Love and Death in Iran Page #7

A modern Dostoevskyian love story set in Iran.

• Drama

								


I paused for a moment before answering emphatically, "I don't know what you're talking about and what witness came up with that cockamamie story. Coincidence or not, I' ve had nothing to do with Mrs. Rasooli, honestly." Nasseri stared in my eyes and tried to dig deep in my soul by asking, "Are you a devout Muslim?"

"Of course, why do you ask?"
"Because a devout Muslim doesn't lie.”
"I take great exception to such accusation sir. I don't lie."
"Really? Never? Or was it me who forgot to put down the whole escapade in Kish?" Both men then laughed at the obvious contradiction on my part. "Let me ask you directly. Did you kill Mrs. Rasooli?"

I was shocked by his audacity to pose such a loaded, and thoroughly offensive, question to me. I shook my head negatively and then asked them to leave. "You can ask me a hundred times and my answer will always be the same. I was here three nights ago and never saw Mrs. Rasooli. By the way, how did you say she was killed?"
"Someone chocked her to death."

"So someone did a service to humanity, but I promise you I had nothing to do with it. Why would I?"

"Beats me," Nasseri replied. "If you wanted to protect the honor of that woman, maybe you should have taken her as your wife first."
"That's my business," I said firmly, yet he was unrelenting and meaningfully said, "I bet she'll never see you again."
"I repeat. That's my business." That shut him up but only for a second. He asked if I minded them looking around and I said "be my guest" and then watched them search the room. "What's this for?" Nasseri asked, pointing at the hammer he found in the closet. "I don't know, never seen it before. You should ask downstairs." To my sigh of relief, Nasseri put it back and continued searching until his cell phone went off and he gave a full report about me and my condition to the person on the phone, obviously a higher up. "Yeah we checked him thoroughly, No, nothing so far, but don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of it soon." He then got ready to leave and ordered me to stay put. "We want you to stick around, you understand? No going back to Tehran unless you want me to book you for suspicion of murder. Trust me this is better than our joints, isn't it?" He asked rhetorically from his assistant who shook his head immediately with a terse smile etched on his lips. I yawned and threw my hands in the air, for a show of submission. "Well, I wasn't planning to go anywhere, for a while, detective. Strange how the last time you were encouraging me to leave to Tehran. I happen to like Isfahan."
"That was then, it is now an entirely different situation you find yourself in. Besides, I consider myself quite fortunate to have you here, an erudite author of books on world affairs. I looked up one of your books the other day, definitely above my grade. So, tell me, what do you like about Isfahan?"
"I like its clouds, hover above differently."

"I see. You're a changed man Professor, haven't seen anyone change so much so fast. Okay let's go. I'll be seeing you soon. Next time we meet I want straight answers on your whereabouts the night of the murder. Don't think we're not watching you." Then just as he was exiting the door, Nasseri paused for a second before turning around and saying, "Incidentally, you might want to know that your friend's friend Zhila had played a part by locating Mrs. Rasooli. She claims she didn't know the real reason that German lady was looking for her and thought it is something innocent." Repeating the word innocent with a twist of irony, he then laughed and his assistant laughed too and then they left without a goodbye, leaving the door a jar open so I could hear them talking about my "creeping toward suicide" and "I'd be surprised if tomorrow he hasn't hung himself yet." Bemused, I stood and closed the door and returned to the bed, collapsed on it, now telling myself, "So that explains it why Zhila was hesitant to help. She must have been scared bottomless." She and her fiancé Babak, who was a junior faculty in sociology, had visited me a week ago and had treated me to delicious kebab and roasted tomato and onions, as well as Babak's old guitar, to entertain me for an evening, to lift the gloom from my heart, but to no avail; they too had not heard from Hannah and Zhila was rather worried about her. Babak's sudden playing Gole Yakh aggravated my mood however, distinctly reminding me of Hannah and her facial expressions when listening to that beautiful song, and that made me feel worse, without bothering to explain why. No matter how hard they both tried to convince me to return to Tehran, I didn't budge and Zhila had tears in her eyes when they left, but I am now wondering if they have now gotten the wind of that old extortionist's death and harbor any doubt about the identity of the true culprit? Who am I? I don’t recognize myself anymore. My God, did I do it? Did I kill that witch? How come I don't remember? Did I hallucinate everything? I know I plotted it in my head a hundred times, and I ventured in that neighborhood more than once, but how come I have no recollection of anything? And what about that lie about being a devout Muslim. Am I kidding myself? But I need to do something to revive myself through faith. Yes, I must. Maybe I should go to that little mosque around the corner and join the mass prayer, who knows what will happen. Can I be true to my religion when I have nearly stopped believing in God, or even killed him like Nietzsche did?" Why can't I be like Hannah, finding faith as a rescuer from her sea of trouble? Or was it just a passing flirtation with an exotic religion? Is it not worth giving it a shot? What is there to lose, but the shackles of a meaningless existence? With that question, which I found to be both tantalizing and disturbing at the same time, I fell sleep again; a short while later, like someone hit by a brick jolting me, I half raised my body and, looking at the dark sky outside, asked myself an intriguing question. "Did Hannah hire someone to do it? She must have. Who else but ME? No, I don't think so, that's absurd, isn’t it? If I did such a thing, I would remember, wouldn't I?" After a few minutes of vacant stare at the ceiling, I picked up a pen and paper and spontaneously wrote "Out of breath. In my dream, a wise old man reads my palm and then warns me of apocalypse, sufficient turbulence to wake me up dizzy with sweat and fear. God, where is your saving grace? I then notice the clock on my table: 3:45. Is life worth living, and saving? Countless ideas circle my head, like so many wolves smelling blood. I fall sleep again, only to dream I'm a headless scarecrow in the field waving the vultures away, but only for a moment, and each time they grow bolder, hungrier for my flesh rotting under the sun, until finally I close my eyes and bid farewell to the world, feeling the pinch of vultures' bites, until nothing but bones remain and I'm handed a pen again to write my own obituary, with nice self-fulfilling words like 'courage under fire' and loving husband and father, a true patriot. But, wait the ink is out and I now dip it in my own blood, to venture a word of caution: approach death with blinking light, it might issue you a hefty ticket." Finishing writing, I closed my eyes again and went into a peaceful sleep. In the middle of night, however, Nasseri returned in a dream in vengeance. He was interrogating me in his office, with the cuffs pressing against my wrists.

								Rate this book:5.0 / 1 vote