Persian – My Lost Language
For: Baktash Abtin and all the writers who defended and continue to defend the freedom of the pen until the end of their lives.
Mr. Méhrdad Afifi, author of many short stories and two well-known novels which had reached the tenth edition, had returned to the scene of Persian literature after eight years of silence with a collection of short stories. He had spent those eight years abroad with his daughter and now he felt that his country needed him. Mr. Afifi believed that he had a responsibility and a mission to the people and he had to accomplish that once he got back to his motherland, his beautiful Iran. Moreover, the source of his genius had dried up as he did not have enough connection with Iran and he no longer had any contact with political and social events. The day this gentleman got off the plane and set foot on the soil of Iran, from that moment onwards, he promised himself that he would write on behalf of the people, until his last breath…
Mr. Afifi had finished typing the last line of his work and he did not know yet to whom he should dedicate his last book. He had almost no one in this world and he had dedicated the last novel “My Name is Nobody” to his daughter. Finally, he decided to dedicate his new work to his imaginary mistress who lived with him for years without deceiving or betraying him ever. She was always beside Mr. Afifi. They grew old together, they laughed together, they slept together and even argued. She was also a perfect cook!
Of course, Mr. Afifi could not write: “For my imaginary mistress, the woman whom I passionately adore.” His readers would no doubt say that he had lost his mind! So, he typed: “For the only real woman in my life, Katayoun.” And then, looking around at his apartment which was in the western part of Tehran, in a good neighbourhood, he tried to turn off the laptop before anyone could protest. But it was too late, because Anahita, the young girl from one of his short stories who was always watchful, put her hand on his shoulder:
“Well, dear Méhrdad, it’s clear. You love her more than you love us! In any case, she’s your mistress! Maybe one day I could take her place. Isn’t it? I can also cook for you and I’m better in bed and of course, younger. Younger and more beautiful…”
While saying this, she hid the side of her face with her long black hair. Mr. Afifi did not like to argue with this stubborn girl and he turned off his laptop without saying a word. Anahita suddenly disappeared and silence reigned. Katayoun appeared before Mr. Afifi in a dress with a low-cut neckline.
– Would you like to imagine me like this now? As a thirty-year-old Katayoun! How light, and young I feel! My skin has become soft and the wrinkles on my face have disappeared! Oh, my dear Méhrdad, always imagine me like this!
Mr. Afifi smiled deeply … and Katayoun continued:
– Do you remember this low-cut neckline? I had worn it the night Tehran was bombarded … it was a long night.5
Mr. Afifi replied tenderly while stroking Katayoun’s hair …
– You were always beside me, my dear, when no one was there.
Katayoun threw herself into his arms with a special coquetry particular to a young woman of thirty, and began to drown him with her kisses. The kisses were light and sweet at first then became hot and passionate! Special kisses from Kathy. How different she was in bed, a real Aphrodite! The beautiful Babylonian prostitute in the harem of the Shahs of Persia. In everyday life she was Katayoun but in bed she turned into Kathy! For Méhrdad, Kathy was the only woman in the world.
The next day, he took the copy of his book and went to his publisher, with whom he had a deep friendship. Unlike the people of Tehran who were always in a hurry, Méhrdad walked slowly. Spring had arrived and the neighbourhood smelled good. Tehran was his hometown where he had spent all his youth with many a lost dream. Yet this city was strange to him. He no longer understood the new generation, but he still remembered the young people of the times gone by, who had white hair today, like himself.
Mr. Alizadéh’s publishing house where he had worked for forty years, appeared before him. Mr. Alizadéh was an intelligent and wise man. He had helped many writers for years and Mr. Afifi had a lot of respect for him.
As he arrived on the fourth floor, Mr. Afifi was breathing heavily. He was no longer young and had painful knees.
– Well, tell me Alizadéh, how can you climb four flights of stairs every day at seventy? Can’t you install an elevator in an old building like this? You have to move out!
– I’m surprised you say that to me Méhrdad! This office is my identity. Can I erase the life I’ve spent here and the days I’ve witnessed? I can’t bury everything.
Mr. Afifi gladly accepted the syrup made from fresh cherries that his friend offered him, and gave him a copy of his book. Mr. Alizadéh promised to send it to the cultural office in order to obtain permission for publishing after correcting.
Méhrdad returned home. The intoxicating smell of saffron rice made his head spin. The terrace window was open and Katayoun was watering the geraniums. The soft voice of a singer wafted from a record player. Katayoun took his coat and gave him some cool mint water.
– Today you see Katayoun as a sixty-year-old, my love. My skin is no longer glowing like the luscious summer fruits. Why are you afraid to imagine me younger? You know I’m not leaving you. I have nowhere to go.
– It’s because I’m jealous my dear. I don’t want to imagine you young. Youth is instability, flight. If you stay young forever, you will have the power of a soldier. You will be brave and rebellious and then you will leave. I can’t stop you from leaving me, I don’t want to be an obstacle in your life. Katayoun was silent. After thirty years, his love was unfolding. She smiled and went to set the table for lunch.
A few weeks later, Mr. Alizadéh telephoned his friend and asked him to go to the cultural office in order to give some explanations regarding his novels, or else he would not be given permission to publish.
Mr. Afifi knew very well the problems arising from censorship and he was worried. He already had memories of being questioned about his novel, “My name is Nobody”. Now he felt that he did not have enough strength to face this useless battle, the consequences of which he knew well.
The next day, he reluctantly went to the cultural office. He felt weak having to haggle with anyone for permission to publish. Many artists, writers and filmmakers frequented the office to ask for permission to publish their work. Nothing had changed. Méhrdad was on the third floor, in front of the door with a blackboard, on which was written: “To obtain literary permission.”
Mr. Taban was the person responsible for approving the works of poets and writers. Méhrdad knew this sinister man who always wore a grey suit and peered at people over his glasses. He felt nauseous. Mr. Taban was arguing with a young poet, forcing him to delete a few pages from the copy of his book.
– Sir, why don’t you understand? This poem has moral issues!
– If I delete it, my work will lose its aesthetic elements!
– Aesthetic elements? You are making fun of me? Describing a woman so openly, are these aesthetic elements? If it was so, the works of the Marquis de Sade would have literary value!
The poet looked at Mr. Taban eyes wide with surprise. He couldn’t understand this comparison. Red with rage, he gathered his papers.
– Ok Mr. Taban, I’m certain you don’t know anything about literature!
Before he could react, the young man left the room.
– You will come again to my office for the authorization request. I will look forward to that day! Cried Mr. Taban.
Hesitantly, Mr. Afifi stood in the doorway and did not know what to do. But since his work was very valuable to him, he entered the room...
Mr. Taban knew this famous writer of the country very well. It was he who had signed the authorization to publish his last book, eight years ago, after making many changes of course. Mr. Afifi felt the first hammer blows to his head, however, he smiled at Mr. Taban.
– Mr. Afifi, what a nice surprise after eight years! You were not in Iran I believe!
Méhrdad was pleased with his warm tone.
– You know why I am here, Mr. Taban.
– Yes! I know you are not here to visit me!
Mr. Taban replied flatteringly and asked for two teas.
– Dear Mr. Afifi, I’m surprised to see you here! I don’t want to criticize you at all, but you know the rules very well. Do not write against the law.
– Unfortunately, after so many years of work, I do not yet know what, according to you, is your style of writing. (He answered bitterly.) In any case, I will hear your opinion.
– First of all, let me congratulate you. Some stories are technically very good! Although I can’t relate to a few! People should read and judge, certainly not me! In the beginning, you used a lot of metaphors trying not to directly mention what society you are writing about! However, the reader would have understood what you intended to say! The tyrannical society in stories like: “Hunchbacks like me” and “The bathtub manufacturer”. How funny these names are! (He looked at Méhrdad over the top of his glasses.) You distort reality Mr. Afifi and provoke people in the name of literature! Why do you question the freedom of men and women so insolently? We live in a free country where everyone has the choice to live the way they want! What do you know about culture and everyday social interaction? Also, you support perverse women who present themselves as victims! You need to be sent to court for all these senseless assertions!
Mr. Afifi felt tired of Mr. Taban’s monologue. He only heard his own voice and this square room in this dark office was his royal seat.
– Okay, is it over?
– Finished? I wish I could say yes! In any case, Mr. Afifi, enough has been said. Correct your copy and contact me … have your tea.
– You have spoken enough Mr. Taban. I’ve said nothing! Thanks for the tea.
Méhrdad descended the stairs slowly. His skin was red and flushed. He had a bad headache and he was no longer determined to publish his novel. “How could some men be so crazy as to hide their heads in the sand in order to lead a more comfortable life?” He asked himself. “And on the other hand, they were silencing the voices of others at all costs. While life is frail and uncertain for everyone!”
Katayoun opened the door with a worried look. She didn’t ask any questions. Everything was obvious from the expression on Méhrdad’s face. She left him alone. Mr. Afifi never knew where she went when he wanted to be alone. Tired, he went to bed very early and after a few hours opened his eyes when he felt the coldness of a hand on his forehead and saw Madam Hékmat, the wife of the former Minister of Culture. This woman’s hands were always cold, like herself, with her cold spirit and her impassive face. At the age of forty-eight, she had the beauty and youthfulness of a girl of twenty-five. Despite her character, Madam Hékmat always smelled of sweet French perfumes. Fragrant, pleasant smells of perfumes she had bought in Europe between the years 1974 and 1978. She lit a cigarette and reprimanded:
– Enough Méhrdad! We know very well how it went for you today.
She sat on a chair displaying her beautiful legs, bare under her skirt. Méhrdad got up wearily.
– Madam Hékmat, I'm sure you don't know the details.
– As usual, you have to delete a few pages. It’s not so painful for you, my dear.
– Not this time. It’s complicated. Where is Katayoun?
– In the drawing room. Everybody is there.
He went into the drawing room and Madam Hékmat followed him. Katayoun was taking care of Mr. Hunchback. Everyone had gathered around him. He was coughing as usual and a few bloody cotton balls were lying next to him. Katayoun was trying to put the oxygen mask over his mouth so that he could breathe easier. Mr. Afifi looked at him sadly:
– Again, another attack?
– We can’t do anything. The lumps press against his lungs and obstruct the airways.
Anahita replied trying to hide one side of her face with her scarf.
– Méhrdad, we are dying to know! Tell us what happened at the cultural office. What parts of your book do you need to delete in order to publish us?
Said Madam Hékmat in confusion.
– Anyway, I have to delete all the characters. The problem, according to them, is the total content. You, Madam Hékmat, you cannot talk about art, literature, dance or anything else.
Méhrdad looked at everyone and smiled bitterly and said nothing more. Madam Hékmat was of course the first person who started to protest and Mr. Afifi was prepared for that!
– My husband was the Minister for Culture. The Minister for Culture Méhrdad, do you understand? How should I not talk about art? A woman like me who has travelled all her life, Paris, Milan, Istanbul… We even employed many teachers from these countries for the education of our girls so that they could learn to be independent, so that they know how to live, so that they could dance and be happy. At that time, I was an indispensable and respected woman!
She suddenly became silent and sat down on the sofa. The pride like that of a peacock’s, which was always visible on her face was gone. She seemed very fragile and sensitive. Others weren’t used to seeing her sad, like a mountain that was bent over.
– These stories are our identities (continued Anahita). These are the events in our lives. We cannot lie and hide ourselves or pretend to be someone else. We are like a broken, fragmented mirror with many contradictions. We always feel the pain, the confusion. We are exhausted. My life is reflected on my face. It’s like heaven in the distance with hell, right next to it.
She put her scarf aside and her black hair fell over her shoulders:
– I was hoping to express myself in your book. Alas!
– I wanted to talk about times gone by. Moments of joy and sadness. Without a past, people have no future!
Said Madam Hékmat in a resigned tone.
Anahita rubbed her sweaty hands together. She was nervous and couldn’t control herself. Tears ran down her cheeks, a few at first, and then more profuse. She could not breathe well and her body was shaking. Madam Hékmat and Roshanak intervened and tried to calm her. Madam Hékmat gathered together Anahita’s hair on top of her head and started massaging her shoulders. It was the first time that she didn’t resist and she let her face show completely.6
The one half of her face which was always hidden under her hair, was not like the other half. Anahita was undoubtedly a beautiful woman. A woman with a fresh and youthful face. The other half was dry, like the skin of lepers. The epidermis was completely destroyed and the new layer was wrinkled with a strange red colour that resembled raw meat. Her eye in the affected half of her face was almost blind with the eyelid drooping over it, and her discoloured eyebrow seemed to grimace at those who looked at her.
– It’s easy to remove the smile from the pretty faces of young girls and condemn them to pain, tears and despair.
Everyone was silent, watching Anahita. She suddenly lost control of herself, jumped on Asiéh, who was silent as always, and grabbed her by the hair.
– Everything that happened to me is your fault. You who collaborate with bastards!
Asiéh didn’t even say a word. She looked directly into Anahita’s eyes.
– That’s enough Anahita. She is not guilty.
Said Roshanak, the one who manufactured bathtubs.
– So, tell me, who do you think is guilty? Everyone who is silent is guilty. We are all guilty. We, who easily forget the sufferings of others and at the same time, we do not know where this cancerous tumor came from, which is gradually tearing us apart. This tumor is the curse of innocent people who cried out against tyranny, empty handed, when we looked at them with lips firmly closed, like puppets to save our own lives. (She sat down and continued in a calmer tone.) Not a day goes by when I don’t curse myself. If I hadn’t crossed that nefarious street that day, the unknown man hidden under a black helmet wouldn’t have destroyed my face with acid. The man who looked like no one. Did he, himself have a face? He didn’t even know me. He was just a servant who carried out the orders of his masters. I will repeat this sentence to myself until the day of the last judgment: “I was burned!”
Mr. Afifi stared desperately at the characters he had created. Everyone had made their decision. No one wanted to change their identity in order to be published in his book. He turned off his laptop and, in the blink of an eye, all the characters disappeared. He put away his work table, opened the windows and let the afternoon light into the house. Everyone had gone, except Katayoun who had remained docile and silent. Mr. Afifi looked at her and smiled. She was beautiful and young. Twenty years, perhaps, without any wrinkles on her face. Méhrdad sat next to her and stroked her chestnut hair. Then he filled the tub that Roshanak had made, with water and bathed his favourite woman. He washed the girl’s entire body. Her hair, neck, legs and breasts, with more attention. Katayoun was innocent and ready to face life. Mehrdad cooked dinner for her and afterwards he opened the apartment door looking at his one true love and companion of thirty years with sadness.
– You are free my dear. Go and experience new events. I have nothing more to give you. Now you have a life ahead. Live like a free woman!
Katayoun looked at him with concern. She wept bitterly.
– All my life, I was with you, in your head, in your imaginations, in your life. I am your feminine half. I know you better than you know yourself. You are the only person I have. Where can I go? I saw life through your eyes Méhrdad! It’s too late to leave!
Mr. Afifi said nothing. He was very confused and discouraged. He felt like a loser who had lost his life in the blink of an eye. He lay down on the bed and quickly went to sleep...
Daylight had covered the red flowers on the carpet and Katayoun was gone. The door was still half open and Méhrdad had lost his woman. While making tea, he picked up the phone and after a few rings, he heard his daughter’s voice.
– Hello? Papa? Is it you? Everything’s fine? Were you able to finally publish your book?
– Writing in Persian has become very difficult for me. This sweet and dear language, which has been the companion of many writers for centuries, seems foreign to me now. I don’t want to change my words my daughter, so that I can be published. I’m tired. This dear language imprisoned me between the unpublished pages of my book. I am leaving everything behind... everything in this sad homeland.
A week later, Méhrdad was at the airport waiting for his flight. He felt empty without Katayoun. Where was she? He couldn’t imagine another man touching his woman.
He was thinking while waiting for his flight. He, who knew no other profession other than writing, what could he do? He could help his daughter clean the house or read the newspaper in the park while taking a nap!