The Blind Owl and Other Stories Read online

  The person who had entered was Hajji Samad’s foreman. Taking long steps, he went out of the door. Dash Akol frowned in thought. He puffed on his pipe reflectively. Somehow it was as if dark clouds had suddenly stifled the cheerful, happy atmosphere of the teahouse. After Dash Akol emptied the ashes from his pipe he got up, gave the quail cage to the boy, and went out of the teahouse.

  When Dash Akol entered Hajji Samad’s courtyard, the reading of the Koran was over. There were only a few readers left and some men to carry the Koran who were grumbling over their fee. After waiting a few minutes by the fountain, he was taken into a big room whose sash windows opened onto the courtyard. Hajji’s wife came and stood behind a curtain, and after the usual greetings and pleasantries Dash Akol sat on a mattress and said, “Ma’am, may God keep you in good health. May God bless your children.” The woman said in a choked voice, “On the night that Hajji fell ill, they brought His Eminence the Imam* Jomeh to pray at his bedside, and in the presence of all Hajji announced you as the executor of his will. Probably you knew Hajji from before?”

  “We met five years ago on a trip to Kazeroon.”

  “Hajji, God bless him, always said that if there was only one real man, it was Dash Akol.”

  “Ma’am, I like my freedom more than anything else, but now that I’ve been obliged by the dead, I swear by this ray of light that if I don’t die first, I’ll show those cabbage heads.”

  Then as he lifted his head, he saw from between two curtains a girl with a glowing face and alluring black eyes. They had looked at each other for not even a moment when the girl, as if she felt embarrassed, dropped the curtain and stepped back. Was she pretty? Perhaps. In any case her alluring eyes did their work and Dash Akol was ravished. He blushed and dropped his head.

  It was Marjan, the daughter of Hajji Samad. She had come out of curiosity to see the famous Dash Akol, who was now her guardian.

  The next day Dash Akol began to work on Hajji’s affairs. With an expert in second-hand goods, two men from the neighbourhood, and a secretary, he carefully registered and inventoried everything. Whatever was extra he put in the storeroom, locking and sealing the door. Whatever would bring anything he sold. He had the deeds of Hajji’s lands read to him. He collected what was owed to Hajji and paid his debts. All of these things were accomplished in two days and two nights. On the third night, tired and worn out, Dash Akol was passing near Sayyed Haj Qarib Square on his way home. On the way he ran into Imam Qoli Chalengar, who said, “Now it’s been two nights that Kaka Rostam has been expecting you. Last night he was saying that you left him up in the air. He says that you’ve got a taste of high life and you’ve forgotten your promise.”

  Dash Akol remembered well that three days before in the Domile Teahouse Kaka Rostam had challenged him, but since he knew what kind of man Kaka was and knew that Kaka had plotted with Imam Qoli to shame him, he didn’t pay any attention and continued on his way. On the way all his senses were concentrated on Marjan. No matter how much he wanted to drive her face away from before his eyes, it would take shape more firmly in his imagination.

  Dash Akol was a big man of thirty-five, but he wasn’t good looking. Seeing him for the first time would dampen anyone’s spirits, but if someone sat and talked to him or heard the stories about his life which people were always telling, he would become fascinated. When one didn’t consider the sword scars going from left to right, Dash Akol had a noble and arresting face: hazel eyes, thick black eyebrows, broad cheeks, narrow nose, black beard and moustache. But his scars spoilt everything. On his cheeks and forehead were the marks of sword wounds which had healed badly, leaving raw-looking furrows on his face. Worst of all, one of them had drawn down the corner of his left eye.

  His father was one of the great landowners of Fars Province. When he died all his property went to his only son. But Dash Akol took life easy and spent money recklessly. He didn’t consider wealth and property important. He passed his life freely and generously. He had no ties in life, and he generously gave all his possessions to the poor and empty-handed. Either he would drink vodka and raise hell in the streets or he would spend his time getting together with a handful of friends who had become his parasites. All his faults and virtues were confined to these activities, but the thing which seemed surprising was that the subject of love had never come up for him. Although several times his friends had talked him into coming to bull sessions, he never took part in the conversation. But from the day he became Hajji Samad’s executor and saw Marjan, his life changed completely. On the one hand he considered himself obliged to the dead and under a burden of responsibility; on the other hand, he had lost his heart to Marjan. But the responsibility weighed on him more than anything. He had wasted his own wealth and had also squandered part of his own inheritance through carelessness. Now every day from early morning when he awoke he thought only of how to increase the income of Hajji’s estate. He moved Hajji’s wife and children into a smaller house. He rented out their private house. He brought in a tutor for the children. He invested their money, and from morning until night he was busy chasing after Hajji’s affairs.

  From this time on Dash Akol completely gave up prowling around at night and daring others to fight. He lost interest in his friends, and he lost his old enthusiasm. But all the men who had been his rivals, incited by the mullahs who felt themselves cheated of Hajji’s wealth, found a little legroom for themselves, and they made sarcastic remarks about Dash Akol. Talk of him filled the teahouses and other gathering places. At the Pachenar Teahouse people often discussed Dash Akol, saying things like, “Speaking of Dash Akol – he doesn’t dare any more, his tongue’s frozen. That dirty dog. They really got rid of him. Now he sniffs around Hajji’s door. Seems like he is scrounging something. Now when he comes around Sare Dozak he drops his tail between his legs and slinks by.”

  Kaka Rostam, carrying a grudge in his heart, stuttered, “Th-th-there’s no f-f-f-fool like an old fool. The guy has f-f-fallen in love with Ha-Ha-Hajji Samad’s daughter! He’s sh-sh-sh-sheathed his butter knife! He’s thrown d-d-dirt in people’s eyes. He m-m-made a false r-r-r-reputation for himself and got to be Hajji’s e-e-e-executor. He’ll steal them all b-b-b-blind. Lucky d-d-dog.”

  People no longer put stock in Dash Akol and no longer held him in awe. In every place he entered, people were whispering in each other’s ears and making fun of him. Dash Akol heard this talk here and there, but he didn’t show it and didn’t pay any attention, because his love of Marjan had grown so strong within him and had so upset him that he had no thought except for her.

  At night he would drink alcohol in his distress, and he had a parrot to amuse himself with. He sat in front of the cage and told his grievances to the parrot. If Dash Akol asked for Marjan’s hand, her mother would gladly give Marjan to him. But on the other hand, he didn’t want to become tied to a wife and child, he wanted to be free, just as he had been raised. Besides, he suspected that if he married the girl who had been put into his keeping, he would be doing something wrong. What was worse than everything else was that every night he would look at his drooping eye, and in a rough tone he would say aloud, “Maybe she doesn’t like me; maybe she’ll find a handsome young husband. No, it’s not a manly thing to do… She’s fourteen years old and I’m forty… But what shall I do? This love is killing me. Marjan… You’ve killed me… Who shall I tell… Marjan… Leaving you has destroyed me!”

  Tears welled up in his eyes and he drank glass after glass of vodka. Then, with a headache, he fell asleep in his chair.

  But at midnight, when the city of Shiraz, with its twisting alleys, exhilarating gardens, and purple wines, went to sleep; when the quiet, mysterious stars were winking at each other in the pitch black sky; when Marjan with her rosy cheeks was breathing softly in her bed and the day’s events were passing before her eyes, it was at that time that the real Dash Akol, the natural Dash Akol, with all his feelings, fancies, and desires, with no em
barrassment, would come out of the shell which the etiquette and customs of society had built around him. It was then that he would come out of the thoughts which had been inculcated in him since childhood; and freely he hugged Marjan tight and felt her slow heartbeat, her fiery lips and her soft body, and he covered her cheeks with kisses. But when he leapt awake he would curse himself, and curse life, and like a madman he paced up and down his room. He muttered to himself, and in order to kill the thought of love in him, he would busy himself for the rest of the day with running after and taking care of Hajji’s affairs.

  But an important event, one which should not have happened, took place: a husband appeared for Marjan, and what a husband, who was both older and less attractive than Dash Akol. At this event Dash Akol didn’t turn a hair. On the contrary, with extreme contentment he busied himself preparing the trousseau, and he organized a fitting celebration for the wedding night. He took Hajji’s wife and children to their own home again and designated the large room with sash windows for entertaining the male guests. All the important people, the merchants and dignitaries of Shiraz, were invited to the festivities.

  That day at five in the afternoon, when the guests were sitting around the room cheek by jowl on the priceless carpets and rugs and the big wooden trays of sweets and fruit had been placed in front of them, Dash Akol entered, with his old rough appearance and manner, but with his unruly hair combed and wearing new clothes, a striped robe, a sword belt, a sash, black trousers, cloth shoes, and a hat. Three other people entered behind him with notebooks and pads. All the guests looked him up and down. With long steps Dash Akol went up to His Eminence the Imam Jomeh, and said, “Sir, Hajji, God bless him, made his will and threw me into a sea of trouble for seven years. His youngest son, who was five years old, is now twelve. These are the accounts of Hajji’s property.” He pointed to the three people standing beside him. “Until today, whatever has been spent, including the expenses of this evening, I have paid from my own pocket. From now on I will go my way, and they will go theirs!”

  When he reached this point he stifled a sob. Then without adding anything or waiting for an answer, he dropped his head and with his eyes full of tears went out of the door. In the alley he breathed a sigh of relief. He felt that he had become free and that the burden of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders, but his heart was broken. He took long, careless steps. As he walked, he recognized the house of the Jewish vodka maker, Mullah Ashaq. Without hesitation he went down the damp steps and entered an old, sooty courtyard which was surrounded by small dirty rooms with windows full of holes like beehives and whose fountain was covered with moss. The smells of fermentation, of feathers, and of old cellars diffused in the air. Mullah Ashaq, skinny, with a dirty nightcap, a goatee beard and covetous eyes, came forwards, laughing artificially.

  Dash Akol said gloomily, “By your moustache, give me a bottle of the best to refresh my throat.” Mullah Ashaq nodded his head, went down the cellar steps, and after a few minutes came up with a bottle. Dash Akol took the bottle from his hand. He hit the neck against a pillar. The top broke off, and he drained half the bottle. Tears gathered in his eyes, he stifled a cough, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Mullah Ashaq’s son, who was a sallow, scrawny, dirty child, with a swollen stomach, an open mouth, and snot hanging on his upper lip, was looking at Dash Akol. Dash Akol put his finger under the lid of a salt cellar which was on a shelf in the courtyard and laid salt on his tongue.

  Mullah Ashaq came forwards, clapped Dash Akol on the shoulder and said, “That’s the way, fellow.” Then he fingered the material of Dash Akol’s clothes and said, “What’s this you’re wearing? This robe is out of style. Whenever you don’t want it, I’ll pay a good price.”

  Dash Akol laughed dejectedly. He took some money from his pocket, put it in the palm of Mullah Ashaq’s hand, and left the house. It was near dusk. His body was warm, his thoughts were distressed, and his head ached. The alleys were still damp from the afternoon rain and the smell of mud walls and orange blossoms mingled in the air. Marjan’s face, her rosy cheeks, black eyes and long lashes, the curly hair on her forehead appeared vaguely and mysteriously before Dash Akol’s eyes. He remembered his past life; memories passed before him one by one. He remembered the outing he had made with his friends to the tombs of Saadi and Baba Kouhi. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he frowned. The one thing he was certain of was that he was afraid of his house – that the state of affairs had become intolerable for him. It was as if his heart had been torn out. He wanted to go far away. He thought that again tonight he would drink and tell his troubles to the parrot! All of life for him had become small, futile, and meaningless. Meanwhile he remembered a poem. Out of boredom he murmured it: “I envy the parties of prisoners / Whose refreshments are chain links.” He remembered another poem and recited it a little louder.

  My heart has gone crazy, oh wise ones.

  The crazed man is bound with a chain.

  Bind my heart with a chain of prudence,

  Or its madness will break out again.

  He recited this poem in a sad hopeless tone, but as if he had lost interest, or was thinking of something else, he fell silent.

  It had grown dark when Dash Akol reached Sare Dozak. This was the same square where in the old days Dash Akol would take on all comers, and no one had dared tangle with him. Without intending it, he went and sat on a stone bench in front of a house. He took out his pipe, filled it, and drew on it slowly. It occurred to him that this place was more run down than it had been; the people looked different to him, just as he himself had changed and broken down. He saw things hazily. His head ached. Suddenly a dark shadow appeared coming towards him, saying, as it approached, “Even the d-d-dark night knows who’s the b-b-better man.”

  Dash Akol recognized Kaka Rostam. He stood up, put his hands on his hips, spat on the ground, and said sarcastically, “God damn your coward father. You think you’re the better man? You haven’t even learnt where to pee.”

  Kaka Rostam laughed mockingly, came close, and said, “I-i-i-it’s a long t-t-time we haven’t seen you around here. Tonight there’s a w-w-w-wedding at Hajji’s house. Didn’t they let y-y-you—”

  Dash Akol interrupted, “God knew what he was doing when he gave you only half a tongue. I’m going to take the other half tonight.” He pulled out his sword. Kaka Rostam reached for his sword also. Dash Akol drove his sword into the ground, folded his arms across his chest and said, “Now I dare you to pull that sword out of the ground.”

  Kaka Rostam suddenly attacked him, but Dash Akol hit the back of his hand so hard that the sword flew out of his grasp. At the sound, a handful of passers-by stopped to watch, but no one dared to come forwards or try to separate them.

  Dash Akol said with a smile, “Go on, pick it up, but hold it tighter this time, because tonight I want to settle our accounts!”

  Kaka Rostam came forwards with clenched fists and they grappled with each other. They rolled on the ground for half an hour, sweat dripping from their faces, but neither one gained the upper hand. In the middle of the struggle Dash Akol’s head hit hard against the cobblestones. He nearly lost consciousness. Kaka Rostam, too, despite the murder in his heart, felt that his power of resistance was exhausted, but suddenly his glance fell on Dash Akol’s sword, which was within his reach. With all his strength he pulled it out of the ground and drove it into Dash Akol’s side. He pushed it so hard that neither could move any more.

  The onlookers ran forwards and lifted up Dash Akol with difficulty. Drops of blood splattered on the ground. He clutched his wound, dragged himself next to the wall a few steps, and fell to the ground again. Then they raised him and carried him to his house.

  The next morning, as soon as the news of Dash Akol’s wounding reached Hajji Samad’s house, Vali Khan, Hajji’s oldest son, went to see how he was. When he reached Dash Akol’s bedside, he saw him stretched out deathly pale in bed. Bloody
froth had bubbled from his lips, and his eyes had darkened. He breathed with difficulty. In a state of torpor, Dash Akol recognized Vali Khan. In a half-choked, trembling voice he said, “In the whole world… that parrot… was all I had… please… please… give it to…”

  He fell silent again. Vali Khan took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. Dash Akol lost consciousness, and an hour later he died.

  Everybody in Shiraz cried for him.

  That afternoon, Marjan placed the parrot’s cage in front of her and sat looking at the parrot’s colourful wings, its hooked beak, and its round, lustreless eyes. Suddenly the parrot, in a rough, scratchy tone, said, “Marjan… Marjan… You killed me… Whom shall I tell… Marjan… Loving you… has destroyed me.”

  Tears streamed from Marjan’s eyes.

  The Man Who Killed His Passions

  (from Three Drops of Blood)

  (translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel)

  The passions are dragons,

  Perhaps sleeping, but never slain,

  In the proper circumstances,

  They’ll rise up again.

  Mowlavi*

  Regularly every morning, Mirza Hoseinali, wearing a black buttoned-up frock, pressed trousers and shiny black shoes, came walking steadily out of one of the alleys near Sar Cheshme.* He passed in front of the Sepas-Selar Mosque, went through Safi Ali Shah Alley, and went to school.

  He didn’t look around as he walked. It was as if his thoughts were directed towards something special. He had a pure, dignified face, with small eyes, prominent lips and a brown moustache. His beard was always trimmed. He was very humble and quiet.

  Occasionally around sunset, the thin figure of Mirza Hoseinali could be discerned from afar outside the city gate, walking very slowly, hands linked behind his back, head down, back bent. Sometimes he would stand and whisper to himself for a while, as if he were searching for something.