– I never imagined that the humanities could conjure up such a creature…

– They’ve stuffed into that head everything you know about yourself and the world…

– No really… Aren’t the people in humanities addled?

“Really…” I lied like a dog:

– No, they’re not… What do you mean, addled?

– I meant your colleague… Who was it… The lumpen dwarf? Sabouri?

– Sabri…

– Addled means him…

“Way worse, actually”

– So, one guy ruins it for everyone in the humanities? If that’s true, why aren’t everybody in the humanities such “devil’s taints?”

– So pedantic… I’ve been in the university for twelve years, and I’ve never seen a varmint like you in the humanities… And a girl at that… I’m sorry, a woman at that? Which is it?

– Are you always this careful when picking your words, or just with me? In any case, I think mental maturity is what draws the line between a girl and a woman, not a piece of flesh…

He dropped his cigarette laughing. It tumbled on his stomach, then hit the ground. He pulled his t-shirt off his stomach to see if it was burnt; but he was still chortling.

– You’ve passed the first labor… No matter how badly you’ve messed up your kateh…

– Why?

– Because I liked it…

I was glad he liked it. Perhaps it was his approval that made me bit off more than I could chew. Perhaps it was his mood changing from ambivalence to excitement that was resuscitating my confidence. We got off on the wrong foot.

– I’m really starting to despise you, though.

– Really?

– Really… You know, I would leave just now if it wasn’t unladylike…

– Really?

– The man in Mashhad had a parrot that could only say “really”…

He put another cigarette between his lips. “Does he know that his lips are to die for? The jerk I see makes everything about himself.”

– You’re still mad about the parrot joke?

– It’s not just that… It’s also the “seek and you shall find.”

– So that’s why you left and disappeared.

– I hate arrogant buffoons.

He poured another half inch of vodka into each shot glass:

– You’re not very modest yourself.

– But I’m not an egomaniac.

– Alright, let’s make up now. Cheers?

I left him hanging. I raised my glass, but didn’t touch his.

– Why didn’t you kiss me?

– When?

– You know damn well.

He said with a stubborn conviction:

– I’m used to others taking the lead!

– You are such a creep… I mean seriously…

– But all the girls like it…

– They’re on all fours, begging “come kiss me, come do me,” are they?

“That last part slipped out.” He laughed. First, he smiled, then said:

– Nearly… Not as explicitly…

Then, he continued painting a depraved picture in his mind:

– There is also the occasional screams…

“Creep… Why don’t I just throw up on him?”

– Now that you mention it, in your dreams… This will probably be our last date. I’m still here because I’m trying to be civil and not ruin the night.

“Perhaps! Have I still let the door open?”

– Really?

I responded with an oblique smile. He inquired again:

– Really?

I said with certitude:

– Really!

In my heart, I wish it wasn’t really true. “It’s so great to be myself, not that awkward, gutless, witless girl.” There was tranquility. I looked around. It was just beginning to dawn on me. He had an extravagant house. “Oh… He said my house… Was he being a snob? Was he bragging about his wealth?” But, I still wouldn’t think that things were so disgusting between him and the girls behind the scenes, and that they were really head over heels for him. Had I found out sooner, I would never set foot in his house that night or stuck to him like a magnet on the next two dates; but there were other reasons, too.

In my mind, we were equals. His only advantage over me was probably his tantalizing lips. My lust after their taste would not fade. I was never picky about people’s wealth. I’m more interested in their looks and eyes than anything else. Rarely do I think about dresses, purses, or shoes; but I do care about lips and the words they let out. When I go to someone’s house, their furniture eludes me, but do their flowers and pots? The view outside the window? The trees in the yard? The height of the ceilings? Their library and books? The positive energy? These are what I remember.

He was clearly not used to getting turned down. Reza called him and said that the brazier was ready. He chugged down his glass. I grasped mine and followed to see him put his masterpiece on the charcoal. We went through the hall. They had a narrow terrace behind the kitchen with room for two to make and serve kebabs on the large brazier. Everything in his house was deliberate and practical, even his salt and spice-shakers. I liked his creativity and thought, but it didn’t matter to me if his drawers were made by Blum, Hafele, or Fantoni. Khosrow seemed slow to realize this.

In my mind, he could have been a master chef. Cooking transformed him. It seemed to immerse him and take him back in time. He would fan the charcoal so delicately to make one think he knew the exact heat to give to the meat, tomatoes, and pepper. He had a dipper next to his hand with melted butter, chopped garlic, and some fresh parsley. Finally, as he unskewered the kebabs, he took bread and covered the kebabs with the fatty concoction and the scented chilly. There was more to him as a host, but I do not remember. This was our only difference. For me, only the intricacies of thoughts mattered, but for Khosrow, the highlights were enough. For me, material life mattered in general, but Khosrow cared about the details.

Reza had gone to arrange the table on the terrace. Khosrow fanned the kebabs and asked:

– Will you stay the night?

“My car… Fuck me!”

– No… You think I was kidding or being facetious?

– Strange!

– Look… look… I hate it when you say that…

He left the kebabs on the fire, looking perplexed; Had he said it in a different tone, I might have left at that instant, but he was unruly like a three-year-old:

– You hate everything about me, yet you are still here?

I nodded as an honest sign of indecision, and made him laugh again. Like a captain who had momentary lost hold of his wheel, he returned to his kebabs at once. Like mothers, he ordered:

– Turn the pilau over on that white dish Reza put next to the rice cooker.

I returned to the terrace. “Will you stay the night? Oh, how I wished… Bastard. Why do I like him so much? He’s such a jackass. Good jackass? Crazy jackass? A jackass who doesn’t know he is one? He who doesn’t know he doesn’t know he doesn’t know? Jackass squared!” Like a newly-wed bride, Reza had meticulously arranged the table and left. The music had stopped. There was a fetid silence. I hate abstruse peace anywhere. By why is this one so arduous? I don’t want it to be absolutely quiet, even when alone. Musical notes should come and shatter the shell of peace. If there is no music, I will make noises. I will talk to myself. I will do anything to break the lull; to make it silent, but not deadly. I’m not sure if anybody gets it.

Maryam also had a problem with my rests when she was teaching me the piano. I could never get it right. I would get duplicitous, too, and put on a postmodernist act:

– It is my rest; I don’t want it to be dotted… I don’t want it to be white… I want it to be the semiquaver…

– Shut up… When you write something yourself, you can put in the semiquaver or the demisemiquaver… Cheating…

– That’s not cheating… It is my reading; I don’t want the pause to be round…

– I swear Shirin, I’ll smack you… If you don’t get it right this time, you’ll get a beating…

Maryam would activate another pole in me. A pole that Khosrow perhaps knew…

– I really hate quiet.

– Feeling guilty?

– Why?

– That you broke my heart?

– Are you heartbroken, or just being an arrogant playboy?

– If I wasn’t one, why did you come to me…

– I swear I don’t have a clue… Like sheep to the tune of flute… Now that we’ve had dinner and neither of us are sour, phone a taxi and I’ll be on my way.

– Really?

– No, would you do me the honors please! Yes, really…

– I’ll tell Reza… I got myself drunk. Had I known you would be leaving tonight, I wouldn’t have…

– Thanks, you’re such a gentleman! The taxi will do…

– No… No way… Reza will take you home… Would you have stayed If I had kissed you and you weren’t embarrassed?

– No…

– Why?

– Because my mom would be worried sick. Wherever the hell I am, I should be home before eleven. And that in exceptional cases…

– How strange…

– What?

– Nothing…

– I hate it!

– You said you hate it when I say that…

– Strange!

We both giggled, although mine was only meant to be courteous. Khosrow would really bring the vixen out in me.

He had more to eat than me. His cheeks had blossomed, and his eyelids had become heavy. As per usual, I tightened my scarf around my face to hide the last strand of hair; but he pulled it down. He held my arm and pulled me in. He probed the depths of my eyes. I don’t know what he was looking for. I turned around and snatched my purse free from his grasp to leave.

– Goodbye…

– If you caress with affection, or fume in anger; Your sentence against me is fair, and so is my anguish.

– It’s too late for a pickup, honey. To scare away one’s prey was wrong from the start; now that you have startled and I’ve been startled, it’s all over.

– Vahshi (a poet. Also wild in Persian)…

– Fuck you…

– Not you, idiot… The poet…

– Uh huh…

He laughed. “I said ‘uh huh’ again.” I sneered:

– Really?

– The devil’s taint.

We perused each other’s eyeballs until the elevator’s doors closed, and I stared at the cracks in my room’s ceiling all night. Somewhere in my soul, something was being conceived. An unknown creature was being nurtured… Perhaps I still don’t know…

To be continued

 

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