My mother and their mother are standing with our heads.

Iran's and my head are in my mother's hands.

The heads of Ibrahim and Ahmad are in their mother's hands.

“It was Abdy's fault,” Ahmad says!

Iran's head turns toward my head and her glance is knotted in my glance.

My head smiles.

Ahmad's glance falls on me who am standing and watching them.

“What are you doing here, Abdy,” Ibrahim says.

“Where?” Iran asks.

“There, in front of you, just in front of you,” Ahmad says.

“Say something, Abdy!” my mother says.

My head turns toward Iran's head and we smile.  

Ahmad stands up. He wishes to stay in bed. He wants to stay asleep until the end of his life. He feels that he hasn't blinked even once all his life.

Where he works is located on the main intersection of Dubai.

He controls the traffic.

He always used to say: “God bless the sheik.” He doesn't want us to starve. Or else what is this? The drivers know better than anybody else when they should move and when they should stop.

The thought of me and Iran and Ibrahim doesn't leave her alone. The thought of us frightens her.

He wants to go to his work in Dubai and think only about that intersection and that job and that life.

The week when he hasn't worked he doesn't count as part of his life. He feels the weather is warmer and more humid.

The uniform of Emirates police has stuck to his body. He starts his rundown Honda.

Instead of Ibrahim, his glance falls on the sight of the car and the house and the city. He spurns himself.

He wishes to forget me and Ibrahim and Iran forever. He likes to preoccupy himself with his job and life. He must be able to get rid of us in his thoughts. He must say goodbye to us, to all three of us. He must…what must be this last must. He doesn't know. He knows that he can't bear up with our heads anymore.

He has come to work. How has he traveled from the house to his work! He doesn't know. He imagines that the distance between his house and the intersection where he works has vanished. There and here have become one. He doesn't remember that he has left Satveh.

He looks at the busy street. At cars, at boats, at some ships, hundreds of small boats. At the boatmen who shout “Deyra, Deyra, Deyra.”

He whistles on the intersection. From the echo of the whistle in the ears of the drivers, from the effect of the sound on them, he feels good. It's as if a hidden force from his breath and mouth flows in the whistle like a river, it flows into the hallways of the drivers' ears, and then like robots he sends them away. And they move away as others replace them.

The street has become like a hot black paper on which cars and people are drawn, the moving cars and people.

A little farther off, the paper has turned blue, the blue full ships and large and small boats.

And farther is Deyra. The color of its black paper is striped.

I feel sort of strange. These damned thoughts.

When the though presses you, when the though weighs you down, that hurts you.

I wish I had stayed in our village.

I wish I hadn't come to Dubai.

Then I wouldn't have become a cop.

Then Ibrahim didn't have to work as a farm hand.

Then Abdy wouldn't have been such a fool.

And Iran so beautiful.

These damned heads.

These blood-dripping necks.

These thoughts, these nightmares.

He says good morning to his night shift replacement.

The other answers good morning.

Khaled, the shopkeeper on the intersection says: “Welcome Hamed.”

“Thank you,” he answers. But he hates him for calling him Hamed. This is the first time that he feels hatred for it. It's like when a person has swallowed something twice as much as he has to and now he must throw up.

“Do you think you've done something extraordinary. We thought that you are going to be more cheerful after taking a week off!” Khaled says.

Khaled knows what's going on. He knows about Iran and Abdy. And he acts in a way as if nothing has happened.

Where do all these cars go?

Don't all these people have anything to do?

Why don't they take a nap in their houses with their air conditioners on?

Why in the street, damp and heat…?

He feels as if the sun is planted on his shoulders.

He feels warmer. He takes off his hat. He whistles. His head becomes hot and inflated. His stomach churns all upset. He has never hated Dubai so much.

What season is this?

The summer.

When it hasn't been the summer?

He laughs at his own answer.

He feels good from his own laugh. Laughing is good for him.

Khaled comes with the little bottle of a drink. The yellow carbonated drink. He gets the nicely colored drink from Khaled, puts it in his moth, and hates the “cheers” that Khaled expresses. What harsh language is this Arabic!

He says “cheers” as if he wished me to drink poison.

How many poems and songs has this Arabic. If a person is in love. If one is not sullen, how many poems and songs will he remember. It's all damned Khaled's fault. Even if he speaks with Shirazi accent, with sweet accent of Zarie, the daughter of gendarme Asqari, he will ruin it. he will remember when we were school children. He will remember himself, Ibrahim and Abdy who is me. And Iran who is my Iran.

“Where are you going, brother?” we used to say and chuckle in Shirazi accent.

“To Kerman,” we used to say and chuckle in Kermai accent.

He doesn't feel well at all. His head has become like stone. Like a cart full of stones. The sun is planted on his shoulders, his shoulders have become the stove of the sun.

His body has caught fire. It's been seven years. This same intersection. This same heat. His mind becomes deranged with nightmarish thoughts.

Pain and fear.

He hates me, Ibrahim, Iran, the intersection, the seven years, the sun, the summer, the sound of the whistle, and the looks of Khaled the shopkeeper, the long and meaningless Deshdashe of the Arabs. He hates me more than anybody or anything else.

He wants to blow in the whistle, damn Abdy and his love affairs.  

Chief of the police: “Hamed.”

Ahmad: “he remember that his name is not Hamed but Ahmad.”

And he answers: “Yes, sir.”

Chief of the police: “Why are you playing games while on duty?”

“Which game,” asks Ahmad of himself.

The chief of the police wity rage and anger cries: “Are you deaf?”

Ahmad: “No. I haven't done anything, sir.”

Chief of the police: “Four of my agents have reported you. The drivers, too.”

Ahmad: “Maybe there as something in the street, and I've gone to take it.”

Chief of the police: “I, too, say the same thing, my son.”

Ahmad: “There has been something.”

Chief of the police: “What?”

Ahmad: “I don't remember.”

Chief of the police: “remember.”

Ahmad: “There, it's so hot and crowded, there are so many cars that no one remembers what he's done. I don't remember. God be my witness, I don't remember. Honestly, I don't remember.”

Chief of the police: “When the cars were about to move, you would jump in the middle of the street and pick up something, and again and again and again until the end of your shift. Am I right?”

Ahmad: “There must have been something that I would have picked up.”

Chief of the police: “What?”

Ahmad doesn't want to tell the truth. He doesn't. But he says: “I was picking up nails.”

Chief of the police: “What nails?”

Ahmad: “Black nails, big nails.”

Chief of the police: “How many times, how many times during the day were you picking up the nails?.”

Ahmad: “Whenever I saw them, I would pick them up.”

Chief of the police: “What did you do with the nails then?”

Ahmad: “I threw them in the garbage bin right on one of the corners of the intersection.”

Chief of the police: “You fool, you bastard, do you think I'm stupid.”

Ahmad: “I don't dare to say that, sir. I'm stupid.”

Chief of the police: “You and your tribe are stupid. Is that a good description. Now, do you answer me or you want me to have you flogged. I have you caned on your buttocks until you fall apart, and then kicked you out of work like a dog, do you understand?

Ahmad: “I don't pick up the nails anymore. I promise. I never pick up anything again. Forgive me, sir.”

Chief of the police: “Say what you were picking up, or else get lost. Fired. Go. Do you understand, you double-crossing lying jerk.

Ahmad wants to say: “Sir, the double-crossing lying jerk is you. I pick up the heads of our murdered in the street.” But he doesn't say that. Instead he says, “I never do that again. It's been my mistake. Forgive me. Forgive me.”

The chief of the police says: “ Either you say what's going on or you get lost. I don't have the patience to deal with you stealing unprincipled perverse Iranians.”

Ahmad wants to say: “What do you have against Iranians. Why do you curse your own grandfather?” But he doesn't say that. Instead, he says: “I say.”

The chief of the police becomes kind again and says: “Good boy, just say what you have to say.”  

Ahmad: “Whatever you ask me, I will answer.”

The chief of the police: “What were you picking up in the middle of the street? Why were you jumping before the cars? Why were you stopping them? You whose duty is to ease the traffic, why were you blocking the road? Answer me now.” 

Ahmad: “To tell you the truth, I was picking up the heads of our murdered relatives.” 

The chief of the police laughs loudly: “Then, you were picking the heads of your murdered relatives. Whose heads were you picking up?”

Ahmad: “The heads of Ibrahim, Iran and Abdy, sir.”

The chief of the police: “What these heads were doing on the intersection?”

Ahmad: “I don't know what they were doing on the intersection. I don't know what they were doing on the intersection. But if you were in my place, could you stand by and watch the cars running over the heads of your relatives.

The chief of the police: “Who has cut off the heads of your relatives?”

Ahmad: “I and Ibrahim cut off the heads of Iran and Abdy, Ibrahim cut off his own head, and now there are three cut-off heads.

The chief of the police: : “Who is Iran?”

Ahmad: “Iran is our sister. My and Ibrahim's sister, my and late Ibrahim's sister. And Abdy was in love with her, he was her lover. I and Ibrahim went to the other side of the Persian Gulf, cut off both of their heads and came back to this side of the Persian Gulf. Ibrahim cut off his own head. I was taking off the street the heads of them so they don't crush under the cars' tires. They're innocent, sir, the blood still dripping from their necks.”

Chief of the police: “What were you doing with these heads?”

Ahmad: “I put then on the pavement beside the intersection before my own feet.”

The chief of the police: “Why when the cars were just about to move, you would jump in the middle of the street?'

Ahmad: “I was picking up the heads.” 

The chief of the police: “How many heads did you rascals cut off?”

Ahmad: “Two. Now they are three.” 

The chief of the police: “Were you jumping in the middle of the street all day to pick up these three heads?”

Ahmad: “They were there. That's why I was doing that, I'm not sick, you know, or God forbid, I'm not crazy to jump in the middle of the street in this dead heat, in this dampness, in this…”

The chief of the police: “Stay right here.” 

They take Ahmad to the jail of Deyra, they put him in solitary confinement. When he's alone, he looks at the gray blackish door and the dirty walls of the cell, and wants to go to sleep for the rest of his life.”

Sounds intrude from behind the door, he presses his ear to the door, recognizes the voices of Iran, Abdy, and Ibrahim. He gazes at the door. He doesn't see the door and the walls. He rubs his eyes, he's afraid he might have gone crazy. He wants to make sure that he is fine. He opens his eyes cautiously. He sees Iran and Ibrahim and Abdy are sitting beside his bed.

Ibrahim says: “What are you doing Ahmad, what are you doing here? You have wasted our time. Neither are you at work nor at your house in Satveh. What are you doing here?”

Iran says: “Why has your appearance changed?”

Abdy: “Why are you so deep in thought?”

Ahmad: “What are you doing here?”

Iran: “We have come to see you.”  

Abdy: “Have we done anything wrong?”

Ibrahim: “We have come here to play.”

Ahmad: “Play?”

Ibrahim: “Playing with the dolls.” 

Abdy: “Fighting battles.”

Iran: “Making love.”

Ibrahim goes behind Ahmad, covers his eyes with both hands, and says: “Do you know who I am?”

Ahmad: “You are Abdy.”

Iran: “Abdy?”

Ahmad: “You are Ibrahim.”

The children's play culminates to a climax. The sound of their laughing and shouting echo in the cell. The prisoners of the neighboring cells hit on the doors and the walls of the cells with anything they can get hold of. The jailers come. They come tired and sleepy. They want to know what has happened. All the prisoners protest why there are four people in the no. 22 cell. You have jailed four noisy and crazy children. They make so much noise that no one can have a moment of sleep.

One of the guards opens the door of the cell no. 22. Ahmad is lying on the bed and gazing at the ceiling.

The guards become angry at the protesting prisoner, at their lying. They close the door of Ahmad's cell. The prisoners return to their cells. This incident happens for a few nights. The chief of the police decides to come and investigate the incident himself

He remains in the cell besides Ahmad cell and presses his ear to the wall. After the midnight he hears a sound, some sounds. He hears the sound of playing and bustling and loud laughs of the children. When he listens carefully, he hears the sound of the playing of four bustling children.

He jumps out of the cell and suddenly orders guards to open Ahmad's cell. When the door of the cell opens, everybody sees that Ahmad is lying on the bed and with open eyes looks at the ceiling.

The night after, the chief of the police, the warden of the jail, and Dr. James Michael, the American psychologist, arrange a meeting with Ahmad.

Dr. James, the chief of the police, and the warden spent a night in the cell next to Ahmad's to determine whether the claims of the prisoners and the chief of the police are true.

Dr. James Michael wants to see Ahmad alone.

Dr. Michael has Ahmad to be taken to the mental hospital.

Dr. Michael believes that the murder of Ahmad's brother by the murderer or the murderers has taken place in his presence and this has driven his insane. It has driven him to a kind of insanity that is dangerous. It is possible the number of the cut-off heads increases soon. That's why it's better for him to be taken to the mental hospital so he may recover gradually from the effects of the horrible murder of his brother by the murderer or the murderers, and the nightmare of his sister's death and her lover.

They transfer Ahmad to the mental hospital. After doing the paperwork, the guards take him to the middle of the hospital's yard and let him free under the lotus tree.

The patients swarm around Ahmad. Ahmad takes a look at them and smiles. He feels he likes their tranquillity and peacefulness. He wants to say his life has become hard and miserable, but he's happy to be here with them. He hates the jail and his cell. But he doesn't say that. He looks at the lotus tree, at the blue sky and the sun that has climbed off his shoulders, far off. He looks. And bends his head. He feels that he must be alone with himself. He wants to take a look at himself. He wants to think or not to think about these days. He wants to relieve himself from the troubles of Iran and Abdy and Ibrahim. He wants to reach tranquillity. He wants to become friends with the patients. He wants…

I ran says: “Do you think we can't find you?”

Ibrahim says: “What do you think?”

Abdy says: “Look at him.”

And Ahmad smiles. The children say: “Do you agree?” And the play begins. Some of the patients who are around Ahmad hear voices. They look at each other. They come and surround Ahmad and the children in a ring.” And then they cheer for them who compete, wrestle, fight, the children whose laughs split the sky. Now all the patients have gathered around Ahmad and the children. However insist the guards that the patients must scatter, and leave the new patient alone, all answer together: “How sweet, how naughty and how mischievous are these four children.”  

When they open the door of the room, the knife has fallen to the middle of it. Dr. Michael says: “Murderers have cut off this poor man's head like his brother, too, in an opportune moment.

The head of the mental hospital looks at him. And the patients leave four coffins before the door of the room.

My mother and their mother are standing with our heads.

The head of Iran turns toward my head and we smile. The head of Ibrahim winks at Ahmad.

We say: “We are well.”