Translated from the Persian by Maryam Mafi
MEHDI SIAH LOOKED in the mirror. He took the red cape off the nail and draped it over his clothes, saying: “Now we’re ready. But alas! Where is your whip, eunuch of the Caliph’s court?” He found the whip on the nail from which hung the Caliph’s robe. He took it. Mehdi Siah always came earlier than the other actors because blacking his face, hands, and neck took a long time. What’s more, washing off the black was even harder than putting it on; he therefore also always had to leave later than everyone else.
The small door connecting the playhouse auditorium to the area backstage, which was a lengthy corridor with all the typical characteristics, was opened. A short, young man with curly hair bent his head and walked in. Siah stood facing him. He asked: “Who the hell are you? Look, brother, no one is allowed in the playhouse.” He turned on a switch, and a bright light lit the theater. He looked at the short man and continued. “What kind of creature are you? Oh, God! I think I’m going to be scared. Look at his ring; it’s got a skull on it. See his tie pin; it’s a diamond. What kind of oats are you looking for, all dressed up in this stable? Where do you think you’re going with all your glitz?” He laughed and laughed and raised his whip. The young man asked: “Are you the famous Mehdi Siah?”
“Mehdi Siah, I am, but I didn’t know I was famous.”
“I’ve heard people come to this theater only to see you.”
“Yeah, brother,” said Siah. “People laugh because of me at night, and at me in the morning.”
The young man introduced himself.
“I’ve come to replace Mohsen. He’s sick. He said I had to become Juji Khan. But I don’t know how. I’m scared. I’ve never been on stage before.”
Siah wanted to laugh and tease the young novice. Whatever he was, famous or unknown, being witty was Siah’s specialty. When he disappeared into his adopted skin, a witty personality would awaken in him. But when he was himself, one could no longer say he even had a personality. He saw himself as a total stranger in the world. On stage, people’s eyes were fixed on him alone. But off stage, there were no eyes on him at all. He was tempted to tease the young man. Usually he never missed these opportunities to exercise his wit. But helping people was also one of his unfailing specialties. He said: “Don’t be scared, nobody knows which role they’ll be playing.”
“Don’t you read the play first? Don’t you rehearse?”
“No, brother,” said Siah. “None of that stuff here. The opening night of each play, the owner of the playhouse comes, tells the story, and decides each person’s role. Then we wear our costumes and go off to act. The first night is difficult for everyone; afterward it becomes routine. The important thing is for the first person to start off well.”
“You mean you improvise? Well, that’s quite difficult. Even if I had rehearsed beforehand I’d still be scared to go on the stage.”
Siah was about to say: “Impro…what? Watch out you don’t get struck by the evil eye!” But he didn’t. Instead he tried to encourage the young man and said: “This is no sophisticated playhouse in Petelbourg. It’s a dilapidated theater next to the fruit and vegetable market. Who do you suppose the audience is? A bunch of experts? Full of themselves with thick cigars in their mouths? People who don’t even smile when everyone else is falling over with laughter? No, my friend. Here we deal with fruit and vegetable vendors, porters, drivers, and gravediggers. After they have delivered their loads or buried their dead, they come to seek us. Entertaining this kind of crowd is not such a difficult task.”
Siah helped the young man get dressed. He had him wear a tight robe and tied a scarf around it. Using a piece of coal, he raised his eyebrows and fixed the corners of his eyes to match. “Go on, look at yourself in the mirror,” said Siah. “Now, you are Juji Khan, the son of the King of China, who has to ask for the Caliph’s daughter’s hand in marriage. And me, I am the castle guard.”
Juji Khan went toward the mirror in which Siah was observing him. He said: “Thanks a lot. What are these shabby clothes! Besides, this costume is not even Chinese.”
Siah was offended. Not because he wanted to defend the theater, no. He was defending his own beliefs. “Brother, what you say is both right and wrong. I have made your face Chinese, that should be enough. You have to act well so that the audience understands from your face and acting that you are Chinese. Besides, is my costume a black’s? Is the Caliph’s costume a real Caliph’s? Look, these clothes hanging from the nails are all that this theater owns in the world. That torn one over there is the costume of the Caliph of Baghdad. And that is his tuft. The other one there is the civil servant’s costume. That one is the witch’s costume. That one belongs to the lover, and the other is the Haji’s costume. These costumes are needed in every play. There’s always a lover who foolishly falls in love with the king’s daughter and there appear rivals who come from everywhere. And eventually he either wins the girl or loses her. And I’m the guard, in other words, Haji’s servant. But I feel sorry for the lovers. Secretly, I help them. And let me tell you this, too; the girl’s really worth falling in love with. You’ll see, as soon as you set eyes on her, your acting will naturally improve.”
They became silent. They sat facing each other on the empty benches backstage. From where he was sitting Mehdi Siah could see himself in the mirror. The room was cold, and Mehdi had put his hands under his arms. He was not wearing his red hat yet, and his eyes were searching for it. When he saw the hat had fallen on a bench, he was relieved.
The young man’s words, “People come to this theater for you,” had put him in a thoughtful mood. He had confidence in his own talent. Most of his colleagues had a drink to overcome their fear before going on the stage. He, however, needed neither drink nor any other kind of stimulant. For him to become “black” was the most natural act. When he appeared, he brilliantly mastered both stage and audience. His concentration was amazingly intense. Novices had their eyes fixed on his lips, and at times they would forget where they were. It was he who had to coax them to remember their lines. He did all the work, but others got to make love to the girl. When it came time to witness the love-making, a deep sorrow would engulf his heart, until the audience snapped him out of it: “Siah, dear, don’t doze off!” If ever he was a moment late on stage the entire audience would whistle and call for him. And he would smoothly and comfortably continue his part. Despite all this, Siah had never heard a word of admiration from the owner of the playhouse nor from any of his colleagues. And the admiration of the audience was confined to those few hours of the play; next morning no one even recognized him.
The young man watched Siah with interest. “Where did you learn how to act?” he asked. “Did you study acting?”
“No. I haven’t had much of an education, but I’ve seen quite a bit of blackness and intrigue in my life. Besides, I only know how to play the role of the ‘black Siah.’”
“I always thought, with all your mastery, you must have studied for years,” said the young man.
“In my forty-odd years, there hasn’t been a trick I haven’t played, from storytelling to narrating epics of the Shahnameh* in the coffee house. For a long time I was a storyteller and poetry reader to the grand nephew of Zell-ol Sultan.† I’ve also fooled around with political parties. And for twenty years now, I have played the role of ‘Siah’ in the theater. Don’t you think that’s enough? There are times when one asks oneself: Is it I who’s done all this living? Is it I who’s witnessed all these tricks?”
The young man stood up. He wanted to say something but was too shy. He stood in front of the mirror, his back to Siah, and muttered:
“I wanted to say that…I am a graduate of the School of Acting. But I don’t have one bit of your courage. I’m even scared to step up on the stage. Very scared.”
“Then what have they taught you in school? Eh?” asked Siah.
The young man turned around. He sat next to Siah and said: “They taught us plenty in school, but there were also many things they didn’t teach us, many things. And maybe it’s me who’s timid. Once I was supposed to play Hamlet. I had rehearsed quite a bit, but as I was about to step onto the stage, I secretly peeked at the auditorium. I saw that, besides my classmates, a few strangers had also come. I got the butterflies. I didn’t go on stage at all.”
Siah’s wit broke out. “You said H’omelet? Well, it obviously wasn’t your fault at all. We don’t go much for making omelets; ours is an eggplant dish, Kashk-e Bademjan.”*
The young man laughed and said:
“Even though you’ve never studied acting, nevertheless, because of your tremendous experiences, you have an extensive knowledge of culture. Your talent is also extraordinary. And even more important, I don’t know why, but one feels like confiding in you.” Then he continued: “Do you know what the greatest tragedy is?”
“Listen, brother, if you want to talk like a foreigner,” replied Siah, “you and I won’t get along. Can’t you talk normal?”
“To tell the truth,” said the young man, “I can speak any way you like. I speak quite well. It’s only when I have to appear on stage that I become speechless. I have so many words in my head, but I can’t utter them at the right moment. Once, in school, we were supposed to present the play Our Beloved Country, Iran. I was holding a box of matches in my hand. My role was to go and light the lantern on stage and say: ‘O light of guidance, route of flight for the Iranian people, remain alight.’ It was only one sentence. That night a few army officers were wandering about backstage. One of them came up to me and asked: ‘What do you plan to do with those matches?’ I became dumb. The officer searched my pockets. Do you think I could go on stage that night? No way! I had the butterflies again.”
“Here again, it wasn’t your fault,” said Mehdi Siah sympathetically. “You were going to speak of the greatest foreign imitation of all.”
“The greatest of tragedies.”
“I, too, have heard of these things,” Siah was about to say, but he changed his mind and waited.
“Excuse me,” said the young man. “I was talking about the saddest of things. I believe the saddest thing in the world is when someone aspires to become a first-rate actor, painter, or poet but, despite his efforts, he fails. Sometimes it may be because he has to start earning a living; that is different. But the person who sacrifices everything and still can’t—that’s tragedy.”
“You are right,” said Siah. “You do speak well. I’m surprised you say you can’t act. Then why did you substitute for Mohsen tonight?”
“I want to test myself one more time. Mohsen told me that you help motivate all the actors, without even being aware of it yourself. I thought if one gets to know a man who may give one a push—just a little push—maybe one will get going. Some go on their own. Some go without even knowing it. Others are untalented but get ahead with a lot of noise and clamor and cunning and cheating. But there are those who can’t go alone. If one is lucky enough to meet a real man…”
“What about a real woman?” asked Siah with a wink.
“You mean if one falls in love…?” began the young man.
His words were interrupted. The other actors, bending their heads as they walked through the low door, came backstage. The room became crowded. The Caliph was gluing on his beard. The lover was putting on his makeup. The witch was disheveling her hair. The manager was explaining Juji Khan’s role to him, and Siah heard the young man mention “Acting School,” but nothing of his fear. The actors went and sat down one by one. The Caliph lit his cigarette and told Siah, “Brother, check out the auditorium; see if it is full yet.”
Siah slowly went toward the small door, dragging his feet behind him. He heard his colleagues’ laughter. He peeked in through the crack of the door and saw a street sweeper in his municipal uniform sitting in the front row, right across from the curtain, cracking pumpkin seeds between his teeth. Siah liked his air, especially as he was sitting in the front section. “Great,” he whispered, then returned and told the Caliph:
“There are a few here and there.”
TOWARD THE END of the first act, right in the middle of things, the power went out. The stage and auditorium fell into a gravelike darkness. There was a moment of silence, and then chatter and clamor rose from the crowd. The street sweeper flicked his lighter and stood up, holding it in front of the stage. Some of the others lit matches. The children in the audience were scared and cried. The noise of chairs clattering was heard from the back of the auditorium. “Whoever has hidden anything, eat it now! Fast!” said Siah out loud. Only a few people laughed, which upset him. He said louder: “Are you having a nightmare?” This time nobody was listening to him to laugh. Siah changed his mind about entertaining the giant crowd, which had begun to move. He saw the Caliph’s daughter in the dark as she walked in through the castle door. She came close to Siah and whispered in his ear: “Siah, dear, I’m going to be ill.” The audience was whistling loudly and clapping hard. Darkness as black as tar had spread everywhere. The street sweeper’s lighter had gone out. Siah took a look at the crowd. He imagined a thousand-handed monster clinging on to various spots with each hand.
“What are you waiting for? Take me away, otherwise I’ll faint right here.”
Siah took the Caliph’s daughter’s hand. It was wet. Fumbling in the dark, they left the stage and climbed up the stairs to the backstage area. As he opened the ladies’ changing room door, the women, the two nurses of the Caliph’s daughter, let out screams. “Calm down,” said Siah. “Siah’s not bothering anyone. The Caliph’s daughter’s ill.”
He took the girl toward the only bench in the room and had her lie down. He told one of the nurses: “Sister, will you get a glass of water?” The nurse left the room. “I hope she’ll find a lamp and bring it back with her,” said Siah. He turned toward the other nurse and said: “Come and open her dress.”
The monstrous-looking nurse moved around the room, bent over the girl’s chest, fiddled a bit, and said:
“The knot’s tangled. I can’t untie it. Agha Mehdi, come and see; perhaps you can undo it.”
Perhaps Siah could and wanted to, but it didn’t happen. The nurse tore open the decorative filigree crisscrossing the girl’s breasts. Siah could hear her as she asked the Caliph’s daughter:
“Has he quarreled with you again?”
“Yes.”
“He left?”
“Of course.”
“I said from the very beginning that he is crazy. He spends well, but still, he’s crazy. You poor woman, you’d better think about yourself now. Am I not right, Agha Mehdi?”
Siah, who was standing perplexed in the middle of the room, came beside the girl’s bed. He sat on the bare floor and said in a fatherly fashion, “What can I say? All I know is that you are badly wrecking your life, girl. Don’t you think it’s a pity?”
He wished he could sit there forever next to the girl’s bed, on the bare floor in the dark. He wished he could untie the tangled knot in the girl’s life. He noticed the nurse in the dark who came and sat beside the bed and asked: “Did you take the pills?”
“I took them all right,” the girl said, “but what’s the use? These pills only make me ill. They don’t get rid of it, and give me peace!”
The other nurse walked in with a lit candle and a bowl of water. She gave the candle to Mehdi, who, seeing her, had stood up. Her black eyes gleamed for a moment in the candlelight. “The show is over,” she said. “There’s no electricity. The crowd broke a few chairs. Two of them were arrested and taken to the station by the police. We’ll see no money tonight.”
Siah put the candle on the shelf above the Caliph’s daughter’s head. He was thinking that only Juji Khan could be happy about the show’s closing. Juji Khan was to come on stage in the second act. Involuntarily he thought about the litter he had suggested they build for Juji Khan so that he would not panic as he came on stage. They had inserted wooden poles in the four sides of a handbarrow. A printed cloth hanging all around served as a curtain. Juji Khan was supposed to sit inside. The previous nights, Juji Khan had entered the stage on foot, along with his four ministers and courtiers.
Siah looked at the Caliph’s daughter, who was sitting up and asking the nurse: “Are they really not going to pay us tonight?”
“I don’t suppose so,” said the nurse. “The officer said we have to return the audience’s money.”
“Then lend me twenty tomans.”
“I swear I haven’t got any.”
The Caliph’s daughter lowered her head and murmured:
“I have to take at least ten more of these pills, and each pill costs two tomans.”
Siah thrust his hand under his red cape and searched his vest pockets. He took out a few bills. The Caliph’s daughter embraced him and stuck her face to his, saying: “How good you are, Siah.” Siah felt his neck become wet. When the Caliph’s daughter lifted her head, Siah knew that her face, too, must have become black.
The following night at the new Juji Khan’s insistence, Mehdi had a drink. He never drank before the show. The show itself naturally warmed him up. It was only after the show that sorrow, indolence, and fatigue would overtake him. Mehdi blackened himself carefully. He wet his hand and straightened the crease in the red cape. The cape was old and torn in places; it smelled damp. Struggling with witches and the girl’s lovers was no easy task. Juji Khan had dressed by himself and was preparing the litter. But his face was pale, and Siah knew he was frightened. The Caliph, the ministers, the witch, the lover, and the civil servants were all ready; Siah had let them know that the theater was packed and that a few foreigners were sitting in the front row. One of them even had a camera with him. The street sweeper was sitting in exactly the same place as the night before.
The third bell rang, and the show began. Siah took his whip and joyfully entered the Caliph’s palace. He appeared on the palace terrace, and the audience laughed when they saw him. He cast an indifferent look at the crowd, sunk in darkness. The lover entered the stage. He stood in front of the side door of the palace. He began to wail and confess to a moon, which was supposed to be in the stage sky but was not. He pretended to be counting the stars. Siah was waiting for the Caliph’s daughter to come and chase him away from the palace terrace so that she could make secret plans with her lover. She was late, but Siah was confident that she would show up. Waiting for the girl, he walked through the cardboard door that led to the stage a few times, threatening the lover with his whip. The audience laughed. He knew that once he went to the palace, he would see the girl. He almost rushed there, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. The lover’s confessions to the moon, his counting of the stars, and Siah’s threats were repeated a few times. Siah sensed the crowd’s irritation. The fourth time he went into the palace and saw the playhouse manager, looking very upset, standing next to the door. “The girl hasn’t shown up,” he whispered to Siah. “I don’t know what to do!”
Keeping an ear on the lover’s confessions, Siah asked: “She hasn’t shown up? How could she do this to us? This poor guy has run out of things to confess.”
“How about sending one of the nurses?” said the manager.
“How could we—they are old hags.”
“Then do me a favor; keep the audience entertained; perhaps she’ll show up.”
Siah came onto the stage with his whip. The lover, dumbfounded, stared at the palace terrace. Siah went close to him and, facing the audience, said: “Don’t wait for her in vain. The Caliph’s daughter is not coming; your lover…” He was about to say “is dead,” but unintentionally said “is pregnant.” The audience broke out in laughter. Siah was encouraged and continued; “That’s right, brother, she’s pregnant. Why are you dumbfounded? Can’t the Caliph’s daughter become pregnant? Why do you look so lost?”
And, indeed, the lover appeared completely lost. He stared at Siah in astonishment. He asked quietly: “Have you lost your mind?”
But a spectator in the front row shouted, “Siah, are you sure it wasn’t your doing?”
Siah didn’t like that. He rolled his eyes in anger and said: “Hey you, toughs, thugs, dandies, foreigners, photographers, veiled one…” He was about to say “…unveiled ones,” but he said “vile ones” and the audience laughed but not very hard. “No, don’t laugh. Let me tell you the truth. Hey you, sitting there in the dark, with eyes gleaming like a cat’s. Don’t think I am joking around. Do you see this Siah? He’s not one who takes liberties with others’ loved ones. His eyes and heart are pure, and his word is the word of justice. The Caliph’s daughter who is not here yet is not one of those either….” The sound of one person’s laughter was heard from the back of the auditorium. This laughter amid the silence of the audience was painful for Siah. He corrected himself: “No, brother. The Caliph’s daughter is not one of those girls, she is just like your Siah. We are all like Siahs. One or two among us are not, though….”
Siah felt a commotion among the crowd, from irritation. He was constantly sensitive to every one of the crowd’s reactions. “Allow me to dance,” he continued. “Have you come to watch a wailing ritual? Then clap your hands. What are you waiting for? Siah dances. He should be dancing….” As he danced, Siah came across the lover, who was standing stupefied in the middle of the stage. He said: “Why are you watching me so dumbfounded?” “I don’t get it,” said the lover slowly, so that only Siah could hear. Ignoring the lover’s confusion, Siah asked: “Tell me, brother, which is worse—being in love or being hungry?”
The lover did not answer. A man’s voice rose from the audience: “If you’ve ever had to relieve yourself and not found a place, you’ll know it’s worse than both.” The people laughed and a couple clapped. But Siah didn’t like it. He turned and distanced himself from the lover. He wheeled around, faced the crowd, and said with a sad voice, “Siah danced and while he danced he came across the Caliph’s daughter, who’s pregnant, who’s been forsaken by her husband. Now the Caliph’s daughter has gone to the blacksmiths’ row to order an iron outfit—iron shoes, iron socks, an iron cane, and an iron ring. When they’re ready she’ll wear them and set out for the desert, searching for her husband.” There was a lump in Siah’s throat. “I shouldn’t have had that drink,” he thought to himself. He tried to get control of himself. He couldn’t. He started to clap and said: “Laugh, clap, have fun. This is Juji Khan’s theater. But what’s Juji Khan’s problem? Juji Khan doesn’t know that there is a treasure hidden in the hearts of human beings. Sometimes there is also a green viper sleeping on top of this untouched treasure. You have to say a prayer and blow it toward the snake. God willing it will become your captive. Then at your own leisure you can go to the treasure and take as much as you please. There is no end to it. Close your eyes and suddenly leap in the water. Don’t be afraid. What are you afraid of? The treasure in your heart won’t allow you to drown. It will force you to swim. You’ll eventually get somewhere. In the depths of the hearts of every one of us lies a treasure. We only have to somehow crush the head of the snake, whose name is fear. Perhaps we can cast a spell upon it. But what if the snake is not sleeping on top of the treasure inside one’s heart, but is sitting and waiting on the outside? What if, no matter how honestly, one uses this God-entrusted treasure, but nevertheless is always defeated, always stopped, just like hitting a wall head-on, flattening one’s nose? What if no spell could charm the snake sitting on the outside?”
The street sweeper sitting in the front row sneezed loudly. Siah took notice and thought: “He sneezed on purpose to warn me.” Facing the janitor, he said: “Bless you, brother.” Over in the corner, he caught sight of the two policemen in the auditorium. They were there every night, and he knew it. But tonight he really felt their presence. “Siah dances,” he said. “While dancing he comes across the cop. The cop thinks I’m a beggar. He imagines I’m a crook. He sees my matchbox in my hand. He supposes that I plan to set fire to the Gheisarieh district. He asks what I intend to do with the matches. Brother, with these matches I want to light the fairy’s strand of hair so that she may appear before your very eyes. Or shall I light Seemorgh* the phoenix’s feather so that it may come to your aid? Isn’t it a wonderful idea, officer?”
The audience’s clamor brought the lover out of his helpless state and stopped Siah from continuing with what he was about to say. The lover took a step and said: “Ah, my love, I shall perish in anticipation.” And he ran toward the terrace.
Siah turned and looked. He saw one of the nurses dressed up in the Caliph’s daughter’s clothes. The dress looked horrible on her body. Her dentures, her frizzed hair, and her frightened eyes made Siah sick. He felt no compassion. “She’s a fake, she’s a fake,” he yelled. “Nobody’s love will come. Nobody’s love will ever come.”
The fake Caliph’s daughter, the old woman standing on the terrace, said: “Shut up. I will have His Majesty the Caliph cut off your head and fill your straw with skin and hang you from the palace wall. Hang…” The fake Caliph’s daughter could not pronounce the word correctly.
“Sister, now see what you’ve done,” Siah said out loud. “Does a wise man fill the straw with skin, or the skin with straw?”
“My love, the one who has no rival in Baghdad,” said the lover, “I implore you to pardon Siah for my sake.”
“She’d wish!” said Siah sarcastically.
“I pardon you,” said the fake Caliph’s daughter to Siah. “You may come into the palace so that I can put my ring on your finger and make…the entire horizon…horizons…kneel before you.” The lover moved to stand beside Siah and whispered: “Please go, I beg you.” Siah went inside. He saw the manager, who was more upset than before. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” Siah went on calmly. “I plan to change the play. I want to show there’s a trick involved. The Caliph’s daughter has sent her maid on purpose to get rid of the lover. But this idiot doesn’t understand. Do you suppose the crowd is foolish enough to believe she’s the real Caliph’s daughter?”
“It’s dark,” said the manager. “How will they ever know?”
“How could they not know?” replied Siah, and went out. As he stepped through the palace door and onto the stage, he saw Juji Khan’s litter, which his ministers were carrying on their shoulders. They brought in the barrow and set it down on the floor in front of the cardboard palace door, then drew the curtain. But Juji Khan remained seated and refused to come out. He was supposed to appear in the second act, not here in the street and in front of the palace’s side door.
The lover was going berserk. Siah took a look at the barrow with Juji Khan inside and then glanced at the lover. “Hey, you wretched lover,” he said, “hide yourself until I find out who this is. It’s obvious he’s a stranger. He’s lost his way. Should he see you here and inform the Caliph, you’re finished. ‘They’ll fill your straw with skin,’ too, as the sister said.” The lover disappeared behind the stage curtain. Siah walked toward the litter. He stuck his head inside and said: “Why did you come now?”
“Your words incited me to come,” said Juji Khan softly. “If I hadn’t come now, then I would never be able to come.”
“Then stand up and step out,” said Siah. “If you don’t do it now you never will.” Siah took his hand and brought him out. He practically pulled him out. It didn’t seem like he had any will of his own. Siah bowed and said, “Sir, who might you be, passing by the Caliph’s palace?”
Juji Khan watched Siah silently. He said nothing.
“Sir, from your appearance it would seem that you don’t speak our language. Or perhaps you can’t speak at all.”
Juji Khan said nothing.
“This handsome prince has come from China to ask for my hand,” shouted the fake Caliph’s daughter from the terrace. “He’s the son of the exalted Chinese Empero…Emper…”
Siah didn’t let her finish “Emperor.” She wouldn’t have been able to say it anyway. He said, “Hey, sister, you’re imagining things. Where can you find a husband these days anyway?” Juji Khan laughed involuntarily. “Then you’re not dumb?” asked Siah. “You’re Chinese? No?”
Juji Khan nodded.
“Chin chun yung. Chian chung ching,” said Siah aloud. This made Juji Khan laugh along with the audience. “Chian chang chung,” Siah continued.
Juji Khan seemed to have forgotten where he was. Still laughing, he said, “You know how to talk nonsense very well.”
“I’m not talking nonsense, brother. You know our language, too, then? I thought you were a stranger. Have you lost your way?”
Juji Khan opened his arms and stepped forward, and without being scared, said: “I am a stranger in love; which is the path?”
“Which path are you talking about?”
Juji Khan fell silent again. The fake Caliph’s daughter called from the terrace: “Are you seeking the path to the palace of the Caliph of Baghdad? I am the Caliph’s daughter’s nurse. I will take you to the girl tonight for five dinars.”
Siah appreciated the woman’s timely cooperation and said: “Hail to you, nurse. You did well to fool the lover and get rid of him. Bravo. But don’t you feel sorry for this young man? You are sending him to his death.”
Juji Khan raised his arms again and stepped forward to say: “I am a passerby, I have no affair with the Caliph’s daughter. I am a passenger who has been left behind by the convoy and has lost his way. I resemble a flower grown in the sand, thirsting for water. I had waited far too long, when suddenly a hand came forth, cut me from the sand, set me in a vase, and watered me; only then was I able to bloom….”
Siah cut Juji Khan off and said, “Sir, you resemble the ‘Shah Abdol Azim steam car.’ You start late, but when you do start you never stop.”
“Siah, the hand was yours. Your hand must be kissed.” And he bent forward to kiss Siah’s hand. Siah pulled himself back and asked: “Brother, when you were in the sand, did you perhaps get too much sun on your head?”
Juji Khan laughed and said: “It was dawn; the convoy chief gave the call: ‘Rise, as it is late. Others have left and already reached their destinations. We have a long way ahead of us.’ I heard the caravan’s bell, but sleep would not allow me to open my eyes. Siah, you were the one who awakened me and succeeded to move me….”
“Dear sir, your brakes have failed again,” said Siah. “You haven’t said which path you’re seeking.”
“I seek the path to Ka’aba. Won’t you be my guide?”
“Sir, I don’t know the path to Ka’aba myself. I do know, though, that it’s a long way yet. This is only Baghdad, the first stop. Hey, brother, are you a Moslem too? What a mess!” Siah laughed and his laughter was lost in the crowd’s.
Until then, Juji Khan’s companions, who had brought him to the stage in the barrow, were standing cross-armed and silent. One of them, playing the role of Chinese prince’s advisor, stepped forward. He bowed to Juji Khan and said: “Sire, I urge you to consider remaining in Baghdad for a while and rest, and you could have an audience with the Caliph.” He turned toward Siah and added: “And you, eunuch of the Caliph’s court, may announce the time for the audience.”
Siah placed his hands over his eyes and said: “Certainly.”
“The purpose of this endless journey with all its suffering was indeed to meet with you, old man of wisdom,” said Juji Khan. “I no longer have any business either in Baghdad or with its Caliph.”
The nurse spoke up from the terrace: “Young man, at least make up your mind about the Caliph’s daughter. She’s a girl created for God’s sight alone. She’s a girl whose beauty surpasses the full moon’s.”
“Nurse, is this girl created only for lovemaking?” yelled Juji Khan angrily.
The nurse pointed to the palace, which was nonexistent, and said: “Well, the girl gets bored in this huge palace; what else can she do but make love? Young man, be a gentleman and ask for her hand.”
“Is it by force?” screamed Juji Khan furiously. “Is the ruler’s order ‘Off with his head?’ No, I must continue with my search for my intended goal this very night.” And he walked toward the barrow. Before Siah could reach him, he was seated in the litter. Siah thrust his head inside again and said quietly: “You fool. There’re two more acts to go. Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going and I am ashamed of my hardheadedness,” said Juji Khan aloud from inside the litter.
Siah lost hope in Juji Khan. He addressed the advisor and the other companions of the Chinese prince who were about to leave: “Don’t you go too far from Baghdad. His majesty’s audience is early tomorrow morning. Don’t force me to have His Majesty the Caliph punish this young man in such a way that they will write it in story books.” And astonished he looked in amazement at Juji Khan who had left the litter on his own. He came toward Siah and said; “Pardon me. Have pity on my youth.”
“Did your engine stall?” asked Siah.
The first curtain fell after Siah’s repeated signals. Somehow they continued through the other two acts. In the second act His Majesty the Caliph, with Siah and the Nurse’s mediation, pardoned Juji Khan. Poor Juji Khan had to make love to the Caliph’s daughter’s other nurse during the entire fifteen minutes of the third act. It was Siah’s idea to cover the nurse’s face so that only her bright black eyes could be seen, and it worked. And justly Juji Khan bestowed upon her the title “My Veiled Idol.”
THE SHOW WAS over. The audience was gone. The actors were gone. Only Siah remained behind in the playhouse, washing off the black; Juji Khan waited for him on the bench. Laughing, he repeatedly told Siah, who was wiping his face, “Thank you; thanks a lot.” Siah hung his cape on the nail, and Juji Khan stood up. “Mohsen said you always get everyone going,” he said, “but you can’t believe it until you see it for yourself. Mohsen is a good friend. He can stay sick for a while, until I fully get going.” Siah was silent and looked for his jacket. Juji Khan talked nonstop. “I only want to ask you whether you really know what you’re doing? Do you say these things on purpose? You said a few heavy, dangerous words in there. You really handled the play with expertise. You’re indeed the greatest actor I’ve ever seen.” Siah put on his jacket. He looked in the mirror and said: “The black never washes off completely.”
“Let’s go,” said Juji Khan. “You promised we’d eat dinner together tonight. My house is not too far. If you want, we could even take a taxi.”
They set out. The lights in the theater had been turned off, and the street was deserted. They crossed to the sidewalk on the other side. A woman who wore a black veil and had carefully covered her face sat underneath a tree in the dark. When she saw them, she stood up and quietly said:
“Agha Mehdi.”
They both turned, and Siah recognized her. She was the Caliph’s daughter.
“Dear girl,” said Siah, “why didn’t you show up tonight? We had a hell of a time to pull the play off. Don’t you realize we can’t get by without you?”
The girl walked along with them, and Siah introduced the actors to each other.
“Had it not been for Agha Mehdi’s expertise,” said Juji Khan, “your not turning up would have shut down the theater again, especially with my inexperience.”
“I almost died this afternoon,” said the girl, continuing to walk along beside them. “I have just come from the doctor’s office—” Then she turned to Mehdi and went on, “—Agha Mehdi, can I speak with you alone?” Juji Khan quickened his pace; Siah and the girl stopped.
“Dear Siah,” said the girl, “God bless you, you must do me two favors. I have no one to turn to but you. First, you mustn’t let me lose my job….”
“You can be sure of that,” interrupted Siah.
“And the other is this,” the girl continued. “You must gather at least two hundred tomans for me tonight, any way you can.”
“Two hundred tomans? What do you want all that money for?”
“Siah dear, I have to go to the doctor tomorrow to get rid of the child. I have taken the shot tonight; if I don’t go tomorrow, my life will be in danger.”
“Look, girl, you know better,” Siah said helplessly. “Even if I did my very best, I could perhaps come up with thirty or forty tomans maximum.”
“How about this friend of yours? Can’t you borrow it from him? He looks well off.”
Don’t even think about it,” croaked Siah. “If I borrow from him, he’ll think….”
“In this indecent world, only you want to remain decent?” said the girl irritably. “I have nothing to say to you anymore. Call your friend.” And then she started to walk quickly. The three came together and passed through the deserted streets. The girl had no intention of saying good-bye. She talked intimately with Juji Khan, laughed, and once even took his hand. But she distanced herself from Siah. She pretended to be offended. They reached the house. Juji Khan thrust his hand in his pocket and found his keys. He opened the door and said:
“Please come in.” Then he looked at the girl, who had just stood there. “You can come in too if you would like.”
“Agha Mehdi never goes anywhere,” said the girl coquettishly. “He must really be fond of you to have come tonight,” and as they went in the house, she said, “I’m glad to get to know my future fellow player.”
They entered the room which seemed strange to Siah. There was a large desk in the middle of the room and two full bookcases on each side of the desk. There was a sculpture on the table. Juji Khan turned on the table lamp, and it lit up the face of the sculpture. The sculpture seemed to be both laughing and crying. It was both a man and a woman. It was nude and sat comfortably cross-legged. A black cat with blue eyes walked into the room. It went directly to Juji Khan, rubbed itself against his leg, and meowed. The girl bent down, picked up the cat and kissed it. “Sweet kitty, you’re hungry?” she said. “Or are you in love, too? Perhaps you fancy your master?” Siah saw that the cat scratched the girl’s hand, but she pretended nothing had happened. She continued to hold the cat in her arms. She petted its head, ears, and neck.
“Please sit down,” said Juji Khan. “I’ll go and bring something to eat.”
As he was leaving the room, he called out: “Ahmad,” and a voice replied from somewhere: “Yes, sir.”
Siah and the girl sat on two couches which were next to each other in the corner of the room. There was a table in front of them. The girl let go of the cat and swore:
“The damned thing bloodied my hand.”
A thick book was stuck to the wall opposite them with a large nail. A photograph of the sole of a foot was pinned to the same wall next to the book. For a second, Siah was about to get up and see what book it was, but he didn’t feel like it. He was too downhearted.
“The only person in front of whom I feel ashamed is you,” said the girl.
“Why do you want to abort the child anyway?” asked Mehdi kindly. “Have mercy.”
“Dear Siah, it’s as if you don’t live in this world. How can I work with a child? How can I earn a living?”
“The person who planted the child in you should pay the price.”
The girl sneered and said, “He’s got a wife and kids. He left me as soon as he found out I was pregnant.”
“That simple? Wasn’t he going to marry you?” asked Siah.
“No, he never said he’d marry me. Siah dear, you’re very naive and decent. You think everybody’s like yourself.”
Siah thought for a while and said: “Dear girl, can’t you find a decent man and marry him? Settle down? Isn’t it a pity to get yourself constantly into trouble like this? You’re cutting off your own roots.”
“Which decent man will marry me?” the girl replied. “Supposing he did anyway; the first thing he’d say is, ‘I don’t want you to step outside the house. I don’t like you to act in the theater.’”
“It’s not important, dear girl; acting on the stage isn’t all that important. The main thing is to pull off one’s life correctly.”
The girl seemed irritated and tired of this conversation. “Siah, dear, my situation is past this kind of talk,” she said. “No matter how, I must find two hundred tomans from somewhere tonight. I know how myself. But it’s only that I’m ashamed in front of you. Will you permit me? Will you permit me…your friend?”
Siah stood up; he couldn’t cry there. He wished to go home and cry his heart out. Even if he cried as much as all the rain in the world, it would still not be enough. When one is struck so deep to have to go so low, how it must break one’s heart. It’s just like spitting in one’s own face. The poor girl. Siah had always seen her from afar, with her oak-colored hair covering her shoulders, those huge black eyes that broke one’s heart to look at; with those lips and mouth that opened like a blossom and from which the stars poured out onto one’s lap; those eyebrows that always seemed to beckon to share a secret that one didn’t understand. And such a girl has had pity on no part of herself. He wished he could go and see nothing, hear nothing, want nothing.
The girl begged: “Siah, dear, don’t walk around the room so much. Come and sit down. I’m getting nauseous.” Siah sat down, and the girl started over again: “Give me permission, my dear Siah. I have no other choice. My life is at stake. If you can get it, I’ll be more than willing to leave right now and not feel so ashamed in front of you. I have an appointment tomorrow morning. The shot he’s given me rips the child into pieces; tomorrow I have to go so that he can pull it out. You have no idea how painful it is. I have already done it four times. The way he scratches the inside with his pincers darkens the world before my eyes. I pray to die tomorrow during the operation, so that you won’t have to look at me this way. Are you satisfied now?”
Siah wished he had the money. He wished he could find the two hundred tomans that very same night. He wished, as the girl had said, he was not a decent man in this indecent world and could ask Juji Khan for the money.
He saw the girl take off her veil, bundle it up, and throw it in the corner. She opened her purse, took out a comb and lipstick. She put them on the arm of the couch. She took out a mirror and quickly put on the lipstick and pressed her lips together. She combed her hair, opened the buttons of her blouse and adjusted her bra, but did not close all the buttons. She had changed. But her face was empty. Siah asked:
“You’ve put your makeup on?”
Juji Khan came in with a tray on which there was a bottle, a few cups, and a dish of salad. He placed the tray on the desk. Behind him a man walked in wearing pajama bottoms, a woolen shirt, and a knit cap. He said hello and placed a dish with two broiled chickens on the table. The man left and came back with more things, setting them down neatly.
Juji Khan sat behind the desk.
It’s going to start now, Siah thought to himself. They’re standing before each other like two drunken cats.
The girl stood up. She moved her hips and waist as if she was on stage. She said:
“Allow me to become the cupbearer.”
She picked up the bottle and looked at it. She asked: “Is it whiskey?” and she laughed. She filled a cup and put it in front of Juji Khan. Then she poured some for Siah. She didn’t look at him as she placed the cup on the arm of the couch. She poured herself less than the others. Her eyes were gleaming, but not like when she made love on stage. She hit her cup against Juji Khan’s and said:
“To your health.”
She took a leaf of lettuce from the salad dish and put it in her mouth. She laughed again, but falsely. Even her nurses on the stage laughed more easily than she did. She attacked the chicken, placing each person’s share on the plates and setting the plate before each one. She sat on the corner of the desk. The light on the desk lit only her arm and her skirt, not her exposed breasts. Sitting on the desk, she moved her legs about and laughed. She began to sing. Her voice was hoarse and uninspired. She sang the same song Siah expected her to sing: “Had there been only one pain, there’d be no problem.” This was the same girl who used to sing before the play started, and Siah would accompany her with a tambourine. Oh, how the two of them aroused the audience and how, when the song had ended and they had left the stage, the crowd clapped for them to return. The girl asked Juji Khan:
“Is there a tambourine or something else to be found in this house?”
“I don’t know how to play,” said Juji Khan.
“Agha Mehdi does,” she said. “He can even play the violin.”
“No, I don’t have a tambourine,” said Juji Khan.
The girl continued her song, and Siah felt she was forcing herself to sing. Perhaps she was ill again. Siah started to eat. The girl left her song unfinished. Like a person who has just awakened, she asked Juji Khan:
“Am I going to wake your parents?”
“No, they sleep upstairs. Even if they do wake up, they’ll think I’m listening to the radio.”
The girl laughed again. She narrowed her eyes and fixed them on Juji Khan. She cut a leg of the chicken with a fork and bent toward Juji Khan. Juji Khan didn’t open his mouth. He took the fork and said:
“Thank you.”
The girl searched in her plate and found a wishbone. She held it before Juji Khan and said:
“Should we make a bet?”
“For what?”
“For a kiss.”
Juji Khan bit his lips and lowered his head. The girl said:
“What a bashful little boy.”
Siah stood up. He got up so abruptly that the cup on the arm of the couch fell on the carpet. It didn’t break, just emptied its contents. He said:
“Why don’t you two bet for money? For two hundred tomans, cash?”