here is
kishmish-panir
, homemade raw cheese, the kind you like, and raisins.”
Embarrassed, Rassoul takes the tray and thanks her with a vague gesture, as if to say that she mustn’t worry, it’s all over with now. Then, to express his gratitude for the cleaning, he bows low and gestures with the hand holding the notebook at the corner where all hisbooks are neatly stacked. “I did it like I used to. Back when …”
He is no longer listening. Reassured that there is no suspicion or anxiety in her gaze, he is fascinated, as usual, by her plump shining lips and hazel, almond-shaped eyes. She is aware of her allure—always has been—and she teases him, biting the edge of her veil to hide her lips. That turns him on even more. Rassoul is sure that the real reason Yarmohamad has it in for him is his soft spot for Rona. Surely he suspects the attraction.
“Right, I’m off …” She makes up her mind to leave. Rassoul follows, embarrassed not to have heard what she said from behind her veil. He stands in the doorway, watching her until she disappears into the darkness of her own front door. He looks for Yarmohamad behind the windows. No sign. He must have gone out; that’s why Rona dared to visit.
If Rassoul weren’t so distracted, if he didn’t have so many worries, if Sophia’s notebook weren’t in his hand, he would lie down on his mattress and surrender to his fantasies. His hand would slip into his trousers to stroke himself, and as he did so he would imagine Rona in two or three different scenes. Today, he would go for the one where she’s completely naked, sitting on her daughters’ swing, head tilted slightly back, a sly smile on her lips. She is staring straight into Rassoul’s eyes. Legs spread, swing ropes curled around her arms, hands on her pubis, touching herself … Butthis just isn’t the time. He’d have to be really sick—obsessed, an escapee from the Aliabad loony bin—to think of that now!
Put down the tray, close the door, and get back to your writing.
He opens the notebook.
Sophia, I have never kissed you. Do you know why?
What next?
Because I would have needed such strength to kiss your innocence …
What the hell is that? Why can’t your thoughts be clearer, your words more direct? Kiss your innocence! What does that mean? If you write that she’ll tease you, saying: “Smash my innocence! Kiss me! And I’ll give you strength.”
Drained, Rassoul closes the notebook, chucks it on top of the books and flops on his bed. He shuts his eyes to find in the silence and darkness the words that he seeks. But footsteps on the stairs drag him back out of bed. Heavy footsteps, this time. “Rassoul! It’s Razmodin.” He is not alone, someone is whispering. Rassoul doesn’t move. “Rassoul?” repeats Razmodin, knocking at the door. After a short pause, he calls out to Yarmohamad’s daughters. “Hello, girls! Has Rassoul left?”
“No, he’s in his room. Perhaps he’s sleeping,” they reply together. Go to hell! bellows Rassoul to himself. He stands up.
“Rassoul!” calls Razmodin again, rattling the door, which is locked from the inside. He knocks harder. Give me a moment, mutters Rassoul silently. He opens the door.
“Ah, there you are, finally! We’ve been looking for you for two days,” exclaims Razmodin as he enters; behind him is a thin little man, wearing a white turban. “Rassoul, Commandant Rostam has been kind enough to come and visit you and …” The Commandant walks toward Rassoul, “My dear Rassoul,” and embraces him, “how good to meet you at last!” Rassoul steps back, cold and unwelcoming. Rostam remains on the threshold, waiting to be invited in. Razmodin takes the initiative, rushing into the room and gesturing a welcome. Rostam enters and launches into a ceremonious speech: “My dear Rassoul, I have come on behalf of your venerable mother. I don’t know where to begin. I carry two pieces of news from your family. One, sadly, unfavorable
kishmish-panir
, homemade raw cheese, the kind you like, and raisins.”
Embarrassed, Rassoul takes the tray and thanks her with a vague gesture, as if to say that she mustn’t worry, it’s all over with now. Then, to express his gratitude for the cleaning, he bows low and gestures with the hand holding the notebook at the corner where all hisbooks are neatly stacked. “I did it like I used to. Back when …”
He is no longer listening. Reassured that there is no suspicion or anxiety in her gaze, he is fascinated, as usual, by her plump shining lips and hazel, almond-shaped eyes. She is aware of her allure—always has been—and she teases him, biting the edge of her veil to hide her lips. That turns him on even more. Rassoul is sure that the real reason Yarmohamad has it in for him is his soft spot for Rona. Surely he suspects the attraction.
“Right, I’m off …” She makes up her mind to leave. Rassoul follows, embarrassed not to have heard what she said from behind her veil. He stands in the doorway, watching her until she disappears into the darkness of her own front door. He looks for Yarmohamad behind the windows. No sign. He must have gone out; that’s why Rona dared to visit.
If Rassoul weren’t so distracted, if he didn’t have so many worries, if Sophia’s notebook weren’t in his hand, he would lie down on his mattress and surrender to his fantasies. His hand would slip into his trousers to stroke himself, and as he did so he would imagine Rona in two or three different scenes. Today, he would go for the one where she’s completely naked, sitting on her daughters’ swing, head tilted slightly back, a sly smile on her lips. She is staring straight into Rassoul’s eyes. Legs spread, swing ropes curled around her arms, hands on her pubis, touching herself … Butthis just isn’t the time. He’d have to be really sick—obsessed, an escapee from the Aliabad loony bin—to think of that now!
Put down the tray, close the door, and get back to your writing.
He opens the notebook.
Sophia, I have never kissed you. Do you know why?
What next?
Because I would have needed such strength to kiss your innocence …
What the hell is that? Why can’t your thoughts be clearer, your words more direct? Kiss your innocence! What does that mean? If you write that she’ll tease you, saying: “Smash my innocence! Kiss me! And I’ll give you strength.”
Drained, Rassoul closes the notebook, chucks it on top of the books and flops on his bed. He shuts his eyes to find in the silence and darkness the words that he seeks. But footsteps on the stairs drag him back out of bed. Heavy footsteps, this time. “Rassoul! It’s Razmodin.” He is not alone, someone is whispering. Rassoul doesn’t move. “Rassoul?” repeats Razmodin, knocking at the door. After a short pause, he calls out to Yarmohamad’s daughters. “Hello, girls! Has Rassoul left?”
“No, he’s in his room. Perhaps he’s sleeping,” they reply together. Go to hell! bellows Rassoul to himself. He stands up.
“Rassoul!” calls Razmodin again, rattling the door, which is locked from the inside. He knocks harder. Give me a moment, mutters Rassoul silently. He opens the door.
“Ah, there you are, finally! We’ve been looking for you for two days,” exclaims Razmodin as he enters; behind him is a thin little man, wearing a white turban. “Rassoul, Commandant Rostam has been kind enough to come and visit you and …” The Commandant walks toward Rassoul, “My dear Rassoul,” and embraces him, “how good to meet you at last!” Rassoul steps back, cold and unwelcoming. Rostam remains on the threshold, waiting to be invited in. Razmodin takes the initiative, rushing into the room and gesturing a welcome. Rostam enters and launches into a ceremonious speech: “My dear Rassoul, I have come on behalf of your venerable mother. I don’t know where to begin. I carry two pieces of news from your family. One, sadly, unfavorable
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