Excerpt from “Of Mutts & Men”, short story
[Originally written in Persian]
It was the sound that severed me from the nightmare — the new sound, the little sound. The light behind the frosted glass is now dim. The opening eyes have been wounded by light. The sound of the abandoned puppy! How soon his mother left him alone! I’ve seen the bitch two or three times in the early morning or early evening. Cautious during the day, she keeps her distance — no sight or sound from her. Yet she’s nervous: wanders the vacant lot, hides behind a tree, takes refuge beyond a wall. A helpless sound. Did Yusef call me from the bottom of the well? The hand stretched vainly in the air drops. The puppy, ignorant of the bitch’s worries, wanders confused along the edge of the lane. Will he survive
Excerpt from “Lady Without Lapdog”, short story
[Originally written in Persian]
Neither chador and burka in the style of the Qajar period, nor even a headscarf in the manner of Hezbollah, this thin cotton scarf still bothers her, half its trail hanging straight down, half of it hanging loosely over the shoulder so it doesn’t tighten up beneath the chin or stick to the scalp, an insignificant cloth rectangle folded in a triangle that controls and covers head and rebellious hair and sometimes when she goes to a court, her workplace, becomes an actual veil, fixed just so with pin, hair pin, and paper clip, pressing the top of her veiled body like a load of lead, sometimes forgotten in the daily routine, or in the fear and bewilderment of unpredictable events, this plain headscarf, which once was the mark of undesired but accepted respect in public demonstrations and then became an insulting humiliation in another demonstration, a flaming badge of Islamism to the foreign public and, to devotees of the regime, an undeniable proof of opposition to it, keeps hurting her
Excerpt from “The House of Cloud and Wind”, novel, 1991
[Originally written and published in Persian]
White, red-cheeked, and chubby! The molla, Aased Saaleh, was reluctant to leave the house, maybe because the inner court yard of Haji Aaghaa Alaa was so spacious and pleasant. He could still see the edge of the Sun over the high roof of the house. There was no sign of the next mullah arriving in the corridor either–either the sound of clearing the throat, or words such as besmellaa or yaa Allaah. Moreover, he was in doubt, wondering whether the religious recital of Sheikh Yahyaa was supposed to be done on the third day of the month or on the fourth day. He had just finished the recital about the newly married Qaasem. Weeping and groaning of women had decreased. Shortly the sharp and shrill waves of laughter would emerge from the big wave of whispering and rumouring. He knew that an expert mullah would quickly leave the pulpit before the subsidence of wailing. By doing this, he would avoid observing his audience changing their mood. Besides, the audience would assume he was a busy preacher rushing to his next preaching. Aased Saaleh was not at all ignorant. He knew well that his audience would like his sweet voice, a remnant of his youth, rather than his skill in making them weep and wail. He had entered upon old age; however, he was still handsome, elegant, witty, and an ogler of women. White, red-cheeked, and chubby! He was able to make women cry by reciting the tragedies of saints and also to make them laugh by his hilarious anecdotes. It was no surprise that he rarely did religious recitals for men. The antique Polish chair was cracking under his weight. The small glass of tea, held by his short white fingers, had become cold. The last cube of sugar, picked up from the silver sugar-bowl placed on the ground next to his feet, had melted in his mouth. Nevertheless, he didn’t feel like leaving the place. That teenaged girl behind the foliage of the short, curved trees of the berry garden, whose white chador had slipped down from her head and fallen on her soft shoulders; the good smell of the newly watered earth of the gardens; the heavy and mixed fragrance of Jasmine and Geraniums; the strong acrid smell of tobacco–Aased Saaleh felt his body had become numb and languid. He had already two legal wives and a few concubines. His son had already married. Yet it was not too late. For if any of your desires had not come true you couldn’t have any hope of salvation! All his wishes had come true except one. So content was he; so satisfied with whatever made God satisfied! He was pious and patient. His wives and concubines were happy with him for he was generous, good-tempered, and fair-spoken. Having a fourteen-year old rival wife could be fun for them. Furthermore, she could meet his sexual need. Then he could be free to easily save something for the life after death. Oh God, thou art merciful! Thou art merciful and generous! Thou… The sudden loud laughter of women interrupted his contemplation on the divine magnificence of God. His donkey, whose bridle had been fastened to the handle of the door in the corridor, was imploringly braying. His modest quadruped was a good animal for a lame man like him to ride. Having moved, he rearranged his turban. He shook his short fat legs hidden under his neat long garment. His smiling green eyes were looking for his mustard-coloured Damascus slippers. White skin, red cheeks!