Banthology Page 3

‘Kalimera.’

  ‘That’s right, you can go. Next time don’t forget your ID.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you a lot.’

  I walk back to the car. I stare at Winston triumphantly. You don’t scare me anymore: you, or your weird blonde fringe.

  I forget all my other names, everything, in fact, as I listen to my train crossing the Öresund Bridge into the darkness of the North Sea.

  Translated from the Arabic by Perween Richards and Basma Ghalayini

  1 Units of prayer

  PHANTOM LIMB

  Fereshteh Molavi

  Iran

  On a Monday

  WHETHER HE FIRST APPEARED on the screen or on the stage makes no difference. Out of the blue he seized the spotlight. His unseen Persian cat was meowing softly.

  I’d woken up with an old idea that turned into a sudden decision. I would start blogging again. I didn’t know why I’d stopped after arriving in Toronto. Perhaps there wasn’t an audience for it. Was there anything I could write online that I couldn’t already express in public? In Tehran, I knew why I blogged. It was a crutch. A way for me to reach out to other young people like me.

  The phone broke my reverie. I could hear it ringing in the hall. It was early, but none of my roommates would be home—they had to be at the factory by 6am. I grudgingly picked up the phone. It was Farhad’s father. Long distance. I told him that Farhad was at work and wouldn’t be back until late evening. He said it wouldn’t be easy for him to call later. ‘What can I do for you?’ I asked. Amid a sudden burst of Mandarin over the line, I recognised his broken Farsi with a heavy Kurdish accent, ‘Let him know that his mother’s right leg was cut off last week.’ I tried to dig a sound out of my larynx, but nothing came. Farhad’s cat appeared from behind his door and let out a long, drawn-out meow.

  We usually rehearse in the living room after dinner. I asked Najib and Varuzh to deliver the bad news to Farhad. After all, they’d both known him for the longest time. Varuzh and Farhad had met in Germany as refugees. Varuzh was Syrian-Armenian; Farhad was Iranian Kurd. Najib, who’d fled from the Taliban, had met Varuzh in Ankara before he too went to Germany. In their forties and in refugee status limbo, they work at the same miserable factory, making cabinets. I didn’t know them when I first arrived in Toronto with a student visa and a dream of becoming a successful theatre director, free to write and direct what I wanted. I found these guys online, and soon realised that they would give anything to be on the stage.

  When Varuzh and Najib came home, Farhad was not with them. He’d gone to see the owner of another factory in the hope of finding a job with fewer hours and better pay. We talked about how to tell Farhad the news, taking it in turns to play out his response. I wasn’t much of an actor, so decided to give them direction instead. They didn’t disagree. When Farhad got back, we immediately forgot everything we’d rehearsed.

  On a Tuesday

  I wanted to write a few lines about my own job; but neither it, nor writing about it interests me right now. What the hell can you say about a renovation company that hires people without work permits, and pays peanuts cash in hand? I was considering taking a job at the factory where the others worked, but it didn’t sound like their boss was much better than mine. In truth, I was just curious to find out what they did all day. I wanted to go see it for myself.

  I called my supervisor to let him know I wasn’t coming in. I hadn’t thought up an excuse, but could always rely on a variation of the cliché ‘My grandmother passed away.’ Instead, I said, ‘I just got horrible news from home—my mother’s right leg was cut off.’ I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because the Persian cat was meowing softly next to me. As expected, my supervisor was deeply troubled by the news and suggested that I take two days off.

  On my way to the cabinet-makers on Keele Street, I walked through Little Jamaica and tried to imagine how Farhad would feel passing through this neighbourhood everyday. Did he feel like he belonged? Did he feel safe surrounded by people who knew nothing of his home or language?

  Their boss was a large man with an insatiable appetite. He interviewed me in his office while he ate breakfast. There wasn’t that much he wanted to know. It wasn’t the first time I’d looked for a survival job. This time I just pretended to be interested. He sat down in front of a burgeoning pile of food, lovingly prepared for him by his wife-cum-secretary. The first tray was piled high with bagels and cream cheese, coffee with milk and sugar; the second with some Iranian delicacies: two slices of toasted Barbari bread, Tabriz cheese, honey, cherry jam, butter, and a big glass of sweetened tea. As he ate, he spoke endlessly about his journey from lowly immigrant to top-class business man. His story didn’t interest me. I’d heard it before: An Air Force officer for the Shah, trained in the US, worked briefly for the Islamic regime, fled to Canada, and started everything from scratch. My roommates distrusted him, suspicious of his political allegiances. But I didn’t really care if he was an informant, or if he’d smuggled or trafficked. What amused me was his visible greed, brutally exploiting his jaws. Noticing that I was watching how he ate, he returned to complaining about his bottomless gut. I turned to look out over the workshop and imagined the hungry hours Farhad had spent, either in solitary confinement or during his escape over the mountains from Kurdistan to Turkey, without food or water. Thank God Farhad didn’t suffer from his boss’s greed.

  After breakfast, I made my way home to study for the college admission test. Hardly had I started when the phone rang. It was Farhad’s father again with an update on his wife’s sufferings. The old man seemed to like these chats, particularly when the listener was a friend of Farhad, not Farhad himself. He was smart enough to realise that his son wasn’t interested in talking to him. ‘He never denies he doesn’t get on with his father,’ Varuzh once said. Yet Najib thought that it was more of a love-hate relationship. I held the receiver to my ear, occasionally responding with ‘Oh, yeah’ and ‘Hmmm’. I was watching the cat walk from room to room, her tail in the air. Najib always says that such a graceful Persian shouldn’t show her asshole. I averted my gaze and fixed my eyes on two pictures hanging on the wall beside each other. One was a small map of Iran covered with intricate painted patterns, much like a Persian cat’s coat. The other was an old black-and-white photo in a plain black wooden frame, showing a young woman with lustrous eyes riding a horse, holding a gun in one hand and the bridle in the other. She had wavy long black hair over her shoulders and a wan smile on her lips. She was wearing a Kurdish man’s puffed up trousers and turban. After hanging up, I stared at the pictures for a while through the half-opened door.

  When Najib and Varuzh returned, Farhad was not with them. ‘He had a sore foot,’ Najib said. ‘He went to get some painkillers from the drugstore,’ added Varuzh. I asked about the picture of the woman on the wall. Najib said that she might be the girl Farhad had loved years before, but Varuzh disagreed. ‘Oh, no, I think it’s his mother. I know for sure he never saw that girl face-to-face. He only heard her singing in the cell next to his. How could he have a picture of her?’ I wanted to ask Farhad about the woman in the photo, but Varuzh said that he wouldn’t talk about it. When Farhad got home, I forgot to ask.

  On a Wednesday

  I woke up at 5am, and could hear Farhad moaning from the room next door. I tried to ignore it, but didn’t last long. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Farhad was hunched over writhing in pain. I asked whether it was his right heel that was hurting. He nodded. When I tried to look at it, he snapped at me and said there was no bruise or cut. ‘So, there’s no reason to be worried,’ I said gently. ‘I’m not worried,’ he snapped. He was in pain. He thought I didn’t believe him, just like his old man never believed his mother. But after the surgery the old man called every so often to talk about his mother. Farhad shrugged. He used to call back home once or twice a month to speak with her, but after the operation neither she nor he bothered. If the old man could get through Farhad then he’d happily tell him all he did for her. To Farhad, h
is words implied that he hadn’t done anything for his mother. I tried to change to the subject, asking if I should cover for him at work while he rested in bed.

  Farhad’s boss was not displeased to see me instead of Farhad. After all, Bottomless Gut needed young workers in good health with no work permits. At noon, he invited all three of us to have lunch with him in his office. Varuzh and Najib declined, preferring instead to eat their own sandwiches. Bottomless Gut insisted, waxing lyrical about the special dish his wife had prepared. He was very proud of his wife, particularly of her cooking. That afternoon, a new worker cut his hand badly. She gave him first aid, saving her husband from having to take him to a clinic and paying for medicine. Najib and Varuzh knew her talents also included convincing the safety inspector that the workshop followed regulations. But they both agreed her most remarkable skill was persuading workers, unhappy because of low pay or her husband’s short temper, not to quit.

  When we came back from work, Farhad wasn’t home. The cat, reclining in her usual spot, ignored us. ‘He must have gone for a walk,’ said Varuzh. ‘But his foot hurt a lot this morning,’ I said. Varuzh reminded me that Farhad would take a walk whenever he felt stressed. ‘Maybe he had another call from home,’ Najib said. I remembered the latest call from Farhad’s father, and that he spoke of his wife’s panic at seeing a bulging stump instead of her leg. Varuzh, setting the table for dinner, said that it would be hard to imagine news worse than what he’d already got. Najib nodded. When Farhad finally came home, we began rehearsal and didn’t speak of his mother again.

  On a Thursday

  This morning a loud crash woke me from my dreams. I jumped out of bed. The cane the boss’s wife had given Farhad had fallen to the floor. The cat, who’d leapt over the edge of the bed, lowered her guilty tail. Bottomless Gut wasn’t happy with a troublesome employee like Farhad, constantly complaining about a suspicious sore foot. Yet his wife had convinced him to let Farhad take a short unpaid break so he could go to the hospital for tests. I examined the cane to make sure it wasn’t damaged. Farhad didn’t move. It was a very old hand-crafted hickory cane with engraving on its handle. Bottomless Gut wouldn’t appreciate his wife’s generosity. I gently put the cane on the bed and got dressed to go with Farhad to the hospital.

  At about noon, we left the hospital. Walking along the broad sidewalk of University Avenue in silence, Farhad looked a little disappointed that the tests were clear. What surprised me most was what Farhad had said to his doctor, that the pain had spread to the rest of his leg. When he described the tingling sensations, I wondered whether I should tell the doctor about the amputated right leg thousands of miles away.

  When I came home without Farhad, the phone was ringing. I reluctantly picked it up. Farhad’s father sounded agitated. He asked about Farhad, then spoke about the weather and the rate of inflation. I didn’t mention Farhad’s sore leg, convinced he wouldn’t believe me. After a brief pause, he spoke of Farhad’s mother. That morning, forgetting her missing leg, she’d tried to get out of the bed and fell face-down on the floor. ‘Thank God, she only bruised her forehead slightly.’

  When they got back, Najib and Varuzh listened to the news sympathetically. ‘No wonder she’s struggling to cope. She used to ride horses,’ said Varuzh. ‘Poor woman …’ Najib muttered. ‘She’s only 60. She was barely 15 when she gave birth to Farhad. She married a man 20 years her senior and now the old man’s still in good shape while she’s declining rapidly.’ Najib and I turned involuntarily and looked at the picture on the wall. Varuzh asked me where Farhad went after his appointment with his doctor. I shrugged. How could I explain to them what happened? We were walking on the sidewalk with our heads down, watching the women’s legs as they strode by. A pair of shapely porcelain-white legs moved quickly ahead of us. I remember the clicking sound of Farhad’s cane on the ground as we followed them. But when I raised my head, Farhad wasn’t beside me. Varuzh didn’t say anything. We trusted that he would make it back in time for rehearsal.

  On a Friday

  I opened my blog. Nothing. Only Farhad had bothered to read and share a post. Claiming that I had diarrhea, I left work in the early afternoon and rushed home to get the stage ready for our final rehearsal. Standing in the middle of the living room, I saw the cat sleeping quietly on Farhad’s bed, her profile visible through the half-opened door. She was curled up beneath the map on the wall. My eyes drifted toward the picture in the black frame, the lustrous dark eyes beckoned me towards them.

  I hung the two pictures in the living-room and dragged the mirror in from the hall. I was excited about surprising Varuzh and Najib. One boring Sunday afternoon, killing time on Bloor Street, my roommates and I ended up shopping for stuff that could be used for our future performances. It was Farhad who’d first been fascinated by this mirror laid among other trumperies on the back shelves of the Salvation Army thrift store. Najib and Varuzh were unhappy with the price. ‘God knows how many things you could buy with 7 bucks!’ said one of them. It was worth it, though. A bit rusty around the edges, the mirror was a middle-sized oval with a silvery-white wheat pattern at the bottom in a fine, thin silver frame—one of those you find on the mantelpiece of many houses as a wedding keepsake.

  Varuzh and Najib returned home, but Farhad wasn’t with them. They seemed tense, and didn’t even notice my home improvements. Bottomless Gut had fired one of the labourers and ordered Farhad to unload one of the trucks. After twenty minutes, they’d heard a scream from the loading bay; a timber had slipped from Farhad’s hand and struck his leg. Najib and Varuzh wanted to take him to the hospital right away, but Bottomless Gut’s wife assured them that she could handle it. A couple of hours later Bottomless Gut came in, ‘My wife called a minute ago. Thank God, it’s not a fracture, just badly bruised. She’ll take him home after he’s done. Don’t worry!’

  I didn’t dare ask if it was his right leg or left leg. In less than an hour, Farhad and Bottomless Gut’s wife arrived at the flat. He was smiling from ear to ear, his right leg covered in white bandages. The woman was beside him, looking forlorn. For a moment I heard in my head a tune hummed by an unseen girl condemned to death.

  On a Saturday

  This morning I woke up in a good mood. Today was the day of our performance. Bottomless Gut called and asked us to work overtime, but we refused. I went out to shop, while Varuzh and Najib did some chores. Farhad, exempt from duties, was resting in bed, talking to his mother on the phone, playing with the cat, and listening to his favourite folk music. Ever since Farhad discovered that his right leg didn’t work, he’d been in better spirits, more confident. He began to call his mother every week. The poor woman was shocked to learn of her son’s misfortune, but it brought them closer together somehow. None of us could figure out how Farhad was feeling. It was hard to imagine him with only one leg, the other bent and tightly bound underneath the loose folds of Kurdish trousers.

  In the afternoon we worked on getting the stage ready for our after-dinner play. Even the cat seemed excited. She was a free spirit, unable to be controlled. Before dinner we ran through everything for the last time. The set was minimal to say the least. There was a small candle on one side of the stage where Varuzh was going to play the role of Farhad’s father, and an incandescent lamp on the other side where Najib was going to play Farhad. On Farhad’s father’s side we had the map on the wall and on the other side the picture of the woman hung. The small mirror in between reflected the father and son. The cat, meandering around the set, belonged to both sides. A second-hand tape player emitted the sound of a woman humming an old folk tune. Farhad said that it was similar to the girl he had heard in solitary confinement before her execution.

  After our supper, Varuzh and Najib began. Farhad was sat beside me. We were at once audience and director.

  On a Sunday

  Whether Farhad disappeared on the screen or on the stage makes no difference. Out of the blue he seized the spotlight, then vanished. I was left alone with a silent cat, a crea
sed map and a humming tune stuck inside my head.

  I’d woken up with an old idea that turned into a sudden decision. I’d stop blogging in order to let my phantom roommates free me of my writer’s block. I spent the morning running errands, studying and meeting with friends. At work, it was just me and Bottomless Gut. His wife didn’t work weekends. I watched him eat and returned home without an appetite. I felt empty, and in a way betrayed. But who betrayed who? Was it time for me to leave? My roommates had once been with me and now weren’t anymore. That was all. I went to my desk and turned on my laptop. A picture of the last scene stared back at me.

  Farhad’s in the middle. Najib and Varuzh flank him. All stand motionless, their expressions vacant. Each stand on one leg, with the other trouser leg folded up to knees with nothing below. Without crutches or canes, they somehow still look comfortable. Behind them is a white wall with a gloomy picture in a black frame. There is no sign of the mirror or any other props. Other than their pale faces, everything else, including their suits and shirts, is black. Their hands are hidden in their pockets. I can hear the sound of a woman’s voice humming as I switch off the light.

  RETURN TICKET

  Najwa Binshatwan

  Libya

  THIS STORY IS FOR you, my only grandson, who thankfully came into this world before I left it. I know I won’t always be around to tell it to you myself, so I’ve written everything down for your sake. This is no bedtime story or lullaby; I write so that you can truly appreciate being born in such an open-minded village, where people, animals, plants, diseases and every type of wind pass through with great ease. No matter how much you try to hate Schrödinger, and our strange way of life here, be thankful that there are no walls or guards or laws standing in your way. Your parents weren’t worried in the least about having you here, but rather what would happen to you if you were ever to leave.