do not feel any relief from the painful bite of its symbolism.
In the meantime, Mr. Yazdani keeps going in and out of the apartment trying to be a part of the packing activities, but being more of a distraction and a nuisance. âI want to make sure you donât leave anything behind,â he tells me.
Now fully packed, the truck moves slowly out of the alley, onto the main thoroughfare. I have already said goodbye to Mrs. Yazdani. All I have to do is turn over thekey to Mr. Yazdani and get back my security deposit. I have been waiting for this moment.
He is standing by the door holding his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes against the afternoon sun. He looks flushed in the heat of the day. I move toward him with my head down looking at his belt buckleâand the belt, which is frayed by age. I hand him the key and pull the check from his fingers. I avoid eye contact, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Not that it matters anymore. âAll the best, dear girl,â he mumbles.
Slowly, I walk away. I wish he were not standing there so I could look back at the house and the alley once more. I already miss Madame, the little girl from across the alley, the climbing musk roses and jasmines. I resist the urge to look back. The sun is hot and the truck has now maneuvered itself out of the alley, easing its way into the traffic. I catch a glimpse of the household goods under the tarpaulin. I pick up the baby in my arms and walk toward the taxicab. I will be at the bus terminal within the hour.
FARIBA VAFI is a best-selling author of several novels and short story collections. Her novel, My Bird , was winner of the Yalda and Golshiri Literary Awards in Iran for best novel of the year in 2002, and was translated and published in English, German, and Italian. Vafi lives in Tehran.
The Burnt Sound
Behnaz Alipour Gaskari
AFTER THE FIRE in the solitary cell block, we were moved to another location in the prison. The fire, which had started in the auto repair shop adjacent to the prison wall, rapidly spread to the cell block. Through the skylight we could see the flames raging. After many years, I can still hear womenâs cries for help, and screams of fear muffled by the roaring fire and billowing smoke.
After sunset, when the usual noise of the cell block would die down somewhat, a flock of rooks would set off crowing. As if on cue, the boy would start singing, loud enough to come across the prison wall. His undulating voice sounded familiar and appealing. I was a girl in solitary confinement, and he was most likely, an awkward shy boy, working in the auto body shop next to the prison. He had an Azary 1 accent and his musical voice kept beat with the rhythm of his steps crunching on the sandy floor of the workshop. I cherished the sound. I would pace my cellin rapid steps, circling around in ecstasy to the point of feeling dizzy and nauseous. The sound had come to mean the world to me. Like a frog lunging at every gnat buzzing in the air, I would listen intently for every decibel of sound coming through the wall.
       âWhat are you dragging your feet for? The tea is brewed. Donât you see?
       âWhat?
       âWhat do you mean what? Pour two cups for me and the gentleman.
I could hear his hurrying footsteps on the floor. I could imagine him sitting on a bench or leaning against the wall waiting for orders. I could hear him coughing, and snatches of his conversation with others in the shop. Sometimes a smell not unlike a whiff of burned grass would drift into the cell, suggesting some cheap tea being brewed on the other side of the wall. Then there were unsteady footfalls as of a drunk shuffling, followed by the boy chuckling, then his peals of laughter. The sounds reached my ears as if echoed from the surrounding hills. I would smile involuntarily despite the listlessness and clenched teeth set off by the cold
In the meantime, Mr. Yazdani keeps going in and out of the apartment trying to be a part of the packing activities, but being more of a distraction and a nuisance. âI want to make sure you donât leave anything behind,â he tells me.
Now fully packed, the truck moves slowly out of the alley, onto the main thoroughfare. I have already said goodbye to Mrs. Yazdani. All I have to do is turn over thekey to Mr. Yazdani and get back my security deposit. I have been waiting for this moment.
He is standing by the door holding his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes against the afternoon sun. He looks flushed in the heat of the day. I move toward him with my head down looking at his belt buckleâand the belt, which is frayed by age. I hand him the key and pull the check from his fingers. I avoid eye contact, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Not that it matters anymore. âAll the best, dear girl,â he mumbles.
Slowly, I walk away. I wish he were not standing there so I could look back at the house and the alley once more. I already miss Madame, the little girl from across the alley, the climbing musk roses and jasmines. I resist the urge to look back. The sun is hot and the truck has now maneuvered itself out of the alley, easing its way into the traffic. I catch a glimpse of the household goods under the tarpaulin. I pick up the baby in my arms and walk toward the taxicab. I will be at the bus terminal within the hour.
FARIBA VAFI is a best-selling author of several novels and short story collections. Her novel, My Bird , was winner of the Yalda and Golshiri Literary Awards in Iran for best novel of the year in 2002, and was translated and published in English, German, and Italian. Vafi lives in Tehran.
The Burnt Sound
Behnaz Alipour Gaskari
AFTER THE FIRE in the solitary cell block, we were moved to another location in the prison. The fire, which had started in the auto repair shop adjacent to the prison wall, rapidly spread to the cell block. Through the skylight we could see the flames raging. After many years, I can still hear womenâs cries for help, and screams of fear muffled by the roaring fire and billowing smoke.
After sunset, when the usual noise of the cell block would die down somewhat, a flock of rooks would set off crowing. As if on cue, the boy would start singing, loud enough to come across the prison wall. His undulating voice sounded familiar and appealing. I was a girl in solitary confinement, and he was most likely, an awkward shy boy, working in the auto body shop next to the prison. He had an Azary 1 accent and his musical voice kept beat with the rhythm of his steps crunching on the sandy floor of the workshop. I cherished the sound. I would pace my cellin rapid steps, circling around in ecstasy to the point of feeling dizzy and nauseous. The sound had come to mean the world to me. Like a frog lunging at every gnat buzzing in the air, I would listen intently for every decibel of sound coming through the wall.
       âWhat are you dragging your feet for? The tea is brewed. Donât you see?
       âWhat?
       âWhat do you mean what? Pour two cups for me and the gentleman.
I could hear his hurrying footsteps on the floor. I could imagine him sitting on a bench or leaning against the wall waiting for orders. I could hear him coughing, and snatches of his conversation with others in the shop. Sometimes a smell not unlike a whiff of burned grass would drift into the cell, suggesting some cheap tea being brewed on the other side of the wall. Then there were unsteady footfalls as of a drunk shuffling, followed by the boy chuckling, then his peals of laughter. The sounds reached my ears as if echoed from the surrounding hills. I would smile involuntarily despite the listlessness and clenched teeth set off by the cold
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