The Blind Owl and Other Stories Page 11

  I walked softly into the dark room. I took off my cloak and scarf and the rest of my clothes and crept into her bed. For some reason I kept the bone-handled knife in my hand. It seemed to me that the warmth of her bed infused a new life into me. I remembered the pale, thin little girl with the big, strange Turkoman eyes with whom I had played hide-and-seek on the bank of the Suran, and I clasped her pleasant, moist, warm body in my arms. Clasped her? No, I sprang upon her like a savage, hungry beast and in the bottom of my heart I loathed her. To me love and hatred were twins. Her fresh, moonlight-pale body, my wife’s body, opened and enclosed me within itself like a cobra coiling around its prey. The perfume of her bosom made my head swim, the flesh of the arm which encircled my neck was soft and warm. I wished that my life could cease at that moment, for the hatred, the rancour that I felt for her had vanished and I tried to hold back my tears.

  Her legs somehow locked behind mine like those of a mandrake and her arms held me firmly by the neck. I felt the pleasant warmth of that young flesh. Every atom in my burning body drank in that warmth. I felt that I was her prey and she was drawing me into herself. I was filled with mingled terror and delight. Her mouth was bitter to the taste, like the stub end of a cucumber. Under the pleasant pressure of her embrace, I streamed with sweat. I was beside myself with passion.

  I was dominated by my body, by each atom of my material being, and they shouted aloud their song of victory. Doomed, helpless in this boundless sea, I bowed my head in surrender before the stormy passion of the waves. Her hair, redolent of champac, clung about my face, and a cry of anguish and joy burst forth from the depths of our beings. Suddenly I felt that she was biting my lip savagely, so savagely that she bit it through. Used she to bite her nail in this way or had she realized that I was not the harelipped old man? I tried to break free from her but was unable to make the slightest movement. My efforts were useless. The flesh of our bodies had been soldered into one.

  I thought to myself that she had gone mad. As we struggled, I involuntarily jerked my hand. I felt the knife, which I was still holding, sink somewhere into her flesh. A warm liquid spurted into my face. She uttered a shriek and released me. Keeping my fist clenched on the warm liquid in my hand, I tossed the knife away. I ran my other hand over her body. It was utterly cold. She was dead. And then I burst into a fit of coughing – but no, it was not coughing, it was a hollow grating laugh, of a quality to make the hairs on one’s body stand on end. In terror I threw my cloak over my shoulders and hurried back to my own room. I opened my hand in the light of the oil lamp: in the palm of my hand lay her eye, and I was drenched in blood.

  I went over and stood before the mirror. Overcome with horror, I covered my face with my hands. What I had seen in the mirror was the likeness, no, the exact image, of the old odds-and-ends man. My hair and beard were completely white, like those of a man who has come out alive from a room in which he has been shut up along with a cobra. My eyes were without lashes, a clump of white hairs sprouted from my chest and a new spirit had taken possession of my body. My mind and my senses were operating in a completely different way from before. A demon had awoken to life within me and I was unable to escape from him. Still holding my hands before my face, I involuntarily burst into laughter. It was a more violent laugh than the previous one had been and it made me shudder from head to foot. It was a laugh so deep that it was impossible to guess from what remote recess of the body it proceeded, a hollow laugh which came from somewhere deep down in my body and merely echoed in my throat. I had become the old odds-and-ends man.

  5

  The violence of my agitation seemed to have awakened me from a long, deep sleep. I rubbed my eyes. I was back in my own room. It was half dark and outside a wet mist pressed against the windowpanes. Somewhere in the distance a cock crowed. The charcoal in the brazier beside me had burnt to cold ashes which I could have blown away with a single breath. I felt that my mind had become hollow and ashy like the coals and was at the mercy of a single breath.

  The first thing I looked for was the flower vase of Rhages which the old hearse-driver had given me in the cemetery, but it had gone. I looked around and saw beside the door someone with a crouching shadow – no, it was a bent old man with his face partly concealed by a scarf wrapped around his neck. He was holding under his arm something resembling a jar, wrapped in a dirty handkerchief. He burst into a hollow, grating laugh, of a quality to make the hairs on one’s body stand on end.

  The moment that I made a move he slipped out through the doorway. I got up quickly, intending to run after him and get the jar, or whatever it was that was wrapped in the handkerchief, from him, but he was already a good way off. I went back to my room and opened the window. Down the street I could still see the old man’s crouching figure. His shoulders were shaking with laughter and he held the bundle tucked under his arm. He was running with all his might and in the end he disappeared into the mist. I turned away from the window and looked down at myself. My clothes were torn and soiled from top to bottom with congealed blood. Two blister flies were circling about me, and tiny white maggots were wriggling on my coat. And on my chest I felt the weight of a woman’s dead body…

  Hajji Morad

  (from Buried Alive)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  Hajji morad swiftly jumped off the platform of his shop. He gathered about him the folds of his tunic, tightened his silver belt, and stroked his henna-dyed beard. He called Hasan, his apprentice, and together they closed the shop. Then he pulled four rials from his large pocket and gave them to Hasan, who thanked him and with long steps disappeared whistling among the bustling crowd. Hajji threw over his shoulders the yellow cloak he had put under his arm, gave a look around, and slowly started to walk. At every footstep he took, his new shoes made a squeaking sound. As he walked, most of the shopkeepers greeted him and made polite remarks, saying, “Hello Hajji. Hajji, how are you? Hajji, won’t we get to see you?…”

  Hajji’s ears were full of this sort of talk, and he attached a special importance to the word “Hajji”. He was proud of himself and answered their greetings with an aristocratic smile.

  This word for him was like a title, even though he himself knew that he had never been to Mecca. The closest he had ever come to Mecca was Karbala,* where he went as a child after his father died. In accordance with his father’s will, his mother sold the house and all their possessions, exchanged the money for gold and, fully loaded, went to Karbala. After a year or two the money was spent, and they became beggars. Hajji, alone, with a thousand difficulties, had got himself to his uncle in Hamadan. By coincidence his uncle died and since he had no other heir all his possessions went to Hajji. Because his uncle had been known in the bazaar as “Hajji”, the title also went to the heir along with the shop. He had no relatives in this city. He made enquiries two or three times about his mother and sister who had become beggars in Karbala, but found no trace of them.

  Hajji had got himself a wife two years ago, but he had not been lucky with her. For some time there had been continual fighting and quarrelling between the two of them. Hajji could tolerate everything except the tongue-lashing of his wife, and in order to frighten her, he had become used to beating her frequently. Sometimes he regretted it, but in any case they would soon kiss and make up. The thing that irritated Hajji most was that they still had no children. Several times his friends advised him to get another wife, but Hajji wasn’t a fool and he knew that taking another wife would add to his problems. He let the advice enter into one ear and come out of the other one. Furthermore, his wife was still young and pretty, and after several years they had become used to each other and, for better or worse, they somehow went through life together. And Hajji himself was still young. If God wanted it, he would be given children. That’s why Hajji had no desire to divorce his wife, but at the same time, he couldn’t get over his habit: he kept beating her and she became ever more obstinate. Especially sin
ce last night, the friction between them had become worse.

  Throwing watermelon seeds into his mouth and spitting out the shells in front of him, he came out of the bazaar. He breathed the fresh spring air and remembered that now he had to go home: first there would be a scuffle, he would say one thing and she would answer back, and finally it would lead to his beating her. Then they would eat supper and glare at each other, and after that they would sleep. It was Thursday night, too, and he knew that tonight his wife had cooked sabzi pilau. These thoughts passed through his mind while he was looking this way and that way. He remembered his wife’s words, “Go away you phoney Hajji! If you’re a Hajji, how come your sister and mother have become something worse than beggars in Karbala? And me! I said no to Mashadi Hosein the moneylender when he asked for my hand only to get married to you, a good for nothing phoney Hajji!” He remembered this and kept biting his lip. It occurred to him that if he saw his wife there and then he would cut her stomach into pieces.

  By this time he had reached Bayn ol’Nahrain Avenue. He looked at the willow trees which had come out fresh and green along the river. He thought it would be a good idea tomorrow, Friday, to go to Morad Bak Valley in the morning with several of his friends and their musical instruments and spend the day there. At least he wouldn’t have to stay at home, which would be unpleasant for both him and his wife. He approached the alley which led to his house. Suddenly he had the impression that he had glimpsed his wife walking next to him and then straight past him. She had walked past him and hadn’t paid any attention to him. Yes, that was his wife all right. Not only because like most men Hajji recognized his wife under her chador, but also because his wife had a special sign so that among a thousand women Hajji could easily recognize her. This was his wife. He knew it from the white trim of her chador. There was no room for doubt. But how come she had left home again at this time of day and without asking for Hajji’s permission? She hadn’t bothered to come to the shop either to say that she needed something. Where was she going? Hajji walked faster and saw that, yes, this was definitely his wife. And even now she wasn’t walking in the direction of home. Suddenly he became very angry. He couldn’t control himself. He wanted to grab her and strangle her. Without intending to, he shouted her name, “Shahrbanu!”

  The woman turned her face and walked faster, as if she were frightened. Hajji was furious. He couldn’t see straight. He was burning with anger. Now, leaving aside the fact that his wife had left home without his permission, even when he called her, she wouldn’t pay any attention to him! It struck a special nerve. He shouted again.

  “Hey! Listen to me! Where are you going at this time of day? Stop and listen to me!”

  The woman stopped and said aloud:

  “Nosy parker, what’s it to you? You mule, do you know what you’re saying? Why do you bother someone else’s wife? Now I’ll show you. Help, help! See what this drunkard wants from me. Do you think the city has no laws? I’ll turn you over to the police right now. Police!”

  Entrance doors opened one by one. People gathered around them and the crowd grew continually larger. Hajji’s face turned red. The veins on his forehead and neck stood out. He was well known in the bazaar. A crowd had built to look at them, and the woman, who had covered her face tightly with her chador, was shouting, “Police!”

  Everything went dark and dim before Hajji’s eyes. Then he took a step back, and then stepped forwards and slapped her hard on her covered face, and said, “Don’t… don’t change your voice. I knew from the very beginning that it was you. Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll divorce you. Now you’ve taken to leaving the house without bothering to get permission? Do you want to disgrace me? Shameless woman, now don’t make me say more in front of these people. You people be my witness. I’m going to divorce this woman tomorrow – I’ve been suspicious of her for some time, but I always restrained myself. I was holding myself back, but now I’ve had all I can take. You be my witness, my wife has thrown away her honour. Tomorrow… you, tomorrow!…”

  The woman, who was facing the people, said, “You cowards! Why don’t you say anything? You let this good-for-nothing man lay hands on someone else’s wife in the middle of the street? If Mashadi Hosein the moneylender were here he would show all of you. Even if I only live one more day I’ll take such revenge that a dog would be better off. Isn’t there anyone to tell this man to mind his own business? Who is he to associate with human beings? Go away. You’d better know who you’re dealing with. Now I’m going to make you really regret it! Police!…”

  Two or three mediators appeared and took Hajji aside. At this point a policeman arrived. The people stepped back. Hajji and the woman in the white-trimmed chador set out for police headquarters, along with two or three witnesses and mediators. On the way each of them stated his case to the policeman. People followed them to see how the business would turn out. Hajji, dripping with sweat, was walking next to the policeman in front of the people, and now he began to have doubts. He looked carefully and saw that the woman’s buckled shoes and her stockings were different from his wife’s. The identification she was showing the policeman was all right, too. She was the wife of Mashadi Hosein the moneylender, whom he knew. He discovered he had made a mistake, but he had realized it too late. Now he didn’t know what would happen. When they reached police headquarters the people stayed outside. The policeman had Hajji and the woman enter a room in which two officers were sitting behind a table. The policeman saluted, described what had happened, then took himself off and went to stand by the door at the end of the room. The chief turned to Hajji and said:

  “What is your name?”

  “Your honour, I’m your servant. My name is Hajji Morad. Everyone knows me in the bazaar.”

  “What is your profession?”

  “I’m a rice merchant. I have a store in the bazaar. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Is it true that you were disrespectful to this lady and hit her in the street?”

  “What can I say? I thought she was my wife.”

  “Why?”

  “Her chador has a white trim.”

  “That’s very strange. Don’t you recognize your wife’s voice?”

  Hajji heaved a sigh. “Oh, you don’t know what a plague my wife is. My wife imitates the sound of all the animals. When she comes from the public baths she talks in the voices of other women. She imitates everyone. I thought she wanted to trick me by changing her voice.”

  “What impudence,” said the woman. “Officer, you’re a witness. He slapped me in the street, in front of a million people. Now all of a sudden he’s as meek as a mouse! What impudence! He thinks the city has no laws. If Mashadi Hosein knew about it he’d give you what you deserve. To his wife, your Honour!”

  The officer said, “Very well, madam. We don’t need you any more. Please step outside while we settle Mr Morad’s account.”

  Hajji said, “Oh God, I made a mistake, I didn’t know. It was an error. And I have a reputation to protect.”

  The officer handed something in writing to the policeman. He took Hajji to another table. Hajji counted the bills for the fine with trembling hands and put them on the table. Then, accompanied by the policeman, he was taken outside in front of the police headquarters. People were standing in rows and whispering in each other’s ears. They lifted Hajji’s yellow cloak from his shoulders and a man with a whip in his hand came forwards and stood next to him. Hajji hung his head with shame and they whipped him fifty times in front of a crowd of spectators, but he didn’t move a muscle. When it was over he took his big silk handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He picked up his yellow cloak and threw it over his shoulders. Its folds dragged on the ground. With his head lowered, he set out for home, and tried to set his foot down more carefully to stifle the squeaking sound of his shoes. Two days later Hajji divorced his wife.

  Three Drops of Blood

  (fr
om Three Drops of Blood)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  It was only yesterday that they moved me to a separate room. Could it be that things are just as the supervisor had promised? That I would be fully recovered and be released next week? Have I been unwell? It’s been a year. All this time, no matter how much I pleaded with them to give me pen and paper, they never did. I was always thinking to myself that if I got my hands on a pen and a piece of paper, there would be so much to write about. But yesterday they brought me a pen and some paper without me even asking for it. It was just the thing that I had wanted for such a long time, the thing that I had waited for all the time. But what was the use? I’ve been trying hard to write something since yesterday but there is nothing to write about. It is as if someone is holding down my hand or as if my arm has become numb. I’m focusing on the paper and I notice that the only readable thing in the messy scribbling I’ve left on it is this: “three drops of blood”.

  * * *

  The azure sky; a green little garden; the flowers over the hill have blossomed and a quiet breeze is bringing over their fragrance to my room. But what’s the use? I can’t take pleasure in anything any more. All this is only good for poets and children and those who remain children all their lives. I have spent a year in this place. The cat’s hissing is keeping me awake from night till dawn. The terrifying hissing, the heart-rending mewling, have brought me to the verge of giving up. In the morning, I’ve barely opened my eyes and there is the rude injection. What long days and terrifying hours I have spent here. On summer days we put on our yellow shirts and yellow trousers and come together in the cellar. Come winter we sit by the side of the garden, sun bathing. It’s been a year since I’ve been living with these weird and peculiar people. There is no common ground between us. I am as different from them as the earth is from the sky. But their moaning, silences, insults, crying and laughter will forever turn my sleep into nightmare.