Strange Times, My Dear

by Nahid Mozaffari

  My pessimism was not unjustified. I did not believe that Amir-Ali could manage this. God knows how he had struggled with himself and how tolerant he had been to put up with the vice presidency of the Yarn and Spool Imports Company. Others considered him a lucky man. In the uncertain circumstances of the revolution, many had lost their lives and others their livelihood, but he, thanks to a successful marriage, had acquired an affluent life and a respectable social status. He should thank his lucky stars, appreciate his windfall, and stop complaining. And not being an idiot, he seemed to be doing all three. If he had not met Malak-Azar, God only knows on top of which mountain or in the middle of which desert he would now find himself, counting stars and journeying through galaxies.

  A month or two went by peacefully. It appeared that the worst was over and that life had returned to its normal routine. But that invisible being, that obtrusive shadow, was waiting in the wings for the right moment to make its appearance.

  Amir-Ali and his mother-in-law were born on the same day of the same month, but twenty years apart. Malak-Azar attributed this coincidence to Natures wisdom and regarded it as a sign of the enduring union of the two families. Every year she celebrated the happy occasion and invited all her family and friends. Deep in his heart, Amir-Ali was unhappy for having been born on the same day and the same hour of the same month as his mother-in-law. But he pretended to be happy and proud. The mother-in-law was not fond of her son-in-law, either, and deep in her heart mistrusted him. But she too did not reveal her mistrust and faked her love for him. They both knew that they were deceiving each other and realized that deceit was the only course of action.

  The mother-in-laws seventy-fifth birthday and the son-in-law’s fifty-fifth was a more important occasion than any of the previous years’ celebrations and called for something extra. Malak-Azar decided to give it the full treatment and to pull out all the stops. Even though a large and noisy party could attract too much attention in the neighborhood and alert the brothers at the nearby Revolutionary Committee, she went ahead with her plans. This was the first time she was throwing caution to the wind. From her point of view, Malak-Ahu’s birthday was an important event, equal to the discovery of America.

  Amir-Ali had intended to say, “Please, I beg you. For God’s sake, forget about this birthday party.” He had wanted to say, “Forget about this boring and repetitious affair.” But he had stopped himself. Malak-Azar was extremely sensitive and was easily offended. Keeping her anger to herself, she would not even protest. She would simply force a cold smile, retreat into herself and become a stranger, cold as ice. She would avenge herself, and her vengeance was quiet and steady as Chinese water torture. She would keep silent. She would knot her plucked eyebrows into a frown. She would answer all of Amir-Ali’s questions with utmost courtesy and would consent, with utter generosity, to all his words and actions. Each “my dear” with which she started or ended a sentence would sound worse than a hundred reprimands to Amir-Ali, causing him much pain. She wore a different mask for each situation, and it was impossible to discover what went on in her head behind those masks and what her true feelings were. One could not even tell whether she was happy or miserable.

  Let us return to the birthday party. Uncle General, or Uncle G for short, was Malak-Azar’s oldest paternal uncle. He was a retired military officer who lived alone, had lost most of his friends in the early days of the revolution, and now, to pass his time and forget his sorrows, had nothing better to do than to socialize. He loved parties, weddings, pastimes, and gambling. He attended every memorial service, every celebration of a new birth, and every circumcision.

  He was afraid of being left out by the others — the younger happy-go-lucky generation. Early each morning he called up all his acquaintances to remind them, with much ado, of his continued presence in this world. If he heard of a party to which he had not been invited, he would become sick with grief. He would think a thousand suspicious thoughts and would attribute the whole matter to a major conspiracy.

  That evening he had shown up really early, when the hosts were not yet expecting any guests. Malak-Azar had just showered and was in her dressing gown. She swore under her breath at her silly and pestering uncle and rushed to get ready. She knotted her husband’s necktie for him. Objected to the plain shirt he had chosen. Asked him to change it and told him which pair of trousers to wear with which jacket.

  The next guests to arrive were the company’s other shareholders and their wives. Uncle G adored beautiful women and would in advance prepare a routine of savory anecdotes and scientific speeches to pour into their delicate ears. The retired general liked to portray himself as a worldly man, knowledgeable of the latest scientific developments. His information came from European magazines and foreign radio broadcasts to which he added his own embellishments and then presented the mix to the assembled friends. That evening he had decided to talk about the origin of the universe.

  No one was in the mood for a discussion of planets and stars. The hot topic was the trial of the mayor of Tehran and the fate of the city’s construction companies. Uncle G was trying hard to redirect the discussion to the heavens and the stars, but each time he opened his mouth someone would interrupt him and his sentence would be left unfinished. When dinner was served, the conversation turned to other subjects. Those who had recently traveled to Europe talked of the latest news in the world of film. A male guest attacked the American cinema and defended the third world cinema. The ladies protested.

  There was a moment of silence and Uncle G seized the opportunity to ask, “Has anyone seen the film on the origin of the universe?” No one had.

  “Then let me tell you all about it,” he said, and Uncle G was about to begin when the lights went out. There was a power outage. It was the best time to bring in the birthday cake. They all agreed and drank to the health of the hosts. The cook came with the news that the water had also been cut off. Someone told a story about burglars who had broken into their neighbor’s house and had decapitated two women and a man. Uncle G, who quivered each time he heard bad news, said, “Please, no talk of such things.” And in a chorus of small ahs and ohs the ladies agreed.

  “The world outside is an ocean of darkness,” Malak-Azar said. “But in the midst of this black sea here we sit — thank God — on an island of brightness, heedless of what goes on around us. We are still ourselves.”

  A gentleman said, “We think we are ourselves. We — you, I, and all these dear friends — we are out of the loop. Totally out. We count for nothing. Nothing!” And he minced this last word between his teeth and spat it out with venom.

  Amir-Ali moved his left leg, which was feeling numb, and sat up straight. Two minutes later he felt that familiar sensation of pins and needles in the sole of his left foot. It felt funny. His foot had swollen and was pressing hard against the sides of his shoe. Worried, he moved his chair slightly back and put some distance between himself and the edge of the dining table.

  “Let us imagine,” said Uncle G, “that we are at the start of creation. Total darkness reigns everywhere.”

  Amir-Ali’s left foot was now hovering above the floor. It had lifted up and was swaying left and right. It was shaking and refused to obey its terrified master. In its black leather shoe, the tip of the foot was like the barrel of a concealed pistol looking for a victim. Horrified, Amir-Ali looked at his arms. His rogue arm was not moving from its position. He felt relieved, but at the same time he was very much worried about his foot. The heel itched and felt ticklish. Piercing pain shot through the tip of his big toe, and he felt a weakness in the pit of his stomach. Hard as he tried, he could not force the foot down. It was no use. That sly mastermind, that hidden alter ego, had taken control, and it was not clear what it intended to do.

  Malak-Azar, seated at the other end of the table, was a safe distance away from her husband’s foot. But two other people, his esteemed mother-in-law and Uncle G, were sitting at either side of him and their legs were not too far away. Confu
sed and shaky, gripped by a vague fear and alerted by an instinctive warning, Amir-Ali guessed that something unpleasant was about to happen and decided to get up and make his escape before it was too late. He gripped the arms of his chair with his free and obedient hands and almost got up, but he remained half-stooped. One foot — the left one — was riveted to the floor and did not move. Hard as he tried, he could not move the foot. Malak-Azar was watching him in the dark and Amir-Ali could feel her eyes on him. The lights came back on. The birthday cake was brought in and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony was prepared to be played. Amir-Ali’s left foot was as restless as a wild boar and clawed at the carpet.

  “The birth of man and that of the cosmos should be celebrated together,” said Uncle G, and Malak-Azar placed the first slice of cake in his plate.

  At this point, Amir-Ali’s left foot decided to do something strange. It recoiled, paused for a moment, and then with full force struck the retired general’s ankle. Uncle G dropped the loaded dessert spoon which was on its way to his mouth and groaned in pain. The mother-in-law jumped out of her seat, Malak-Azar half rose from her chair, and the guests began to talk confusedly. Chaos followed. Uncle G was rubbing his leg and groaning. Amir-Ali was in a sweat. What was he going to say? How was he going to explain this dreadful incident? How was he going to exonerate himself? There was only one course of action open to him: To escape.

  Uncle G bent down and looked under the table. Someone had kicked him in the ankle. Who was it and why had they kicked him? Under the table, mother-in-law’s small feet caught his eye and brought back memories of old love. He rolled up his trousers and massaged his ankle. It had been at the receiving end of a hard kick. At his age, his bones must be brittle and there was the risk of a fracture. They brought him a glass of water, and Malak-Azar saw her husband hurrying out of the drawing room and her heart sank. Uncle G was staring at Malak-Azar’s mother with astonished eyes. Clearly he thought the kick had come from her. And the reason for it went back many years to a lovers’ quarrel. And now, on the eve of the lady’s seventy-fifth birthday, this old and unhealed wound (so Uncle G thought) seemed to have reopened and that unconscious kick hinted at a secret love and masked a painful and delicious significance.

  Moaning and groaning all the while, the wounded general was staring at Malak-Azar’s mother with languorous and grateful eyes, which seemed to tell her that the kick had been sweeter than any caress. He even whispered, loud enough for the lady to hear, a line from the poet Hafez: “Old as I am, embrace me tightly one night...” But he could not remember the rest of the poem. He sighed. He laughed, a laughter mixed with sorrow and regret. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder and this unexpected gesture of kindness moved him to tears. He pressed his face to that manly hand and began to sob loudly.

  Uncle G’s laughter, followed by his loud sobbing, led the guests to believe that the good general was in a grave state of mind, what with the revolution and the war and some of his comrades falling prey to the firing squads. And that languorous look and his poetic murmurings were clearly an indication that he had become momentarily insane, and it was easy to conclude that the story about having been kicked under the table was nothing more than an emotional cry for attention and affection. A gentleman, who knew something of Uncle G’s past and had been privy to some of his secrets, smiled knowingly, and a young lady mumbled under her breath, with much sorrow and regret, mind you, that old people became childlike, and she shook her head sadly.

  Uncle G was helped up from his chair and taken to the drawing room limping — for the benefit of the guests, most of them thought — and there he was eased into an armchair. He sighed with satisfaction. Then, turning and looking at Malak-Azar’s mother amorously, he blew her a small kiss with his fingertips and closed his tearful eyes. Malak-Azar went running to her husband and informed him that her foolish uncle had totally lost his senses and was acting bizarre. He laughed. He winked at her mother. He blew kisses at her and whispered love poems to her. It now appeared that the story of his being kicked in the ankle was a mere fantasy, invented by her poor uncle to attract attention and sympathy. All through the evening he had wanted to talk, to show off his knowledge, but no one had taken him seriously. The poor wretch! But one point remained a mystery. If he had not been kicked, then how come his ankle was swollen and red? Malak-Azar was not an idiot. She had seen with her own eyes that Uncle G’s ankle was inflamed and badly bruised.

  Amir-Ali broke out in a sweat and his face flushed, and this did not escape his curious wife. He said, “I don’t know. Why, yes. You are right. Poor Uncle G!” And he shook his head and laughed pointlessly, gaping. He scratched the back of his head and hastily pointed to the hairline cracks on the wall. “It is high time we repainted the house,” he said.

  Malak-Azar was too clever to be outwitted so easily. If she decided to hush up the incident, she had good reason to. She did not want her guests to find out anything about the incident (which she herself did not quite understand). She did not want to pester Uncle G or her husband with too many questions that evening, but she made up her mind to get to the bottom of it all later, in good time.

  Trembling and pale, Amir-Ali returned to the drawing room and tried to explain his absence by a few lame excuses. He took a cigarette. Held it in his hand. Stuck it between his lips. Looked for matches, then gave up the idea and threw the cigarette down on a table. His out-of-control leg was now quiet, but his heart was pounding and a strange confused feeling was swirling in his body. He knew that Malak-Azar would not leave him alone and that she would pursue the matter more persistently than any smart sleuth. Perhaps the best thing to do was to make a clean breast of it and ask her for help. He would confess that his body had gone mad and that an invisible creature, an evil spirit, had taken possession of it. But no, no one would believe him. They would say he had gone crazy and there would be a scandal. The best thing to do was to wait, and for the time being, to cover up the incident.

  Uncle G’s happy ankle ached with a sweet and passionate pain. His home was at the end of the street. Amir-Ali volunteered to accompany him home, and Malak-Azar looked at him quizzically, her eyes full of suspicion and doubt. She wanted to say no, but she checked herself. She wanted to say, “I will come along, too,” but she held her tongue. As yet, she was not sure of anything. The best thing to do was to wait and, as always, be sensible and patient.

  Uncle G was clinging to Amir-Ali’s arm and limping along, muttering quietly to himself. He was in heaven, feeling tipsy and jolly without having touched a drink. He wanted to tell Amir-Ali of his old love, which had been fanned back to life, but he could not bring himself to do it. He made some vague references to Leyli and Majnoon, the legendary lovers, and to Romeo and Juliet, and he sighed. Once or twice he stopped, rubbed his injured ankle, groaning and laughing at the same time.

  The night watchman blew his whistle and Uncle G snapped out of his ecstasy. He shook Amir-Ali’s hand and entered his house, happy and content.

  The night watchman greeted Amir-Ali. He stood there expecting a tip. Amir-Ali told him he had left his wallet at home and the watchman’s broad smile vanished. “I am your obedient servant,” he said, but the flattering edge of a few moments ago was gone from his voice.

  The lights were out and black mourning banners drooped from the rooftops of a few houses. Outside his home, it was another world. No one knew of his or his mother-in-law’s birthday, and no one was celebrating his entry into the world. A man on a nearby rooftop was busy concealing a satellite dish. When he saw Amir-Ali he stepped back and disappeared into the darkness. A patrol car drove by. It slowed down. The revolutionary guards sized him up. They did not say anything and went on their way. A man was pacing the sidewalk in front of his house. He asked Amir-Ali for the exact time. It was two in the morning. The man was clearly worried. He needed to talk to someone.

  “Are you also waiting for your children? I have a son and a daughter and every night I pace the street until the wee hours of the morning wa
iting for them to come home from a party. I can’t lock them up in the house, can I? I am afraid they will get arrested and whipped. God is punishing us for our stupidity and ingratitude. We had a better life. Didn’t we? And we say nothing. Not a word. We are dead. A crowd of shadows in hell.”

  How could he answer this man? He, too, was a shadow man, a pale reflection of a forgotten self, dressed up as a healthy, wealthy creature, clean-shaven, wearing a double-breasted jacket matching his white trousers. And that night’s elaborate banquet flashed in front of his eyes, with its food-laden tables, shining silverware, crystal glasses, old china, precious antiques, fine carpets and kilims, European-style paintings, and velvet drapes, and he felt the burden of all those objects weighing him down. He was terribly exhausted, but he didn’t want to go home. There was also no place for him in those dark, half-paved lanes in that big boisterous city, in the midst of those brick towers, in that world of formality, contradictions, and conflicts. He only puttered around on the sidelines. Nothing depended on him and there was no one to congratulate him for his existence or to offer condolences for his demise.