The Shipwrecked by Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone Page A

prison cell and the morning chill that suppressed any appetite for breakfast. I just listened for the crunching sound of the boy’s footfall as I squatted in a corner of the cell hugging my knees and staring at the graffiti scribbled on the cell wall. I tried to imagine the boy entertaininghimself, trying to hit a tin can or something like that with pebbles.
    It was early one morning when they brought me here. The wind felt refreshing, and wrapped our chadors around our bodies. We had left the general ward blindfolded under guard. We were walking over hilly terrain. My toes were wet, picking up the moisture from the dewy grass.
    â€œRest a while,” said the guard. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
    We were lined up close together, like peas in a pod. I could feel the guard standing next to me, and felt naked under his gaze. Intentionally, he blew his cigarette smoke in my face. “Let’s get going,” he said, as he stamped on his cigarette butt. “Lots of snakes here. Watch your steps.” He chuckled. The air was redolent with the smell of grass crushed under our feet. From under the blindfold I could see the clay soil of the hills and small houses along the foothills with their rusted metal roofs reflecting the sun, which gave us a clue that the guard was marching us back and forth in front of those houses. We started grumbling. “All right. All right,” he yelled. “Stop talking.”
    We then passed a low stone wall and entered an enclosure through a barbed-wire gate. We stopped when the guard ordered “Halt!” Some water squirted on my chador when I stepped on a loose brick.
    â€œHere’s a dozen beauties for you, Sister,” the guard said teasingly to the female prison warden. We climbed up some stone steps.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —Did you just hire him?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —Forget about it.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —You son-of-a-bitch. Where do you find these good-looking kids, for god’s sake?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —You’re being a pest, you know? Your total for body work and paint is seventy tomans.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —Remember who you’re talking to. I am flat broke until the end of the month.
    The high-pitched voice of a woman rang in the fetid air of the big, half-empty hall, “Don’t touch your blindfolds.”
    The smell of rotting tea leaves and kerosene made my stomach turn. I felt a sour taste in my mouth. I fought off an attack of diarrhea the best I could. I knew there wouldn’t be a chance for a bath anytime soon.
    The same female voice echoed in the hall again, this time sounding more masculine and authoritative, “Do not touch your blindfolds. Before you creep back in your holes, pay close attention to what I say.” I caught sight of big cooking pots turned upside down to dry on the cement floor.
    â€œThree meals a day,” the woman shouted. “Morning, noon, and night. You must be ready in your cells to be taken to the washroom. There you do your business, wash your dishes, fill up your water jug, and do your ablutions.” She paused briefly, wiggling her big toes in her bright orange slippers. “On the way back to your cell,” she continued, “you pick up your meal and your tea. No foot-dragging.No more than five minutes for anyone.” And I hear the voice behind the prison wall:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —Help yourself.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —Thanks a lot. Just leave it here. Needs a little more sandpapering, don’t you think?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —As my brother says, tea must have a deep color. This looks like a baby’s piss.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —Oh, come on. Don’t be such a pain.
    â€œMake no mistakes,” another female guard shouted from behind our line. She sounded as if she was chewing on something. “This is no grandma’s