Unfinished Story
“Artists are inspired by events, by people and by society. Like scientists who utilize
physical laws and mathematical equations to describe physical phenomenon, artists
resort to painting, to music and to poetry to express their feelings and to portrait their
emotions…”
A long ring was heard. The professor was in midsentence when every desk in the
room was noisily jostled. The slamming books noise felt like slaps to Farzaneh. All
students left the room and she remained as the professor erased the blackboard. Dust
filled the air.
After class she went through her usual routine, strolled home, passing by bookstores
inundated with thousands of books she wished she had time to read. Then she turned
into an alley much quieter than the main street. Every day when she reached this point
her mind would pleasantly wander, leaving her unaware of the long road to home.
“Artists see the world differently. Their keen senses get deeper impressions of their
environments. Then they paint, carve, write, or play their unique visions. They can
observe the most insignificant of events under the sensitive microscopes of their
minds…”
Farzaneh was lost in pondering her professor’s lecture when a terrifying screech of
automobile brakes froze her in place. She witnessed, a young man violently tossed
through the air and collapsed lifelessly on the pavement. Her gaze was fixed on the
victim’s body.
The driver rushed out and kneeled over the victim. But it was pointless, as he
appeared to be dead for thousands of years. Paralyzed by what she’d just witnessed,
she took a few steps closer to the accident scene. The driver looked up at her, his eyes
full of fear. Neither knew what to do, both were petrified. It was too late anyway.
A crowd gathered. A man searched the victim’s pockets for identification but found
only a couple 20 Tomans bills and a crinkled handkerchief. Soon an ambulance arrived
and the medics carefully removed the body. People drifted away and the street once
again became empty. It seemed nothing had occurred; there wasn’t even a drop of
blood on the pavement.
In the midst of her hazy wonderment, she suddenly noticed a little black notebook on
the other side of the street, teetering on the edge of the sewer filled with filthy water.
She sprinted over and picked it up before it could fall. Her hands frantically spread the
pages open, but she was too horrified to read anything and not sure if it belonged to
the dead man anyway. But if it was, perhaps she could find a name or address to
identify him.
She rushed home, hiding the notebook under her jacket and kept her eyes locked on
the cracking pavement. She refused to meet the curious gazes of nosey butchers,
shopkeepers, and neighbors. Upon arriving home, she slipped into her room and
locked the door. She didn’t even hear her mother calling, “Why are you late today
dear?”
Farzaneh hastily opened the notebook to the first page and started reading. But she
couldn’t comprehend anything of what she read. Frustrated, she thumbed through the
book looking for clues and furiously flung it on the floor, dropped her head into her
hands and wept in defeat. Then she gathered her strength and more determined than
before, tried again. It looked like a story of some sort in a sloppy handwriting.
**********
“He went upstairs to his favorite café and sat down in his usual seat and put his book
on the table and started reading the newspaper. The cozy coffee shop was filled with
the aromas of Amphora pipe tobacco and French coffee. The air was so heavy that the
smoke drifting from the next table formed a thick cloud in the air. The waiter asked, “Mr.
Farokh coffee or café glasse?’ He responded, ‘Black coffee please.”
A few minutes later the coffee steam moistened the lower corner of his newspaper.
Farokh grudgingly folded the wet paper and expertly lit a cigarette, took a deep puff
and sent a series of concentric rings of smoke into the air. A man at the other table
said, ‘One of Fellini’s best films is playing in theaters now.’
He was a man Farokh knew from this café. They had engaged in chats of this sort
before. Farokh responded, ‘The London Philharmonic is also performing next week.
We are getting some culture, I like that.’ Then, he scratched his nose, fanned his
fingers through his thick hair and said, “Today something interesting happened to me.
Walking by the bookstore, I hit my head on the awning metal post. It was an awakening
event, an accident. This is what we need in our lives my friend, a drastic event.” The
other pensively nodded in agreement.
Farokh continued, ‘I like the cozy ambience of this café, it reminds me of cafes in
Paris.’ He then fished a 20 Toman bill out of his pocket, slapped it on the table and
said, ‘See you soon, and walked downstairs…”
Here a few pages were left blank. She flipped through those pages rapidly and kept
reading.
“Farokh drove home. The sidewalk was crammed full of people. A teacup peddler
bashed a cup on his counter, claiming it was unbreakable. Supposedly thirst-quenching
homemade yogurt drinks were bottled in Coca Cola bottles. But they were intentionally
made salty to make customers thirstier. He glanced at the shoe store. Shoes hung in
midair like cutoff feet.
Farokh, disgusted with these swindlers, rolled up the windows and turned up the
classical music and immersed his soul in the symphony. After driving a long way to the
north of the city, he arrived home. The gardener opened the massive iron-gate for him
and he rolled up the wide drive and parked in front of the mansion and directly went to
his room. It was small and meticulously clean room with a window that opened to the
garden and completely covered by a thick satin maroon curtain. He flicked on a desk
lamp. The spotless white bed sheets seemed like shrouds waiting for a corpse to wrap.
In the corner was a mahogany bookshelf with a few books carelessly leaning over on
each other and on the top shelf a antique gramophone with several shining black
records.
As Farokh settled into the old leather chair facing the covered window and lit a
cigarette, an elderly woman’s voice said, ‘Son, are you home?’ And she knocked gently
on the door.
‘Yes, Mother. Come in.’
She gracefully sat on the bed facing her son, ‘Colonel was here.’
‘What does this idiot want from us now?’
His mother sighed ‘don’t talk about him that way please, he is family. Besides, he is
willing to pay us fairly for the lands in Narmak.’
Her son tapped his cigarette on the arm of his chair and nodded, ‘That’s why he was
here!’
‘I think we should consider his offer. God bless his soul, your father always said that
the real estate we buy today would help us tomorrow.’ She said.
Farokh mashed the stub of his cigarette into a heavy marble ashtray, ‘If you feel like
doing this, I have no objections.’
His mother rose slowly from the bed, then paused suddenly, ‘I almost forgot! Golam
the gardener said dayeh (nanny) Zarin is sick. Do you remember her? She nursed you
when you were baby.’
‘God knows how long since I’ve seen her. Last time was over 20 years ago when I
went with father to check on a piece of land. I love to see her again.’
‘She really loved you and your brother. The first time we sent you to Europe it seemed
we were separating her from her own son. She was asking Golam about you. Yes, it’s a
good idea if you visit her. From what I’ve heard, she is not doing well.’
The next morning Farokh got the address from the gardener and went to visit his
dayeh. To reach her home way south of the city, he drove a long way. He must have
passed the slaughterhouse because the stench of dead animals saturated the air and
swarms of flies were visible like a thick dark cloud.
He made a few turns and entered a narrow alley with sewage running down the
middle. His car filled the width of the alley. He checked the address and stopped in
front of a shabby house, got out and knocked on the badly rusted metallic door,
although it was half-open he knocked again. And since it was no response, he loudly
asked for Dayeh Zarin. When he became certain no one would come, he entered the
little yard and noticed a room to his immediate right with a heavy cloth covering the
doorway. He pushed it aside and softly called, ‘Is anyone home?’ He squinted he eyes
and scanned the bare room with nothing in it but a charcoal grill in the middle and an
opium bong. The emaciated man with dark skin slouched the floor called upon him with
a muffled voice, ‘what do you want?’
‘I am looking for Dayeh Zarin. My name is Farokh. Does she live here?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
The man pulled a violin from behind him, ‘Dayeh Zarin does not greet visitors
anymore. She passed away last week.’
A few moments passed in silence as Farokh digested the sad news, ‘Farokh! Hmm, it’s
been more than 20 years since I saw you.’
‘Do you know me?’ Farokh was startled.
And the man in the darkness propped the violin on his shoulder and played a tune,
‘The season of flower, the season of flower…’
Suddenly tears stung Farokh’s eyes, ‘is that you Ali Mohamad? Do you remember one
day you kept repeating those words until Dayeh smacked you and said, ‘Why do you
keep repeating these words? Season of flower is not a song, you idiot.’
The two childhood burst in laughter.
‘Ali Mohamad, you have changed a lot. I can’t believe you are the same silly rascal
you were as a kid.’
‘But you sound exactly the same to me, a polite and well mannered boy.’
As Farokh sat down next to his friend, he looked at his face closely just to see his
eyes were opaque.
They talked for hours of their sweet memories. Farokh told Ali Mohamad every detail
of his life, his summer trips abroad and his long stays in Europe. He spoke of his
brother’s suicide, a topic he’d never discussed with anyone. Ali Mohamad told him of his
life, his opium addiction, prison terms, the disease that left him blind and the recent
death of his mother.
From that day on, Farokh visited Ali Mohamad at least twice a week. With him, he felt
alive. This friendship gave his life a new meaning. With he was jolly and uninhibited.
There was nothing he wouldn’t tell his friend.
One day Farokh took his friend to his house. On the long commute he asked about
his job. Ali Mohamad said ‘I’m a musician. I play the violin in weddings. Sometimes
drunkard idiots don’t understand my art and throw orange peel and sunflower seeds at
me but I don’t give a damn. I always get to eat the wedding gourmet cuisine even before
the bride and groom! I can recognize the color of the lights in the night. They remind
me of stars. I throw a couple of shots of vodka down my throat, get in my artistic mood
and perform. I am an artist, a talented musician and to hell with this uncultured nation
that does not value my art.’
Here again followed a few more blank pages. Farzaneh rubbed her eyes tiredly. But
she had no choice but to finish the story.
“Farokh helped his friend out of the car and walked him up the stairs to his room.
Then he left him alone to prepare a cup of tea. Ali Mohamad slowly walked around the
room, softly tapping on furniture. He touched the thick curtain. The air was stuffy. He
struggled to open the window and whispered, ‘Farokh, you need to breathe fresh air
and enjoy bright light.’
As the window opened to the lush garden, a fresh breeze inundated the room and
shook the ghostly bed sheets off the bed. Light flooded in; Farokh returned and silently
peered around. He’d never seen so much light in his room. Through his window, he
watched a red bird singing in the tree and admired the hypnotic dance of the leaves.
Ali Mohamad overwhelmed with the gentle breeze caressing his face, swinftly grabbed
his violin and played a happy tune. And his friend, who could not suppress his joy, sang
to the music but the rough and untrained voice of the vocalist did not sit well with the
artist. The frustrated musician finally stopped the music, ‘you’re horrible. Where the hell
did you learn how to sing so terrible?’
‘Please forgive me, master.’ Farokh smiled.
On one of these visits Farokh told his friend, ‘I’m, writing our story, our childhood, our
memories, our reunion and everything in between. I’m sure there are many out there
who can relate to us. And the best of all is that you will be my hero…’
That was it, an unfinished story. Farzaneh was devastated, Poor Farokh, I wish he’d
finished his story. Oh my God! What should I do with this unfinished story? May be I can
find Ali Mohamad? But how can I find this a blind street violinist in a city this big?
Ali Mohamad reminded her of their maid’s husband but she’d never seen anyone like
Farokh except in movies. She collapsed on the bed, mourning his death the entire night.
The next morning she locked herself in her room to grieve alone. It was afternoon
when she managed to face herself in the mirror. Her hair hung in knotted clumps; black
mascara streaked its way across her eyelids and down her cheeks. Although she
looked ridicules, she was too exhausted and too miserable to care. She stumbled
downstairs.
Her mother screamed, “Oh my God! What the hell is this? You must be sick. Don’t
you dare go to school looking like clowns? You go to college this way, and kiss finding a
husband goodbye.”
‘No mama, I have to go to school.’ And she didn’t exactly know why. She felt she had
to do something but what? She had no clue. She rushed out of the house and walked
toward school until she arrived at the same long street. Farokh, Ali Mohamad, the
notebook, and the horrible accident plagued her. She approached the accident site.
Everything was surreal. The cracks on the walls could have opened to suck her inside.
People were walking slower than usual.
She put the palm of her hand on her forehead, feeling dizzy thinking I have fever? I’m
about to faint?
A morbid silence filled the street. Everyone was going to sleep where they stood. She
felt as if she was walking in the clouds. She glanced at her watch. It had stopped. The
pages of the newspapers froze in the air, fanning in a non-existent breeze. A flung
cigarette hovered inches above the sidewalk.
Farzaneh was the only one moving. She reached the exact location of the accident.
Her heart pounded as she realized, “It is yesterday afternoon!”
She searched in the crowd, looking for Farokh determined to save his life. The silence
was broken by the sound of an approaching car. She feverishly screamed, “Farokh!”
and ran to the middle of the street. Her vision was blurred. Everything plunged into an
eerie haze. She heard the familiar screech of car brakes, her knees buckled and she
collapsed.
*******
When she regained consciousness and opened her eyes, she was in the middle of the
street circled by a crowd. A young man helped her get off the ground, “You fainted in
the middle of the road. You’re lucky the driver saw you from a distance and stopped in
time. But why were you screaming my name when you were unconscious?”
Farzaneh was speechless. She kept gazing at him and the blind man at his side.
Farokh said, “You need a rest. I know of a nearby café.”
He held Farzaneh by the arm and grasped his blind friend’s hand. As they slowly
made their way up the stairs of the café, Farzaneh slyly remarked, “Is your favorite
table available?”
Farokh looked over his shoulder, puzzled. They sat and ordered coffee, he then said,
“I had a friend who came here often. Yesterday a car hit him exactly where you fainted.”
He paused to light a cigarette, “Unfortunately, he died. He was a publisher and had
promised to publish my book. The manuscript of my unfinished story was with him. It
was lost in the pandemonium.”
Farzaneh smiled and pulled out the notebook out of her purse, gave it its owner and
said, “Make sure you finish it, it will be an interesting story.”