Three Drops of Blood

  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)

  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. Kaka 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.”

  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 owing 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 Samdad’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 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, “Talking about 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 embarrassment, 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.