Love and Death in Iran Page #8

A modern Dostoevskyian love story set in Iran.

• Drama

								


"State your name for the record please."
"My name? But you know my name detective."

"I am asking you again. What is your name?"
"My name is Rodion Romanovich Raskolinkov."

"I will call you rascal, a criminal rascal for short."
"Whatever pleases you detective."

"Your true confession, Professor, or should I say ex-professor?"

"I'm a firm believer in both love and death."
"Splendid. I knew I would finally get the truth out of you. You've gone from a respected academic to a social parasite in a hurry mister. Have you looked at yourself lately?"

"I'm afraid not. Is it that bad?"

"Worse than you think."

"Then it must be pretty bad."

“Book him for murder.”

“I protest. I didn't murder anyone.”

“And what do you call yourself, your former self you butchered, Professor. Book him for life.”

It was late morning when I woke up again, rays of a hot sun pierced through the curtain and burned my face; first thing murmuring under my lips was, "love's the real butcher."

I then immediately emailed that sentence to Hannah, out of a pure intuition that it will somehow trigger a response from her. It did, a case of lovers' telepathy for sure, for to my delightful surprise, she responded an hour or so later, her sole response ever: Die Liebe ist ein Roman des Herzens, dessen Begräbnis nur den Liebenden gehört (Love is a novel of the heart whose burial belongs only to lovers). Her farewell message was all too clear. Spontaneously I signed off on our love story by sending her a short poem, titled After You:

After you, I lost my strength, my cheerfulness and even my pride.

And I forgot the name of my friends.

After you, I lost my life's fragrance, my will to live, the competitiveness and the drive.

But after you I learned the genius of tears and the healing cries.

It was now useless to avoid a confession, I had to liberate myself from the burden of guilt and self-second-guessing, from the indiscrete charm of self-imposed misery, so I finally made it out of the bed and put on some shoes and a jacket to head to the police station and surprise the heck out of Nasseri by admitting that yes, I killed Mrs. Rasooli but not because of Hannah but rather due to my own annoyance with myself -- murder to set my own identity straight, even though I was quite clear that in the end it would prove no more than a panacea for my interminable identity crisis, requiring a steady anchor.

But, it wasn't to be, Half-way to the destination, I heard on the taxi's radio this breaking news -- police had finally cracked the mystery of Mrs. Rasooli's murder by tracing the finger prints to a sociology professor in Tehran, first name Babak. "Both he and his accomplice, his fiancé, are under suspicion that they killed the old lady purely for money they desperately needed to purchase their small unit in Tehran Pars. The money had been wired to them from outside the country."

Right then I was distracted by the sight of a torrential rain landing hard on the windshield, causing the driver and the other passengers to celebrate. Within several minutes, the Zayandehrood River was flowing again, to the delight of every Isfahan and others from out of town, like me, who had made the city my home for a while, not fully knowing why?

"Listen Mister. I changed my mind. Can you take me to the bus station instead?"

"Sure, but it will cost you twice as much."
"Well, in that case just drop me off at the police station."
I had to save Babak's and Zhila's dream house plans, and besides I was spending too much time without food, and Hannah had told me their prison food wasn't that bad after all.

Love's a blip in heart moving often without a chart.
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