ABIZ
Official
Translation office
Center for transaltion
emergencies
Tajrish branch
Next to Astara Cinema,Tajrish sq Tehran
Tel : (+98 21 )
22711578 ,22743305 22743307
Enghelab branch
No.1502,Enghelab sq,Tehran
Tel:(+98 21 )
66497710 , 66480628 66962844
___________
aflamebooks
Published
Symphony of the Dead
by Abbas Maroufi
___________
Qoqnoos Published
Primordiality to Eternity
Critical Study of Symphony of the Dead
By Elham Yekta ___________
Abbas Marufi, Pioneer of a New Wave in Persian FictionBy Ismail Salami
Gardun magazine from 1990 to 1995. His first published work was a collection of short stories entitled Into the Sun. He also wrote a few plays which were performed on stage. In his The Last Superior Generation, he touched on social themes. His last collection of short stories, The Scent of the Jasmine was published in the United States.Born in 1957 in Tehran, Marufi was raised and educated in Tehran. He studied dramatic arts at Tehran University while teaching at schools and writing for the newspapers. He served as the editor in chief of the literary
Marufi came to prominence with the publication of
The Symphony of the Dead (1989) which is narrated in the form of a symphony. The novel provoked a slew of criticisms from the critics. Some saw it as a great masterpiece in the Persian literature; still some others relegated it to a sheer imitation of Faulkner’s Sound and Fury. Yet, the novel proved so influential that it came to be imitated by other writers. In this novel, Marufi uses the stream of consciousness technique very effectively. The Year of Turmoil and The Body of Farhad are among his other works.Marufi is currently living in Germany with his family. Some of his works have been translated in German.
A Moonlit Night, which follows in English translation, narrates the story of a shepherd boy called Mandal who is deeply in love with Nilupar.
In this story, the writer touches on a main theme in a traditional society where a man finds it impossible to express his love to his beloved; rather he prefers to keep his love to himself and burn in the cauldron of his passionate love. Albeit, there is more to it. Psychologically, Mandal is a sort of a voyeur who spends his time secretly watching the naked body of his beloved, thereby gratifying his sexual urges.
Voyeurism is a sexual perversion but the hero resorts to it because he cannot achieve his object of desire. Mandal is not a kind of character the reader may wish to identify because he is weak and undecided. There are moments in the story where he can open his heart and divulge his long-harbored secret. Yet, he prefers to keep it to himself as if he takes delight in inflicting pain upon himself, as if we were faced with a masochist.
A MOONLIT NIGHT
Mandal was again troubled by uneasy dreams. His heart pumped
violently and his body was soaked in sweat. The barking of a dog
drifted into his hearing from afar. He saw that he was falling from
a cliff into an unknown place and that darkness prevented him from
finding a hold. He was then swept away by a gust of wind into the
branches of a service-tree which stood in the depths of a valley
whose side had been eaten away by flood. There was many a time he
had carved Nilupar on the bark of the tree with the point of his
knife.
Turning over in bed, he tried to accustom his eyes to darkness
and saw moonlight through the crevices of the canvass. At that
moment, his mother, holding an oil lamp, came into view from the
tent which opened to Mandal's.
"Why were you talking in your sleep, Mandal?" she asked.
Mandal sat up and cast his eyes over the various objects around
him.
"Mm-m?" he moaned.
He waited for his mother to go to bed. But she insisted.
"You were talking deliriously.’ Get them! Tie them up!'" she
resumed, "Where was your mind wandering?"
"I don't know." he replied
But he did know. His mother raised the lamp higher. Instantly,
his eye fell on the yellowed muslin round her wrist once more. For
months, she had been applying a poultice of turmeric and goat's suet
to her broken wrist to help it knit together.
“Are you ill?"
"No. I am fine."
"Any quarrels or fights?"
"No."
"Why do you look so restless, then?"
Tell her you are in love with Nilupar and then it's over, he
thought to himself but remained silent. He had grown impatient and
despondent. For him, days and nights slipped slowly by. No longer
was he full of energy. A permanent feeling of lethargy had taken
possession of him.
"What's the matter with you?" she said.
At this, Mandal looked down at his hands, buttoned up his left
cuff, stretched out his arms and drew the quilt over his head.
"I don't know," he replied.
"All right, you better sleep," she observed, blowing out the
lamp before she left.
The tent was again engulfed in darkness and moonlight fell
needle-shaped through its crevices. Mandal's heart began
palpitating. Mountains and rocks threatened to approach and he
seemed to be falling. At that very moment, he fixed his eyes upon
the black wooden pole, unable to keep it still or to stop it from
receding into the distance. So he shut his eyes.
Ever since his father had died, his life had been taken up by
the sheep, the pathways, the mountains and the desert. From the
moment he woke up at dawn, he would drive the flocks to the
mountains where he would stay with only his thoughts until dusk.
Entrusting the flocks to the care of the night shepherd, he would go
to collect firewood. He could not remember a time when anyone had
returned to the dark tents before the evening star had been sighted.
When he came back, he would remove his leggings, scratch his body,
gulp down one or two glasses of tea and kept yawning until his
mother served him food.
That night at dinner, they had not exchanged a word as usual.
Crawling under the quilt, Mandal allowed his mind to dwell upon
Nilupar once more.
In his half-sleep, he had dreamed that an immense flood had
swept down the service tree of his previous dreams. When he woke up,
he racked his brains to interpret his dream but to no avail. At that
moment, he felt that nothing in the world would afford him more
pleasure than sleep. What happiness to be able to slumber in a cozy
warm bed. And how irksome to suffer the toil of going up and down
the mountain paths after the flocks, with your chukha* falling over
your shoulders.
Before sleep overtook him, he would muse about turning over a
new leaf. But then he would banish the idea from his mind, saying:
"I shall do something about it in autumn."
At length, autumn would come. The tribe would be moving to
Sangsar.
Shepherds would sign their annual contracts with their masters. And
by the time they had got settled in one place, Mandal would have to
set off for eight months in the desert.
"Oh, for the spring!" he would murmur.
Spring ran into summer, summer into autumn. The succession of
seasons, the job of tending the flocks, the agony of cold and snowy
days and many other things so preoccupied his mind that he hardly
knew he had reached the age of twenty five. Now he was thirty. His
skin was sunburnt.
He had tiny pimples on his forehead, some white hairs in his
moustache and broad shoulders which had remained unused as he had no
wife to embrace. It was a certain relief to hear his mother praying.
He followed suit. Yet he found himself unable to banish the memory
of the rocks and the eerie darkness. As he was praying, his thoughts
would turn involuntarily to Nilupar. The recollection of her
walking, lisping and swimming formed his fantasy. In the course of
all those years, he had only managed to have one single conversation
with Nilupar. It was while her mother was cooking oatmeal in front
of their tent and his father, chukha flung over his shoulder, was
chatting with the shepherd dealers. Mandal himself was moving
goatskins of yoghurt into the tents.
"May I trouble you to turn the carpet loom for me?" Nilupar had
asked.
"And you don't need to take off your chukka boots," she had
added.
"But I may bring in dust?"
"Never mind. I will sweep it clean."
And what a beautiful carpet she had woven! Fine, carmine, with a
design of blue flowers. It was then that Mandal knew he was deeply
in love with her. It was a long love which he had harbored in his
heart without anybody knowing. The mere sight of her or the sound of
her voice was enough to draw him back into the vortex of his
nightmare. He was fighting the inevitable fate. He would talk in his
sleep until he was startled out of it as he felt himself thrown onto
the service tree. Then sleep would be denied him until morning. The
nightmare of falling from the precipice recurred whenever he
indulged in the passion of watching Nilupar's naked body in the
mountain stream. During the day he would drive the flock to the
mountain whence he was in a position to let his eyes wander over the
area, the long black tents, the idle dogs, some diseased sheep and a
group of people working. He knew well when the women got together to
go to the mountain stream. At noon, when the sun weighed heavily
overhead, the women, bundles hoisted onto their heads, babies
pressed against their bosoms, would flock to the stream to wash
their bodies.
Even with her back turned, Mandal was able to pick out Nilupar among
the forty or so women from a distance. Mandal's eyes had followed
her for twelve years. He had watched her grow from eight to twenty
eight. It dawned on him then that Nilupar, instead of setting her
bundle on her head, would secure it over her shoulder with her
fingertips. Before they stepped into the stream, Mandal would
conceal himself in a snowy hollow in the mountain.
Lying prone on a black mass of rock, he would devour the stream
with his eyes. The one who poured water over her headwith cupped
hands, splashed the others, swam daringly in the cold water, called
out the loudest and sat herself on the rocks warmed by the sun,
unhurriedly put on her green dress and wrung her hair dry was no one
but Nilupar. At the very sight of her, a shudder would go through
his spine, immobilizing him. Then a sense of fatigue would overcome
him and an unspeakable pain would so twist his stomach that he
remained for hours in a state of bewilderment.
Consequently, he would have a terrible dream that night. Well,
what could he do? To marry Nilupar had never been a possibility, for
the simple reason that he used to work for her father as a shepherd
in those early years. Besides, he could not pluck up courage to seek
her hand. He pined for her. Now that Mandal had his own flock,
Nilupar was engaged to an untrained shepherd by the name of Gelverdi.
Mandal burnt even more passionately, in a perennial fever.
His eyes were burning and he could not sleep. He got up, put on
his chukka boots, swung his chukha over his shoulder and crept out
of the tent. It was a moonlit night. Polaris and Achernar had
already risen. He could hear the rushing water and it seemed as if a
bird were moaning.
Bravely, Mandal made his way towards Nilupar's tent and tiptoed
along it. From the interior came the sound of people sleeping. Her
father and brother were snoring loudly and there was a constant moan
from her mother. As for her, she was breathing softly as if the
Wheel of the World were spinning for her alone. Mandal paused for a
moment.
"You are alone or I?" he murmured to himself.
Then he made straight for the mountain and climbed up without
stopping to catch his breath. Once there, he saw the first glimmer
of dawn.
Suddenly he felt that his eyes were burning with an excruciating
pain.
It was as though the rims of his eyes were on fire. He felt as if a
hot metal spit were being thrust into his eyes. He had wandered over
the mountains before, staying awake until morning, but never once
had he been in such a quandary. He knew without any doubt that his
painful eyes were in some way connected with his spying on the naked
women. What else could be the cause of this agony? Again, the vision
of Nilupar's bobbing up and down in water came into his mind. It
made him experience such vertigo that he had to put his hands out to
find a support in the air.
When he shut his eyes he felt that his eyelids had caught fire
and had started to crack. He was convinced some terrible affliction
had befallen him. His temples throbbed until he thought they would
burst. He felt as if tiny creatures were eroding his eyes. A strange
sorrow gripped his soul. He touched the corners of his eyes and felt
afraid.
Inflamed and blistered. Then an overwhelming sensation of weariness
came over him. His knees trembled and gave way beneath him. In vain
he groped for a support but he subsided helplessly onto a stony
slab. As soon as he opened his eyes, his eyelids tore as material
does and burnt painfully.
Then a veil of darkness fell in front of his eyes. From behind the
veil, he could barely see the sun in the sky. The sheep were
bleating and dogs barking in the distance. He could hear a child
crying and the sound of a man's voice echoing faintly through the
wind. Mandal was quite unable to move.
There was one thing he yearned for and that was sleep. His mind
went blank. His one desire was to return to the peaceful dreams he
had had before. Trying to see, he looked all around him. Everything
was blurred. The veil of darkness blinded him. All he could make out
was the vague and misty shapes of the steep mountains. He endeavored
to resist his blindness and see more but in vain.
"Oh my God, I've gone blind," he said to himself.
He got to his feet and slowly went back down the mountain. He
did not have the least idea where he was going. He only wanted to
reach somewhere. Suddenly he found himself entangled in a thicket of
aloes.
Desperately trying to protect his face and hands, he took refuge in
the shade of the thicket and sat down. By then he realized that the
swollen rims of his eyes had turned into large blisters. He could
not see anything.
"Oh my God, I haven't gone blind, have I?” he said to himself.
Frightened, he prayed, not knowing which part of the ritual
prayer he was mouthing.
Without thinking about what he was saying, words tumbled out of
his mouth.
"Save me!" he prayed.
In his religious fervor, his hands began to work involuntarily.
Blindly, he undid his leggings and tied himself to the petiole
behind him, which served him as a shrine. The heat of the sun was
intense. His mind traveled back to his father, Shir Agha, a plain
and honest man. For years he had earned his living by cutting wood.
He used to have strange dreams and once he had dreamed that he had
gone to Mirza Ali Akbar's store.
"Mirza, this famine will come to an end one day and so will the
troubles. Besides life is short. Tell me, does it please God to see
my wife and children sleep on empty stomachs?" he had asked.
"Shir Agha, have you ever asked for anything that I have refused
you?" Mirza Ali Akbar had replied.
"You know, it's hard for me to ask. Misfortunes are raining down
on us. How can I go to Himeh to cut wood in this blizzard?"
Snow had covered the ground and was still falling. It was almost
dawn. As his father was recounting his dream, there was a sudden
knock at the door. Mandal was then seven or eight years old. He
opened the door and was amazed to see Mirza Ali Akbar with a laden
ass. He called to his father. Sacks of flour, sugar, tea and rice
were carried into the room.
"Shir Agha, I saw you in my dream last night," said Mirza. "I
asked how life was treating you in this ungodly year. I asked. And
you said: 'God is merciful.' Now don't let anything trouble your
mind. I've brought you some flour, rice, tea and a few odds and
ends. We'll reckon up! You can give us some firewood in the new
year."
"Is there any other way I can repay?" said Shir Agha gratefully.
"Listen, my wife is expecting a baby very soon. If it should be
a boy, we'll name him Mirza Ali Akbar."
Contrary to their expectation it turned out to be a girl and she
was named Noresa. It was a desperate spring that year. Many sheep
perished. The Russian Cossacks were roving round Sangsar.
No one had bread. Snow still lay in the alleyways. Every
morning, Shir Agha used to go to Khoreh to gather wood. One day, as
he was loading the panniers of his donkey, he began to scold his
dog: "Stay away from us starving people!"
However, the dog had grown accustomed to going to the forest
with Shir Agha. But as the sight of the dog's hunger became too much
for Shir Agha to bear, he decided to tie it to a tree. To his
astonishment, he found the dog sitting on the doorstep when he
reached home. The next day he threw the dog from the top of the
cliff into the foaming river below. Yet hardly had they gone to bed
than they heard the whimpering of the dog. All night long he
tormented them so that they could not sleep. As dawn was breaking,
Noresa was born.
"I shall become a shepherd tomorrow," vowed Shir Agha. “It’s no
use waiting for things to get better." Until that time they had
been settled in one place, but from that day on they started to live
a nomadic life.
Mandal fastened the leggings more tightly round his waist and
pleaded as a pilgrim tied to a shrine. "Dear God, I lost my
father when I was fourteen. For his sake, please forgive me! Dear
God, Oh dear God, dear God ...."
He dissolved in tears and repented his actions most sincerely.
He promised he would never again watch the women swimming naked in
the stream. And he vowed to keep his eyes clean and to depart this
life with a pure soul, to deserve the trust of others who could look
up to him as they did to his father. He began his prayers afresh and
everything and everyone sank into oblivion. He felt deep down that
he had absolutely no one he could turn to. All alone. He seemed to
have become an integral part of the tree. Just then, he heard
footsteps but was unable to see anyone. He could only hear.
His heart raced. Terror overcame him and he felt like vomiting.
Despite his giddiness he sensed the footsteps getting closer.
Raising his head, Mandal saw a figure clad in a dark blue
transparent dress. He had the impression that the figure in blue was
a woman.
"Wh-wh-who are you?” he said with difficulty.
The figure made no reply.
"I am Mandal," he said with a tremor in his voice.
Still, the figure said nothing. The edge of her gown streamed
through the wind into the distance.
"I've gone blind," said Mandal.
As the figure in blue, Mandal felt something within him rise and
fly out of his head. He was tongue-tied and a trembling took hold of
him.
The figure laid her hand on Mandal's forehead, stroking him gently.
He felt as if he had died. He remained without any feeling, like a
lump of meat until the hands touched his eyes.
Then he sensed nothing more. He could feel only a coolness drawn
over his eyes by a gentle hand. He thought he was dreaming. He
blinked. He opened his eyes easily and looked all around him. No one
was there.
He could see the tall bushes clearly. Then he looked at his hands
and saw the calloused fingertips. He realized he had tied himself to
a tree.
No one was there. Untying himself, he put on his leggings and stood
up. Light, tranquil and painless.
He looked around. No, there was nobody there. Overhead the sun
was shining and a north wind was blowing. Mandal climbed up the
slope and lay on the lofty mountain side, looking over to a bank of
cumulous cloud. Down below he saw the tents and a flock climbing up.
Close to the tents men were heating milk. The women and young girls
were leaving the camp on their way to the stream. Among them was
Nilupar with her bundle hanging from her fingertips over her
shoulder.
"Fate!" said Mandal.
Into his blood surged the pleasure he had felt when the figure
in blue had passed its hand over his face.
With a smile of fulfillment, he glided unseen down the mountain
and hid himself on a huge rock overhanging the stream. Like leeches
clinging to the udders of cows, the long tents had patterned the
mound. On the hillside opposite, Gelverdi was driving his flock; the
girls' laughter reached his ears. Transfixed, Mandal watched. A
group of women were swimming and one woman was undressing her child.
Nilupar plunged into the water. As her head surfaced, she cast her
eyes to the cliff surface. Mandal ducked down. He kept his head low
for a moment and then came up from his hiding place. Nilupar pointed
to the top of the cliff and let out a burst of laughter. He froze,
unable to move. His heart was pounding. Again he ducked down. For a
moment he held his breath, and then raised his head. Nilupar came
out of water, fixed her gaze upon him and gave a laugh. Mandal felt
as if he were falling from the top of the cliff and however hard he
tried he was unable to gain a hold.
Notes:
This story is set in the Sangsar district in the north of Iran. The tribes move around the edges of the Great Desert and the Salt Desert with their flocks.
*The service tree, commonly found in the area is a 'love tree'. It is said to arouse passions and it is forbidden for girls to go there.
*Chukha is a woolen garment worn by shepherds or farmers.
*Leggings are a sort of cloth binding round the legs to protect them from thorny plants and for warmth in the cold winters.
* The story was published in Pakistan in 1999.
Alireza Abiz
Alireza Abiz was born in Abiz, South Khorasan on August 06,1968. He studied English Language and Literature in Ferdowsi University of Mashhad (B.A.) and University of Tehran (M.A.). Abiz writes poetry and literary criticism. He is a professional translator and interpreter to the Iranian Justice Administration. His publications include:
Stop, we shall get off ( a collection of poetry), Naranj Publishers, 1996 . The Lay of the Love and Death of Cornet Christoph Rilke by Rainer Maria Rilke (a translation), Abiz Publishers, 2000 .
Spaghetti with Mexican Ketchup (a collection of poetry), Saleth
Publishers, 2004 .
Contemporary African Art by Sydney Littlefield Kasfir (a translation),
Academy of the Arts Publications, 2005 .
Abiz has translated a number of Persian short stories and poems into English which have been published overseas. Some of his poetry has been translated into English and German languages.
Alrieza Abiz lives and works in Tehran, Iran.
The following is a poem by Alireza Abiz originally written in persian and translated into English by the poet :
Untitled
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Brethren, oh, Brethren
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Brethren, oh, Brethren
The end of the world is close
-And mothers bear headless babies-
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
With a red night cap
The yellow Satan!
Brethren, oh, Brethren
Under London Bridge, the river air
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Until the next stop
Apocalyptus, Apocalyptus!
He came out of the house
Out of the alley
Out of the street
Out of the city
Keep silent, oh brothers
Silent
From above the clouds
Our Lady, Mary, speaks with us:
Ah, Pharisees!
Put a thorn crown on His head-
Who the hell goes to hell in this age of Epicurus & Manicurus?
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
French kissing and tongue wrestling sounds better!
How do you think, Virgin Mary?
Jalal Al-e AhmadAn Engagé Writer
By Ismail Salami
Born in Tehran into a family of clerical stock, Al-e Ahmad studied religious subjects in Najaf for some months. Upon his return to Iran, he joined different political parties. Yet, he failed to find his desired goals. He studied Persian literature at Tehran University and took on a job as a teacher.
His first collected stories entitled Pilgrimage (1945) appeared in the Sokhan Literary Magazine. Exchange of Visits, his second collected stories, influenced by Sadegh Hedayat were published in the same year. The narrator of all these stories is an alienated man oscillating between belief and unbelief. Soon afterwards, his stories The Pains We Suffer (1947) were published. The stories, influenced by his political leanings, detailed the pressures exerted on the political activists by the government agents. It was in the same year when he defected from the Tudeh Party together with Khalil Maleki.
In his collected stories, Extra Woman (1948) and Setar (1952) he depicted the ignorance and blind prejudice of the lower classes. In these stories he employed the interior monologue, a technique which he brought to perfection in such stories as "An American Husband" and "The Auspicious Celebration". Pursuant to the 1954 coup, he was put to prison where he wrote the Story of the Honeycombs (1954) in which he illustrated the social situation of Iran during the oil nationalization process through the migration of the bees. The use of folk elements epitomizes the writer’s efforts to create a native literature. In his novel N and the Pen (1961), he used the form of folk literature and shed light on the modern social issues. In all, Jalal tries in his novels to prove himself as a social reformer and leads his characters in a direction to prove his points.
He is best-known for his novel The School Principal (1958) in which he illustrates the life of the frustrated generation who seeks to find solace in a restful spot but fails to do so. Bitterly tired of teaching, the hero is assigned as a principal of a school in a god-forsaken place. Events happen one after the other and the writer analyses the social ills. However, unlike his other fictional works, he tries to communicate his message through the narrative events and characters. We come to know all the characters through the school principal. The scandal of the sodomy between two students drags the principal to the court. Thinking that there is someone to listen to him, he puts down to paper his views and opinions. Yet, much to his disillusionment, he discovers that even the court lets the whole affair slip by as if nothing serious has happened. As a result he resigns and leaves. His style is marked by colloquialism, and simplicity. The idea of failure is once again illustrated through this novel.
In his next novel The Blight of the Earth (1968) which is somewhat the continuation of The School Principal, the narrator reports the changes following the land reforms in the villages. Instead of creating a novel of artistic value, Jalal dwells on issuing a revealing manifesto about the role of the land reforms on traditional agriculture. As a result, he offers a critical report of the existing situation.
His book Westoxification (1962) represents him as an intellectual writer who entertains a burning desire to go back to traditions and native beliefs. Lost in the Crowd (1968)’ is about Hajj.
In his autobiography entitled A Stone on a Grave (1983) he deals with his impotence and its effect on his social and emotional relations.
Jalal Al-e Ahmad was married to Simin Daneshvar, the great Iranian writer. He died in 1966 in Asalem, Gilan.
The importance of Al-e Ahmad lies in his true depiction of the social situation, colloquial style, simple narrative technique and criticism of the then prevailing social milieu. He is more of an engagé writer who seeks to lay bare the social problems, the ignorance, and blind prejudice of the common people and the evil influence of modernism and mechanization on people’s lives.
Bozorg Alavi, A Leading Iranian WriterBy Ismail Salami
Born in Tehran on February 2, 1904, Bozorg Alavi received his early studies in his hometown. In 1923, he went to Berlin with his father where he learned German. In 1927, his father Seyyed Abolhassan Alavi committed suicide in Berlin. Upon returning to Iran in 1928, he started teaching German at the Industrial College of Shiraz.
In 1929, he returned to Tehran and embarked on a Persian rendition of Noldeke’s The National Epic of Persia. In 1931, he came in contact with Sadeq Hedayat, the prominent Iranian writer and became involved in a group known as the Four including Sadeq Hedayat, Mojataba Minovi and Masoud Farzad. His collected short stories The Portmanteau, deeply influenced by Hedayat and Freud, were published in 1934.
In 1937, he was detained and imprisoned together with 53 people on grounds of having Communist leanings. He remained in prison for seven years. While in jail he wrote Panjāh va siho se nafar (Fifty-Three People), describing the members of the socialist group and their ordeal in prison, and the short-story collection Varaq-pārahā-yē zendān (Notes from Prison) which detailed the plight of the intellectuals under Reza Shah. He was also one of the founders of the Tudeh Party of Iran. With the fall of Prime Minister Mohammed Mosaddeq in 1954, Alavi left Iran and took a teaching post at the Humboldt University of Berlin in East Germany.
Alavi is best known for his novel Her Eyes (1952) in which he details the love between a painter and a woman of the upper class. Maestro Makan is an intellectual who is opposed to the tyrannical rule of Reza Shah. Farangis, an upper class girl, gets painting lessons from the maestro. She is coldly treated by him; therefore, she leaves for Europe. She believes that she has caused the death of the maestro. She also believes that she has sacrificed her life for him.
While in Paris, she enrolls in the painting classes where she becomes acquainted with Khodadad who draws her attention to the social problems. Khodadad asks her to return to Iran and live with Maestro Makan. Farangis returns to Iran to either express her passionate live to him and take revenge on him. Upon her return to Iran, she becomes involved in political activities. All she does is meant to win the love of Maestro Makan. To achieve this end, she takes on the most precarious tasks. An introverted type, Maestro Makan does not express his secret love to her nor does he take her seriously. Finally, love triumphs over social commitment and he finally embarks on a passionate love affair with Farangis. One day he invites her over to his house. Farangis accepts the invitation with doubts in her heart. Due to this feeling of suspicion, the maestro jilts her. Farangis claims that the maestro has then begun painting her eyes.
The maestro is arrested and Farangis marries Colonel Aram in order to have the maestro liberated. The maestro is exiled and Farangis returns to Europe. Many years afterwards she learns about the death of the maestro and sees his last painting “Her Eyes”. The picture shows a pair of lustful and unfeeling eyes.
Farangis is deeply saddened for the maestro has never managed to realize what a supreme sacrifice she has made for him.
In this novel, Alavi deals with the struggles of the Iranian intellectuals and artists against the despotic rule of Reza Shah. However, the love between the maestro and Farangis overshadows the struggles. In analyzing this love affair, the writer reinforces the repressed desires and aspirations of the intellectuals who rarely find an outlet for their psychological needs. Farangis is among the early female characters in Persian literature who have been depicted as having sublime feelings and great devotion to an ideal.
The Portmanteau is the first collection of short stories by Alavi in which he shows the spiritual and psychological attitudes of the characters. This book, which exhibits the influence of Sadeq Hedayat and Sigmund Freud, represents a panorama of characters who often fail in their love either for impotence or for psychological problems such as the Oedipus complex. In some stories in this collection he explores the gap between two generations, the fathers and their sons.
Alavi is also credited with writing some works in German, among them, Kämpfendes Iran (1955; The Struggle of Iran) and Geschichte und Entwicklung der modernen Persischen Literatur (1964; The History and Development of Modern Persian Literature). Alavi died on February 18, 1997, in Berlin, Germany.
The story, which follows in English translation, is one of the most famous ones by Alavi. In this story, purely Freudian, Alavi explores the relationship between the father and the son in a patriarchic society: the father is the master of the house who tells others what to do and what not to do. He is the one who decides as how his children should act and think. The deep gap between two generations makes it impossible for the son to establish a reasonable relationship with the father whom he sees as the personification of a world which is rotten to the core. Both awed and horrified by the father figure, the protagonist tries to find solace in the arms of a woman of foreign origins who merely epitomizes his repressed sexual desires and in whom he has the chance to vocalize his innermost passions. The girl who is the mother figure finds little chance with the protagonist. They basically engage in secret trysts as though their relationship is of a forbidden nature. The characters in the story are without any names with the exception of the girl. It seems that they have no identities of their own and they are only referred in the story as the father and the son. The tragic sense of the story becomes apparent and more forceful when the protagonist realizes that the girl is going to marry the man whom he detests. In other words, this is the point where he painfully realizes that his father is the rival in his love for the mother figure and he finds himself utterly helpless in the face of this sour truth. Therefore, he prefers to leave as he is but a frustrated man in love.
The Portmanteau
I
It was August-a dull Sunday morning in Berlin. The intense heat made me toss and turn in bed, sweat oozing at every pore. However, I was not in the least inclined to get up. The smoke souring up from the factory chimneys mingled with the mist of the jungle the particles of which poured in through the window as if they wanted to intensify the pressure they exerted upon my soul and body. I was then a student in Berlin. It was about half an hour that my landlady had laid my breakfast upon the table. But I had no intention of getting up.
Once or twice, she had shouted from behind the door: "Sir, you are wanted on the phone from your father's residence."
But I had given no reply. At nine o'clock, someone hastily knocked on the door and slipped in. At first, I presumed that it was my landlady so I paid no heed. All of a sudden, I was startled by my father's voice, springing up on my feet. He took the liberty of ensconcing himself on a chair, taking out his golden cigarette case from his pocket and lit a cigarette.
"Why is your room so topsy-turvy? Why don't you pick up your books? Look! Soap, pen, comb, tie, cigarette holder, and photo all jumbled up!"
His clean-shaven face emanated a whiff of perfume which was distasteful to me. He was right. His scrupulous care, his self-esteem which had descended to him from his forefathers and his camel-like poise had nothing to do with my wounded delicacy. In his house, he had a special shelf for soaps, a special shelf for cigarettes and a special room for books.
Today more than ever before, my noble father had demeanor himself by gracing my house. Was I not the same prodigal son who after a long strife had left his house on grounds that I no longer wished to eat lunch at one, go to bed at eleven and be ready at the breakfast table at seven in the morning? As he was smoking, I splashed water over my face and settled down beside him.
"Don't you fancy the idea of traveling?" he asked.
I didn't understand what he meant. Did he mean to say "travel or travel with me?"
"I am stone-broke. Give me some more money this month." I said, by way of parrying the question.
"It's a good thing I came here."
"Had I not seen you I would have borrowed some."
Knowing that he abhorred the idea of my borrowing money, I deliberately said it to his face so that he might not taunt me with his wealth. He fell silent a moment. His silence-this pernicious habit of his-was a torture to me. His large red eyes in which the brutality of a barbaric father was clearly discernible wore a peculiar look which would set fire to me if they could.
To me, it was both repulsive and fatal. After a moment's silence, my father produced his bankbook from his pocket, writing me a check for five marks.
"I am traveling to Sitto, a country bordering Czechoslovakia (I have forgotten its name). The train is due at 11:00. Go to my house and wait there until the inn keeper's son takes my portmanteau to the railway station. You can be there so we may travel together.’
Without looking at him, I said: "All right."
"What do you mean all right? Will you come or will you have my portmanteau taken there?"
"Can't you take your portmanteau to the station yourself?"
"I am already busy. It's 9:00 and I am about to be somewhere at nine thirty." he said with complete indifference as was his custom.
"All right. I'll drink a cup of tea. Then I'll go to bank from where I'll go to your residence. I'll stay there until the inn keeper's son takes your portmanteau to the station and comes back."
"It'll be too late if you go to bank."
"Unfortunately I don't have any money."
At this he gave a metallic laugh and so did I. He gave me ten marks. I thanked him. My father departed. I felt sort of chagrinned. My father was an excellent personification of the past. But his face? His perfume and tie belonged to the present age but his thoughts?! He had to eat at 11:00 sharp or life would come to standstill. Honor would be marred and the holy pillars of family would crumble. It would be nice if sons and daughters gathered together and chatted while father, the head of the family, would sit above all, everybody at his beck and call. Father is the god of the house. He is the reflection of religion in the family or the other way round, just like the old times. I dressed and walked out.
The gray color of Berlin streets and the peculiar look of this city in August especially on a suffocating summer's day almost killed me. Shall I go to the country with my father? Will he be going to the frontier to Czechoslovakia? I shall be going with him. But no, a few days ago, that Russian girl ... What was her name? Katushka ... Katushka ... when we bade farewell, she put her slender white hand with her bony long fingers in mine, she said: "I hope to see you again. I am going to Sitto. Why don't you join me there?"
The previous night when she had rested her white gaunt face upon my lap, when she had clung her prominent cheekbones to mine, she was murmuring something. Was she flattering me? No, in that state she was incapable of untruth. What was she doing then? Clutching at my hair, she said: "You are different from others." All of a sudden, I burst into a peal of laughter in the middle of the street. When I was jolted into realities, I perceived that I had walked aimlessly for more than half an hour. I had passed my father's residence. A car was coming. I got in. The soft rocking of the car lulled me to slumber like a baby in a cot. It was a slumber of different happenings. Katushka Oslovovna! Where is she going? To Sitto? I heard this name today. That's where my father is going to. I will be going to Sitto with my father to see Katushka Oslovovna. This name has a peculiar music. Katushka ... Oslovovna. At all events, it is worth spending time with these Russian emigrants. She related to me stories about the prince, the duke, the court, Rasputin, Tsar, Tolstoy and Siberia. She knew well that I was opposed to her remarks. I only loved her lips, not the shining jewelries in her bosom. Every time I disagreed with her, she pressed her lips upon mine to silence me. She knew that I had put aside all those words and that I regarded her words as lies and that I knew the truth of her words. However, she loved me and still does.
Sure, she does.
"Where are you headed?"
"What time is it?"
"Ten-thirty."
"To 28 Oland Strasse."
I was determined to go to Sitto, but in that case I would not have time to go to, my father's residence. First, I went to his residence, put the portmanteau in the car, drew money from my account and set out for where my father had gone at 1:0 in the afternoon.
II
As our car had a stop for nearly an hour in Gorlitz, I arrived in Sitto in the evening from where I went to the country by train. I left the portmanteau in the railway station and inquired after Katushka in the country inns. (There were only two.) She was staying at the Green House Inn. There I rented a room. Katushka, her mother and another woman had two rooms at the Green House. After a time, I wrote a few words on my card: “My dear Katushka, I have just arrived. I wish to see you. Fix the time and place. F."
I rang the bell. A nineteen year old maid opened the door. She had blonde hair and greenish eyes. She smiled as I gave her the card.
"Are you Mr. F? It's four days since the Lady has been inquiring after you."
"From you?"
"You know. I like her. They were here last year. They gave me a book. You know?"
"What?"
"Mistress confides her secrets to me."
"What's your name?"
"Friedel."
"Well, Friedel. Will you tell me her secrets?"
"Please don't insist."
"All right. Don't tell me if you don't wish to." The girl reflected.
"No, I'll tell you because I know Miss Katushka loves you. She's been inquiring after you since the day she came here. Today, a certain gentleman came to mistress. He was with them when they came here to rent the rooms. Mistress doesn't like him, you know. I think she is obliged to be with him. This evening she was wondering when you would come."
Fishing out a two-mark bill from my pocket, I furtively thrust it in her hand and asked: "Well Friedel. Tell me what kind of man is he?"
"I simply don't know. I didn't see him distinctly."
"All right Friedel, have this card to mistress and take care nobody notice."
It was as if cold water had been poured on me ... I thought of leaving the inn and going to where my father was staying. After all girls are girls. Their tears and smiles are false. If Katushka is a liar, all the girls are liars. But how can these glittering eyes lie? Have not these eyes and cheeks ensnared me? That man must also be in love with beauty. In what ways am I superior to him? In fact she may love me but his bank account is surely bigger than mine. Yes, money is the first pillar of the holy foundation of family. I wish I had not sent her the card. Why should I have cheapened myself by sending the card? But as the girl was aware of everything, I could not do otherwise. Friedel came back. On a card, Katushka Oslovovna had written: "My mother wishes to make your acquaintance and invites you to have dinner with us in the veranda.”... Now I must change my clothes, observe etiquette and kiss her mother's hand... I've come for the sole purpose of kissing Katushka's cheeks and looking into her eyes. Excuse me tonight. I should call on my father as I've already planned to. Katushka Oslovovna. I uttered the name aloud. It actually escaped my tongue. The door opened. Katushka entered and stepped up to me.
"You came at last! I had no hope of your coming," she observed.
The soft music of her voice made me forget all I thought of her. Kissing her hand, I seated her on the coach.
"Yes, I came at last," I answered.
Perching on the edge of the coach, I put my hands round her neck. She gazed at me.
"I'd forsaken all hopes of your coming."
"Why?"
"Why?! Do I not know you? You are fundamentally a daydreamer. You are never awake. Now that I am talking to you, you are not listening to me."
She was right. At that moment, I was watching the rosy flowers on her white gown. I had feasted my eyes on her voluptuously white breasts which were visible through her transparent batiste. Her shapely neck, now wrapped in a black muffler, gave me enormous delight. I gazed at her black eyelashes which had almost curtained her eyes. I was not listening to her remarks simply because they were so commonplace. My eyes were fixed into hers.
"I came in person so as to ask you not to refuse my mother's invitation," she said.
"What made you think that I wouldn't turn up?"
"I know you hate such formalities," she said.
For answer, I pressed my lips upon hers, sucking them awhile. She knew me so well. (How did she know me so well?) This question would be an insult to her. This girl was oversentimental. Still, she was incapable of false feelings. Was such a thing possible? "It's a month since we have known each other. But it seems I have known you ever since I knew myself. Where did I first see you? In a dream? Yes, in a dream. Maybe I was then fifteen years old. I was always in love with greenish eyes like yours. I've always loved blond hair like yours. Do you remember what I told you the first night we met? I have always cherished an illusion. Now I see it manifested in you, in your lugubrious thoughts, in your life and in your troubled soul. You know my life well. You are an odd people. I know well that your love is not for ever. It's a wave that comes and goes. A wave goes but water remains for all the time to come. You will forget me, won't you? But I won't forget you. My dream has eventually come true. My life is not wasted away. So far I've been fostering this illusion. From this onwards, the reminiscence of those days will keep me alive. You can't marry me. So how can you live with me your entire life? But as long as I am with you I ....”
She burst into an agony of tears.
"I'll have to get married sooner or later," she sobbed.
Now her mystery broke upon my understanding. The man with whom she had newly become acquainted was to become her husband. Katushka might love me without being my legal wife if she wished so and other factors didn't compel her. But now she was compelled by nobody neither by father nor by mother but by an accursed ghastly demon, money, society and environment to sell herself for an entire life so as she may sustain life. All the girls sell themselves either for an hour or a day at a low price or for an entire life to keep soul and body together.
"Stop crying Katushka. Now you see why I detest the world so intensely."
She did not understand what I said but kissed me a kiss which could have been given by none but a Russian black haired girl.
"When shall we meet again?" she asked.
"Can we go for a little turn after dinner?"
"All right. After dinner."
III
On the whole, I had a dull time having dinner with Katushka her mother and the other woman. After dinner, Katushka and I went for a turn. We walked for more than half an hour. The sky was being mildly enveloped in darkness.
Leisurely we perambulated through the cypress trees in the woods. A thin mass of cloud had rendered the sky blue. The routes were silent and solemn. The barking of dogs fell upon our ears from afar. Katushka was murmuring a Russian song and I was listening. Half an hour rolled away. On a hill in the woods was mounted a scaffolding. Katushka was tired.
"Would you like to rest awhile?"
"Good idea!"
"Let's go up the scaffolding."
"I dread I may fall."
"Don't fear. I'll help you up. The air here is rather unbeatable. Up there, the air is far better."
The scaffolding had five steps. The instant she put her foot on the first step, the scaffolding made a jerk. Katushka flung herself into my arms. It was a propitious moment for us to exchange passionate kisses once more. Then, I helped her up. We were surrounded by black trees whose tops quavered like ripples. Softly and soulfully, Katushka resumed murmuring the same Russian song. I held her hand in mine and called her name. For answer she reclined her head upon my shoulder. If only this silence would elongate itself into eternity! An instant afterwards, she asked: “What brought you here?"
"First, I had promised you so."
"And second ... ."
"Second, I came here because my father is here."
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"It was hardly worth mentioning. You respect your parents so much. My attitude, however, is the exact opposite, in everything, I mean."
"Acquaint me with him or are you ashamed of doing that?"
"Why should I be? I simply don't like it. But if you wish, tomorrow, I ... ."
She buried her face in my arms.
"Not tomorrow."
"Why not tomorrow?" She put her hands round my neck, covering me with frantic kisses and wept excoriating tears. I unclasped her hands from my neck, taking her cheeks between my two hands and cast a glance into her eyes in the dark.
"Stop crying Katushka. I understand you. Such is your world. I love
you, Katushka. I love you so much that I can't buy you. We had better continue to cherish this illusion. Besides, it's not a bad one. It consoles us, and inspires hope and courage. You intend to go for a turn with that new-comer tomorrow, don't you? Well, we shall meet each other tomorrow night."
"Don't fancy that I'll be alone with him. Mom will accompany us. We'll be his guests at the White Horse Inn tomorrow night. Come without fail. I want to introduce him to you. I wish to know your opinion about him."
"All right, Katushka. I should call on my father first. After which I’ll join you at White Horse Inn tomorrow night."
We said no more. Then ardent kisses and caresses spoke for us. Gradually, the moon emerged into sight. It was late. We climbed down the scaffolding. The doves, intoxicated by the moonlight, were billing and cooing. We took great pleasure in giving ear to those warbling birds. It was already 11:00 when I arrived home. I called Friedel. She brought me wine. After some time, the sound of music came to my ears from my neighbor’s room. For a while, I indulged in wine and cigarettes.
IV
At 9:00 in the morning, I came out of my bedroom. At first, I paced up and down the corridor for some time. Friedel, with a white kerchief round her head, was cleaning the rooms. She told me that Katushka and her mother had gone for a turn. I made for the railway station from where I got on a coach while I had my father's portmanteau with me and set out for the White Horse Inn where my father staying. I got there at 2:30 but my father wasn't there. I was told that he had left early in the morning. I left the portmanteau with the inn keeper and set out. I reached Green House Inn in the evening but Katushka wasn't there. Again, Friedel made her appearance. Unlike usual, she was attired in a gorgeous dress.
"Sir, the ladies came and went."
"You look good tonight, Friedel."
"I am going to a dance with my fiancée."
Upon having dinner, I set out for White Horse Inn on foot. I arrived there at 9:00. I was told that my father was in the hall downstairs. I dismounted the stairs and opened the door.
Astonishment seized me when my glance fell on Katushka sitting beside my father. The waiter was removing the used goblets, replacing them with new ones. My father was clean shaven. Katushka was wearing her blue gown and looked prettier than ever before. Immediately, I stormed out. On my card, I scribbled a few words and gave it to the waiter to hand it to Katushka.
"My dear Katushka, you had asked me to introduce my father to you. He is the same man sitting beside you. You had asked me to give my opinion about your would be husband. He'll make a good husband. You'll be happy with him. F."
I turned to the inn keeper and said: "The portmanteau belongs to the man sitting beside that lady."
Attar, A Great Mystic Poet
By Ismail Salami
Attar is one of the greatest Muslim mystical writers and thinkers of all times. The importance of this towering literary figure largely rests on his dissemination of Sufi thinking through his poetry and prose works.
Little is known of his life. Born Farid od-Din Mohammad ibn Ibrahim Attar in Neyshabur c. 1142?, he traveled widely throughout Egypt, Turkistan, and India during his youth. It is generally agreed that his father was a great apothecary and that Attar followed in his footsteps pursuant to his demise. Attar went through his spiritual awakening while he was practicing medicine. Jami, the great Iranian poet and mystic, states that he was an adherent of the mystical thoughts of Majd ad-din Baghdadi. Legend says that Attar was once sitting in his shop and a dervish entered and asked him: How will you die? He answered: As you will. Then the dervish lay down and mentioned the name of Allah and died on the spot. This event produced in him an indescribable state whereupon he relinquished all worldly matters and joined the circle of the dervishes.
Narration has it that Baha Walad, Father of Rumi, together with his son Rumi met him on their way to Mecca in Neyshabur and Attar gave them a copy of the Asrar-Nameh (The Book of Secrets).
A prolific writer and poet, Attar wrote and compiled many works of literature which are used as great references in Islamic mysticism.
In his works he deals with many sublime ideas; yet, a dominant theme which pervades most of his works is the notion of ‘Mad Wise Men’. The readers may be astounded by the way he addresses God through the tongue of his characters. Most of them are mad or half-wits. According to Attar, there are three groups of people who are allowed to speak audaciously to God: the prophets, the mystics, and the mad men. And the characters in his narratives are licensed to talk audaciously to and about God because they are mad.
Yet, Attar is best-known in the West for his Mantiq al-Tayr (The Conference of the Birds), a poem consisting of 4600 couplets. The book has long caught the attention and interest of the orientalists all over the world. There are more than seventy English renditions of the work in English alone, a fact which testifies to the significance of this work in the West.
Mantiq al-Tayr describes the journey of a flock of birds to the home of their guide. Each bird symbolizes a certain attribute. The birds are in fact after a king to rule over them. They assemble together and the hoopoe rises and states that the only bird who deserves to rule over them is but the Simorgh (phoenix). They start an arduous journey and some of them die on the way and the surviving thirty birds (simorgh=phoenix) arrive at their destination and look in the mirror-like countenance of the Simorgh (phoenix), only to realize that they and the Simorgh are one. The book in fact exemplifies the union between the human and the divine.
Another great work by the poet is Tadhkirat al-Awliya (Hagiography). It details the biographies of the Muslim saints and mystics. It includes the biographies of such great mystics as Hallaj, Bayazid Bastami and Imam Ja’far Sadeq (AS) whom the writer believes was one of the initiators of the doctrine of Sufism in Islam.
Attar’s influence is extremely felt not only in Iranian literature but also in other Muslim literatures.
Attar was killed at the hands of a Mongol soldier c. 1220.
Helmut Ritter is among the great orientalists who have conducted exhaustive studies on the works of this great mystic poet.
Simin Behbahani, The Lady of Today
By Ismail Salami
A poet of lyrical gift, Simin Behbahani was born in 1927 in Tehran of literary parents. Her father, Abbas Khalili, was a novelist and her mother, Fakhri Arghun, a noted feminist, teacher, and writer. She published her first poem at 14. Simin is the author of over a dozen books of poetry in Persian including The Broken Lute (1951), Footprint (1954), Candelabrum (1955), Marble (1961), Resurrection (1971), A Trajectory of Speed and Fire (1980), Arzhan Plain (1983), and Paper Dress (1992).
The Waxen Doll
You were a darling doll of love
Which I made out of the wax of fantasy.
With the hand of illusion, I infused your body
With the grace of the clear spring waters.
Your soft body I clad
In the white attire of my poem.
Of your face, purer than marble
I wrote a few lines in my poem.
Many a night, with the tips of my eyelashes
I stole stars from the sky
And put them in row one by one
To hang round your neck.
I fetched dews from the tulip garden
Wherewith to wash your white body.
I fetched the scent of vernal morn
To perfume your breasts.
When morning smiled,
I borrowed its smile for you.
Night fell, and I took
From its tresses a musky strand.
Your face looked fresh
And pretty as a charming rose.
I tried hard
Alas, your waxen body did not warm up.
One day of all warm autumnal days
I sat you in the sun;
I went and came back. Oh what a sight!
The sun had molten you.
You melted and the attire of my poem
Was bathed in your clear lucid body.
And the waxen stain of your body
Left forever a mark on its white garment.
Gale
O eye! If you assist tonight I will raise a gale
Fire I will cast into heart and into the sea I will sail
I will seek you though you are out of sight
I pine for you though with my feeling I fight
The prison of patience I will break
The burning virtue I will into prison take
For the virtuous intellect a shroud will I find
Or I will divest myself of the power of the mind
Return and at your coyness my heart will I lay
Whatever you demand of me, I will obey, I will obey.
Sadeq Chubak and Quest for Justice
By Ismail Salami