Love and Death in Iran Page #6

A modern Dostoevskyian love story set in Iran.

• Drama

								


I was now hostage to Hannah's love, at her beckoning, robotic lover, proxy or slave to her command from the distance: to kill and kill without pity, price of our reunion, obviously a huge condition, but nonetheless one that I had no quarrel with philosophically speaking, as time went by and I descended deeper into the vortex of darkness. "In your inner paradise find a priest to wed you to yourself and wish you eternal happiness," a voice echoes in my head. I am vaguely aware of death lurking outside the window, counting my days ahead, like a patient highway patrol bored with inaction. Vaguely, I stare in the mirror at the stranger staring at me. You were once a familiar face and we shall have friendly chat again, whenever you feel lonely and depressed. Oh my love Hannah, where are you? How much longer should I burn in this hopeless love affair? How long? Where are you my love, my Aspandarmaz? And the hands, what value have these now that they have dipped into the baptism of killing? Oh the miracle of useless hands, as inconsolable as the hands of Babylonian slaves; waitress, a glass of red wine please, make it chateau mouton please; oh, not allowed, what a pity, well maybe next time. Enough of this foolishness. I need a comedy with flutes, sweet or discordant. When did the "I" submerge in the darkness? I need to retrieve it with fire, warmth, memory, in a word, a whole new 'body schema," to borrow from Merleau-Ponty's Phenomenology of Perception. But, the question is how does one perceive a dead body, beautiful or grotesque? Speaking of grotesque, I needed to find out about Hannah's rape by the UN soldiers, most likely from black Africa, how many were there and the whole sensation and terror of it. Would she ever tell me the truth? Probably not. Imagine her bloodied clothes and the ruthlessness of those beastly men! They probably left her in the desert next to those decapitated bodies after they were done, hoping she wouldn't make it; they only scarred her for life.

And then the knock on my door, someone calling my name repeatedly; for a second, I mistook it for daily muezzin's call for prayer from the nearby mosque. Opening the door, I was surprised to see it was none other than detective Nasseri and one of his subordinates, a tall thirty something guy with a thick mustache; clearly, my disheveled appearance jolted them both

"Hello detective. What a surprise, why don't you come in."

"You are a hard man to find professor," Nasseri said as they entered my small dinky hotel room smelling of hashish; I opened the window for a bit of fresh air, even though it was quite cold outside, shivering instantly.

"Well, I'm not teaching anymore."

"I know. News travels fast in this country. Apparently you're not doing a lot of things you used to do," he said as he was situating himself on a chair, took out a cigarette and lighted it. "This is quite a downgrade since the last time I saw you at Pardis Hotel."
"I suppose, but it's less hectic."
"You didn't leave a forwarding address, so we had to check all the hotels throughout Isfahan," his assistant sounded standing by the door. I closed the window and sat on the bed facing them, feeling like a zombie.

"What can I do for you detective -- now that you found me?"
"I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Where were you three nights ago?"

"Three nights ago? I'm not sure. I think I was right here, haven't left this place for days. Why?"

"Are you sure? Because the front desk says you were out most of the night. Where did you go?"
"You mean three days ago? I honestly don't remember, except maybe I got out for a quick bite. Why?"

Detective Nasseri and his assistant gave a meaningful look to each other before Nasseri put out his cigarette in an ashtray on the table and asked, "Did you go and visit Mrs. Rasooli by any chance, -- you know the old lady that your German friend tried to kill?"

"No, why would I? Has something happened?"
"I'm afraid the answer is affirmative. She was found dead, choked to death by someone."
"Wow. That is shocking. Do you know who did it?"
"That's what we're here to find out."
"What do you mean by that?!" I retorted. "Do you think I had something to do with that? But that's absurd. The idea is laughable."

"Well, absurd or not, we need to get to the truth. After all, we have witnesses who have seen you in that neighborhood a couple of days earlier,"

I shook my head and raised a chorus of protest, "No, no. Are you trying to pin that lady's murder on me now? I told you I have never seen that -- what did you say her name is, was?"
"Mrs. Rasooli. You know very well, who I am talking about, you paid her off through that attorney to let go of the complaint against Mrs., Hoffman, remember?"
"It's Miss Hoffman. Of course. Now I remember. Sorry detective, I'm a bit sick and have been under the weather."

"That's okay. So my next question is what were you doing in her neighborhood? Were you looking for her or was it a pure coincidence? We're told you were standing on a look out not too far away from her house, was that a coincidence?"

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