The Blind Owl and Other Stories Read online

  He was thinking that from the beginning of his childhood up to the present he had always been the object of other people’s ridicule or pity. He remembered that the first time the teacher in the history class said the inhabitants of Sparta used to kill deformed children all the students turned around and looked at him, and it had made him feel strange. But now he wished that this law had been enforced everywhere in the world, or at least that, as in most places, they would have banned syphilitic people from marrying, since he knew that all this was his father’s fault. The scene of his father’s death, the pale face, bony cheeks, sunken blue eyes, half-open mouth, passed before his eyes just as he had seen it: his old syphilitic father, who had taken a young wife and all of whose children had been born blind or lame. One of his brothers who had survived was dumb and an idiot and had died two years ago. He would say to himself, “Maybe they were the lucky ones!”

  But he remained alive, weary of himself and others, and everyone avoided him. He had grown somewhat accustomed to living for ever a life apart. From childhood in school he was left out of sports, jokes, races, ball games, leapfrog, tag and all the things which brought about the happiness of his classmates. During playtime he would crouch in the corner of the school playground holding a book in front of his face and watching the children stealthily from behind it. But there was a time when he truly worked, and he wanted to find superiority over the others at least through study. Day and night he worked, and because of this one or two of the lazy students became friendly with him, because they wanted to copy his exercises and his solutions to maths problems. But he knew that their friendship was insincere and was to their advantage, since he saw that the students tried hard to be friends with Hasan Khan, who was handsome, well-built, and wore nice clothes. Only one or two people among the teachers showed Davoud any consideration and attention, and this wasn’t for his work but because they pitied him, since even with all his labour and hardship he couldn’t complete his work.

  Now he remained empty handed. Everyone avoided him. His acquaintances would be embarrassed to walk with him, women would say “See the hunchback!” This made him more angry than anything else.

  Twice, several years before, he had asked for a girl’s hand. Both times the women had ridiculed him. By coincidence one of them, Zibandeh, lived near here in Fisherabad. They had seen each other several times, and they had even talked to each other. In the afternoons when he came home from school he used to come here to see her. The only thing he could remember was that she had a mole by her lip. Later when he sent his aunt to ask for her hand that same girl had ridiculed him and said, “But is there a dearth of men, that I should become the wife of a hunchback?” No matter how much her father and mother had beaten her, she hadn’t accepted. She kept saying, “But is there a dearth of men?” But Davoud still loved her, and this counted as the best memory of his youth. Even now, wittingly or unwittingly, he mostly wandered here, and the past memories would become fresh again before his eyes. He was disappointed in everything. Mostly he went for walks alone and kept aloof from crowds because he suspected that everyone who laughed or talked quietly to his friend was talking about him, was making fun of him. With his brown staring eyes and fierce attitude he would laboriously move his neck and the upper half of his body and would pass on looking down contemptuously. When he went out all his senses were attuned to others, all the muscles of his face were tense. He wanted to know other people’s opinion about him.

  He was passing slowly by the side of a gutter and sometimes he stirred the water with the end of his stick. His thoughts were frenzied and distressed. He saw a white dog with long hair who lifted its head because of the sound of his stick hitting against a rock, and it looked at him as if it was sick or on the verge of death. It couldn’t move from its place and once again its head dropped to the ground. He stooped down with difficulty. In the light of the moon their eyes met. A strange thought occurred to him: he felt that this was the first time that he had seen a simple and sincere look and that both of them were unfortunate and unwanted, rejected and useless, driven out from human society. He wanted to sit by this dog, who had dragged its misery out of the city and had hidden it from men’s eyes, and take it in his embrace, press its head to his protruding chest. But he thought that if someone passed by here and saw, he would make fun of him even more. It was dusk. He passed by the Yusef Abad Gate. He looked at the circle of the incandescent moon, which in the calm of this sorrowful and tender evening had come up from the shore of the sky. He looked at the half-built houses, the piles of bricks which they had heaped on each other, the sleepy background of the city, the tin roofs of the houses, the blue-coloured mountain. Grey blurred curtains were passing before his eyes. No one could be seen, near or far. The distant muffled sound of singing was coming from the other side of the gully. He lifted his head with difficulty. He was tired, extremely sad and unhappy, and his eyes burned. It was as if his head was too heavy for his body. Davoud left his walking stick by the side of the ditch and went over to the other side. Without intending to, he walked towards the rocks and sat down beside the road. Suddenly he became aware of a woman in a chador who was sitting near him beside the ditch. His heartbeat speeded up. Suddenly the woman turned her head and said with a smile, “Hushang! Where were you until now?” Davoud was surprised by the women’s easy tone, surprised that she had seen him and hadn’t been startled. It was as if he had been given the world. From her question it was evident that she wanted to talk with him, but what was she doing here at this time of night? Was she decent? Maybe she was in love. He took a chance, saying to himself, come what may, at least I’ve found someone to talk to, maybe she’ll give me comfort. As if he had no control over his own tongue he said, “Miss, are you alone? I’m alone too. I’m always alone. I’ve been alone all my life.”

  His words weren’t yet finished when the woman, wearing sunglasses, turned her head again and said, “Then who are you? I thought it was Hushang. Whenever he meets me, he tries to be funny.”

  Davoud didn’t follow much of this last sentence, and he didn’t understand what the women meant. But he didn’t expect to, either. It had been a long time since any woman had talked to him. He saw this woman was pretty. Cold sweat streamed down his body. With difficulty he said, “No, miss, I’m not Hushang. My name is Davoud.”

  The woman answered with a smile, “I can’t see you – my eyes hurt. Aha, Davoud!… Davoud the Hunch…” she bit her lip. “I’m Zibandeh. Don’t you know me?” The curled hair which had covered her cheek moved, and Davoud saw the black mole at the corner of her lip. He throbbed from chest to throat. Drops of sweat rolled down his forehead. He looked around. No one was there. The sound of the singing had come near. His heart beat. It beat so fast that he couldn’t breathe. Without saying anything, trembling from head to foot, he got up. Sobs choked his throat. He picked up his cane. With heavy steps rising and falling he went back the same way he had come and with a scratchy voice he whispered to himself, “That was Zibandeh! She didn’t see me… Maybe Hushang was her fiancé or husband… Who knows? No… Never… I must close my eyes completely!… No, no I can’t any more…”

  He pulled himself along to the side of the same dog that he had seen, sat and pressed its head to his protruding chest. But the dog was dead.

  Madeleine

  (from Buried Alive)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  The night before last i was there, in that small living room. Her mother and her sister were there too. The mother wore a grey dress and the daughters wore red dresses. The furniture, too, was of red velvet. I was resting my elbow on the piano and looking at them. There was silence except for the record player, from which was coming the stirring, sorrowful song of ‘The Volga Boatman’. The wind roared; drops of rain beat against the window. The rain trickled, and with a constant sound blended with the melody of the record. Madeleine sat in front of me, thoughtful and gloomy, with her head leaning on her han
d, listening. I looked stealthily at her brown, curly hair, bare arms, lively, childish neck and profile. This mood she was in struck me as being artificial. I thought she should always run, play and joke. I couldn’t imagine that thoughts came to her or that it was possible for her also to be sad. I liked her childish and unrestrained attitude.

  This was the third time that I had met her. I was introduced to her first at the seaside, but she had changed a lot since then. She and her sister had been wearing bathing suits. They had been carefree, with cheerful faces. She was childlike, mischievous, with shining eyes. It was near dusk. The waves of the sea, the music from the casino – I remembered everything. Now they wore the reddish purple dresses that were stylish this year, whose long skirts covered them to the ankles. They looked aged, apprehensive and seemed preoccupied with life’s problems.

  The record stopped, cutting off the distant, choked tune which was not unlike the waves of the sea. To liven things up, their mother spoke of school and the activities of her daughters. She said that Madeleine was a top student in art. Her sister winked at me. I smiled outwardly and gave short, perfunctory answers to their questions. But my thoughts were elsewhere. I was reviewing from the beginning my acquaintance with them. About two months ago, during the summer vacation just gone by, I had gone to the seaside with one of my friends. It was warm and crowded. We went to Trouville. In front of the railway station we took a bus. Through the forest beside the sea, our bus slipped among hundreds of cars, amid the sound of horns and the smell of oil and gasoline diffused in the air. The bus shook. Sometimes a view of sea appeared beyond the trees.

  Finally we got off at one of the stations, Ville Royale. We passed through several alleys lined on each side with walls of stone and mud. We arrived at a small bun-shaped beach which had been built up on a rise by the sea. In the small square opposite the sea, a small casino could be seen. Around it, on the hills, houses and small villas had been built. Lower down, near the water, there was sand, and beyond that there were the waves. There, small children, alone or with their mothers, were busy playing ball or digging in the sand. A handful of men and women in bathing suits were swimming or were running into the water a little way and coming back. Others, on the sand, were sitting or lying in the sun. Old men lounged under striped umbrellas, reading newspapers and furtively watching the women. We, too, went in front of the casino, with our backs to the water, and sat on the long, wide edge of the sea wall. The sun was about to set. The tide was coming in, and the waves pounded on the shore. The sun sparkled on the waves in triangles of light. A big black ship could be seen going through the mist to the port of Le Havre. The air became slightly cool. The people near the water were coming up by and by. At this point my friend got up and shook hands with two girls who had come near us. He introduced me. They came and sat beside us on the high edge of the sea wall. Madeleine, with a large ball in her hand, sat beside me and started to talk as if she had known me for years. Sometimes she would get up and play with the ball in her hands and then she would come and sit beside me again. I’d tease her, grab the ball from her and then give it back to her and our hands would touch. Slowly we pressed each other’s hands. Her hand had a delicate warmth. I glanced furtively at her breasts, her bare legs, her head and neck. I thought to myself how nice it would be to lay my head on her breast and sleep right there by the sea. The sun set and a pale moonlight gave this small, remote beach an intimate, family atmosphere. Suddenly a dance tune sounded from the casino. Madeleine, her hand in mine, started to sing an American dance tune, ‘Mississippi’. I pressed her hand. From a distance the brightness of the lighthouse cast a half-circle of light on the water. The roar of the water hitting the shore could be heard. People’s shadows were passing in front of us.

  At this point, while these images were passing before my eyes, her mother came and sat at the piano. I moved aside. All at once I saw Madeleine get up like a sleepwalker. She went and searched through the sheet music scattered on the table, separated one piece, took it and put it in front of her mother, and came with a smile to stand near me. Her mother started to play the piano. Madeleine sang softly. It was the same dance tune that I had heard in the Ville Royale – the same ‘Mississippi’.

  Dash Akol

  (from Three Drops of Blood)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  Everyone in shiraz knew that Dash Akol and Kaka Rostam hated each other. One day Dash Akol was squatting on a bench at the Domil Teahouse, his old hangout. Beside him was a quail cage with a red cover over it. With his fingertip he twirled a piece of ice around in a bowl of water. Suddenly Kaka Rostam came in. He threw Dash Akol a contemptuous look and with his hand in his sash went and sat on the opposite bench. Then he turned to the teahouse boy and said “S-s-son, bri-bring some tea.”

  Dash threw a look full of meaning at the boy, so that he became apprehensive and ignored Kaka’s order. The boy took the dirty teacups out of a bronze bowl and dipped them into a bucket of water. Then one by one he dried them very slowly. A scratchy sound arose from the rubbing of the towel against the cups.

  This snub made Kaka Rostam furious. Once again he yelled, “A-a-are you deaf? I-I-I’m talking to you!”

  The boy looked at Dash Akol with an uncertain smile, and Kaka Rostam snarled, “D-d-devil take them. P-p-people who th-th-think they’re so great will c-c-come tonight and p-prove it, if they’re any g-g-good.”

  Dash Akol was whirling the ice around in the bowl, noticing the situation slyly. He laughed impudently, showing a row of strong white teeth shining beneath his henna-dyed moustache, and said, “Cowards brag, but pretty soon it will be evident who’s the better man.”

  Everyone laughed. They didn’t laugh at Kaka Rostam’s stuttering, because they knew he stuttered, but because Dash Akol was very well known in the town. No “tough guys” could be found who hadn’t tasted his blows. Whenever he would drink a bottle of double-distilled vodka in Nolla Ashaq’s house and then take on all comers at the corner of Sare Dozak, he would be more than a match for Kaka Rostam. Even fellows much stronger than Kaka Rostam wouldn’t dare to fight him. Kaka himself knew that he was not a match for Dash Akol, because he had been wounded twice at his hands, and three or four times Dash Akol had overpowered him and sat on his chest. Unluckily, several nights before, Kaka Rostam had seen the corner empty and had started boasting. Dash Akol arrived unexpectedly, like an avenging angel, and heaped insults on his head. Dash had said to him, “Kaka, you sissy, it seems you’ve been smoking too much opium… It’s made you pretty high. You know what, you’d better stop this vile, dastardly behaviour. You’re acting like a hoodlum, and you aren’t a bit ashamed. This certainly is some kind of beggary that you’ve picked up as a business, I swear if you get really drunk like this again I’ll smoke your moustache off. I’ll split you in half.”

  Then Kaka Rostam had set off with his tail between his legs. But he developed a grudge against Dash Akol, and he was always looking for an excuse to take revenge.

  Everybody in Shiraz liked Dash Akol, because, although he chal­lenged any man at the corner of Sare Dozak, he didn’t bother women and children. On the contrary, he was kind to people, and if some miserable fellow bothered a woman or threatened someone, he wouldn’t be able to get away from Dash Akol in one piece. Dash Akol was usually seen to help people. He was benevolent, and if he was in the mood he would even carry people’s loads home for them. But he couldn’t stand to be second to anyone, especially not to Kaka Rostam, that opium-smoking, phoney busybody.

  Kaka Rostam sat infuriated by this contempt which had been shown him. He chewed his moustache, and he was so angry that if someone had stabbed him, he wouldn’t have bled. After a few minutes, when the volley of laughter died down, everyone was still except the teahouse boy. Wearing a collarless shirt, nightcap, and black twill trousers, the boy held his hand over his stomach, and writhed with laughter, nearly worn out. Most of the others were laughing at his laughter. Ka
ka Rostam lost his temper. He reached out and picked up the crystal sugar bowl and threw it at the boy. But the sugar bowl hit the samovar, which rolled off the bench to the floor together with the teapot and broke several cups. Then Kaka Rostam got up, his face flushed with anger, and went out of the teahouse.

  The teahouse keeper examined the samovar with a distressed air and said, “Rostam, the legendary hero, had only one suit of armour. All I had was this dilapidated samovar.” He uttered this in a sad tone, but because of the allusion to Rostam, people laughed even harder. The teahouse keeper attacked the boy in frustration, but Dash Akol with a smile reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag of money, and threw it to him.

  The teahouse keeper picked up the bag, hefted it, and smiled.

  At this point a man with a velvet vest, loose trousers, and a felt hat rushed headlong into the teahouse. He glanced around, went up to Dash Akol, greeted him, and said, “Hajji Samad is dead.”

  Dash Akol raised his head and said, “God bless him!”

  “But don’t you know he’s left a will?”

  “I don’t live off the dead. Go and tell somebody who does.”

  “But he’s made you the executor of his will.”

  As if these words awakened Dash Akol from his indifference, once again he looked the man up and down, rubbing his hand on his forehead. His egg-shaped hat was pushed back, showing his two-toned forehead, half of which was burnt brown by the sun and half of which had remained white from being under the hat. Then he shook his head, took out his inlaid pipe, slowly filled it with tobacco, tapped it with his thumb, lit it, and said, “God bless Hajji now that it’s over, but that wasn’t a good thing he did. He’s thrown me into a sea of trouble. Well, you go, I’ll come after.”