What a blessing to be here, in the garden of my childhood. To be here and to be alone! Away from the madness of Tehran and its uproars. In the corner of this desolate orchard, there are no companions to distract me with intellectual disquisitions, no socializing or political discussions. No more ceremonies, speeches, conferences, seminars. No wife and no family responsibility and, most important of all, no more boring interviews and calculating questions:
Sir, what is the name of your new book?
Is it a fiction or a collection of philosophical reflections?
Perhaps a book of memories, a long awaited autobiography?
Maybe a political drama, or science fiction?
What is the meaning of this long mysterious silence?
How I hate this last intrusion. I am tempted to tell the truth, but don’t dare. How can I confess that after all these years, after all these speeches and promises, after false hopes and ambitious claims, now that I have made a name for myself and reached the height of my career, I no longer believe in any of the ideas and opinions I used to express.
I am sixty years old, a highly praised writer, as you may know, and a well-regarded professor of philosophy. I have written a dozen books, fiction, poetry, articles (maybe too many), and God knows how many conferences I have been to, in Iran and around the world. I have talked all my life, with enthusiasm and conviction. But today I have no more to say. Nothing inspires me any more. It is a sad confession, but it is true. I don’t understand this tendency to discard and forget. But indifference and indolence have permeated my whole being. What about not writing at all? What if I give up altogether and turn my back to the whole world? Why must I do anything, to whom do I owe anything? First, to myself, to this still growing and expanding self that cannot neglect its colorful image, that is addicted to applause and compliments. And to my students, who still believe in me; and to my wife and family (especially my father-in-law), who are all impatient to celebrate my final creation, my magnum opus, something of vital importance for the world of ideas and letters.
I must give myself another chance. I must force myself to work, to finish this book, which at the moment is only a hundred unrelated sentences, and a hundred and five meaningless words, and three hundred blank pages.
Why don’t I give up? No. I will not surrender. I have come here to work, to create, to discover my authentic self—not the romantic poet I used to be, not the ardent communist of twenty years ago, not the naive Islamist who was fooled and paid the price. No. None of them, but someone new, someone who has found a new truth.
I set my computer on the small rickety table in front of a window, bring over a chair and sit down. “Is there a new truth?” I wonder. “That would be a good title for a book.”
“Master . . .”
This bore of gardener again. What a nuisance. Doesn’t he understand that I have come here to work, that I need peace. More than anything else, peace.
“Dear sir . . .” he pleads again.
I will kill this man. Oh, a perfect idea for a detective story.
The old man, hesitant and apologetic, taps on the window. He is visibly embarrassed and coughs. “Sir, a word or two about this pear tree . . . Please. It is an urgent matter.”
I light a cigarette and get up to look for an ashtray.
He raises his voice. “The pear tree has borne no fruit this year,” He goes on, “God knows why. But of course trees have their own logic. Do you hear me, sir?”
“Oh, shut up!” I mutter to myself.
“The cherry tree has done wonders. Please, come and have a look. It has outdone them all. It deserves a prize. Trees understand, they’re aware of things, they like to be praised.”
Who doesn’t? Prizes and medals and cheers and applause, I have spent a lifetime running after them.
He peers through the glass, to the far corner of the room, to the landlord, who is staring at nothing and lost in his thoughts. “Don’t you remember how fond you were of this pear tree?” (I certainly do not.) “And how often you told me that Damavand Garden would lose its charm and beauty? (How could I possibly have uttered such nonsense.) “Your late father, may he rest in peace, often gave me extra money for my work,” (a blatant lie) “and you yourself, when you were a young boy—that last summer, under this very pear tree, you sat with your friend. What was her name?”
“Excuse me sir, we are late. They are waiting for us.” The wise man of the village is now with him and interrupts. His voice is strong and commanding. “Sir. We wait for you in the garden. We are ready for the ritual. You have to come and whisper the first words into the ear of the pear tree.”
The gardener and the village elder are silent for a moment but I realize they have no intention of going away. There is no way to get rid of them but to do as they wish and have it over with. The sooner the better.
I come outside and ask them about this ritual (thinking of ancient human sacrifices). “What part do I have to play in all of this?”
They reply together. One of them starts a sentence and the other one cuts him short, adding more details and explanations about the pear tree, ungrateful renegade, that without previous warning has refused to bear any fruit at all this year. The gardener interprets this act as an inexcusable affront, directed at his white beard and at the hallowed greenness of the garden. Maybe someone has thrown the evil eye on the tree? Or poisoned it? Maybe the people from the upper part of the village have had a hand in it.
The village elder, pointing to the gardener, explains: “This poor man has lavished every possible care and effort on this special tree. He has watered it properly. He has pruned it regularly. He has weeded the ground around it, clearing all kinds of thorn and thistles. He has fertilized its soil with the best human manure.”
The gardener sighs and tears gather in his eyes. “Believe me sir, I talked to the pear tree, I called myself its humble servant, its slave, I did everything in my power. I performed my daily prayers under its branches. At times I pretended that nothing was wrong, that there was nothing to worry about, and laughed. I left it alone for a while so it could change its mind. But it didn’t. So I called the elder of the village and together, we kicked its trunk, spat at it, and still we could not understand what was the matter. Now we have to cut it down.”
The village elder adds, “Of course, we will just pretend. We must threaten it, humiliate it. You are the owner of the garden, the destiny of the trees are in your hands. You have to issue the verdict.”
I am tired of all their talk but, at the same time, I am somehow moved and even envious of their sincere convictions and zeal.
Three or four more people have also arrived and are surrounding the barren tree. The gardener stands at the ready with his axe. The village elder talks to the tree, scolding and berating it. The others voice their agreement.
The gardener murmurs, “Sir, you must give the verdict.
“What should I say?” I ask in a weak voice.
“Say that it must be cut down.”
The ceremony starts. The gardener raises his axe: “ Tree, you have broken the rules of the garden and therefore deserve death. Here is your master, he is ashamed of you. Hear his verdict.”
“The verdict?”
“Master . . .”
Still no sound comes out of my mouth.
The gardener grumbles. “ The death verdict, sir.”
The village elder is worried. He must notice that the master’s face has turned white and his lips are quivering. He takes the axe, and swings it above his head. He is about to hit the tree when the gardener grabs his wrist in mid-air. The men salute the prophet and his family.
The village elder, realizing that, for whatever the reason, I won’t participate in the ritual, intercedes—he talks to the tree, pleads with it and, acting as a mediator, pledges his word and his white beard that the tree will mend its ways and, to make up for its shortcomings, will provide better and bigger pears next year. The gardener, also, gives a sermon, reminding the tree of its obligations and duties. They give the tree a chance, then they all salute the prophet and his family again and depart with shouts of joy and laughter, leaving the tree, supposedly, in a state of humiliation and regret.
I hear the call to the midday prayer. Time is passing. Already one precious day is wasted. I rush back to my room, and I sit in front of the computer, read the meaningless sentences I have written. I delete them all.
The gardener brings me a basket of fruit. This time he walks in without knocking on the door and talks with a touch of intimacy.
“What happened to your young friend?” he says confidently, as if we were close friends. “You were so fond of her. She came here once. Oh, it was many years ago. She wanted to see the garden. I can’t remember what she said, or what she wanted. She was crying. It broke my heart. I can’t remember her name. I can’t remember anything. When you get old . . .” He sighs and nods his head. “She came here asking about you. She wanted to see your room.”
My heart skips a beat. “Did you ask her name?” I ask.
“Yes. But I can’t remember it now.”
“Are you sure she was my young friend, the one who came to spend the summer with us?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it was someone else?” I ask.
“Yes. Maybe.” He seems nervous and doesn’t like this cross-examination.
“When did this happen?”
“I think last year. No. It was the year we had a bad winter. Many years ago. I don’t remember sir. I am old. I must go back to my work now. You get some rest.”
So she did come back looking for me. After all these years, after so much loss and sorrow, she kept her promise. “Mina my darling, my little friend.” I repeat her name under my breath. An invisible hand taps at silent strings of my heart and the garden of my childhood, in shadowy fragments, appears before my eyes. Faces mingle together like superimposed photographs. Scraps of blurred and dusty images from a distant past: I see people sitting on the floor of a veranda having dinner. An oil lamp is hanging from a wooden beam. It is a silent film. Only one figure is fully alive and tangible. She comes into focus: a young mischievous girl, who looks like a wild naughty boy, with short curly hair and black, insolent eyes. She stands in front of me—intact, unchanged.
I see my own teenage self, walking around in a daze, like a sleepwalker, spellbound, hypnotized. I have written Mina’s name on the palms of my hands, and carved her initials on the trunk of the birch tree. I lick her name with the tip of my tongue, dizzy and feverish with excitement.
I leave the gardener and go to the bathroom to wash my face. Looking in the mirror I see a stranger who barely resembles me. I keep staring at that sad image, wondering why the corners of my eyes are pulled down and why my nose seems bigger than usual. Is this me, is this how people see me? I search for another face, the face that Mina loved. I had forgotten to remember her. I told her to wait. Not to be impatient: I will come for you, just wait, until I have finished my book, until my comrades and I have saved humanity, until the final triumph of the working class, just wait.
A dog is barking outside the garden. I hear people talking in a whisper. Mina is sleeping in the living room, flat on her stomach on a patterned blanket with her face towards the wall. She has covered herself with a white sheet, which has tangled under her body. Her left leg, up to the knee, is bare. Now and then she drowsily chases away a fly and scratches a mosquito bite on her neck. The door to the living room is open. I enter quietly, on tiptoe. I sneak up a few steps and lie down on the carpet with my face next her. She smells of wet grass and cucumber fields. I stare at her half-open mouth. Her upper lip is moist with sweat. I slowly stretch out my arm. She moves and pulls the sheet over her naked leg. My spellbound hand is inches from her body. She is so near, so mine, yet unattainable. How many times in my adult life I have tried to bridge this distance and returned empty handed. Her espadrilles are next to her. White cotton shoes all covered in mud. Slowly, with a sense of forbidden pleasure, I slip my hand in her shoe. It’s warm and moist and sticky, and it has the special smell of her sweaty body. A strange feeling of numbness starts in the palm of my hand and gradually runs through my whole body. It is as though I were floating in some still, lukewarm water and my eyelids were so heavy from sleep that I couldn’t keep them open.
My cell phone rings. It is my wife. I know.
“Are you working, my dear?”
“Yes, of course.
“Do you need anything?”
“Yes. Peace.”
Offended, she hangs up.
My mind is an ocean of confusion. Now with Mina, I can’t think of anything else. I float on the misty horizon of the past. The dusty days of that last summer are back. Mina is here and everywhere. She is sitting under a tree smoking a stolen cigarette. She is biting my neck and kissing the corner of my mouth.
I try to put these scattered memories in order, but they come and go and I have no command over them. Mina has left without saying good-bye, taking with her my notebook with my insipid poetry and my secret memories.
It is winter when Mina and her mother visit us. I am ill, in bed, and my skinny body is racked with sorrow and fever. The adults leave us alone. I close my eyes. She tells me that she is going to Europe to study. So there won’t be another summer. No. I mustn’t cry. I clench my teeth. I am wet with perspiration. I pull the sheet over my face to hide my tears. I am feverish and feel as though I have dreamed up everything—the Damavand garden and Mina and all—as though all this is a delirium in which I am simultaneously reliving all the days of last summer. She bends over me and whispers into my ear: Come after me or wait for me to come back.
I stand at the window and look out at the vast sky. A golden ray shines on the horizon, as though particles of an unknown substance were about to meet and combine. I wonder if life continues after death, or if there is a chance of coming back, to be reborn, to start all over again. Or if there is no answer to such philosophical speculation, is there a way, a possibility, that I could explain to Mina why I didn’t go after her. It wasn’t that I had stopped loving her or I had forgotten her. No. Never. I had just given myself a little time, and didn’t know that time passes faster than the speed of imagination. I didn’t know that soon would be too late. I wanted first to write my books, to make a name and become worthy of her love. How could I explain to her that all my feelings, my passion for her, had taken a new direction. That my eternal woman was transformed into a hard-working friend with a big black mustache. I followed my new comrades, my political brothers, wherever they went and, together with them, shouting slogans, singing party hymns and putting a portrait of Marx upon my wall, my heart beat with the same intensity and fervor as it had for Mina. Even more than Mina’s espadrilles, the party had drawn me inside itself. I believed everything I was told. I obeyed every order I was given. I went wherever I was told to go. I traveled to the south and talked to the factory workers. I made several trips to the north and the east of the country to talk to the farmers. Speech after speech. I distributed papers. I was not well off. I was poor. I was hungry. I was ill. But nothing could break my attachment to my party. I heard the secret police were on my tracks. My comrades were declared the enemy of the monarchy, of the nation. My life was in danger, but I didn’t care. I was under a spell. Life flowed through my veins with passion and intensity. And then? All was blown away like a floating bubble. A great illusion. I brought down the picture of Marx from my wall and I told myself I would not be fooled again. But then I heard the cries of Allaha Akbar and the shouts of the people running in the streets, and my foolish heart was enchanted once again. As if Mina was crying inside of me. I rushed out and joined the vengeful crowd that was marching in the streets. Finally, the long awaited one had come. The promised redeemer. I ran to give my blood for the wounded. Yes. This time justice would triumph. Mina, my love; where are you? Something big is happening. The one we have been waiting for has come. The Saver. The Imam.
It was the third year of Islamic Revolution. There were four of us in a tiny, windowless cell. We were crowded together. I was given five years of prison and the others were condemned to death. One of them knew Mina. I heard the news of her death in a car accident from him.
I walk out into the garden. The old men have disappeared. It is early in the evening. The moon is shining above the garden. The ripening grapes sparkle. The red cherries beckon. The apple tree looks more sumptuous than ever, its branches heavy with fruit. Wherever I look, trees are thriving and preening like a princess admiring herself in the mirror. The garden is throbbing and humming and buzzing, full of pageantry and pride. The trees stretch in triumph towards me and the world—all except the pear tree, which stands tight-lipped and empty. It resembles an old sage, sitting alone, modest and patient. Among all the noisy display, all the pomp and splendor and spectacle, it has the quiet, unassuming presence of a nobody.
The gardener used to bring us a basket of pears each summer and watch with pride as we greedily devoured them. I sit on the ground and lean against this old green friend. I take off my shoes and stretch my legs. It is only now that I feel how weary I am, how far I have come, stumbling and struggling along. Fifty years of belief and illusion, of slogans and romance, of participating in history, playing my part in everyday events, appearing in news items, beating my drum and blowing my horn.
The old gardener is certain that the pear tree will bear fruit again. Maybe it will, when the time comes. At the moment it is quiet, watching the world around it and biding its time.
I stretch out on the ground. How pleasant it is. The old pressure that has weighed on my heart day and night slowly lifts. The sky is studded with stars and Mina is floating among them. I am half asleep. I have been granted a moment of bliss, a moment to sense my presence in the world, detached and disengaged, empty of all desires for name and fame—a temporary respite to be and to observe, without that anxiety, that absolute need, to measure and explain, to verify and attest.
Mina is with me. She teases and caresses me then flies away. Is it midnight, or almost dawn? I can’t tell. I am sitting between the infinite past and the infinite future. My gaze has distanced itself from material things, from the trees and the garden and the gardener, from other human beings and from myself—my limited self—and is focusing on a tiny spider, near my hand, quietly and patiently weaving its web.
