Shahaab took the first prize in his writing class every year. His handiwork became more and more beautiful. Words still seemed magical to him. The years of not being able to speak had given such weight to words, infusing their meanings with colours and scents in his mind, which were all expressed in the pieces he made. His teacher excitedly said, ‘He writes the souls of words. What he does is not simple calligraphy any more, it is a work of art filled with meaning. I think even an illiterate person can understand what he writes.’
Shahaab really liked his teacher and got along with him. He liked spending his free time there. Nasser wasn’t pleased at all and came up with different excuses to keep him from going. Shahaab would get upset and complain to me. I was afraid of another outburst between them and tried to justify his father’s decisions.
‘You know, Shahaab, your father’s jealous. Any man who gets close to you seems like a competitor to him. When he sees how close you are to your teacher he goes green with jealousy.’
He looked at me with surprise and said, ‘How odd. “Green with jealousy.”’ And he went deep into thought.
He had just started his fifth year when his teacher arranged to have one of his pieces displayed at a professional calligraphy exhibition. On the last day of the exhibition there was to be a ceremony where they would award the artists. I was very excited and sent invitations to all the family. Everyone came: Hossein, Fataneh, Khosrow, Shahin, Fereshteh and her husband. When it was Shahaab’s turn, his teacher praised his work and his creativity and said they were sending his work to be exhibited in Hungary. Shadi and I were beaming with happiness. Nasser tried to act serious and respectable but he couldn’t hide his glowing pride.
Shahaab was invited to receive a prize. I could tell how embarrassed he was. He turned red and walked on to the stage with heavy steps. His teacher bent down, kissed his cheek and handed him a trophy. Everyone applauded. The teacher finally said, ‘Shahaab Mokhtari, our dear young artist, would you like to say anything?’
Shahaab shook his head. His teacher continued, ‘Then I’ll ask your father to kindly come on stage and say a few words about you.’
Nasser shifted uncomfortably in his chair. I became agitated and said, ‘Nasser, they’re waiting for you.’ He took a look around, got up and walked to the stage. His steps seemed shaky.