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
(from Three Drops of Blood)
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.
* * *
There’s still an hour left until we eat our supper. It’s one of those printed menus: yoghurt soup, rice pudding, rice, bread and cheese, just enough to keep us alive without starving us. Hasan’s utmost wish is to eat a pot of egg soup and four hunks of bread. When it’s time for him to be released they should bring him a pot of egg soup instead of pen and paper. He is one of the lucky ones here, with his short legs, stupid laugh, thick neck, bald head, and rough hands that look as if they’ve been made to clean sewers. Had it not been for Muhammad Ali, who stands there inspecting lunch and dinner, Hasan would have sent all of us to God. But Muhammad Ali himself is also just one of the people of this realm. No matter what they say about this place, the fact is that this is a different world to the world of normal people. We have a doctor who, I swear to God, doesn’t notice anything. If I were in his place, one night I would put poison into everyone’s supper and give them it to eat. Then in the morning I would stand in the garden with my hands on my hips and watch the corpses being carried out. When they first brought me here I was obsessively watching my food, fearing that they might poison me. I wouldn’t touch lunch or supper unless Muhammad Ali had tasted the food first. Only then would I eat. At night I would leap awake frightened, imagining that they had come to kill me. How far away and vague that all seems now. Always the same people, the same food, the same room which is blue half way up the wall.
It was two months ago when they threw a lunatic into that prison at the end of the courtyard. With a broken piece of marble he cut out his own stomach, pulled out his intestines and played with them. They said he was a butcher – he was used to cutting stomachs. But that other one had pulled out his own eyes with his own nails. They tied his hands behind his back. He was screaming and the blood had dried on his eyes. I know that all of this is the supervisor’s fault.
Not everyone here is like this. Many of them would be unhappy if they were cured and released. For example that Soghra Sultan who is in the women’s section. Two or three times she tried to escape but they caught her. She’s an old woman, but she scratches plaster off the wall and rubs it on her face for powder. She even uses geraniums to make her cheeks look rosy. She thinks she’s a young girl. If she was to recover and look in the mirror she would have a heart attack. Worst of all is our own Taqi, who wants to turn the world upside down. In his opinion women are the cause of men’s misfortune, and to improve the world all women must be killed. He has fallen in love with Soghra Sultan.
All this is the fault of our very own supervisor. He is so crazy that he puts the rest of us to shame. With that big nose and those small eyes, like a drug addict, he always walks at the bottom of the garden under the pine tree. Sometimes he bends over and looks under the tree. Anyone who sees him would think what a poor, harmless man to have been caught with all these lunatics. But I know him. I know that there, under the tree, three drops of blood have fallen onto the ground. He has hung a cage in front of his window. The cage is empty because the cat has had his canary. So he has left the cage hanging to lure the cats to the cage and then kill them.
It was only yesterday when he followed a calico cat. As soon as the animal went up the tree towards the window, he told the guard at the door to shoot the cat. Those three drops of blood are the cat’s but if anyone asked he would say they belong to the bird of truth.
Stranger than everyone else here is my friend and neighbour Abbas. It hasn’t been two weeks since they brought him. He has been warming to me. He thinks he is a poet and a prophet. He says every vocation, but especially that of a prophet, depends on chance and luck. People with high foreheads, for example, have it made even if they don’t know much. Whereas those with a short forehead, even if they are the wisest of all men in the world, end up like him. Abbas also thinks he is a skilful sitar player. He has put wires on a wooden board, making himself believe that he’s built a string instrument. He also has composed a poem which he recites for me eight times a day. I think it is for the same poem that they sent him here. He has composed a peculiar ballad:
What a pity that once more it is night.
From head to toe the world is dark.
For everyone it has become the time of peace
Except 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 free.
Yesterday we were walking in the garden. Abbas was reciting the same poem. A man and a woman and a young girl came to see him. So far they have come five times. I had seen them before and I knew them. The young girl brought a bouquet of flowers. She smiled at me. It was apparent that she liked me. She had come for me, basically. After all, Abbas’s pockmarked face isn’t attractive, but when the woman was talking to the doctor I saw Abbas pulling the young girl aside and kissing her.
* * *
Up to now no one has come to see me or brought me flowers. It has been a year. The last time it was Siavosh who came to see me. Siavosh was my best friend. We were neighbours. Every day we went to the Darolfonoun* together and walked back home together and discussed our homework. In leisure time I taught Siavosh to play the sitar. Rokhsare, who was Siavosh’s cousin and my fiancée, would often join us. Siavosh wanted to marry Rokhsare’s sister but one month before the day of the marriage ceremony, he unexpectedly fell ill. Two or three times I went to see him and to inquire how he was, but they said the doctor had strictly forbidden anyone to speak with him. No matter how much I insisted, they gave the same answer. So I stopped insisting.
I remember that day quite well. It was near the final exams. One evening, I had returned home and had dropped my books and some notebooks on the table. As I was about to change my clothes I heard the sound of a bullet being shot. The sound was so close that it frightened me because our house was behind a ditch and I had heard that there had been robberies near us. I took the revolver from the drawer and went to the courtyard and stood there, listening. Then I went up the stai
rs to the roof, but I didn’t see anything. On my way down from the roof, I turned to look at Siavosh’s house from the top. I saw him in a shirt and underpants standing in the middle of the courtyard. I said in surprise, “Siavosh, is that you?” He recognized me and said, “Come over, nobody’s home.” He put a finger on his lips and with his head he signalled to me to go over to him. I went down fast and knocked on the door of his house. He himself opened the door for me. With his head down and his eyes fixed on the ground, he asked me, “Why didn’t you come to see me?”
“I came two or three times to see how you were, but they said that the doctor wouldn’t permit it.”
“They think I’m ill, but they’re mistaken.”
“Did you hear the bullet shot?”
He didn’t answer but took my hand and led me to the foot of the pine tree where he pointed at something. I looked closely. There were three drops of fresh blood on the ground.
Then he took me to his room and closed all the doors. I sat on a chair. He turned the light on and sat opposite me on a chair in front of the table. His room was simple. It was blue, and up to the middle the walls were a darker colour. In the corner of the room there was a sitar. Several volumes of books and school notebooks had been dropped on the table. After a while Siavosh took a revolver from the drawer and showed it to me. It was one of those old revolvers with a mother-of-pearl handle. He put it in his trouser pocket and said, “I used to have a female cat – her name was Coquette. You might have seen her. She was one of those ordinary calico cats. She had two large eyes that looked as if she had black eyeliner on. The patches on her back were arranged neatly as if someone had spilt ink on a grey piece of blotting paper and then had torn the paper in the middle. Every day when I returned home from school Coquette would run up to me, miaowing. She would rub herself against me and when I sat down she would climb over my head and shoulders, rubbing her snout against my face and licking my forehead with her rough tongue, insisting that I kiss her. It’s as if female cats are wilier and kinder and more sensitive than male cats. Apart from me, Coquette got along very well with the cook because he was in charge of the food. But she kept away from my grandmother who was bossy and regularly said her prayers and avoided cat hair. Coquette must have thought to herself that people were smarter than cats and that they had confiscated all the delicious food and the warm, comfortable places for themselves and in order to have a share in these luxuries, cats had to be sycophantic and flatter people a great deal.