Strange Times, My Dear

by Nahid Mozaffari

  “Well, yes. I even dyed my hair black to please you, without ever asking you about the woman with the black hair. I waited in vain for you to say something.”

  “You should have asked me earlier. Now I have forgotten. No matter, Adna. Your hair has gone white.”

  “There’s no more hair dye in the market. Even the black market vendors have gone away. The taxis too. There is no one left.”

  Adna got up and went to the window again. The raindrops thrummed against the fogged windowpane. With the back of her hand, she wiped some of the moisture off. In the middle of the street a man wearing a navy blue cape was bending down and pumping air into his bicycle’s rear tire. The guard standing near the brick building said something inaudible. The man pointed to the air pump, raised his arms, and waved them. Then he turned around and glanced toward the store entrance. Someone was calling him.

  Adna said, “I believe Idris has opened the store.”

  The man dragged his bicycle up to Adna’s window. Now the guard had also removed his bicycle from the wall. He put it on his back and crossed the street, walking toward Elfi’s bookstore.

  “Idris is here. He had told me he wasn’t coming back,” said Adna.

  “Do you see him?”

  “I don’t see him. But the guard is taking his bicycle with a flat tire to the store. Only Idris would take care of flat tires in the pouring rain.”

  “He told us he wasn’t coming back because he wanted us to believe he had a place to run to, away from the war. It was only a bluff. I was sure of it. He hasn’t changed. In ‘53 when I hired him he was only fifteen years old. I told him I was Jewish. I am Hebraic,’ I told him. ‘So?’ he answered. ‘We are buddies.’ He touched his white collar with the tip of his fingers, and winked at me. I thought he was a communist. A week later, I walked in on him in the storage room performing the Muslim prayer.”

  Adna noticed the man with the cape hunched over his handlebars, pedaling away. It was raining harder now, and the brick buildings and the bushes near the gardens appeared like red and green spots. Suddenly a jolt shook the room. The window shook and Adna stumbled backward, barely missing Elfi’s bed. Elfi held on tightly to Adna’s wrist.

  “Don’t be afraid. It is far away.”

  His hand was cold. Adna was shaking and looking at the window, her mouth wide open.

  “Sit down, Adna. Here, near me.”

  Adna sat, her eyes riveted toward the window and the blackish smoke that was darkening the world.

  “You are trembling, Adna. Go down to Idris.”

  “No, no!”

  Adna emptied the air from her lungs several times in a row. She leaned down to get a better view of the smoke that was covering the window.

  “Is everything all right? Madam Adna, Mr. Elfi. . . ?” Adna waited for Idris to enter the room but he just kept knocking on the door.

  “Madam Adna?”

  Elfi squeezed Adna’s wrist.

  “Tell him to come in. Otherwise, he’ll stay there knocking till tomorrow.”

  “Come in, Idris!”

  The door opened and Idris appeared. Holding the air pump in his hand, he gaped at the elderly husband and wife.

  “Sounded like the boom of Stalin’s organ.1 It feels like the shells landed straight into a reservoir of ammonia. I felt the jolt. I was putting air into the guard’s tire. I thought I had overinflated it.”

  “You were right in coming to see us,” said Elfi.

  Idris couldn’t hear Elfi’s frail voice.

  “Huh? What are you saying?” He took a couple of steps forward. “I am saying you were right to stay ... I don’t have much time left to live, Idris.”

  Idris’s lips moved, but he didn’t say anything. He looked at Adna, and shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. Adna was pale, exhausted. She was hunched up, like when she was cold. The shrill sirens of ambulances and fire trucks echoed in the street. Adna stared at Elfi’s long, yellow, skinny fingers. Then she looked at his eyes, which continued to stare at the gray ceiling.

  “Elfi . . . Elfi . . . Idris!” she screamed.

  Idris threw the pump down, walked around the bed, and knelt down next to old Elfi. He looked at his eyes. Elfi’s mouth was open. Idris put his head closer and leaned his right ear on his chest.

  “Where is the cemetery for the Jews, Idris?” said Elfi.

  With his ear still glued to Elfi’s chest, Idris tried in vain to listen for a heartbeat.

  “It isn’t far, Mister,” Idris said.

  “I never went there. I don’t even know how Jews get buried. What about you, Adna?” Elfi asked.

  The room shook again. Adna slipped off the bed. If Elfi hadn’t held on to her, she would have run away. Idris shut his eyes and didn’t stir. The shells landed one after the other, but the ambulance sirens covered the whistling boom of Stalin’s organ. Idris counted, “Five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight...” The shells continued to fall.

  “Are you crazy? You sons of bitches!” screamed Idris. “Listen to this racket!”

  There was silence. Even the sounds of the ambulance and fire truck sirens had died down. The window was dark. The rain beat against the panes without being visible. It was coming down harder and harder.

  “Is someone knocking at the door, Adna?”

  “No, no. It’s the rain on the windowpanes.”

  “God be blessed! He is sending us at least the rain . . . keeping the sun from me, I who have read the New York Times every day . . . You see, Adna, I had my reasons for asking you to dye your hair. You accepted it because you loved me, didn’t you, Adna? And I said to this blond Englishwoman — probably the wife of one of the engineers in the company — that I did not carry Life. Or the Financial Times. I lied to her so she wouldn’t come back. I couldn’t really stop her, after all. One cannot chase customers away, Adna. If I have stayed here, I had my own good reasons. I kept telling myself that God was everywhere. So why travel thousands of kilometers to find a God who is everywhere. Also, at the time, I used to play the violin; I had promised myself that one day I would reproduce the song of the ringdove, which can only be heard in this area. Well, I failed, but I did have my reasons.”

  Adna stared at Idris. She had bitten her lips so much there wasn’t a trace of lipstick left on them.

  “In your opinion, Idris, does the synagogue still have a rabbi who could come and see us?” asked Adna.

  “I’ll go over right now,” answered Idris.

  “Here, even the ringdove’s foreboding song was different. Anyway, not possible with a violin bow. Probably easier with the finger. Vibrating the strings three times with the index finger. Five-second silence. Two more times. Silence. Three times ...”

  “Go ahead, Idris!” said Adna.

  Idris glanced toward the dark windows, then opened the door and left. The room shook again. Objects fell here and there. Adna gave a little shriek, then became silent. Idris opened the door. A corner of the ceiling had collapsed and gray particles of plaster floated in the air. Idris could hear Elfi’s murmur.

  “The magazines are filled with portraits of Frank Sinatra. I had thought to myself that this fellow could one day become president of the United States without even trying that hard. Shimon used to say that I was right. According to him, Sinatra’s fans numbered more than the total population of Jews

  “Go ahead, Idris! Let’s not waste any time,” said Adna.

  Idris could see neither the husband nor the wife. The cloud of dust was blocking his view. He hesitated a little, then left.

  Adna said, “Keep your mouth closed, Elfi. The room is full of dust.”

  “I am trying to remember the name of the damned mailman who used to leave the packages of magazines and books in front of the door. He had been told, ‘Have you ever seen a Jew give a tip?’ He threw the packages in the front every time, and walked away. He even did it once when it was raining. Willy’s copy of Absalom, Absalom! was in that package, and ended up getting completely wet. Well, one day, I grabbed him b
y the collar. ‘Hey, man, don’t you know there is someone in here?’ I asked him. ‘You were playing the violin in the back room,’ he answered. ‘One can hear you croak all the way out here.’ Then he added, ‘What do you Jews want to do with the Holy Land? To lie down there and read the New York Times, yes?’ That day, just like now, I tried hard to find something to quote from the Torah, but I wasn’t able to.”

  The window collapsed. Glass shards fell into the room. Adna was on her knees, rubbing her face against Elfi’s hand, praying as she trembled. Smoke filled the room. Adna could no longer hear what Elfi was murmuring.

  “I was seeking the promise of fragrant horizons here, in this land of the Orient, in this world of mystery and intrigue, this country where the dust is filled with the scent of coral and fish scales. Where if you strike the strings of the violin three times . . . then maybe you can mimic the song of the ringdove.”

  Idris went down the stairs. He opened the door to the storage room. The guard was still in the store, looking at the black smoke flooding the street.

  “I must go. I’ll be back to pump air into your tire,” said Idris. “Give me the pump. I’ll do it myself,” said the guard. “Will you wait till I come back?” “Oh, yes, this is my district.”

  “If the shooting starts again, take shelter in the storage room.”

  The guard pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead. He looked at the greasy palm of his hand. He was about to say something, but a dry cough prevented him. He began to cough, unable to stop. He held his stomach and leaned forward. Idris, his hand on the handlebar, waited for the cough to come to an end. The guard inhaled deeply. His eyes were tearing. He was out of breath.

  “What smoke! I almost choked to death. But, what smoke!”

  “All right then, I’m going. There’s some Pepsi in the fridge. It will cool off your throat. I’ll be right back.”

  Idris was running, holding the handlebars of his bicycle as he ran. He was running through the black smoke. He jumped onto the seat and began to pedal. He pedaled blindly. He couldn’t see a thing, but he knew the street well, it didn’t matter. He kept his mouth and eyes shut. Leaning over the handlebars, he pedaled like a professional cyclist. When he heard the ambulance bellow, he half opened his eyes and took a breath. The smell of the ammonia and the sticky fumes were starting to numb him. The ambulance siren rang so near Idris couldn’t tell whether it was coming from behind him or driving straight into him. The ambulance was getting closer. Idris didn’t know if he was driving in the middle of the road or on the side of it. He slipped down from the seat onto the middle bar in order to set his foot on the pavement. He dragged his right foot. He stretched his leg to see how far he was from the curb. The ambulance was approaching. He began to yell and scream for the ambulance driver to hear him.

  “Hey ho! Watch out! I’m here! The bicycle!”

  The ambulance was driving straight toward Idris. It went past him, blowing him aside. The ambulance disappeared. Idris closed his mouth and eyes again. He accelerated. Everything was still black. The street remained invisible. He heard the tires of the ambulance slide on the greasy, slippery asphalt and then a terrible sound. The siren continued to bellow, although the ambulance stood still. It had hit the refinery’s metal wall.

  Near the intersection with the pier, Idris emerged from the smoke. He opened his eyes. He saw the road. He looked back. He could see nothing but smoke. In a little street near the Export Bureau, he got off his bicycle and moved the containers of tar littering the road. He got back on his bicycle and pedaled on. Three young bassiji were sitting on sandbags in a soldiers’ shelter, looking out at the horizon.2 They were waiting for the sound of Stalin’s organ. One of them got up when he spotted Idris.

  “Where are you going, buddy?”

  “Synagogue. Synagogue.”

  Idris pointed to the road with his finger and pedaled faster. He drove past two old brick buildings, built in the Dutch style. He passed by a series of gardens with burned hedges and then turned right.

  He left his bicycle leaning against the gate with spearlike bars. He stuck his hands through the bars and tried to undo the latch, but the gate was locked.

  “Mr. Attendant! . . . Mr. Rabbi!” he screamed.

  Once more he stuck his hand through the bars and fiddled with the latch. It wouldn’t give. He stepped back a few paces. The barred windows of the synagogue’s Tudor-style building were closed. He grabbed a stone and threw it. The stone fell against the brick edge of the window without making a sound. Idris bent down to pick a bigger one. He aimed it at the window, lifted his arm with skill, bent his right leg, and threw the stone. The light fixture above the door broke. Idris looked dumbfounded at the dangling electric wire. Not a soul around.

  “Is there anyone in the synagogue? Hey, Rabbi!” he yelled.

  Again he bent down, looking for a stone, but couldn’t find one that would be harmless to what was left of the light fixture. The gutter was filled with sludge. In it, he found half a china cup. He approached the gate again; this time, without jerking his body, he threw it against the window. The projectile broke the neon light on the side of the wooden door. Idris shielded his eyes with his hand.

  An old man, small, corpulent, and bald, wearing a long and untidy beard, carefully opened the door halfway and then stepped out.

  “Would you like something else to break?”

  “But I yelled and yelled and no —”

  “When no one answers, it means there’s no one in. What do you want?”

  “Are you the rabbi?”

  “No.”

  “I need a rabbi to take with me to —”

  “There is no rabbi.”

  “What do you mean, there’s no rabbi?”

  “How can it be?! How can it be? No more rabbi, that’s all.”

  “But Mr. Elfi is dying. There’s got to be a rabbi.”

  The old man burst out laughing. He began to hop from one leg to the other, slapping his thighs with his chubby little hands. Idris watched, bewildered, as the old man danced.

  “Is that something to laugh at?”

  The old man had tears in his eyes. He straightened up, catching his breath, and nodded his head.

  “Oh, yes. In fact, it’s very funny. I am thrilled that Our Friend has finally knocked on Elfi’s door, and that his eminence Mr. Elfi has finally remembered he is Jewish, and that a synagogue actually exists!”

  The old man articulated each word with such growing anger that when he was done the veins were popping in his neck. Then he gave Idris a hostile glare. He clenched his fist so tightly it seemed he could have punched Idris were it not for the gate protecting him.

  Idris said, “I need a rabbi for

  The old man let out such a loud scream that Idris jumped back a step.

  “There is no rabbi anymore, I am telling you. Do you understand Persian or don’t you?”

  Idris made a gesture of impatience. The old man turned his back to leave, but stopped.

  “We’re in the middle of a war; otherwise I would have made you pay for the damages you caused. Saboteur!”

  “What should I do now?”

  “Go to Iblis!”3

  “Who is that?” asked Idris.

  The old man stopped again, and with a bewildered look stared at Idris.

  “Who?!”

  “The one you just mentioned.”

  “I mentioned someone?”

  “Well, you said ... I don’t know . . . you said

  The old man opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. He turned and walked toward the door. He inspected the damaged neon fixture, shook his head, entered the synagogue, and slammed the door shut. The knocker vibrated on its metallic axis, ringing in Idris’s ears. He felt ill at ease.

  A voice yelled out, “Down! On the ground!”

  Fighter planes were flying very low. Idris couldn’t see who had yelled. By the time he saw the planes, the terrible rumbling had made him deaf. He started to run toward the right.
Then he stopped. He turned around and dashed forward. He floated in the air for an instant, just time enough to protect his face. He landed in the gutter, which was filled with sludge. Idris didn’t understand what was happening, neither where he was, nor whether the fighter planes were still around or had left, or what happened next.

  Elfi was saying, “My soul has struggled for seventy years on this peninsula of sadness. Today I am tormenting you with these cold hands and

  Adna began to cough. The room was filled with smoke and the ammonia fumes were irritating her throat.

  “If it is true that one does come back in another life, next time I will be a safety pin or a little mauve spot on a Chagall painting. When I am dead, look at things well. Touch them . . . You have cold hands, Adna. Why aren’t you wearing any perfume today? Maybe my agony has lasted too long? Is that the chirping of sparrows?”

  Only the sirens of ambulances and the shouts of firemen could be heard. They had invaded the street. They were running, dragging hoses on the asphalt and calling one another.

  Adna heard a knock at the door. She tried to free her hand from Elfi’s fingers, but they were gripping tight and not letting go.

  “Enter, Idris!” said Adna turning toward the door.

  Idris appeared on the doorstep. Adna gave a shriek and wanted to take refuge under the bed. If Elfi hadn’t been holding her hand she would have run away, but she remained staring at Idris.

  “Madam, I threw myself into a gutter filled with mud.”

  “Why are the sparrows singing although it is nighttime? said Elfi.

  “The rabbi wasn’t there?” asked Adna.

  “No, madam, he wasn’t there,” answered Idris.

  Adna signaled for Idris to come forward. Idris approached. He was nothing more than a pair of eyes. He was black from head to toe, covered in mud.

  “Go wash yourself and come back quickly,” whispered Adna.

  Idris went out. Adna looked at the candle. It had remained the same size since she had lit it. It continued burning without dripping or shrinking. Even the breeze that now entered the room didn’t make it flicker. A candle that should have lasted less than an hour remained intact.