My mother, their mother, and Ahmad are standing with our heads.

“Don't worry about us,” we say.

“We are well,” Ibrahim says.

Ibrahim's head turns toward Iran's head and he smiles. Tears break in Ibrahim's eyes.

They've returned to Dubai; Ahmad has brought the bloody knife with him. They had gone to Morad's house last night, have drank and told the story with a lot of embellishments. Ahmad has told it.

Ibrahim has been silent.

Ahmad has patted his back and has said: “Don't be so upset. It's something that's done. Do you think it was easy for me.”

Ibrahim has not said anything.

Ibrahim has drank more than anybody else. He's got drunk and nauseated until morning. It has been as if his heart and entrails were about to throw out of his mouth. On Saturday morning Ibrahim has got a ride on Mostafa's truck and has gone to Zaribeh; Ibrahim and Khaled are farm hands in Zaribeh. First, he has weeded out the grass and picked up the dates fallen under the feet of the palms; he has dropped them in a basket, and then has gone and sat under the thin and tall palm, reminiscing about his childhood.

I and Ibrahim and Khaled are sitting with baskets full of dates. Under a palm tree, we have made clay dolls, the clay dolls of a boy and a girl.

The hand of my doll is broken. Iran has looked at my doll and said: “Take her to the hospital.”

We have sat the doll on the clay ass that Ahmad has made, and then we have gone to the hospital.

“Mr. Dr. Vaziri, the hand of this girl is broken,” Iran says.

“Her hand is cut off!” Ibrahim says.

“They have cut off her hand,” I say.

“Abdy, whose doll is this? Why do you always make the dolls of girls?” Ibrahim asks.

I look at her. I smile. Iran looks at me. She smiles. I and Ibrahim and Iran spend our time in the palm grove more than other kids in the village.

“Are we going swimming?” Ibrahim asks.

“Let's go,” I say. I don't want to leave Iran. Nor can I say no to Ibrahim.

When we reach Sirik river, other boys are there.

We take off our loin-cloths and with our shorts jump into the water.

Don't splash in the water like that. Swim properly.

The water has turned completely muddy. It's as if we had gone into mire. We come out. We roll on the earth around the river.

Ibrahim is besides me. All the people in the village know that I love Iran. Ibrahim knows, too. Iran knows, too.

He begins to make dolls in Zaribeh.he makes the dolls of Iran and mine. Then takes the Swiss knife which is covered with Iran's blood and cuts off my and Iran's heads. He takes our heads and puts them in the pocket of his long shirt that stretches to his feet.

Tears flow from his cheeks.

From the other side of Zaribeh Khaled shouts: “You, Mr. zealot, don't waste anytime. We have a lot of work to do.”

Ibrahim hates Zaribeh. He wishes he was either in school or the palm grove.

“How could you?” Khaled asks.

“We couldn't bear the disgrace. We had to do something. What would you do if you were in our place,” Ibrahim answers.

Khaled looks at him. He thinks with himself what would he have done if he had been in their place? What would he have done if she had been his sister. He hates both knife and throat. And he likes Iran in a special way. It is as if Iran was his sister, or his lover, or his comrade.

“I don't know. It's hard. I can't say who is right and who is wrong,” he says.

Ibrahim feel he is in fire and blood. He is in a fire which is inflamed with blood. His whole body is in fire. “Today is warmer than other days,” he tells Khaled.

Khaled says, “It's June. The sheik and his family have gone to Shiraz. They're lucky. The weather in Shiraz is very nice. Maybe, one day we go to Shiraz together. Let's work for a year. If we can save 500 Rupee, we can go to Shiraz. We can go there in June. How wonderful is it going to be! By the way, is it cold there. It's better to take our jackets with us. Shiraz isn't like here, you know. It summer is sometimes as cold as the winter here. Ibrahim is in fire. In fire and blood. He listens and doesn't listen to Khaled's words. He's not interested to go to Shiraz. He's not interested in saving 500 Rupees. Our heads are jerking in the pocket of his long shirt. He puts his hand on his breast on the left pocket of his long shirt; all the same, our heads are jerking. He wants to tell Khaled. He's afraid Khaled may think he's gone mad. He takes the heads and puts them in the side pocket of his long shirt; there they won't weigh on his breast anymore.

He wants to forget the heads. He wants to busy himself with work. He wants to get rid of the knife and the blood and the head and the body of Iran. He wants to become wiser and more patient like Ahmad. He wants to cry like Ahmad who, embracing him in the boat, had said sobbingly: “Our poor sister, our poor Iran. What could we do? What did we do.”

“What could we do, what could we do?” Ibrahim had asked. And then Ahmad had calmed down, as if those tears and those words had calmed him down.

All his body is in fire. Fire and blood. Fire and blood blazes more fiercely than fire and wood. It is fiercer than fire and oil.

His whole body swells with blisters. The blisters blow out. Fast fast, his body bulges with a thousand blisters in every second and bursts with a thousand blisters in every second. But he doesn't die. He burns but he doesn't die. He's caught fire. But all the same, he looks at his burning in fire and twinge.

“It's like fire is raining from the sky. Humidity has increased, too. It must be more than any other day,” Khaled says. In fire and blood, Ibrahim does not feel humidity. He says to himself, “What are you saying? Haven't you seen the fire and the blood.?”  

At midnight, when he can't sleep, he goes toward his white long shirt to take a look at the heads. He slips his hand in the deep side pocket of his long shirt. His hand becomes wet.

He brings the heads out of the pocket. His hand drips with blood. He imagines he has chewed his fingers so much that the blood has shed from them. He looks at his hand. He put our heads into the pocket of the long shirt and goes to the bathroom, he washes his hands scrupulously with a soap, turns back and looks at his two hands. At his nails. His nails are chewed but they are not bloody. “Why do I imagine things?” he says. He goes and takes another look at the pocket of the long shirt. He comes back. He wants first to sprinkle his face with water. He wants first to wake up. But he wasn't asleep in the first place to be able to wake up. “Probably, I've been asleep, I imagined I was awake,” he tells himself. He looks at himself in the mirror. There are stains of blood on his cheeks. Right where Iran was stained with blood. He washes his face with water and soap. Probably, it's the bloodstain of my nails.

He goes toward the pocket of the long shirt, slides his hand in the pocket, takes the knife and our heads. His hand becomes wet again. He looks at our heads. They are red and bloody. The blood drips from our necks without a break. The pocket of his long shirt is soaked with blood. The blood is running on the ground. The room is soaked with blood. The room full of the inflamed blood.

Ahmad has slept. He hears his snoring. He wants to wake him up. He wants to say everywhere is full of blood and fire.

“when I woke up in the morning, I saw the room was full of blood,” Ahmad says.

I saw everywhere was covered with blood. There are two clay heads in Ibrahim's hands, the pocket of his deshdashe is bloody, too. I don't know how his head…he bursts into tears. How can a person cut off his head by his own hand, how!

My mother, their mother and Ahmad are standing with our heads.

“Don't worry about us,” we say!

“We are well,” Ibrahim says.