Sepideh sat with her head on her hands, watching the body of a dead cockroach slowly become dismembered and removed by a colony of ants. In the background the sound of her mother getting ready for the impending departure. They were going to Aunty Shirins and every time they did that meant dealing with Ali. Ali was her elder cousin, and every time they went to visit she would have to play with him. This was never an appealing prospect.
She focussed on the ants; the meticulous columns that they formed from a hidden laid, shuffling limbs along like a factory line. Slowly, after the legs were removes, the main body of the cockroach rose from slumber. At first it crawled, motionless, propelled by an army beneath, a brick from a great pyramid. Then it began to gain speed as little bits shot off, a particularly contentious Ant deciding to work on their own. But all led to the lair for some gruesome, unknown purpose.
Her trance was broken by her mother who lifted her by the shoulder. “Come on child – what kind of lady spends her time staring a horrible little insects. Bodo – get moving.” She rose reluctantly and bud a melancholy farewell to the ants.
**
The sound of Aunty Shirins doorbell always made her shudder. The pleasantries of greeting the family one hasn’t seen for a long while made her feel ridiculous. She endured the cheek pinching and incessant comments about how tall she has gotten, questions about her school and how she finds her homework. Then she must stand around while all the grown ups gush over one another, and she becomes the focus of attention. She notices her mother’s makeup, which she wears so rarely that she looks clownish under it all. There is sickly smell to it. “Please do come inside; our house is yours,” beams Aunty Shirin as they enter. From the hallway with the line of shoes they pass into the guest reception room where the smell of recently removed sofa covers can be tasted. More smiles, greeting, hugging – the moment is approaching. She tries to forget it by looking at all the ornaments in the vitrine. Aunty Shiring has gathered a strange collection of dolls and china. There are Spanish flamenco gypsies with beautiful ered dresses twirling to a tune only they can head, a pink Barbie doll still in its case and various china cups, all with decorated with different flowers. She compared it with her plastic tea set, from which her menagerie of plastic animals have their tea parties.
“Sepideh!!” he mother called, the forced grimace of cordiality etched among her makeup. “Come and see Ali – its been so long.” she announced urging Sepideh along. She wondered whether Aunty Shirin ever played with these plates. She trotted over, little tiny steps moving her body like the ants, she being the dismembered cockroach. Her eyes focussed on the peacocks in the carpet as she approached him.
Ali stood at the table, a piece of chocolate cake in one hand and a brand new catapult in the other. He winced and then tried immediately to make the wince into a smile. No luck. “You two must have so much to catch up with,” the adults cheered. “Why don’t you head out into the Bagh to explore?” It was a rhetorical question. The children’s displeasure was simultaneously expressed, from Sepideh in the form of a sigh, and from Ali by a rather more vocal objection.
“I always have to look after her.” Aunty Shirin looked at him reproachfully, the daggers in her looks cutting him back into line. Indignance returned to him. “OK fine – come on,” he muttered and led her away from the grown ups, who were now seating themselves and already discussing boring things. “Have a nice time, and be careful down by the stream.”
**
The field that led down to the stream was full of tall grass. Its dance with the wind shimmered in the afternoon stillness. Crickets chirped, the only sound of the afternoon. Shafts of sunlight beamed through the tall stems. Ali walked ahead, and Sephideh followed him at a distance. She had tried to walk level with him as they left the adults but he had turned to her; “I don’t want anyone knowing you’re with me, so you walk 20 paces behind me,” he scowled.. His tone confused her, because no one was in this part of the garden, and all of the adults knew they were together anyway. She obeyed, and followed trying not to make much sound. They waded through the sea of gold, the sound of the stream rippling in the distance. Sepideh looked around at the world around her, wondering how many ants there were here.
Suddenly Ali stopped abruptly in the distance, and ducked down, submerging himself into the grass. Sepideh stopped to watch him. He crept his way through the grass and behind the tall walnut tree by the stream, imitating a soldier in a movie. She ran up to join him. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier command, and now accepted her behind him. Through a gap in the grass he pointed out a fat wood pigeon, pecking at the seeds which had fallen from the nearby trees. “Watch this,” he whispered to her as he fished a shiny ball bearing from his trouser pocket. He loads it into the catapult with practised care, his soft fingers caressing it nimbly. Drawing back the elastic of the catapult, he took aim. The pigeon pecked on oblivious. Sepideh watched, her face an equal measure of confusion and curiosity – he pulled the elastic back so far she was sure it would snap. The sound of crickets and stillness filled the apprehension in them both. He exhaled and released the ball, feeling the power of the elastic thrust forward from his grip. The ball bearing shot through the air, almost carving the afternoon with its power. It hit the bird square between the wings. Instantly the calm of the afternoon vanishes into the flailing of the brid, writhing in the clearing where it pecked just moments earlier.
Both children ran to where it struggled. The futile efforts to take to the air calling them to it. The stood over it, Sepideh in quite contrast to Ali’s screaming; “Eww, that’s disgusting.” They watched on as it continued to writhe, slower now as exhaustion began to burn its muscles. A moment passed. “ Come on, lets go down to the river,” Ali said, more a suggestion than a command. She looked at him quizzically.
“You mean you’re going to leave it?” she asked. “Like this?”
“Well what do you expect me to do?” came the indignant reply. He had already begun to put distance between himself and the bird, looking back at her.
“Why don’t you finish what you started?” she asked innocently, naivety pouring out with the words themselves. The flapping continued below her, trickles of blood pouring from the wound. The mishappen wing looked grotesque in the sun.
“If you want to kill it, then why don’t you do it yourself?” he glared back at her indignantly. The birds chest heaved now, trying to put some air into its burning wings. She looked at Ali for a moment. Then she looked at the bird at her feet. A moment passed as she pondered. Then she moved towards him. He seemed satisfied and turned to continue down to the stream. But she didn’t reach him. She began to lift various rocks from the path looking for one. Once Ali realised that she was not following him he turned and watched her, as she found a rock from the side of the path. Her strength faltered slightly as she tried to lift it, the weight of the stone causing her to rock unsteadily. Her frail arms shook with mass, taking both hands to hold the stone as she waddles back to the bird. It’s motion was sporadic now tired, exhausted, yet with the brightness of life still fresh in it’s eyes. She lifted the rock above it as far as her arms could. Ali stared wide eyed at the little girl before him, her looked back at him, meeting his gaze with humanity, and the hope of forgiveness. Then she released the; it rock fell from her arms, its weight driving half the bird into the brown earth below, cutting its intermittent motion into lifelessness. She was breathing hard now, the weight of the rock and the action bearing its vengeance on her small body. The look that passed between her and Ali then felt different. He did not speak. Even the crickets seemed to have lost their words. As he looked back with jaw hanging, the catapult that he held slipped from his grasp, it’s fall cushioned by the soft grass. Then he began to run, back to the house, leaving Sepideh by the carcass and the river.
Monday, 28 April 2008
The Chess Set
Since beginning secondary school two months earlier Tariq had found the chess club his refuge. So he had wanted the marble chess board from the instant that he had laid eyes on it. Even from the distance he could imagine the cool feel of the pieces under his fingers on a hot afternoon. His mother, however, had felt a complete lack of connection for it, having never bothered to learn the game, and admonishing his father for teaching him useless ‘time wasting skills’ as she referred to it. “First its chess, and soon he’ll be gambling and smoking,” she would complain. Besides which she was more concerned with the lack of water in their hotel room.
They had been in Isfahan for three days now visiting relatives. They had been on numerous picnics in the grounds of various mosques, wandered the narrow streets, marvelled at the clay buildings and generally exhausted his mother. Father was used to walking around, his job in the oil refinery made him used to climbing long ladders and examining pipes. He would walk on ahead of everyone. But mother, who worries generally was having a far harder time of it, especially since the strike at the water processing plant started. The hotel in which they were staying had been affected first, and the whole city was now getting up in arms. She was felt obliged to keep an eye on the bellboys as they ferried water up the room. They had spent the third afternoon walking in the great square, and it was there, in the covered labyrinthine bazaar that he saw it.
The boards sat a round an old man, whose long white beard emerged from beneath his amameh. He had noticed the board because it sat beneath the glimmer of a sodium lamp, lit from above it looked regal and holy at the same time. He had asked the price from the old seller, and reasoned that he would afford it if he saved his allowance for six months. But he wanted an advance from his parents to buy it now, as he had never seen a board like it. His father was quietly contented by his sons enthusiasm, but his mother was neither impressed nor interested. Upon their return from the bazaar that afternoon his constant topic of conversation was the chess board. He asked about it incessantly for the rest of the day. After several hours of incessant chatter about the board, much to his father’s delight, his mother finally agreed. Her mood had been lightened by the news of the end of the strike. She counted out the money for him, reminding him that he could forget about his pocket money for the next few months. She handed him an extra thousand tomans and told him to get a cab.
He ran excitedly through the hotel lobby and out into the street, dark now and crowded as the street hawker began to take up their positions outside the hotel. He was accosted by several as he came out. Cars jostled behind them in the street as the rush hour traffic began to descend and it was among them that he thrust his arm into the air. Almost immediately there was a cab in front of him, the corpulent driver sitting with a cigarette poking out from under the sharp bristles of his moustache. “Can you take me to Bazaar, and wait a sec while I buy something and then bring me back here? I need you to wait for me,” he said as he tentatively opened the door of the car. The driver looked at his suspiciously, the smoke curling from the end of his cigarette and diffusing through the cab. “Why not,” he said finally, “but only if you pay me half on arrival and half on return.” They agreed the fare and Tariq got into the cab. The drivers attempts at small talk irked Tariq; his interest in the fact that Tariq spoke Farsi with an English accent belittled him, or so he felt. The one sided conversation eventually petered out into the din of the evening traffic. The excitement of the purchase was filling Tariq with each moment.
As soon as they arrived, the boy shot out of the car. He bolted through the huge square, crossing the vast polo field that was once used by the great Shah Abbas in a sprint, and ran entered the Bazaar from the entrance by the palace of Ali Qapu. He ran through the maze, dodging the barrow boy and carts loaded with various goods. On one corner a man stood with a hawk on his arm, not that Tariq could spare the time to stare. Eventually navigating through the noise and bustle of the Bazaar, he finally arrived at the old mans stand. He walked up slowly and approached the old man, who was dozing, a cup of mint chai getting cold before him. After a brief haggling session, done more as a formality than for any other purpose he had bought the object of his desire. He waited impatiently as the old man carefully placed each delicate piece into its elegant wooden box, each piece taking its own position in the velvet lined casing. Once it was wrapped and in his hands, he began the journey back to the cab driver.
The driver was waiting with all the other cab drivers at the taxi rank, smoking another cigarette down to near the nub. He stared, almost glaring at the boy walking towards him. His huge paunch sagged over the cusp of his belt, forcing his waisline down under the weight as he stood. Tariq jumped into the front of the cab, oblivious to the driver and more absorbed in the white package in his hands. The driver flicked the butt away and got back into the car, wriggling on the beads that lined his seat before starting the engine.
They drove in silence, the boy absorbed in his new toy, and so not noticing when the car turned from the main road. It crept along the narrow alleyways, getting further and further from the high road, which was illuminated for the upcoming Eid festival. Slums passed the outside of the window, and still Tariq remained oblivious. Slowly but very surely the world that he knew outside the car was vanishing, and he too taken by the board to notice. Eventually, he lack of car horns awoke him from his trance. “Is this the way we came?” he asked, looking out of the rear window.
“It’s a shortcut,” the driver replied. He seemed to be getting comfortable for a long ride. The alley’s darkness closed in on them. After a great while of quiet the driver began to speak. “You know young man, normally when we take people on a return journey, the custom is to pay for the first leg up front. Tariq noticed his beginning to fumble for something with his left hand in the car door, fishing for something as he manoeuvred. “ One time, there was this opium addict who jumped into the back just about where you’re sitting now. He wanted me to drop him at a place uptown, which just between you and me, is where most of the dens are. It’s a real nasty part of town. Now it’s not my job to worry about what people get up to with their bodies, so I agreed to take him. Bearing in mind that it was late and I really wanted to get home to a nice gormeh sabzi, but I thought what the hell, he’d be paying me for it.” Tariq shifted uneasily in his seat. The driver continued his anecdote, “So I drove all the way across town. When we arrived I stopped the car outside this den, and this guy tells me he’ll just be a minute, goes inside. I wait and wait and wait for 45 minutes in the street, all the pimps and addicts coming in and out of all these buildings.” He continued to fish in the door. Tariq listened to the story while looking out around for some landmark, anything that might guide him back to the hotel. The driver found what he was looking for, Tariq noticing a rectangular block in his hand. “ And so eventually I got tired of waiting around, so I went in there, and held this knife to his throat and I said, ‘give me the money that you owe me or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.” As the words flowed from his mouth he was holding the knife to the boys throat. He breathed deeply. The driver looked at Tariq and they paused. The chess set felt cold beneath his fingertips, its weight pressing down onto his lap like a block of lead. The cold of the knife blade, the heat from the drivers hand, and thick black hairs on his arm all etching themselves into his memory, perhaps his final memory. The darkness of the night became liquid, and he felt like he was drowning in it.
After a moment the driver chuckled, as though reminiscing on a joke from his school days. He withdrew the knife and returned it to its place in the car door. They drove on in silence for a while, the crunching of the old gears reverberating the in hot vehicle. Tariq quietly removed a piece from the set and held it in his had, a rook perhaps. It’s cool stone warmed in his palm. The car turned, and as if with a flourish they appeared at the front of the hotel. The driver was full of smiles now, his fat face creasing into a a wide grin and hollow dimples. “But then again you can always tell the good ones from the bad,” he said, as he stepped outside and opened the passenger door, rather like he might for an old lady or his wife.
Tariq did not remember paying his, or his offer of a guided tour of the city after that. He only recalled the weight of the board in his hands, and the doorman asking if he was alright.
They had been in Isfahan for three days now visiting relatives. They had been on numerous picnics in the grounds of various mosques, wandered the narrow streets, marvelled at the clay buildings and generally exhausted his mother. Father was used to walking around, his job in the oil refinery made him used to climbing long ladders and examining pipes. He would walk on ahead of everyone. But mother, who worries generally was having a far harder time of it, especially since the strike at the water processing plant started. The hotel in which they were staying had been affected first, and the whole city was now getting up in arms. She was felt obliged to keep an eye on the bellboys as they ferried water up the room. They had spent the third afternoon walking in the great square, and it was there, in the covered labyrinthine bazaar that he saw it.
The boards sat a round an old man, whose long white beard emerged from beneath his amameh. He had noticed the board because it sat beneath the glimmer of a sodium lamp, lit from above it looked regal and holy at the same time. He had asked the price from the old seller, and reasoned that he would afford it if he saved his allowance for six months. But he wanted an advance from his parents to buy it now, as he had never seen a board like it. His father was quietly contented by his sons enthusiasm, but his mother was neither impressed nor interested. Upon their return from the bazaar that afternoon his constant topic of conversation was the chess board. He asked about it incessantly for the rest of the day. After several hours of incessant chatter about the board, much to his father’s delight, his mother finally agreed. Her mood had been lightened by the news of the end of the strike. She counted out the money for him, reminding him that he could forget about his pocket money for the next few months. She handed him an extra thousand tomans and told him to get a cab.
He ran excitedly through the hotel lobby and out into the street, dark now and crowded as the street hawker began to take up their positions outside the hotel. He was accosted by several as he came out. Cars jostled behind them in the street as the rush hour traffic began to descend and it was among them that he thrust his arm into the air. Almost immediately there was a cab in front of him, the corpulent driver sitting with a cigarette poking out from under the sharp bristles of his moustache. “Can you take me to Bazaar, and wait a sec while I buy something and then bring me back here? I need you to wait for me,” he said as he tentatively opened the door of the car. The driver looked at his suspiciously, the smoke curling from the end of his cigarette and diffusing through the cab. “Why not,” he said finally, “but only if you pay me half on arrival and half on return.” They agreed the fare and Tariq got into the cab. The drivers attempts at small talk irked Tariq; his interest in the fact that Tariq spoke Farsi with an English accent belittled him, or so he felt. The one sided conversation eventually petered out into the din of the evening traffic. The excitement of the purchase was filling Tariq with each moment.
As soon as they arrived, the boy shot out of the car. He bolted through the huge square, crossing the vast polo field that was once used by the great Shah Abbas in a sprint, and ran entered the Bazaar from the entrance by the palace of Ali Qapu. He ran through the maze, dodging the barrow boy and carts loaded with various goods. On one corner a man stood with a hawk on his arm, not that Tariq could spare the time to stare. Eventually navigating through the noise and bustle of the Bazaar, he finally arrived at the old mans stand. He walked up slowly and approached the old man, who was dozing, a cup of mint chai getting cold before him. After a brief haggling session, done more as a formality than for any other purpose he had bought the object of his desire. He waited impatiently as the old man carefully placed each delicate piece into its elegant wooden box, each piece taking its own position in the velvet lined casing. Once it was wrapped and in his hands, he began the journey back to the cab driver.
The driver was waiting with all the other cab drivers at the taxi rank, smoking another cigarette down to near the nub. He stared, almost glaring at the boy walking towards him. His huge paunch sagged over the cusp of his belt, forcing his waisline down under the weight as he stood. Tariq jumped into the front of the cab, oblivious to the driver and more absorbed in the white package in his hands. The driver flicked the butt away and got back into the car, wriggling on the beads that lined his seat before starting the engine.
They drove in silence, the boy absorbed in his new toy, and so not noticing when the car turned from the main road. It crept along the narrow alleyways, getting further and further from the high road, which was illuminated for the upcoming Eid festival. Slums passed the outside of the window, and still Tariq remained oblivious. Slowly but very surely the world that he knew outside the car was vanishing, and he too taken by the board to notice. Eventually, he lack of car horns awoke him from his trance. “Is this the way we came?” he asked, looking out of the rear window.
“It’s a shortcut,” the driver replied. He seemed to be getting comfortable for a long ride. The alley’s darkness closed in on them. After a great while of quiet the driver began to speak. “You know young man, normally when we take people on a return journey, the custom is to pay for the first leg up front. Tariq noticed his beginning to fumble for something with his left hand in the car door, fishing for something as he manoeuvred. “ One time, there was this opium addict who jumped into the back just about where you’re sitting now. He wanted me to drop him at a place uptown, which just between you and me, is where most of the dens are. It’s a real nasty part of town. Now it’s not my job to worry about what people get up to with their bodies, so I agreed to take him. Bearing in mind that it was late and I really wanted to get home to a nice gormeh sabzi, but I thought what the hell, he’d be paying me for it.” Tariq shifted uneasily in his seat. The driver continued his anecdote, “So I drove all the way across town. When we arrived I stopped the car outside this den, and this guy tells me he’ll just be a minute, goes inside. I wait and wait and wait for 45 minutes in the street, all the pimps and addicts coming in and out of all these buildings.” He continued to fish in the door. Tariq listened to the story while looking out around for some landmark, anything that might guide him back to the hotel. The driver found what he was looking for, Tariq noticing a rectangular block in his hand. “ And so eventually I got tired of waiting around, so I went in there, and held this knife to his throat and I said, ‘give me the money that you owe me or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.” As the words flowed from his mouth he was holding the knife to the boys throat. He breathed deeply. The driver looked at Tariq and they paused. The chess set felt cold beneath his fingertips, its weight pressing down onto his lap like a block of lead. The cold of the knife blade, the heat from the drivers hand, and thick black hairs on his arm all etching themselves into his memory, perhaps his final memory. The darkness of the night became liquid, and he felt like he was drowning in it.
After a moment the driver chuckled, as though reminiscing on a joke from his school days. He withdrew the knife and returned it to its place in the car door. They drove on in silence for a while, the crunching of the old gears reverberating the in hot vehicle. Tariq quietly removed a piece from the set and held it in his had, a rook perhaps. It’s cool stone warmed in his palm. The car turned, and as if with a flourish they appeared at the front of the hotel. The driver was full of smiles now, his fat face creasing into a a wide grin and hollow dimples. “But then again you can always tell the good ones from the bad,” he said, as he stepped outside and opened the passenger door, rather like he might for an old lady or his wife.
Tariq did not remember paying his, or his offer of a guided tour of the city after that. He only recalled the weight of the board in his hands, and the doorman asking if he was alright.
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