Strange Times, My Dear

by Nahid Mozaffari

  An hour later, Colonel Mo’ezz saw the captain and the prosecutor talking in a low voice as they climbed down the steps.

  It was nearly dusk when the colonel returned home, tired. He got out of the jeep at the crossroads. Dazed and confused, he looked at the graffiti on the walls. The wall between the shoemaker’s and the laun-derer’s shops was covered by the image of a checkered blanket. A clenched fist had torn through the blanket, sticking out like a mace. The colonel thought about the deep meaning of the graffiti: “Thanks to their uprising on August 19, the brave Iranian people have torn apart the rule of the blanket.”7 The thought of the metal bed and Dr. Mossadeghs torn blanket made him laugh.

  The colonel took a deep breath. The wind was blowing, and a drizzle was wetting his face. He walked fast, into the Fakhrieh Mosque Alley. The windows were lighting up, one after another. The smell of food was streaming out from under the kitchen doors. A woman wrapped in a shawl was walking on the left-hand side of the alley. The colonel recognized his neighbor Dr. Ganji’s wife, small and stooped, walking briskly. The colonel waved. The old woman did not notice him. Oblivious to her surroundings, she was deep in thought.

  The man reached his house. He stood in front of the door. He put his hand on the doorknob. The chickens could be heard cackling in the cage. The house gave out the smell of lamb, potato, and tomato stew. He took a deep breath.

  — Translated by Hossein Shahidi and Nahid Mozaffari

  Footnotes

  1 Meaning that since the general never calls him, today must be a different kind of day.

  2 A masnavi is a very long poem.

  3 “O compassionate friend,” from Shahrivar of 20, refers to the month of Shahrivar of the year 1320, or the Allied invasion of Iran in August 1941, implying they shared some experiences together in the military.

  4 A city in northeastern Iran.

  5 Another reference to the Allied invasion of Iran in 1941.

  6 Military intelligence.

  7 The ailing Dr. Mossadegh held some of his meetings, including those with foreign officials, sitting on a metallic, military-style bed, sometimes wrapped in a checkered blanket.

  Seyyed Ebrahim Nabavi

  Seyyed Ebrahim Nabavi was born on November 13, 1958, in As-tarabad. Educated at Shiraz University, he began working as a journalist in Tehran and Esfahan, first as a film critic, then a political analyst, and finally a satirist. After the election of Mohammad Khatami as president in 1997, Nabavi became a prominent writer in various journals calling for reform. As conservative forces cracked down on the reformist press, Nabavi was imprisoned twice, in 1998 and 2000, because, as he puts it, “my satire was too satirical, or perhaps it made people laugh a little and think too much.” Along with several other journalists, he was recipient of the Hellman-Hammett Award in 1999.

  Nabavi, who currently lives in Brussels, is a prolific writer of books, documentaries, screenplays, and articles. His novel, Safe House, is based on his and several other writers’ prison experiences. He also wrote his own prison memoir, Salon 6. “First Love” first appeared in a collection called Tehrangeles in 2001.

  FIRST LOVE

  I’d decided to fall in love with someone a few months ago. It wasn’t really my fault. Every time I passed by Mr. Mohammadi’s bookstore, it was as if the devil himself grabbed my hand and dragged me into the store — straight over to the novels section, where he’d take out one of the books and hand it to me. I’d then be forced to leaf through it and eventually buy it. And I don’t know why, but every time I’d read a book, I’d end up wanting to fall in love.

  When I finally decided to do it, I looked for the prettiest girl in the neighborhood — you know, a girl close by, someone easy to fall in love with, someone that I didn’t have to take a taxi to, someone who didn’t live in a strange neighborhood where I’d have to run into kids who didn’t know me, kids who’d ask, “What are you doing here?” And then beat the daylights out of me when I couldn’t answer! Sima was our neighbor; I didn’t have to face any headaches falling in love with her and that is exactly why I did.

  You’ll definitely ask what difference it makes to tell you when I was born; or how many sisters or brothers I have; or when I went to school; or that my father was a chemistry teacher; or that we lived in Tehran; or that when my father was transferred to Kerman and decided to live there we rented a two-story house in one of the old sections of the city that cost 150 tomans a month; or that after my father became the school’s principal we moved to one of the public houses near the Paramount Cinema, where our house was only five houses down from Sima’s; or that there were no neighborhood girls other than Sima who were my age; or that this is probably why I fell in love with her. I mean, why I wanted to fall in love with her. Are you satisfied now? You’ve made me say too much — do all writers have to explain their life histories like this?

  But what about this Sima; this lady I fell in love with, or wanted to fall in love with? Three years before I fell in love with her, Sima was a snot-nosed, whiny complainer who always used to stand in her doorway and peer out from behind the door, eyeing what was going on in the street. It was as if she stood in the doorway so if someone wanted to grab her, she could quickly shut the door and jump inside. What do you think Sima was doing standing in the door like that? Her sole purpose was to stand there stiff as a rod and stare at her little brother, Ali, who was always wandering around in the street. And God help us, if the day came that one of the kids got into a fight with Ali. That’s when Sima would start raising a stink, crying and yelling for help. And God knows how much I hate crybaby girls. Honestly, I really didn’t like that about her. But even more, it really scared me. So, whenever I wanted to give Ali a good beating, I’d drag him to another street and then I’d really let him have it.

  Of course, I didn’t just dislike Sima’s crying and yelling. Her miserable face, covered with pimples, really turned my stomach. Her clothes also made me sick. She wore these cotton pajama pants and over them a red skirt. She looked like a clown. God knows I don’t hate anything more than twelve-year-old girls who wear pajama pants under their red skirts. And she wore a pair of high heels — where she found them I don’t know — I think she hoped it would make her look tall. And every few days, just because she was so ugly, I’d make it my business to give her brother a good beating!

  But during those first few days when I started to fall in love with Sima, I stopped beating up Ali. After all, I needed a way of proving my love for her. So to make a long story short, in the early morning hours of that very day that I decided to fall in love with her, I put on a pair of white bell-bottom pants and borrowed my sister’s brown and white plaid shirt (after promising her my life in return for the favor). First thing in the morning, I stuck my head under the faucet and washed my hair with cold water and a lot of shampoo. Of course, you shouldn’t wash your hair with cold water because it drips down the back of your neck and makes the hair on your neck stand on end. But love knows no boundaries. Anyway, whatever it took, I washed my hair and dried it with my older brother’s hair dryer. I looked like a million dollars! And then I shaved the few whiskers I had with an old blade that I had been saving for a few months for such a momentous occasion.

  My mother took one look at me and shook her head from side to side. She wanted to say she was very upset but I ignored her. My mother then said a very bad word in Turkish to me — it meant I looked like a monkey. My mother and father spoke Turkish in the house. We (the children), didn’t speak it but we were accustomed to hearing it. When I heard what my mother said, I was really offended. Obviously, I must have really looked good. My mother knew it, too. But she wanted to tease me. I didn’t say a word to her because I knew in her heart of hearts she was admiring her handsome boy! I felt sorry for her that she couldn’t just hug me and say, “May I be sacrificed for my pretty boy, he’s as beautiful as the moon!” Just to be sure though, I went back into the bathroom and checked the mirror to make sure I didn’t really look like a monkey. I made
some faces. I stuck out my tongue. I stuck my fingers in my ears and crossed my eyes and tried to make some monkey faces. Maybe my mother wasn’t all that far off!

  I quickly came back to reality. I didn’t want to ruin my first day of love so I went into the living room, where my older brother hid his bottle of 707 cologne behind the couch. I took about a half-glass of cologne and splashed it all over my head, neck, hands, and shirt so I’d smell really good. Of course, I knew tonight I was going to get it from my brother, but there was no turning back. For this love, I could stand any torment; a whipping from my brother was nothing. In any case, I took off and left the house. Actually no, now I remember, first I went to the kitchen to see my mother. After all, I figured, it doesn’t bode well to fight with one’s mother on your first day of love. I kissed her hair and bid her farewell. But my mother didn’t answer; she just shook her head back and forth as if to say I was really stupid.

  By the way, I forgot to mention that ever since I decided to fall in love with Sima, she started to change. She was no longer an ugly, sickly, lanky, twelve-year-old girl, her face covered with a million pimples. It was as if she grew up all at once. She got tall and her face was totally clear. She actually looked good — like a piece of the moon that an artist had painted on. So here I was, dressed in my new white outfit, going to see Sima’s brother. For a few days now, he and I had been getting along well. I went to his house, where out front, under the shade of a tree, we began to play a game of chess. The whole time I kept my eyes on Sima. Then, twice in a row, Sima’s brother used the Napoleon tactic on me.1 In just twenty minutes, Ali — whom I had taught how to play chess only a month before — actually managed to checkmate me — the best chess player in the neighborhood. I didn’t even see the chess pieces. Damn this thing called love!

  It took only twenty minutes for me to totally fall in love with Sima. I don’t think anyone can fall in love this quickly. By the way I never told you that my grade average was always higher than eighteen.2 Of course, that day, Sima was wearing a pretty red skirt and had tied her hair in a ponytail and this probably made me fall in love even faster. But in any case, twenty minutes for someone to fall in love was not a lot of time, especially at nine o’clock in the morning. People are not even completely awake at that hour. Just imagine that Majnun saw Leyli yawning at nine in the morning. You tell me, how can anyone fall in love with someone who’s yawning?! Or with someone who hasn’t washed her face yet? On the other hand, falling in love at night is wonderful. The sky is full of stars, and the lights are on in the park and those of the cinema shine from far away. Actually, at night it feels different, as if someone pushes you toward love. But as I said, Sima looked really pretty and it didn’t take any effort to fall in love with her even at that hour in the morning.

  Anyway, that day I really indulged Ali. And he kept castling me — and I kept gazing at Sima. Sima’s shoes were pink and they had little bows on the side. Everything about Sima was beautiful that day. Once again I heard Ali say, “Checkmate.” At the same time, Sima came out of the house and stood above us. My heart was beating. I was really, really in love. She came and stood right by me and said to Ali, “Didn’t you say he was a chess champion?” And then she pointed her finger at me. Honestly, I was really offended. She called me “he” as if I didn’t have a name. I should have done something right then and there at the beginning of this love affair. But I didn’t do a thing. I was in love in a bad way. And then Ali put away the chess pieces and left. Sima shut the door — as if she was mad at me. She must have realized I was in love with her. It was terrible. My mind was on fire and the sun was grilling my brain. It was now noon and not a great time for matters of love. I was also hungry, but if I went home it would be all over. I had a thought. I ran home and got the soccer ball and threw it in Sima’s yard. Then I nonchalantly knocked on her door. Sima opened it.

  I said, “Hello. Are you feeling well?” She said, “Ali is sleeping.”

  I said, “A ball belonging to my person has fallen in your esteemed yard.”

  Sima gave me a weird look — as if I was crazy. She didn’t say a thing; she just slammed the door shut tight. A few minutes went by and I was just about to knock again when Sima’s mother opened the door and threw the ball (now torn up) at my chest. In her hand was a kitchen knife. To tell you the truth, I got frightened. I went home and didn’t eat lunch. Instead, I just thought. My heart was on fire. I should have taken revenge like a man. But it was too hot outside to take revenge like a man.

  Love and hunger had gotten mixed up and made me feel very bad. I went to sleep until five in the afternoon and then headed out again. Ali stood near the door to the house. And Sima was talking to her cousin. I blew up. I ran over to Sima’s cousin and punched him hard in the nose and then ran home. The cousin ran after me. I shut the door and sat down on the ground behind it. Now Sima would realize she was dealing with a real man. Suddenly as I was sitting there behind the door, I heard the sound of breaking glass. Sima’s cousin had thrown a rock through our window and broken it. Before my mother realized what had happened, I ran out the door. Ali and Sima and her cousing were running toward their house. I picked up a rock and threw it at her cousin. I was careful not to hit Sima. I was still in love with her. Sima’s cousin’s shoe had fallen off before he ran into the house. I picked it up, and since I had already sacrificed a window and a soccer ball for this love of mine, I decided to throw it with all my might into their house. When I heard the sound of breaking glass, my heart was relieved. But this didn’t end matters.

  The next day, I got a beating from my brother for the pinch of his cologne that I had used, and I got another beating from my father for the broken window of our house. And then my mother, in front of Sima’s mother, pulled my ear and smacked me in the head. How painful that moment was for me. In the following days, Ali tore off our doorbell, and I retaliated by slashing Ali’s father’s car tire. Then Sima’s cousin threw gasoline on the pine tree in front of our house and set fire to it. Since I was going to make sure I got the last word, one night when Ali, Sima, and her mother and father had gone to visit their aunt, I jumped over the back wall to their house and, my heart burning with both love and hate, nailed holes through all of Ali’s mother’s pots and pans. This calamity led to Ali’s mother and father coming to our house and my father paying Ali’s father (who was his friend) for all the damages. From then on, our families saw a lot of each other, but I was forbidden from ever entering their house. And for the remaining year we stayed in that neighborhood, Sima never spoke to me again. But I loved her until the end, when I finally heard that she had married her cousin.

  — Translated by Leyli Shayegan

  Footnotes

  The famous twelfth-century love poem “Leyli and Majnun,” by Hakim Nezami Ganjavi, is in Persian literature akin to Romeo and Juliet in expressing the intensity and tragedy of love. The Persian title of this story is based on that poem.

  1A four-move tactic in chess that results in a checkmate for the opponent.

  2 The Iranian grading system is from 0 to 20, 20 being the highest grade one can get.

  Shahriyar Mandanipur

  Shahriyar Mandanipur was born in 1957 in Shiraz. He received his master’s degree in political science and is currently the editor of the literary magazine Asr-e Panjshanbeh. Mandanipur has published five collections of short stories, including The Eighth Day of Earth, East of the Violet, Midday Noon, and The Mummy and Honey. His latest collection, Ultramarine Blue, consists of eleven stories that relate in one way or another to the events of September 11, 2001. He has also written a two-volume novel entitled Love and Distress. He is generally considered to be one of the most successful and promising writers of contemporary Iran; his creative use of symbols, experimentation with language, time, and space, and awareness of sequence and identity have made his work difficult but fascinating to critics and readers alike.

  This haunting story, “Shatter the Stone Tooth,” replete with symbols, comes from his co
llection The Mummy and Honey.

  SHATTER THE STONE TOOTH

  He writes of the untimely heat in Guraab, of its sun that seems to shine a blinding purple, of a cavern with forty-four stairs and an image carved on its wall, and he writes of a dog who “transfers his fantasies of smell and sound to his companion.” All of which I do not understand. He writes that he has a hut at the far end of the village, where at nights he writes on the walls; he didn’t say what. Probably those verses that men hum under their breath or write somewhere when they feel lonely. He writes that he doesn’t intend to come to town for the weekends anymore, that the days in Guraab are the end of time and it is best that he wait there. Then he writes a lot about the mud huts that are connected to each other by underground tunnels, and of villagers with trachoma, and of “gusts of dust that get into your throat and make you retch,” and he writes, would you believe that dust can rot. . . I don’t believe this is his letter. His earlier letters were not like this; they were real letters. Even his handwriting used to enchant. They were filled with words that men in love string together and that every woman loves to read or hear, even though just after they are read or heard they seem banal. But now look . . . lately ... I will read so you can see what I mean: