Hasan Zerehi

My mother and her mother were standing with our heads in their hands.

“We are well,” says Iran.

I touch Iran's belly. I feel my child is in there.

She looks at me, smiles, and says: “Our child.”

A storm breaks out in me.

A storm breaks in my heart.

My head in my mother's hand turns toward Iran's head, in her mother's hands.

The world turns green.

We were children. We chased girls. We used to go to the palm grove. We made dolls with clay. We gazed at the clay doll.

“Are you well? How beautiful have you become.”

We rubbed our hands on the breasts of the doll, and in that hot humid weather a coolness of happiness flowed in our bodies.

I fashioned my doll after Iran. When the doll was made, I passed my hand on her firm breasts. I wish Iran, too, had made a doll after me, and passed her hands where I would have been ashamed. She has a black mole on her right thigh. She had a white tender skin. I used to call her my crystal. Her eyes were almost green.

My mother hated green eyes.

In the palm grove at whatever I looked it assumed Iran's form.

In the school, too.

Under the lotus tree, our gazes became intertwined. I was looking at her stealthily.

Our gazes merged into one, the look in her green eye flowed into my body. I was filled with a sense of greenness and joy. I wished to stay green and joyous. I did.

We were alone, the sense of that look lingered fresh in my body for a few years.

I put my hand on her dear and warm hand, on the soft and tender silk.

I was gazing at her brown hair and green eyes.

My mother has discovered something. From the clay hot stove, with fear and caution, I take a loaf of bread.

The heavy look in my mother's eyes falls on my shoulders, she sneers and says: “Don't let her distract you. That girl is a witch.” I keep silent. I don't turn away my eyes from the bread. She has distracted me. I like my distraction.

At nights, I kiss her in my dreams. Her kisses sweep the inside of my body and then something flows in my body. It is not my blood.

Her heart goes into my body. It merges with my heart.

I don't tell my mother. I like my distraction. I don't tell her that I'm bewitched. I take the hot bread and go up onto the roof. Their house is two steps away from our house. Far far, late late. I'm hiding not to get caught by the guards. Iran's memory gives birth to a tumult in me. My veins like a mad river overflows and in a pleasant way destroys all my being.

I don't think about the guards and my own fears.

I don't even think about people and my desires. Only if Iran was mine…

I want to see her. My cousin is a member of the Revolutionary Guards. He doesn't want me to get killed. He's said that I have to leave.

I want to stay and die where Iran is.

“Go and return,” Iran says.

Under the lotus tree we arrange a rendezvous under the green shade of her first glance. She has come, wearing her faded blue muslin dress. Her glance flows in me.

My hand is on her hand, my glance at her hair and lips.

I have to kiss her. I hate the sense of that last kiss. I hate the senses of the first and last kisses.

“Farewell,” I say.

“Will you return,” she asks.

“I'll return,” I answer.

I bring my head close to her eye. There is a commotion in me. Her large and warm breasts flow the coolness of the morning in the dead heat of my body. I become the color of a dream.

Our young bloods meshes together. They become one. Her kisses have the smell of the spring and the cold and humid breeze of the morning in the port.

I'm in Dobai. I see people I haven't seen for years. I've become bitter and fault-finding with everything.

I've come to hate getting away. I say I should have stayed. I haven't stayed.

The guards have taken away my books. My cloths, too. My mother has said what's my cloths to them. My father has said they're afraid of my cloths. Iran has cried that they don't have any right to take away my cloths. They have taken her, too. with my letters to her, our clay dolls, and our books.

Iran has become imprisoned in jail. After three days she is released. Confused and depressed. With a bitter and heavy silence whose shadow has spread over the port. Still is.

“You don't believe. She was bewitched. Her heart wasn't in her body. The green color of her eyes had been erased. Like a beautiful painting that have been sprayed all over with black color.

“She still goes to the palm grove every day, under the lotus tree.

Her brothers here have become a little unkind to me.

“Don't return,” my mother says.

I want to go back. I hate the black color over Iran's painting.

“Murderers,” Ali says.

I don't ask who.

Ahmad and Ibrahin have gone to the port. To Sirik.

They have taken with them a gold necklace and a pink neckerchief as a souvenir for Iran.

Ahmad, her older brother, has said that they want to take her to Dubai.

Iran has thought about me and her eyes have become green.

They've said that they should go this very night.

Ibrahim has shaken his head sadly.

They have taken the gold necklace and have set out in the dead of the night. her mother and my mother have kissed Iran's forehead, their cheeks have become wet.

They've said they want to talk to her before her departure. Iran has suggested our lotus tree. In the total darkness of the night they've gone to the palm grove under the lotus tree of Iran's and mine.

They've told Iran to be comfortable and to lie. With her faded blue muslin shirt, Iran has lied on the ground.

The night was full of stars. It was humid, too. Iran has gone to the jail to bring her green glance.

When she had found her green glance, a disgusting feeling had come to her. A feeling of fear and death.

Ahmad has taken out the Swiss knife from the pocket of her jacket that he was wearing in that heat.

Iran has wanted to open her eyes. Ahmad has ordered her harshly: “Close your eyes.” Frightened, Iran has tried to stand up and run away. Ibrahim has sat on my Iran's breast, with a murderous seriousness; tears have congealed in Ibrahim's eyes. Ahmad has put the knife on my Iran's throat.

Ibrahim has seen the warm blood of Iran on his hand and face. He's wailed.

Ahmad has said he doesn't want a sister with a bastard in her belly.

They've told my mother to wait for my head.

My mother and her mother are standing with our heads in their hands.

“Don't worry about us. We are well,” we tell them.

My hand is on Iran's belly. It's my child.

Iran makes me green. She smiles and says: “Our child.”

A tempest begins in me.

A tempest begins in my heart.

My head turns in my mother's hand toward Iran's head in her mother's hands. The world becomes pitch green. 

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