. At last he explains with utmost embarrassment that as he was about to kill a mosquito, a pesky one that had bitten him all over his body — he shows Malak-Azar the bites on his hands, neck, face, and the heel of his foot — he, idiot that he is, at the height of sleepiness and fatigue, mistook her beautiful and lovely head for his own. And now he doesn’t know how to apologize to her nor what to tell her. In short, he doesn’t know what the hell to do.
Half awake, half asleep, Malak-Azar looks at him and fails to grasp what he is saying. She has had such a fright that she cannot think. She feels dizzy. Amir-Ali is utterly ashamed and confused. For a moment, he thinks he should tell her the truth. But he does not have the courage to confess. The whole thing is utterly incredible. Even for him. Malak-Azar rubs her temples and forehead. She is in pain, and her vision is still dim. She takes two pills from the bottle of tranquilizers she always keeps handy. She presses her head to Amir
-Ali’s trembling shoulder and waits for the palpitation of her heart to subside. She is a sensible woman. She never acts hastily and does not start a quarrel over nothing. There is no reason why she should not accept her husbands explanation. She looks at him from the corner of her eyes and feels sorry for her terrified gazelle. She notices his sad face and his pleading look, that of a boy who has been bad. Malak-Azar forgets her own pain.
“Oh, God, how helpless he looks. What will he do without me?” she asks herself. And she caresses his neck with the affection of a forgiving mother. “He has taken my head for his own,” she tells herself, and to her this mistake has an amorous connotation. This man is so utterly hers that he does not seem to have an existence of his own and thinks that he and she are in reality one and the same. “He has taken my head for his own,” she repeats to herself and laughs silently. To her this sentence bears a romantic significance. It may even be said, a mystical meaning. The concept of losing one’s self in another being: it is with this sweet and alluring thought that Malak-Azar closes her eyes and goes to sleep, that silent and peaceful sleep reserved only for happy women.
Amir-Ali was happy that the horrifying episode of that night had ended well, and temporarily forgot the incident. With good will and smiles — more forced than genuine — Malak-Azar too had attributed the incident to her husband’s natural lassitude and romantic absent-mindedness and had tried not to think of the symptomatic conduct (his yawns and his dozing off at dinner) that had preceded it. These things happened. There were people who did strange things in their sleep. They sleepwalked on top of narrow walls. They even committed crimes.
The one who could not forget the events of that night was Amir-Ali himself. He would recall those suspenseful moments and shudder. Malak-Azar trusted her husband and her mind was at ease. But not completely. She watched him like a hawk. She would not allow him to be alone even for one moment to think, to think vain and harmful thoughts, thoughts that were beyond the limits. Domesticating Amir-Ali had not been easy. It had taken a long time for him to understand that he was the son-in-law of a respectable family and that this was a status he could not take for granted. It had its own rules and regulations, like a foreign language with its own rules of grammar and idioms. He could not just put some words together haphazardly and make up meaningless sentences. With this new language, one needed to have new ideas, new feelings, a new outlook, a new voice, new dreams, and new aspirations. You could not simply enter an unknown territory and take the seat of honor. To enter this world, you were required to observe a special etiquette, follow certain customs, and engage in a thousand types of give and take.
Strange Times, My Dear Page 28