Three Drops of Blood Page 3

  “The only time Coquette’s natural feelings would awaken and come to the surface was when she got hold of the bleeding head of a rooster. Then she would change, turning into a fierce beast. Her eyes would become bigger and sparkle. Her claws would pop out of their sheaths and with long growls she would threaten anyone who got near her. Then, as if she were fooling herself, she would start to play a game. Since with all the force of her imagination she had made herself believe that the rooster’s head was a living animal, she would tap the head with her paw. Her hair would stand up, she would hide, be on the alert, and would attack again, revealing all the skill and agility of her species in repetitive jumping and attacking and retreating. After she tired of this exhibition, she would greedily finish eating the bloody head and for several minutes afterwards she would search for the rest of it. And so, for an hour or two, she would forget her artificial civilization, wouldn’t go near anyone and wouldn’t be charming or flattering.

  “All the time during which Coquette was displaying affection she was in fact secretive and brutish and wouldn’t reveal her secrets. She treated our home like her own property and if a strange cat happened to enter the house, especially if the cat was a female, for hours you’d hear the sound of spitting, moaning and indignation.

  “The noise that Coquette made to announce that she was ready for lunch was different to the one she made when she was being flirty. The sound of her screams when she was hungry, the cries she made during fighting, and her moaning when she was in heat all had a distinct sound and were different from each other. And their tunes would also change: first there were the heart-rending cries, second the yells of spite and vengeance, third a painful sigh drawn from the natural need to join her mate. The looks that Coquette made with her eyes appeared more meaningful than anything else and sometimes she would display emotions of such human nature that people would feel compelled to ask themselves: what thoughts and feelings exist in that woolly head, behind those green mysterious eyes?

  “It was last spring when that terrible incident took place. You know that come spring, all animals become intoxicated and pair up. It is as if the spring breeze awakens crazy passion in all living beings. For the first time our Coquette was hit by the passion of love and, with shudders which moved her whole body, she would sigh with sadness. The male cats heard her sighs and welcomed her from all sides. After fighting and scuffling, Coquette chose for her mate the one who was the strongest of all and whose voice was the loudest. In animal lovemaking their special smell is very important. That’s why spoilt, domesticated and clean male cats don’t appeal to the females. By contrast, the cats on the walls, the thieving, skinny, wandering and hungry cats whose skin gives off the original odour of their species, are more attractive to the females. During the day, but especially at night, Coquette and her mate would bawl out their love in long cries. Her soft delicate body would writhe while the other’s body would bend like a bow, and they would give happy groans. This continued until the coming of dawn. Then Coquette would enter the room with tousled hair, bruised and tired but happy.

  “I didn’t sleep at night because of Coquette’s lovemaking. Even­tually, I became very angry. One day I was working in front of this same window when I saw the lovers strutting in the garden. With the very revolver that you see I aimed at them from a distance of two or three steps. I fired the gun and a bullet hit her mate. It seemed as if his back was broken. He made a huge leap and without making a sound or groaning, he ran away through the passageway and fell at the foot of the garden wall.

  “Blood had trickled all along the path he had taken. Coquette searched for a while until she found his footsteps. She smelled his blood and went straight to his dead body. For two nights and two days she kept watch by his body. Sometimes she would touch him with her paw as if to say to him, ‘Get up, it’s the beginning of spring. Why do you sleep in the time of love? Why don’t you move? Get up, get up!’ Coquette didn’t know about death and didn’t know that her lover was dead.

  “The day after that, Coquette disappeared together with her mate’s body. I searched everywhere, I asked everyone for traces of her. It was useless. Was Coquette sulking? Was she dead? Did she go to search for her love? And what happened to the body?

  “One night I heard the miaowing of that same male cat. He cried until dawn. The next night was the same, but in the morning his cries had stopped. The third night I picked up the revolver again and I shot aimlessly towards the pine tree in front of my window. The glittering of his eyes was apparent in the dark. He gave a long moan and became silent. In the morning I saw that three drops of blood had fallen onto the ground under the tree. Since that night he’s been coming every night and moaning in that same voice. The others sleep heavily and don’t hear. No matter what I say to them they laugh at me but I know, I am certain, that this is the sound of the same cat that I shot. I haven’t slept since that night. No matter where I go, no matter which room I sleep in, this damn cat moans in his frightening voice and calls for his mate.

  “Today when there was no one in the house I went to the same place where the cat sits and cries every night and I aimed, since I knew where he stood from the glitter of his eyes in the dark. When the gun was empty I heard the cat’s groans and three drops of blood fell from up there. You saw them with your own eyes, aren’t you my witness?”

  Then the door opened and Rokhsare and her mother entered the room. Rokhsare had a bouquet of flowers in her hand. I stood up and said hello, but laughing, Siavosh said, “Of course you know Mr Mirza Ahmad Khan better than I do. An introduction isn’t necessary. He testifies that with his own eyes he has seen three drops of blood at the foot of the pine tree.”

  “Yes, I have seen them.”

  But Siavosh walked towards me, giving a throaty laugh. He put his hand in my trouser pocket and pulled out the revolver. Putting the pistol on the table, he said, “You know that Mirza Ahmad Khan not only plays the sitar and composes poetry well, but he is also a skilled hunter. He shoots very well.” Then he signalled to me. I too stood up and said, “Yes, this afternoon I came to pick up some school notes from Siavosh. For fun we shot at the pine tree for a while, but those three drops of blood don’t belong to the cat, they belong to the bird of truth. You know that according to legend the bird of truth ate three grains which belonged to the weak and the unprotected and each night he cries and cries until three drops of blood fall from his throat. Or maybe, a cat had caught the neighbour’s canary and then the neighbour shot the cat and the wounded cat then passed by the tree. Now wait, I’m going to recite a new poem I have written.” I picked up the sitar and tuned it in preparation for the song and then I sang this poem:

  “What a pity that once again it is night.

  From head to toe the world is dark.

  For everyone it has become the time of peace

  Except for me, whose despair and sorrow are increased.

  There is no happiness in the nature of the world.

  Except death there is no cure for my sorrow.

  But at that corner under the pine tree

  Three drops of blood have fallen on the ground.”

  At this point Rokhsare’s mother went out of the room angrily. Rokhsare raised her eyebrows and said, “He is mad.” Then she took Siavosh’s hand and both of them laughed and laughed and then walked through the door and closed it on me. From behind the window I saw that when they reached the courtyard they embraced each under the lantern and kissed.

  The Legalizer

  (from Three Drops of Blood)

  Four hours were left before the sunset and Pass Qale* looked empty and quiet in the middle of the mountains. Arranged on a table in front of a small coffeehouse were jugs of yoghurt drink, lemonade and glasses of different colours. A dilapidated record player and some scratchy records stood on a bench. The coffeehouse keeper, his sleeves rolled up, shook the bronze samovar, threw out the tea leaves, then picked up the empty
gasoline drum, to which wire handles had been attached, and walked in the direction of the river.

  The sun was shining. From below could be heard the monotonous sound of the water, layer after layer of water falling on each other in the riverbed, making everything seem fresh. On one of the benches in front of the coffeehouse, a man was lying, a damp cloth covering his face, his cloth shoes arranged side by side next to the bench. On the opposite bench, under the shade of a mulberry tree, two men were sitting together. Though they hardly knew each other they had immediately embarked on a heart-to-heart conversation. They were so absorbed in their conversation that it seemed as if they had known each other for years. Mashadi Shahbaz was thin, scrawny, with a heavy moustache and eyebrows that met in the middle. He was squatting on the edge of the bench, and gesturing with his henna-dyed hand, saying, “Yesterday I went to Morgh Mahale to see my cousin; he has a little garden there. He was saying that last year he sold his apricots for thirty tomans. This year they were frostbitten and all the fruit fell off the tree. He was in a terrible condition. And his wife has been bedridden since Ramadan. It’s been very costly for him.”

  Mirza Yadellah adjusted his glasses, sucked his pipe with an air of relaxation, stroked his greying beard, and said, “All the blessing has gone out of everything.”

  Shahbaz nodded in agreement and said, “How right you are. It’s like the end of the world. Customs have changed. May God grant much luck to everyone – twenty-five years ago I was in the neighbourhood of the holy city of Mashad. Three kilos of butter for less than a rial, ten eggs for a rial. We bought loaves of bread as tall as a man. Who suffered from the lack of money? God bless my father – he had bought a bandari mule, they’re fast and small, and we would ride it together. I was twenty years old. I used to play marbles in the alley with the kids from our neighbourhood. Now all the young people lose their enthusiasm easily. They turn from unripe grapes to fully-fledged raisins. Give me the days of our youth. As that fellow, God bless him, said:

  I may be old, with a trembling chin,

  But I’m worth a hundred young men.”

  Yadollah puffed on his pipe and said, “Every year we regret the last year.”

  Shahbaz nodded. “May God grant his creatures a happy ending.”

  Yadollah assumed a serious expression. “I’ll tell you, there was a time when we had thirty mouths to feed in our house. Now every day I worry about where I’ll find a few rials for my tea and tobacco. Two years ago I had three teaching jobs, I earned eight tomans a month. Just the day before yesterday, on Aide Qorban,* I went to the house of one of the wealthy people where I used to be the tutor. They told me to bless the sheep in preparation for the slaughter. The ruthless butcher lifted the poor animal up and threw it onto the ground. He was sharpening his knife. The animal struggled and pulled itself up from under the butcher’s legs. I don’t know what was on the ground, but I saw that the animal’s eye had burst open and was bleeding. My heart was bleeding. I left on the pretext that I had a headache. All that night I saw the sheep’s head before my eyes, it was covered in blood. Then a profanity slipped from my tongue and I was having blasphemous thoughts… May God strike me dumb. There’s no doubt in God’s goodness, but these helpless animals… it’s sinful. Oh Lord, oh Providence, you know better. No matter what, man is sinful.” He sat lost in thought for a moment. Then he continued, “Yes, if only I could spell out everything that is in my heart: well, but everything can’t be said, God forbid. May God strike me dumb.”

  As if he were bored Shahbaz said, “Just think of important things.”

  Mirza Yadollah replied with an air of indifference, “Yes, what can we do? The world’s always this way.”

  “Our time is over,” said Shahbaz. “We’re done for. We’re only alive because we can’t afford shrouds. What tricks haven’t we played in this base world? Once in Tehran I had a grocery store. I put away six rials a day after expenses.”

  Mirza Yadollah interrupted his words. “You were a grocer? I don’t like grocers as a group.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story. But you finish what you have to say first.”

  Shahbaz continued talking. “Yes, I had a grocery store. I was doing all right. Little by little I was building a life for myself. To make a long story short, I married a shrew. It’s been five years since my wife ruined my life. She wasn’t a woman, she was a firebrand. How hard I had worked to marry and settle down: she ruined everything I had accomplished. Well, one night she came back from listening to a sermon. She insisted that she must go on pilgrimage to lighten her burden of sin. You wouldn’t believe how much she harassed me… How silly I was to give my wits to that woman. In any case, man is gullible. I was strong and ruthless, but a woman got the better of me. God forbid that a woman should get under a man’s skin. That very night she said, ‘I don’t understand these things, but I’ve figured it out. I don’t want my dowry back, just set me free. I have a bracelet and a necklace, I’ll sell them and leave. I looked for an omen and I found a good one. Either divorce me or I’ll strangle your child right here by the lamp.’ No matter what I did, do you think I was a match for her? For two weeks she didn’t look at me. She insisted so much that I sold everything I had, collected the money and gave it to her. She took my two-year-old son and disappeared to where the Arabs play the flute. It’s been five years and I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “May she be protected from the evil of the Arabs.”

  “Yes, amidst those naked ignorant Arabs, the desert, the burning sun! It’s as if she’d turned into water and had been soaked up by the earth. She didn’t send me even a note. They’re right when they say the woman is made of only one rib.”

  Mirza Yadollah said, “It’s men’s fault, they raise them that way and don’t let them become worldly and experienced.”

  Shahbaz was wrapped up in his own words. “What’s funny is that that woman was basically silly and simple minded. I don’t know what happened that suddenly she turned into a firebrand. Sometimes, when she was on her own, she would cry. I wished her tears were for her first husband…”

  “You mean you were her second husband?” asked Mirza Yadollah.

  “Of course,” replied Shahbaz. “Now what was I saying? I forgot what I was saying.”

  “You mentioned her first husband.”

  “Yes, at first I thought she was crying for her first husband. In any case, no matter how nicely I tried to explain and make her understand, it was as if I was talking to a wall. It was as if death were out to get her. I don’t know what she did with my son. Will I ever look into his eyes again? A son whom God gave me after so many prayers and offerings.”

  Mirza Yadollah said, “Everyone you look at has some misfortune. The heart of the matter is that people should be human, should be educated. As long as they behave like mules, we’ll ride them. There was a time when I used to preach from the pulpit that whoever made a pilgrimage to the holy shrines would be forgiven and would have a place in heaven.”

  Shahbaz said, “You aren’t a preacher, are you?”

  “That was twelve years ago. You see I’m not dressed like a preacher. Now I’m a jack of all trades and master of none.”

  “How? I don’t understand.”

  Mirza Yadollah moistened his lips with his tongue and said dejectedly, “A woman ruined my life also.”

  Shahbaz said, “Oh, these women!”

  “No, this has nothing to do with women. This misfortune is my own fault. If you were in Tehran, probably you’ve heard the name of my father. I wasn’t found under a cabbage leaf. My father was so holy that even angels obeyed him. Everyone was always extolling his virtues. When he went up to the pulpit, there wasn’t even room to drop a needle. All the bigwigs were nervous around him. I’m not trying to show off. He’s dead, God bless him. Whatever he was, it was his reputation. As the poet says:

  Even if your father was a l
earned man,

  It’s nothing to you – you must do what you can.

  “In any case, after my father’s death I became his successor, and I examined our circumstances. He had left us a house and a handful of stuff. I was still a theology student, and I had a monthly pension of four tomans plus fifteen kilograms of wheat. In addition, during the months of Muharram and Safar we were in clover. Our bread was buttered on both sides. Since it was well known that the breath of my father, God bless him, would work miracles, one night I was brought to a sickbed to pray. I saw a girl, about eight or nine years old, hanging around. Sir, I was drawn to her at first glance. Well, that’s youth, with all its ups and downs.

  “Before her I had had two temporary wives, both of whom I had divorced, but this was something else. You’d have to have been me to understand. Anyway, two days later I sent a handkerchief full of nuts and dried fruit and three tomans, and I married her. At night when they brought her, she was so tiny that they carried her. I was ashamed of myself. I won’t hide anything from you. For three days, whenever the girl saw me she trembled like a sparrow. Now, I was only thirty, I was in my prime. But talk about those seventy-year-old men with all kinds of diseases who marry nine-year-old girls.