The Blind Owl and Other Stories Read online

  He noticed all this without recognizing his surroundings or route. He didn’t feel the falling snow, and the closed umbrella he had picked up he held shut in his hand. He went into another empty alley and sat on the front steps of a house. The snow was falling faster. He opened his umbrella. A deep weariness had taken possession of him. His head felt heavy. His eyes slowly closed. The sound of passing voices brought him to himself. He got up. The sky had become dark. He remembered all the day’s events: the boy with ringworm that he had seen in front of a house and whose arms were visible from under his torn shirt, the red, wet legs of the hens in the basket that were trembling from the cold, and the blood which had fallen on the snow. He felt a little hungry. He bought sweet bread from a bakery. He ate it as he walked and, without intending to, prowled around the alley like a shadow.

  When he entered his house, it was two in the morning. He fell into the armchair. An hour later he woke up from the force of the cold, lay down on the bed in his clothes, and pulled the quilt over his head. He dreamt that in a room somewhere the same boy who was selling matches was dressed in black and was seated behind a desk on which was a big doll with blue smiling eyes, and in front of him three people were standing with their hands folded on their chests. His daughter Homa entered. She had a candle in her hand. After her a man entered who was wearing a white and bloodstained mask on his face. The man moved forwards and took the hands of Homa and the boy. Just as Homayoun wanted to go out of the door two hands came out from behind the curtain, holding pistols in his direction. Frightened, Homayoun jumped awake with a headache.

  For two weeks his life passed in the same way. During the days he went to his office and only returned very late at night to sleep. Sometimes in the afternoons for no reason that he could think of he would pass near the girls’ school that Homa attended. After school he would hide at the corner behind the wall, fearing he would be seen by Mashdi Ali, his father-in-law’s servant. He looked the children over one by one, but he didn’t see his daughter Homa among them, and life carried on in this manner until his request for a transfer was accepted and he was directed to go to the customs office in Kermanshah.

  The day before leaving Homayoun made all his preparations. He even went to see that the bus was in the garage and bought the ticket. Since his suitcases were not packed he arranged to leave for Kermanshah the next morning, instead of going that very afternoon, as the garage owner had insisted.

  When he entered his house he immediately went to the family room where his desk was. The room was disorganized and messy. Cold ashes had fallen in front of the gas heater. The piece of embroidered purple silk and the envelope of Bahram’s will had been put on the table. He picked up the envelope and tore it down the middle, but then he saw a piece of written paper he hadn’t noticed that day in his great haste. After he had put the pieces together on the table he read:

  Probably this letter will come to you after my death. I know you will be surprised at this sudden decision of mine, since I did nothing without your advice, but so that there won’t be any mystery between us I confess that I loved your wife Badri. I fought with myself for four years. At last I won, and I killed the demon that had awakened in me, so that I might not betray you. I give a worthless present to Homa that I hope will be accepted!

  Yours always,

  Bahram

  For a while Homayoun stared around the room astonished. He no longer doubted that Homa was his own child. Could he have left without seeing Homa? He read the letter again and a third time. He put it in his pocket and left the house. On his way he entered the toy shop and without hesitation bought the big doll with the red face and blue eyes and went towards his father-in-law’s house. When he got there he knocked on the door. When he saw Homayoun, Mashdi Ali the servant said with eyes full of tears, “Sir, what calamity has happened? Miss Homa!”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Sir, you don’t know how restless Miss Homa was at being away from you. I would take her to school every day. It was Sunday. Up to now that makes five days since the afternoon that she ran away from school. She had said she was going to see her dear father. We were in a frenzy. But didn’t Muhammad tell you? We telephoned the police, I came to your house twice.”

  “What are you saying? What has happened?”

  “Nothing, sir, it was evening when they brought her home. She had got lost. She got pneumonia from the terrible cold. She called you continually until the moment she died. Yesterday we took her to Shah Abdolazim. We buried her right next to Bahram Mirza’s grave.”

  Homayoun was staring at Mashdi Ali. At this point the doll box fell from his arms. Then like a crazed man he pulled up the collar of his overcoat and went towards the garage with long strides, because he had changed his mind about packing the suitcases, and he could leave much sooner on the afternoon bus.

  Fire-Worshipper

  (from Buried Alive)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  Flandon,* who had just returned from Iran, was sitting opposite one of his old friends in a room on the third floor of a Parisian guesthouse. A bottle of wine and two glasses were put on a small table between the friends and music was playing in the café below. Outside it was dark and cloudy and a light rain was falling. Flandon lifted his head from his hands, picked up a glass of wine, drained it and turned to his friend. “Do you know – there was a time when I felt that I had lost myself among those ruins, mountains, and deserts. I said to myself, ‘Could it be that one day I’ll return to my country? Would I be able to hear this same music that is playing now?’ I wished to return some day. I wished for an hour like this when we could be alone and I could open my heart to you. But now I want to tell you something different, something that I know you won’t believe: now that I’ve come back, I regret it. You know, I still long for Iran. It’s as if I’ve lost something!”

  On hearing this, his friend, whose face had turned red and whose eyes were wide but expressionless, jokingly hit the table with his fist and laughed out loud. “Eugene, stop joking. I know you were a painter, but I didn’t know you were also a poet. So you’ve become tired of us? Tell me, you must have become attached to someone down there. I’ve heard that Eastern women are pretty.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m not joking.”

  “By the way, the other day I was with your brother and the con­versation turned to you. He brought several recent pictures which you had sent from Iran and we looked at them. I remember they were all pictures of ruins… Oh yes, he said one of them was a place for worshipping fire. You mean they worship fire there? The only thing I know about the country you were in is that they have good carpets: I don’t know anything else. Now you describe to me everything that you’ve seen. You know, everything about it is new for us Parisians.”

  Flandon was silent a moment, then said, “You’ve reminded me of something. One day in Iran something took place which was very strange for me. Up to now I haven’t told anyone, not even my friend Coste, who was with me. I was afraid he would laugh at me. You know that I don’t believe in anything. Only once in all my life have I worshipped God sincerely, with all my heart and soul. That was in Iran, near the same fire temple you saw the picture of. One night, when I was in the south of Iran excavating at Persepolis, I had gone alone to Nagshe Rostam. There the graves of ancient Persian kings were carved into the mountain. I think you may have seen the picture. It’s something like a cross that has been carved into the mountain. Above it is a picture of the king standing in front of the fire temple with his right arm raised towards the fire. Above the fire temple is Ahura Mazda, their god. Below the temple the stone has been cut in the form of a porch, and the king’s tomb is located within the stone crypt. Several of those crypts can be seen there. Opposite them is the great fire temple, which is called the Kaaba of Zoroaster.

  “Anyway, I remember clearly that it was near dusk. I was busy measuring this same temple. I was
almost worn out with fatigue and the heat. Suddenly I saw two people, whose clothes were different from ordinary Persian clothes, coming towards me. When they got closer, I saw that they were two old men. Two old but strong, lively men with sparkling eyes and striking faces. I asked them questions and it became evident that they were merchants from Yazd who had come from the north of Iran. Their religion was like that of most of the inhabitants of Yazd. In other words, they were fire-worshippers like the ancient kings of Iran. They had deliberately gone out of their way to make a pilgrimage to the ancient fire temple. They hadn’t finished talking when they began to gather pieces of wood and twigs and dry leaves. They piled them up and made a small fire. I stood still, astonished, and watched them. They lit the dry wood and started to say prayers and murmur in a special language which I had not heard before. Probably it was the language of Zoroaster and the Avesta; maybe it was the same language which had been carved in cuneiform on the rocks.

  “At this point, when the two fire-worshippers were busy praying in front of the fire, I lifted my head. I saw that the scene carved in the stone exactly resembled the living scene in front of me. I stood frozen in my tracks. It was as if these people on the stone exactly above the grave of Darius had come to life and after several thousand years had come down opposite me to worship the manifestation of their god: I was amazed that after this length of time, in spite of the effort expended by the Muslims to destroy and overthrow this faith, this ancient religion still had followers who, secretly but in the open air, threw themselves to the ground before the fire!

  “The two fire-worshippers left and disappeared. I remained alone, but the small fire was still burning. I don’t know how it happened – but I felt that I was under pressure by a religious force and tension. A heavy silence ruled there. The moon had come out from the side of the mountain like a fiery sphere of sulphur and its pale light had illuminated the body of the great fire temple. Time seemed to have gone backwards two or three thousand years. I had forgotten my nationality, personality, and surroundings. I looked at the ashes in front of which those two mysterious old men had fallen down in worship and praise. Blue smoke was slowly rising from the spot in the shape of a column and was spiralling in the air. The shadow of broken stones, the blurred horizon, the stars which shone above my head and winked to each other, the display of the quiet and splendour of the plain among these mysterious ruins and ancient fire temples – it was as if the surroundings, the souls of all the dead, and the power of their thought, which was aloft over the crypt and the broken stones, had forced or inspired me, because things were no longer in my hands. I, who had no belief in anything, fell involuntarily to my knees before these ashes from which the blue smoke rose, and worshipped them: I didn’t know what to say but I didn’t need to murmur anything. Perhaps less than a minute passed before I came to myself again, but I worshiped the manifestation of Ahura Mazda – perhaps in the same way the ancient kings of Iran worshipped fire. In that moment I was a fire-worshipper. Now, think whatever you like about me. Maybe it was just because mankind is weak and is not capable…”

  Abji Khanom

  (from Buried Alive)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  Abji khanom was marokh’s older sister, but anyone who didn’t know the family would have found it hard to believe that they were sisters. Abji Khanom was tall, lanky, swarthy, with thick lips and coarse black hair. She was altogether ugly. Marokh, on the other hand, was petite, fair, with a small nose and chestnut hair. Her eyes were alluring, and every time she laughed dimples appeared. They were very different from each other with regard to behaviour and habit too. Ever since she was a child, Abji Khanom had been fussy and quarrelsome and didn’t get along with people. She would even sulk at her mother for two or three months at a time. Her sister, by contrast, was tactful and appealing. She was always good natured and laughing. Naneh Hasan, their neighbour, had nicknamed her “Miss Favourite”. Even her mother and father loved Marokh more, since she was the youngest child and their dear darling.

  Abji Khanom’s mother used to hit her when she was a child. She would nag her and make a fuss but publicly, in front of the neighbours and other people, she would pretend that she felt sorry for Abji Khanom. She would cross her hands and say, “What can I do with this bad luck, eh? Who will marry such an ugly girl? I am afraid she will remain at home. A girl who has no wealth, no beauty, and no accomplishment. Who is the miserable person who will marry her?” Words like this had been repeated in the presence of Abji Khanom so many times that she too had totally lost hope, and had given up on the idea of finding a husband. She spent most of her time praying and fulfilling religious duties. She had completely given up on marriage, since no husband had appeared for her. Once they wanted to give her to Kalb Hosein, the apprentice carpenter, but he didn’t want her. Nonetheless, every time Abji Khanom met people, she would tell them, “I had a proposal but I turned it down. Today’s husbands are all immoral drunkards, better dead than alive. I shall never get married.”

  She spoke like this on the surface, but it was evident that in her heart she liked Kalb Hosein and was very eager to get married. But since from the age of five she had been told that she was ugly and no one would marry her, and since she knew she had no share in the pleasures of this world, she wanted at least to receive the wealth of the other world by the power of prayer and worship. In this way she had found comfort for herself. Yes, why should she regret that she had no share in the pleasures of this transitory world? After all, the eternal world, the hereafter, would be all hers. Then all the attractive people, including her sister and everybody else, would wish they were her. When the months of Muharri and Safar* arrived, this was Abji Khanom’s time to show off. There was no preaching at which she was not at the head of the crowd. In the passion plays* she would take a place for herself an hour before noon. All the preachers knew her and were very eager that Abji Khanom should be at the foot of their pulpits so that the crowd would get worked up from her crying groans and screams. She had memorized most of the sermons. She had heard the sermons so many times and she knew so many religious problems that most of the neighbours would come to her and ask about their mistakes. Early in the morning, she was the one in charge of waking up the household. First she would go to her sister’s bed and kick her, saying, “It’s almost noon. When are you going to get up and say your prayers?” The poor girl would get up, sleepily wash and stand up to say her prayers. The morning call to prayer, the cry of the rooster, the dawn breeze, the murmur of prayers, gave Abji Khanom a special feeling, a spiritual feeling, and she felt proud before her conscience. She would say to herself, “If God doesn’t take me to heaven then whom will He take?” The rest of the day also, after doing some insignificant housework and fussing about this and that, she would take in her hand a long rosary, whose black colour had turned yellow from being handled so much, and recite the beads. Now her only wish was that, by whatever means, she could go on a pilgrimage trip to Karbala and stay there.

  But her sister didn’t show any special religious zeal and did all of the housework. Then when she was fifteen she went to work as a maid. Abji Khanom was twenty-two, but she was stuck at home and secretly envied her sister. During the year and a half that Marokh went away to work as a maid, not even once had Abji Khanom tried to visit her or asked how she was. When Marokh came home every two weeks to see her family, Abji Khanom would either quarrel with someone or go and pray, stretching it out for two or three hours. Also, later when everyone was sitting together, she would make sarcastic remarks to her sister and would begin lecturing her about prayers, fasting, cleanliness and scepticism. For example, she would say, “From the time when these modern, mincing women appeared, bread became more expensive… Whoever doesn’t cover her face will be suspended by the hair in hell. Whoever talks behind someone’s back will have her head as big as a mountain and her neck as thin as a hair. In hell there are such snakes that people take shelter with dragons.” And
she would go on in this vein. Marokh had felt that her sister was jealous but she pretended that she didn’t notice.

  One day towards evening, Marokh came home and talked quietly with her mother for a while and then left. Abji Khanom had gone to the entrance of the opposite room and had sat, puffing on a water pipe, but because of her jealousy she didn’t ask her mother what her sister’s conversation had been about and her mother said nothing about it either. In the evening when her father, with his egg-shaped hat on which whitewash had dried, came home from bricklaying, he changed his clothes, took his tobacco pouch and his pipe, and went up on the roof. Abji Khanom, leaving her work as it was, went with her mother and took the samovar, a pot, a copper container, and relish and onions. They sat next to each other on a carpet. Her mother started the conversation, saying that Abbas, a servant in the same house where Marokh worked, had proposed to her. This morning when the house was empty Abbas’s mother had come to ask for her hand. They wanted to sign the marriage contract next week. They would give twenty-five tomans as a gift for the bride’s mother, thirty tomans to the bride in case there was a divorce, as well as a mirror, candlesticks, a Koran, a pair of shoes, sweets, a bag of henna, a taffeta scarf, brocaded chintz trousers… Her father, fanning himself with a fan hemmed around the edges, sucking a piece of sugar in the corner of his mouth and drinking tea, nodded and said offhandedly, “Good enough. Congratulations. There’s no objection.” He didn’t show any surprise or happiness and didn’t express any opinion. It was as if he was afraid of his wife. But Abji Khanom was furious as soon as she heard this news. She couldn’t listen to the rest of the agreements and on the pretext of prayers she got up without intending to and went downstairs to the main room which had five entrances. She stared at herself in a small mirror she had. In her own eyes she appeared old and broken down, as if these few minutes had aged her several years. She examined the wrinkle between her eyebrows. She found one white hair. With two fingers she pulled it out. She stared at it for a while under the light. Where she pulled it from she felt nothing.