The Woman in the Mirror
At first, everything seems simpler than what one can imagine… simpler and happier. It starts with the first look, a simple greeting, then the first laugh, the first lighthearted jokes. Then, gradually, the delicious thrill of waiting, when one is languishing with desire for someone. A strange kind of feeling takes over and one doesn’t know if it is anxiety or a light, sweet and charming intoxication, the beginning of a relationship that could last! The sensual and exquisite tingling that one feels when we touch each other, the desire to say to him: “it’s me!” I hide my dark side, but do you see the brighter qualities in me? How do you imagine me? Am I good enough for you?...
And after a while perplexity sets in. There is nothing common between us anymore and everything ends unexpectedly. After a certain period of weariness, of being lost by this sudden interruption, everything returns to the way it was before, while the hole that the nail made in the heart, in the mind and in the memory never disappears, not even with time.
I wonder where I can find a secluded place in the crowded streets of Tehran. A quiet café located in a discreet neighbourhood. A place tucked away to drink a cup of bitter coffee, without the daily worries of a city that never stops moving. As I immerse myself in my thoughts, I realize that I have walked down my usual path. All roads lead to Rome and all streets of Tehran to Café Shiraz! I gulp down the fresh air of the last days of March with a particular pleasure and I enter the café.
The establishment is not full of people, just a few vagabond young girls and boys who do not know what to do. The wavy, colourful hair of the girls, escapes from their scarves, and glistening makeup hides their real faces. They stare at the others with a look of astonishment; perhaps they are discussing their bewilderment regarding a fragile, vitrified, disintegrating society with the skinny boys in ripped jeans! I can easily imagine myself in their place. I think we all suffer from a common pain. We are all lost and it is ridiculous. What will happen to us? Nobody knows. I had read somewhere that Iran is the cradle of civilization, but I believe it is the cradle of uncertainty! I smile at this deception and leave the youngsters alone.
There is a small round table at the end of the living room. The bartender knows me well, this customer who is crouched behind the small table. The man nods his head which means “usual coffee?” This bitter, thick coffee with a small piece of chocolate. As soon as I nod, he gets to work. I look around while waiting for the coffee and stare at the photos on the wall. The artistic, social, intellectual photos that have filled the empty spaces of today’s cafés or perhaps the emptiness of the minds of people who call themselves “modern men!”. Among these photos, that of a Qajar8 woman catches my attention. Why is it there? A photo which seems so out of place indicates the bad taste of the proprietor of the café who presents himself as an intellectual! Why is this the first time that I’ve seen this photo? And today it blew me away.
The Qajar woman wears a floral headscarf, long narrow trousers and a short skirt in the fashion of a hundred years ago. She grimaces awkwardly in a frame that gives off an unpleasant musty smell. A lonely woman looking sullen, as if a scarf had been forcibly pulled over her hair, and she had been forced to sit down in front of the photographer.
There is no sign of coquetry or feminine elegance in the sad face of this chubby woman who lets two black locks of hair escape from under her headscarf and who stares fixedly at the camera, as if the world owed her much and that life was responsible for all her miseries...
Hearing the voice of the bartender bringing my coffee broke my thoughts. I thank him with a fleeting smile and bring the cup to my lips. The heat of the coffee burns them a little. I wet my lips, pinch them, and drink the rest of the coffee. Time stops moving forward at Café Shiraz. I never understand the passage of moments, and that even more so today.
I even found a new topic. The Qajar woman makes me smile now. An hour has passed and I have to leave. I look at the morose face of the Qajar woman for the last time and I stand up with general indifference.
The cold air of the last days of March penetrates through my light shawl, hits my damp hair and tingles the skin of my head. I take the first taxi, I have to arrive on time … I don’t want to sadden my favourite man.
[To have a few hours of peace with the man she loves at this time of her life, this woman is ready for anything…]
In fifteen minutes, I will be at his house. I feel a kind of anxiety as if disturbed by an unknown feeling of worry. My heart is beating fast in my chest. I smile while trying to console myself:
“It’s not your first date. A woman in her thirties still has the feelings of an eighteen-year-old girl! Each meeting is like the first.”
All those years and all those men whose memory has never really weighed on me, but I carry these everywhere like a light and misty dust. Wherever I go, the memory of the men I’ve been with accompanies me, all the same, but barely felt.
Here I am behind the door of his apartment.
– Who is it?
When he hears no response, he opens the door a few moments later.
– I know the silent presence behind my door can only be you.
He invites me in with a smile:
– That white shawl suits you well. You know how to show off your charms in this close-fitting coat.
– You know how much I love your compliments my dear?
He winks at me!
I avoid any arguments with him, even on subjects that seem important to me. At this moment, I only need peace, the warmth of a body for which I have such passion.
[The woman leans back casually on the sofa and puts her coat aside, then breathes in the sweet, fragrant aroma that wafts from her breasts and hair and examines the man from head to toe. He is a tall, slender, dark-haired man with dark brown eyes and a penetrating gaze. Although he is lean, his bones are strong, and his arms ardent.]
He doesn’t talk much and smells really good. A very fresh but sharp smell, like himself. His face is not cheerful, he may be living in distress. I never asked why. Everyone lives with some kind of inner grief. Who knows? No one is happy and this man is no exception. There are a few scars on his face, the little indentations created by the scratch of the razor on the skin, lately he hides these under a short beard and he doesn’t shave anymore. It makes him more masculine, more seductive, at least to me.
[He looks good, but he, like the others, is not someone special. A special kind of person with whom this woman would like to chat, to talk about her interests, her loneliness and sometimes her inner fears. Some moments when she has pretended to be happy, talking about the mysterious woman that she imagines herself to be all the time. The woman she would like to be in real life, strong and beautiful.]
Sometimes I wish I could chat, until I was out of breath or ashamed to say too much. No, this man certainly does not want to listen to me or discover me. He sits down in front of me and asks:
– What’s the song that you’ve chosen today?
– Black trombone. A beautiful old song by Serge Gainsbourg.
– Hmm, good choice.
He looks at me and then looks at the CD with indifference.
[Each time she comes, this woman brings him a new song. As always, she tries to make herself known through songs, books, and her dresses. By all that which symbolizes her.]
I enthusiastically translate all the phrases for my beloved man.
“It’s not bad, he had a beautiful voice.”
He lights a cigarette without saying anything more. I stiffen, as if someone had suddenly drenched me with cold water.
I say nothing more and wait with frustration for the last puffs of his cigarette…
Although I visit this apartment a lot, with each new visit a kind of worry and melancholy accompany me.
I want to return to my simple life as soon as possible. The walls seem foreign to me. The bed on which I lie still seems unfamiliar to me.
[Smiling, he walks up to this woman, but with a fixed and mischievous stare. In this apartment that looks like a box of matches, she feels all alone.]
The man takes my hand and I follow him with pleasure. The only thing I really like in the bedroom is the standing mirror, because it records all the moments… the timeless moments that I love to remember forever. I look at the mirror and entrust my body into the arms of the man, in whose arms I always seek tranquility.
He knows how he should begin, and I always go mad with pleasure from the very first moment. He gently kisses my earlobe with his lips, then his kisses grow more passionate and longer. When his tongue probes the skin on the nape of my neck, it gives me a coolness that gives rise to an exquisite tremor that, for a few moments, I completely forget my inner loneliness. Despite the distance that is there between us, this woman who is Me, gets accustomed to the body of this man and to the rhythm of his existence.
Time stops, and my body stretches in pleasure as I feel his tongue on my neck, spine, on my groin. I stroke his hair and go wild with joy. How I like to touch his body. The skin of the man is moist, fragrant and fresh. Fresh like a child’s skin. His body struggles to free itself from my fingers which caress his spine as one would touch the keys of a piano. It is in these moments that this woman, who is Me, has a lot to say. The words invade my brain like a torrent...
– Where are you? Why are you so inattentive?
That’s when I feel the rapid penetration that runs vigorously through the moist tunnel that welcomes him warmly. His heart beats strongly and I feel a fever inside of me. I snuggle into his arms and I don’t want to let go.
[This woman wildly desires the entire body of the man. Not only his body, but his whole being, his feelings, his heart, his soul… she tries to hold on to it with all her might.]
I sigh and tremble; in enjoyment, I lose my power. My efforts to hold on to him become futile and the distance between us returns. Confused, I look at myself in the mirror.
I suddenly see the Qajar woman still staring at me with a face that has no intention of brightening. With her pursed lips, perhaps she wants to say something more:
“The people in the mirror are lonelier than they appear.”
Who was the woman trapped within the old wooden frame? I would never know. Was she also alone and had nothing more to say? Did she feel victimized, hoping for a faint spark of joy?
I no longer want to think about the strange woman in the photo frame, I just want to return home, to my simple little room that smells of family life and childhood. I long to go back home to crouch on my bed thinking that I am still a happy young girl, not a lonely woman desperately seeking love and peace in the arms of men she has no connection with.
[This woman looks at the man, lying so close to her. What was she doing there? In the final analysis of an intimate relationship, she was simply an unexpected guest in the bed on which she lay.]
I get up. He opens his eyes and looks at me in surprise.
– You’re leaving already?
With a wry smile I kiss his lips and cover my head with my shawl.
– Hana, come back soon! As you well know, “this man” can’t wait too long!
I laugh.
– I’ll be back soon, whenever you want me.
That was exactly what he wanted to hear...
I leave the apartment and suddenly feel like a child who has been brusquely thrown into the adult world. I look at the light, hazy dust of the men I always carry over my head like an umbrella. I have to find another place to keep them, maybe in my purse. I open it and throw the dust of these men into it. After all these years, I now know one thing very well: “I could never find inner peace in passing from one man to another.”
The cycle repeats. I got tired of it. While murmuring the last lines of the song Black Trombone, the woman sets off on her way: “Nobody can surprise me anymore, I’m giving up, it’s over!” Other moments await her, moments that will have neither rhyme nor reason!