My Part of Her

by Javad Djavahery

  “Can I ask you something?” she said to me.

  Obviously! She could ask me anything she wanted. Anything at all. The magic had worked, she was interested in me, even asking me something. She who never asked me anything. She who was so thoroughly self-sufficient, to the point of seeming indifferent to the matters of this world. Standing motionless at her bedroom door, I was all ears, as you can imagine.

  Of course, after that, we swam together again, Nilou and I. I often found myself with her, in the sea or elsewhere, in other situations, sometimes even for entire nights, in that bedroom, then in her bedroom in town, but nothing ever equaled those first moments. You see, after so many years, those are the moments that still come to mind. That encounter, a fake coincidence in the sea, that long morning of swimming, then that image, her on the bed, hair still wet, her faded T-shirt with the hole in the left shoulder, the joyous disorder of the room, the gleam of the blue dress in the shadow of the armoire and the book she was flipping through, absorbed, absent. Yes, I go back to that image often. You know why? Because until that morning, until the precise moment when I stood at the threshold of her bedroom, one foot in and one foot out, waiting for her to finish her thought, for her to ask what she wanted to ask, I still thought that everything was possible. I had hope. I thought that the world could still belong to me. I even had a very specific plan. I knew my strengths. I had a very good memory, I was intelligent enough, and I also had a gift. A strange power, and I was just waiting for one thing: the opportunity to use it.

  Among all of Niloufar’s suitors, two stood out from the rest. They emerged from the pack for diametrically opposed reasons, but reasons that were just as valid. The two of them had put so much distance between themselves and the rest, that the other admirers considered themselves “disqualified.” They had all put their own hopes on the back burner and made a truce, in the way one respects the primary results in a political party. Since then, all eyes were fixed on the strange duel that was taking place between the two remaining suitors. I have to go into a bit more detail for you to understand just how different they were.

  The first was named Parand. He was a good-looking guy, from a good family, rich—he ticked all the boxes. Well raised. Reddish, long curly hair, rather tall, at least six foot, and always dressed well. He had a motorcycle; he was the only one who did. But at night, he sometimes came home at the wheel of his father’s Mercedes, which he drove without a license, and let us climb on the hood for a drive. We would taunt the girls. He was athletic and muscular, with the flat stomach of a teenager, and, to top it all off, he was very good at volleyball. The volleyball net was set up in a strategic location, perfectly visible from Villa Rose. Nearly every night, before sunset, the match would be in full swing. The boys would go at it hard, even more so when the girls were on the terrace. Parand always played with his shirt off. They let him have his preferred position facing the house. He was confident, bursting with testosterone and the illusions of youth. He struck the ball with force, and, when he made a point, he would throw a furtive glance at Villa Rose, as if a point noticed by Niloufar was worth double. His pockets were full of daddy’s money, which he spent generously on his friends, and especially on me. It goes without saying that, by all accounts, he was very well positioned to seal the deal, to settle the score with my cousin. That’s how they talked when I wasn’t around. As if the Niloufar “affair” had become a collective conquest through Parand. Parand represented the local alpha male who had to defend the virile honor of our town, put at risk by the haughty indifference of the foreign girl. It was the moment when, in the collective unconscious, darling Nilou, the beloved, became the floozy who had to be dragged to bed, at whatever price. No, really, something had to be done, the affront had gone on for too long, it was urgent and Parand was the flag bearer, the valiant knight, the hero chosen for the task.

  The other suitor was also from a well-off family, but his was more traditional. He wasn’t ugly, and he dressed rather well. But he had distinguished himself and had earned the coveted place of official suitor for an entirely different reason: his unconditional love for Niloufar. He was the perfect candidate. A true romantic icon. As though ablaze with the literature of our country. Tragic, transfixed, naive, and desperately masochist. An unrequited Romeo, Majnun without Layla, who spent his days and nights outside Villa Rose, tirelessly, and followed Niloufar like a dog. He had earned a nickname. They called him Sag-e Sani, do you get it? “The second dog,” literally. He had accepted this nickname without offense, like all the other humiliations that were inflicted on him because of his limitless love. He never said a word. Never showed any sign of weariness. He dug himself deeper every day into that tragic spiral. The more he was singled out, the more he became the laughingstock of everyone, the happier he seemed. As if it would end up bringing him closer to his goal. He accepted his circumstances as expiation, asceticism. Even if, through a tacit and collective belief, he was the person least suited to aspire to Niloufar’s love and the accomplishment of the “task,” his stubbornness, his constancy, and his sacrifices had in the end commanded respect and placed him in the second position in the rank of official suitors. The podium had only two levels. At least, that’s what everyone thought. But that poor boy’s misfortunes didn’t end there, for he had two other major handicaps. First, his name was Mohamad-Réza. Compared to “Parand,” this name was an enormous burden. Also, he stuttered. Not just a little. He really stuttered, tripping terribly over certain words. And by a stroke of bad luck, he stumbled over Niloufar’s first name every single time. When he tried to pronounce it, it was like he was hurtling down ten flights of stairs headfirst, with his “Ni-ni-ni-ni-ni” becoming more and more painful, more and more jolting. As if he were smashing his skull on each of those stairs, letting loose an unending “ni.” As if he were losing his breath, like a tire pierced to the rhythm of the “ni”s that escaped his mouth, to the point of collapse, to the point of death. That was when the most cynical of the boys swallowed their derisive smiles and kept quiet, for we were all hanging from his lips and hoping for only one thing: for him to finally spit out that damn name and move on to something else. Mohamad-Réza had an advantage, though, negligible in the eyes of others, but important nevertheless. He had a beautiful voice and sang very well. Paradoxical, isn’t it? The same part of his body was both his advantage and his downfall. For, as is often the case with stammerers, he never stammered while singing. When he sang, he was beautiful. We realized that what he sang wasn’t chosen at random, but always related to a certain subject. He who was often silent expressed himself through song and thus made up for his moments of stolen speech. This was how he participated in debates, shared his vision, gave his opinion; he existed through the language of song. He knew by heart a river of couplets, a Caspian of poems, through which he could express practically anything. One night, I remember, faced with the mockery of his friends because of a word he had struggled over, he cut off his sentence and suddenly broke into song. It was really something. He threw back his head, unleashed his magnificent voice, his two fists squeezed tight along his body like a soldier, and literally wailed a poem by Hafez. His voice was so powerful, so lofty, that it gave us all goosebumps. I remember that we remained silent for a long time after he had finished singing and got up to leave, tears in our eyes.

  In my role as a go-between, a modem, hub, and transformer linking Niloufar to the world of the boys, I inevitably dealt with Mohamad-Réza, too. My schedule included hours of walking with him, at night on the warm sand, along the river, in the winding alleys of the village, never far from Villa Rose. Listening to sad songs that he hummed and, on the seashore, on the hills of sand, I would watch strange birds fly from his throat and always take off toward his reason for being, his Mecca, his Nilou. I let him cry on my shoulders. I have to admit, I accepted his generosity toward me, sometimes even simply out of fairness. Like an arbiter bound to remain impartial. When I could, I would give him her day’s schedule so that he wouldn’
t have to wait uselessly in front of Villa Rose when she wasn’t there. So that he could be in the right place at the right time a bit more often to see her pass. He would reward me with a pack of American cigarettes, a bottle of whiskey stolen from his father’s stash, or a simple thank you, broken and tearful.

  Around the fire, the night after the swim, I had a lot of things to tell my friends. Already, before I had even left the villa, I had established a palpitating sequence in my head. A few juicy details about the meeting, which I would reveal, without saying too much, to avoid provoking a traffic jam at the sea in the morning, then two or three things about the bedroom, leaving many details in the dark. Details that my false modesty didn’t permit me to reveal. The imprecisions were obviously voluntary. To prolong the suspense, fan the flame of desire. Then, over glasses of arak and puffs of hashish, I would pretend to let myself go, manifest more signs of opening up all while letting the others reenter the fray and make the advances, more and more insistently. I would give in. End up describing Nilou’s bedroom and the objects in it. The tape player, the music it played, the name of the singer, the CDs, the books on the shelf, the photos of her friends on the walls. Yes, that night and the nights to come, that’s what I recounted, but, obviously, it was all fake. Not a word about the blue dress, the view of the sea from the window, her lying on the bed, the shifting line between her breasts, I said nothing about any of that. Not out of modesty, nor out of frugality, but simply because those details belonged to me alone. Toward the end, pretending to be evasive by changing the subject, I let slip the plan to picnic and gather fresh blackberries. Uttering those words, I suddenly became the most powerful being on the coastline, the true kingmaker, for they had all been awaiting this news. Everyone knew that once or twice during the summer, when they were reunited, all the girls spent a day picnicking on the riverbank and that the place the blackberries grew was only accessible by boat. They also knew that, to take Niloufar, her mother, and her friends, you needed more than one boat and so, in addition to me, another rower was needed. And naturally it was up to me to designate that lucky person from among my friends. Everything unfurled exactly as planned. While I was talking, I saw a strange gleam in Parand’s eyes, while Mohamad-Réza kept his head down, staring at the fire that was slowly going out, stone-faced and sullen. He did nothing but listen. He nursed no hope. He asked for nothing.

  At night, when I masturbated, I tried not to think about that bit of black lace I had seen in Nilou’s bedroom, another detail I had jealously kept secret, but, of course, the more I forced myself not to think about it, the more I thought about it. It spun in my head and obsessed me. I wound up ejaculating into the stitches of that strange fabric, whose image was closing in on me little by little like a net.

  She had signaled to me just before I left. Sat up on her bed, staring at me with her big black eyes that looked like they were enhanced with a natural mascara. Me, standing at her door, ready to leave, determined to go back to my world on the other side of the walls of the villa, to ask me what? A name. Why him? I didn’t know the answer yet. Women’s hearts were a mystery to me, and Nilou’s heart an even bigger mystery.

  Okay, I was only thirteen years old. I was just a kid. I can understand that, but did that diminish the weight of my actions? My betrayals? For I betrayed. There’s no other word for it. As young as I was, I knew how to count, to measure, to anticipate. I knew how to recognize my interests. And it was in my interest not to reveal the truth that Niloufar had confided in me that day, in her bedroom. I had the choice, and I chose. I had decided to do what I had to do to allay my conscience. I didn’t hesitate. My decision was categorical and flawless. No, once more, the person who emerged from Villa Rose that day was not the one who had entered a few hours before. He was walking on the shards of his childhood, too quickly shattered. On the ashes of his hopes, suddenly burned. Someone who looked exactly like me. But who was no longer me. Or rather, I had become him.

  A few days later, we went to collect wild blackberries. I asked Parand to accompany me to steer the second boat. We split the passengers, and the belle found herself in his boat. The girls were happy. They sang and had fun. Niloufar was wearing a white tank top and a pair of her old jeans cut off just under her butt. Her legs, two golden arcs, hung over the hull of the boat. Blaming the heat, Parand rowed bare-chested, thus showing off his large shoulders, his luxurious chest hair, and his bulging muscles. Stationed at the back of the boat, he rowed with regularity and dexterity. He was handsome, nice, well-mannered, smiling, and foolish. Submerged up to his neck in the pit of his useless efforts. Niloufar remained impassive before his attributes and her friends followed suit. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to the undeniable charms of my friend Parand. Niloufar even seemed a bit put off by that display of virility. I saw it in her long moments of silence, when she would stare at something invisible on the surface of the water, or in the distance, on the sandy edges of the banks. Only Niloufar’s mother, who was part of the expedition, seemed interested in him. Out of politeness or perhaps out of pity. She offered him something to drink, let him carry her basket, asked him questions about himself and his family, and on the way back thanked him for his help.

  The baskets were filled with excellent, juicy blackberries. The girls were having a great time, they took off with laughter and chatter. Parand was also delighted. On the way back, he even let me drive his motorcycle. He believed that he had taken a decisive step that day. One or two more opportunities and he would be victorious, he said. I was in wholehearted agreement, interpreting Niloufar’s silence as interest and timidity. Parand was over the moon. Intimidating Nilou was no easy task. He would recount it all around the fire, passing a large lump of hashish, stuffing everyone with grilled corn and sour cherry juice, celebrating his victory with his friends. I had to remain distant. Agree only as much as was necessary. Backing Parand’s claims, but tacitly, so as not to appear as a mere matchmaker.

  Opposite me, on the other side of the fire, Mohamad-Réza had his head lowered like he usually did. He was listening to the boasting of his rival with his legendary abnegation. As if the trophy brandished by his adversary was magnified even more in the abyss where he liked to lose himself. He was a hopeless lover, feeding off of his own tragedy. A sailor that wasn’t looking for safe harbor, but for his beautiful ship. He eventually raised his head so I could see the flames burning in the watery reflection of his eyes. He unleashed real tears later that night over my shirt, in large, drunken sobs.

  §

  Remember what you said to me one day, in that prison. You said these exact words, about one of your numerous trips to the interrogation room: “That day, my soul lost its way.” Do you remember? You told me how they had broken you into a thousand pieces. I could imagine the rest. I knew what they could do to get things out of you. What they were capable of. Putting a man in such a state. It must not have been a pretty sight. They had tortured you, that’s certain, but they had also broken you on the inside. It wasn’t just physical, but moral. They had reached you in your being, hurt the deepest part of you. To such a degree that you said your soul had gone astray. It was clear. All I had to do was look in your eyes when you talked about it, head lowered, empty stare. But you said it. That night, you told me everything. You told me how you had sat yourself at the table to confess everything to them. Not knowing that over the course of your terrible story you would become a bit more honest, more human, with each phrase, and I, more dishonest and less human. You told me that you had blurted out everything you remembered. About yourself and about all those around you. From how you had looked up your teacher’s skirt when you were eight years old, to the names and addresses of your friends. You told them everything. You had thrown yourself into my arms to seek consolation and forgiveness. I forgave you, even if it wasn’t mine to give. But I gave it to you, the attentiveness that one human can give to another human. You told me that after that, you curled into a ball and slept for several days. Like a baby. Some in
dulgent friends had fed you, given you water, and you had slept. A comatose sleep. I knew that state. I had experienced it too. I knew that at that moment you were seeking death. I had sought it, too. That heavy, endless sleep was, for you, the foretaste of death. Then, one day, you got up. You accepted and assumed your new status in prison. Your role as traitor. Snitch. You wore it with dignity, with elegance even. Yes, I can say it. You continued to wear it with a great deal of elegance. You suffered. I know. It was visible in your eyes, in the lines of your face, in your hunched back. Then that suffering faded. Not suddenly, but gradually, over time. Or else it was there, but had lost its intensity. By confessing your betrayal, you were necessarily less of a traitor. While I, during all that time, was doing the opposite. I was hiding my betrayal, and because of it, I was doubly treacherous. I had no shoulder to cry on. No way to expiate my pain in the disgust of my fellow prisoners. Purify myself by rinsing off in the spit of the righteous. I was pretending. With you, with my friends, my cellmates, even my torturers. Day and night. Even in my nightmares. Those poor torturers didn’t even know anymore why they were torturing me. To make me betray someone or because I had betrayed someone? In any event, by turning me into a martyr, a hero, they were only muting my true betrayal. Your soul found its orbit. Little by little, by sheer force of will, a thirst for life, and the courage to face your own truth, your fellow prisoners eventually accepted you. But not mine. My soul was without an orbit. That lasted years. All those years that separate us from the Gohardasht Prison.3 Today, I came to you so that you would help me, so that you would listen to me. Accept this truth that I owe you, and perhaps so that you will be able to offer me your shoulder in exchange so that I might finally cry in my turn. So that my soul, too, will perhaps be able to find its way again.