Sehar poured the tea. Okay, she said.
But I also have a favour to ask, I said.
Oh, now the busboy wants to bargain?
Well, this is just a question that the busboy has.
Okay, let the busboy ask it.
Who is that man who came here with a bodyguard the night Shohreh was here?
Oh, Mr. Shaheed? You are asking about Mr. Shaheed.
Yes, the short, bald man, the one who sat over there.
He is a very rich man and he works for the government.
The Canadian government?
No, silly, the Iranian government.
He seems very important.
Yes, he is. He gives my father money.
Have you been to his house?
No. But he came to our house once.
For a visit?
On some import business, my father said. Why you are asking?
Because I like to know how important men become rich and powerful. I wish I were rich.
You will never be rich.
Why do you say that?
Because. Just because, Sehar answered with a snotty smile. She waved the back of her hand at me, telling me to go back to work as the poor should.
The owner came back from whatever he had been doing in his warmed-up car. He'd probably stuffed another plastic bag under the seat like some old villager. The habit of sticking silver coins stamped with the emperor's head under a mattress never goes out of style, I thought. It just gets transformed and adapted. I don't know why the owner uses such thick, long, wide bags and then wraps the money inside a hundred times. I often see his eyes shifting as he sits at the wheel while his hand fumbles the buttock of the seat, stuffing it with that big ugly bag with Arabic lettering. He always uses the same bag. Well, at least he recycles. I know that cunning owner wanted to test me the first time he slipped his bag under the car seat. Filth! So suspicious of servants and cooks alike. I'll bet he got that old feudal habit of spying on the help from his father, who walked the village
streets with pride, twirling his long moustache, a thin stick in his hand.
The restaurant got busy. I carried many empty plates, swept many tables, and went up and down the stairs. I pulled out chairs, hung coats, and lit candles, and at the end of the night I returned to my dark home.
THE NEXT EVENING
, Mr. Shaheed came to the restaurant again with his bodyguard. He was accompanied by another man, who wore an impeccable suit and tie and carried a briefcase in his hand. They entered to the bows and royal fawning of my boss, the meek, the degenerate, the transformed small merchant and pitiful tyrant. The man with Shaheed had blond hair and he held his briefcase straight in front of him so that it pointed the way and led him through the rows of tables and chairs. The bodyguard sat on his usual seat at the bar.
The owner, my boss, that little food trader, snapped his fingers at me. I put down the boxes I was carrying and walked towards him. Without a word he pointed at the blond man's chair. Despite all the hideous, monstrous organs my boss possesses, like a prehistoric turtle he only uses his neck to point. I pulled out the chair for the large blond man and, in turn, my boss pulled out the chair for Shaheed. And then, agitated, my boss chased me away with a fanning motion of the backs of his hands. He leaned over Shaheed, nodded as if to say he should and would, and then turned around, smiling. He was actually smiling â that austere food purveyor was capable of a mouth crack! He leaned over the blond man with a menu in
his hand, explaining it in a drooling accent, his syrupy lips, bent knees, hunched torso, and shiny, unappetizing pate sweating under a beam of light. Then he rushed to the kitchen, briskly transformed into an erect Napoleon.
The cook, who was the only one who could treat the owner like an equal, listened and nodded and turned his back to him. But the little Napoleon went around the island and whispered some more requests and instructions.
While I rushed around with the breadbaskets and the pickles and up and down the stairs to the basement, I was thinking of a way to call Shohreh to tell her that her torturer was here again, eating and merry. But it was too complicated. The owner's phone was inside the dining room, facing the cash machine. To cross the line under the bald man's gaze would require an even more experienced cockroach than myself. And what if I managed to pick up the phone? What would I say? Under the circumstances, Shohreh would never understand or detect my ultrasonic insect sounds. I could rub my feet for hours, send loud signals and wave my whiskers, she would still never understand. Besides, no one is allowed into this place, not before the bald man eats, receives bows and compliments, and leaves. After what had happened with Shohreh last time, the owner was strict about not letting anyone else in while the bald man ate. He kept repeating to the rest of us, My food is clean, my food is clean.
Reza arrived, and when he entered the dining room he went out of his way to bow to Shaheed. Shaheed barely nodded. Then Reza turned and bowed to the blond man. The blond man asked about his box and quilt. Shaheed waved his
hand to Reza and Reza laid his box on the table opposite and pulled out his santour. Shaheed was proud, smiling as the blond man asked questions. Meanwhile I tuned my mop, ready for a swing above the waters.
The food came and both men ate. The bodyguard went to the kitchen and asked for a steak. I looked at the dishwasher and we winked at each other. The dishwasher laughed and rushed to the back, opened a closet, and handed the bodyguard a ketchup bottle. Then we all laughed, which alarmed the owner. He came into the kitchen and towards us with his wide eyes, thick-knit eyebrows, and neck that turned left and right, sniffing for subversion or any sign of rebellion.
As the men in the dining room ate, Shaheed leaned in and talked and explained and laughed. Soon the blond man pulled out his briefcase and opened it. He extracted a few papers and put them to the side of his plate. He read from the papers and explained, and Shaheed, oblivious to numbers and charts, ate and nodded, glancing from time to time at the papers. When his plate was empty and he had ordered tea for the table, Shaheed started to talk again. Now the blond man listened.
Sehar entered and twirled around the kitchen, hungry but not knowing what to eat. She opened the fridge and leaned over the cook's shoulder. And then she settled for a piece of Afghani bread. She held it and started to snatch little bites with her teeth, humming a feeble tune of boredom. She walked around, swinging her shoulders while eating.
Ketchup with that? the dishwasher ventured to ask, and laughed.
Sehar turned to him and said, with excitement and anticipation: Why, do we have hamburgers today?
Everyone in the kitchen chuckled, and we looked at one another with fraternity, equality, and bold freedom in our eyes.
In the dining room Reza played a soft, calm tune. The blond man glanced at Reza from time to time and smiled. He was interested in the music, as a refined, well-travelled man would be, I thought, and I wondered about the artifacts he would have in his house, all the maps and objects, the large library of books and records. He seemed to me like a gentle, well-mannered man. He was even thankful and a little apologetic for the tea I brought him.
After a while, the bodyguard stood up and walked towards the coats. That was the sign for departure. The owner rushed over to help.
Shaheed asked the blond man if he needed a ride.
I will walk, the man said.
Walk! Shaheed laughed. Why walk? It is so cold. We have a big car. We can drive you anywhere.
I like the fresh air and I do not live far. Walking is fine.
Sure, walking is good, but it is cold outside, Shaheed persisted.
I know it is cold, the man said, slightly closing his eyes and giving Shaheed a small smile, but I will walk. I don't mind the cold. I like it.
Shaheed laughed upon hearing these incredible words.
In any case, said the blond man, I will send you the document and we shall meet again soon. Is your stay here okay? Is the place to your taste?
Yes, very good, Shaheed said, and thanked him again.
Then the blond man told Shaheed that he would like to talk to Reza and see the musical instrument once more.
Yes, yes, this is the most famous and oldest instrument in Iran; it is beautiful, beautiful, art . . . Shaheed tried to explain.
Reza stood up and bowed goodbye to Shaheed from afar.
I watched the blond man smile and walk toward Reza's music box. Reza welcomed the man with a smile and the man started his questions, and a long conversation ensued that went longer than our closing rituals of sweeping, toilet cleaning, dish drying, and oven scrubbing.
When closing time came I left the restaurant with a general goodnight that was ignored like a flat note. I went outside, crossed the street, and waited. I stood in the bus-stop shelter. There was some graffiti on the glass. I angled my face between a red circle and a bit of the graffiti and I kept a watch on the restaurant door.
The blond man left and Reza followed him, and they talked some more on the sidewalk.
Then they shook hands and separated. I waited until Reza turned the corner and started my pursuit of the man. He walked briskly, his briefcase brushing against his long coat. At the collar of his coat bulged a burgundy scarf that gave him the air of a tall, well-dressed bird. I followed him, wondering if he had lied to Shaheed about the restaurant's close proximity to his house. I was hoping he had not lied because the streets were wide and empty, and the sidewalk made noises like the insides of wooden houses, and our breaths left vaporous trails that could be detected from distant mountaintops, read, and
decoded by red coyotes, crazy horses, and pipe-smoking chiefs. We breathed against the cold wind in the manner of chimneys and coal trains crossing between Indians' mountains. And I pursued the blond man, hoping he was someone who never looked back, never remembered he had forgotten a glove, an umbrella, or a paper on the floor. If he did remember, I thought, and if he went back to the restaurant and crossed my path, I would walk straight past him. I would not give him even a nod or a smile.
But one day, I knew, I would be intimate with him. One day I would get to know him well. And I wouldn't forget where he lived.
TWO DAYS LATER
I was up before dawn. Through a small crack in the curtains I could see a blue-grey sky reflecting little waves of colour on the glass. I alternated opening one eye and then the other. One eye at a time. One streak of light at a time. And I stayed in bed to see the sky's progression, the slow approach of the light, and I watched the wall get slowly, gradually brighter. Some objects on the floor couldn't be fully seen, but I knew what they were: shoes, a dirty plate, an ashtray, and a chair. When the room was light I stood up, washed my face, and decided to walk down my street in the hour before the newspaper gets thrown on doorsteps and the squirrels dig up underground roots for their morning meals. I got dressed and went outdoors. It was a bearable day. The cold had mellowed, the wind was in retreat, the wet asphalt held streaks of neon light, reflections from shop signs that skimmed its surface in the shape of unreadable letters and words that lost their
meanings when flattened and splattered on the ground. But then, who wants to know the meanings of words at this hour? Everything has turned into shapes and forms that confine you and guide you, between the city streets and building walls, to your final, inescapable destination.
I arrived at the blond man's house. I stood across the street and waited for a minute. The cold didn't bother me. I knew my reward would be grand: food and a morning glass of milk. Of course, the blond man would have milk. What well-established man does not own that exquisite liquid? But I couldn't just stand there on the street for too long, not working, not moving. I would raise the neighbours' suspicions. Everything on this street had to have a purpose. Stillness and piercing foreign eyes would soon be questioned by uniforms under whirling police-car lights. As I was drooling over my future looting, I saw the blond man's door open. A large dog and the blond man, bundled and ready to jog, left the house. They reached the sidewalk and both started jogging, the dog trailing behind. That dog, it seemed, loved the colour red. There was no red-painted hydrant that didn't interest him. The dog was also fascinated by upright, refined three-dimensional shapes. A true art connoisseur.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction. When I arrived at the street corner, I grew wings and I hurried back to the soil below the blond man's garden, seeking pipes and the road to warmth. Inside, I ate my breakfast first and then went to the living room. It was a modest house for a man with such a respectable exterior and manners. There were books, of course, many on war and politics. No
TV
, believe it
or not, not even in the bedroom. And no wife or kids. That is good, I thought. Why have the extra expense? It is enough that one has to pay lavishly for handsome clothing and oversized hardcover books. With bread and a glass of milk in hand, I went over to his desk. Sure enough, there was that leather briefcase he happily swung in the cold the other night when I followed him home. I finished my food, went back to the kitchen, and rinsed out the glass of milk. I opened the cupboard, looked for the hot sauce, and put a few drops in the dog's bowl. Have some spicy food, and welcome to a new world, my dear friend. Bland food is passé. Curry and exotic food are in style. I picked up the briefcase and walked out of the house, calm as if everything were routine. I walked with my head down to work, to the office in the high building, in that morning hour when the trains clear the way so the bureaucrats can be on time.
LATER IN THE DAY
I went down to the Café Artista. I looked for the professor. He was not in his usual seat. I asked the waitress where he was, and she pointed to the bathroom.
Indeed, his coat was on the chair. I sat in the chair and slipped my hand into his coat pockets. Nothing was there, nothing, not even a piece of a crumb.