A bakery, a butcher's shop, a grocery, a barber's shop and
two tea- houses all of which were conducive to satisfy the very basic human
needs constituted the Varamin Square. The square and its inhabitants were
half-baked and half-grilled in the heat of the tyrannical sun and passionately
longed for the first breeze of evening and the shades of night. The people, the
shops, the trees and the animals were dead still. An intense heat heavily hung
over their heads and a pall of dust waved in the sky, which grew thicker due to
the traffic of cars.
On one side of the square stood an old plane-tree whose
trunk had withered and dried up but which had spread its awry gouty branches
with an indomitable perseverance. Beneath the shade of its dusty leaves was a
huge massive platform on which two street-urchins were vending rice pudding and
desiccated pumpkin seeds. A turbid stream of water flowed lazily through the
gutter in front of the tea-house.
The only building that might catch your sight was the famous
Varamin Tower with its cracked cylindrical trunk and its conical top. In the
chinks of its fallen bricks, the sparrows had built their nests. Silent, they
had dropped off in shelter of the fiery heat. Only the whimpering of a dog
broke the silence in succession.
He was a Scotch terrier. He had a sooty muzzle and black
spots on his pasterns as if he had run in the mire. He had drooping ears, a
pointed tail, dirty fuzzy hair and a pair of human-like clever eyes in the
depths of which could be seen a human soul. In the night that had enshrouded
his entire life, an eternal thing undulated in his eyes, carrying a message
which could not be fathomed as if stuck in the back of his pupils. It was
neither light nor color but something incredible just like what can be seen in
the eyes of a wounded gazelle. Not only was there some sort of similarity
between his eyes and those of a man but some kind of equality between them.
Those were two hazel eyes fraught with the pangs of agony and waiting which
could only be found in the muzzle of a stray dog. But it seemed as though
nobody could observe or understand his eyes which were charged with pain and
supplication.
In front of the grocery, blows rained down on him by the
errand boy and the butcher's errand boy pelted stones at him in front of the
butcher's shop. Had he taken shelter under a car, he would have been welcomed
by the heavy kicks of the driver's spiked shoes. When everybody ceased to
torment him, it was the urchin's turn to derive a fantastic delight in
torturing him. For every moan he let out, a piece of rock descended on his back
at which the urchin uttered a boisterous laugh and cried out: “Dirty filthy
cur!”
Shortly afterwards, the rest of others burst into a hearty
laugh as if they had joined him in sympathy and insidiously encouraged him.
Everybody kicked him to please their Lord. It seemed completely natural to them
to beleaguer a dirty cur which had seven lives and on which religion had put a
curse.
Harassed by the urchin, the miserable animal eventually ran
away towards an alley leading to the Tower. In fact, he limped off on a hungry
stomach, taking shelter in a gutter. There, he rested his head on his pasterns,
stuck his tongue out and watched the grand fields waving before him in a state
of sleep and wakefulness.
His body was exhausted and his nerves all frazzled. In the
damp air of the gutter, a singular sensation of solace enveloped his entire
being.
Various smells of half-dead verdure, a moist old shoe and
living and non-living objects revived in his muzzle distant confused memories.
His instinctive desire aroused and his past memories awakened afresh in his
mind when he kept his attention riveted upon the field. This time, however,
this feeling was so overmastering that it prompted him to bounce up and down.
He felt an intense urge to frisk in the field. It was a hereditary sense for
all his ancestors had been freely bred amidst the green fields.
He was so exhausted that he couldn't budge. A painful
feeling of helplessness pervaded him. And a handful of forgotten and lost
feelings arose within him. In the past, he had diverse bounds and needs. He felt
bound to be at his master's beck and call, to turn a stranger or an outsider
dog out of his master's house and frolic with his master's son. He had learned
how to behave toward known and unknown people. He had learned to eat on time
and expect caressing at a certain time. But now these bounds had been lifted
from his neck. All his attention was focused on rummaging through the garbage
in search of a mouthful of food.
He got beaten all day long and whined-it was his sole
defense. He used to be plucky, neat and sprightly. But now he was cowardly and
oppressed. At every sound, he trembled all over.
Even his own voice frightened him. Basically, he had got
used to dirt and rubbish. His body itched but he did not feel like hunting his
lice or licking himself. He felt he had become part of the garbage.
He felt that something had died within him, faded away. Two
winters had elapsed ever since he had wound up in this hellhole. Since then, he had not had a square meal. He
had not had a comfortable slumber. His passions and feelings had been
smothered. No one had stroked a caressing hand on him. No one had looked into
his eyes. Although the people resembled his master, it appeared that his
feelings and demeanors were as different as chalk and cheese from theirs. It
seemed as if those who were associated with him were closer to his world,
understood his agonies and needs better and protected him more. Amidst the
smells that reached his nostrils and stupefied him most of all was the smell of
the rice pudding in front of the urchin-the white liquid which was much so
similar to his mother's milk and summoned up memories of his puppyhood.
Suddenly, a feeling of lethargy seized him. When he was a
cub, he sucked this nutritious liquid from his mother's beasts and her soft firm
tongue licked his body clean. The heavy pungent smell of his mother and her
milk was revived in his muzzle. As soon as he got milk-inebriated, his body
would go warm and relaxed and a fluid warmth would run into his veins and
sinews. His head being heavy, he would drop loose from his mother's breasts.
Then, he would fall into a profound slumber and feel delicious tremors come
over his entire body. It would really be a great joy for him to press his
mother's breasts involuntarily and gain milk with complete ease. The fuzzy body
of his brother and the voice of his mother were charged with caress and
delight. He remembered his wooden kennel and his romping about with his brother
in that green gardenlet. He would bite his drooping ears. They would fall and rise
and run. Then, he found another playmate who was his master's son. IN the
bottom of the gardenlet, he would run after him, bark and bite his clothes. He
could never forget his master's caresses and the sugar cubes he grabbed out of
his hand. But he loved his master's son more for he was his playmate and never
beat him. Afterwards, he lost his mother and brother. There were only his
master, his wife, his son and an old servant left for him. He knew their smells
so well and recognized their footfalls from afar. At lunch or dinner, he would
circle round the table, sniffing at the eatables. At times, his master's wife,
despite her husband's desire gave him a morsel out of kindness. Then the old
servant would come and call him: “Pat ... Pat...” And he would put his food in
a special pot beside his wooden kennel. Pat's calamities commenced when his rut
came on him because his master did not allow him to go out and chase the
bitches.
Incidentally, one day in autumn, his master together with
two other men who frequented their house and whom he knew got into his car and
called Pat. They seated him beside them. Pat had traveled by car with his
master several times. But this time, he was in the heat. And there was a
special excitement and anxiety in him. After some hours, they got off in the
same square. His master and the other two men passed the alley beside the
tower. But incidentally, the scent of a bitch, the peculiar smell that Pat
always sought maddened him at once. In different successions, he sniffed until at
last he entered a garden through the gutter. When the evening was drawing to
its close, the sound of his master's voice fell upon his ears twice. “Pat....
Pat ... “Was it really his voice? Or just an echo of it? Although his master's
voice had a singular impression on him, for it reminded him of his bounds and
duties, a certain power transcending all other external powers goaded him into
going after the bitch. He felt that his ears were deaf and heavy to other
external sounds. Powerful feelings had awakened in him.
The scent of the bitch was so strong that made him
experience a vertigo. All his muscles, body and senses were disobedient to him.
He had no power over his actions. But it was not long before he was assailed by
clubs and spade handles and driven out through the gutter. Pat was exhausted
and stupefied but light and calm. When he came to realities, he went to seek
his master. In several alleys, there was a faint smell left of him. He
investigated them all, leaving behind him in certain distances traces of
himself.
He went as far as the ruins outside the village. He came
back because he discovered that his master had returned to the square. Yet the
faint smell of his master was lost in other smells. Had his master left him
behind? A delicious feeling of fear and anxiety took possession of him. How
could Pat possibly live without his master? His God? His master was his God. At
all events, he was sure that his master would come after him. Horrified, he
started running in some alleys. His attempts were futile, though. At last, he,
weary and helpless, returned to the square at night. But there was no sign of
his master. He made a few other turns in the village. Finally, he made his way
towards the gutter where he had seen the bitch.
However, the gutter was blocked by rocks. With peculiar
vehemence, Pat began digging the earth in the vain hopes of forcing his way
into the garden but it proved fruitless. Desperate, he dropped off there. When
the night was far advanced, he woke up with a start from his own moans.
Alarmed, he rose up and roamed in the alleys, sniffing at the walls. For a
while, he wandered in the alleys. At last, an extreme feeling of hunger filled
him. As he returned to the square, the smell of diverse eatables reached his
nostrils; the smell of left-over meat, of fresh bread and yoghurt mingled
together.
Yet, he felt he had trespassed a territory. He felt he had
to beg these people who resembled his master. If he did not find a rival to
scare him away, he would gain ownership right. He might be even kept by one of
those people who had eatables in their hands. In fear and trembling, he
approached the grocery which had just opened. The pungent odor of baked dough
had filled the air. Someone who had a loaf of bread under his arm said: “Come!
Come!”
His voice seemed so foreign to him. He threw a piece of
bread to him. After slight hesitation, he ate the bread and wagged his tail.
The man put the bread on the grocery platform and fearfully and cautiously
stroked Pat's head. Then, he opened his collar cautiously with his hands. How
happy he felt! It was as if all responsibilities and duties had been lifted
from his neck. But as soon as he wagged his tail again and approached the
grocery shop, a firm kick landed on his flank. Whining, he fled away. The shopkeeper
piously washed his hands in the stream to eliminate the unclean effects of the
dog. Pat still knew his collar which was dangling from a peg in front of the
grocery shop. Ever since that day, Pat received but kicks, clubs and rocks. It
appeared that they were his sworn enemies and derived a wondrous delight in
torturing him. Pat felt he had stepped into a world which did not belong to him
and in which nobody could understand his feelings and desires. The first days
went on uneasily but soon he got accustomed to his situation. Besides, at the
turn of the alley, he had found a spot where they deposited their garbage in
which he could find delicious pieces such as bone, fat, skin, fish head, and
many other eatables he was not even able to distinguish. He spent the rest of
the day in front of the butcher's and the bakery. His eyes were on the
butcher's hands but he received blows instead of delicious pieces. But he was
used to his new way of living. From his past life, only a handful of vague
feelings and some smells had been left to him. Every time he felt exceedingly
miserable, he found a sort of consolation in his lost paradise and the memories
of those days were awakened in his mind. What excruciated Pat most of all was
his need for fondling.
He was like a child who always got beaten and insulted but
his delicate feelings had not yet died within him. In his new wretched life, he
had a peculiar need for fondling. His eyes begged for it. He would be ready to
die if someone stroked a loving hand on his head. He needed to express his
kindness to someone, to make sacrifices for him, to show his sense of adoration
and fidelity. But it seemed as though no one needed him to express his
feelings. There was no one to protect him. In every eye, there was but wickedness
and maliciousness. Every movement he made to attract their notice incurred on
him their wrath. While Pat was dozing in the gutter, he let out several moans
and woke up as if some nightmares were passing before his eyes. At this point,
he felt infernally hungry.
The smell of Kebab forced itself to his nostrils. A feeling
of hunger tortured his innards so oppressively that he forgot his helplessness
and agonies. With great difficulty, he rose up and cautiously made for the
square. At this time, an automobile entered the square noisily, raising a pall
of dust. A man got out of the car, stepped up towards Pat, stroking a loving
hand on him. The man was not his master. Pat was not deceived for he knew his
master's smell so well. But how could another person pat him? Pat wagged his
tail and looked at the man dubiously. Was he not deceived? He no longer had the
collar round his neck so that others might fondle him. Again, the man stroked a
caressing hand on him. Pat went after him. His surprise increased when the man
entered a room which he knew well and out of which came diverse smells of
eatables. On the bench near the wall, he lay on his haunches.
Warm bread, yoghurt and eggs and other eatables were brought
to him. The man dipped pieces of bread in yoghurt and threw them to him. At
first, Pat devoured them quickly but then he slowed down. Pat fixed his painful
pretty hazel eyes on him in token of gratitude and wagged his tail. Was he
asleep or awake? Pat had a square meal without being interrupted by beating. Was
it possible that he might have found a new master? The man rose up went into
the alley leading to the tower. He paused awhile. Then, he passed the winding
alleys. Pat followed him until he was out of the village. He went towards the
ruins which had several walls where his master had gone. Did these people seek
the scent of their females? Pat waited for him beside the wall. Then, they
returned to the square through another route.
Again, the man stroked a fondling hand on him. Then after a
little turn round the square, he got into the car he knew well. He sat on his
haunches beside the car, looking at the man. All of a sudden, the car stared
running in the pall of dust. Without the slightest hesitation, Pat started
running after the car. No, he did not want to lose him. He was panting heavily.
He was running after the car with all his might despite the sharp pain he felt
within his body.
The car got away from the village and passed through a
desert. Pat caught up with it several times but lagged behind again. He had
summoned all his strength, taking desperate bounces. But the car ran faster
than he. He was mistaken. He could not catch up with the car. He felt helpless.
He felt an aching pain in the pit of his stomach.
All at once, he felt his limbs were not obedient to him. He
was not capable of the slightest movement. All his efforts were useless. He did
not know why he had run or where he was going. He could go neither forwards nor
backwards. He stopped. He panted, his tongue hanging out. His eyes grew dark.
With bending head, he waddled along the road towards a stream in vicinity of a
farm. He put his stomach on hot moist sands. With his instinctive desire that
never deceived him, he felt he was incapable of moving on. His head swam.
His thoughts and feelings had grown obscure and obliterated.
He felt an aching feeling in the pit of his stomach. A sickly light gleamed in
his eyes. In his death throes, his hands and feet went numb. His body was
drenched with cold sweat. It was mild and delectable.
Near evening, three crows were flying above Pat's head for
they had picked his smell. Cautiously, one of the crows alighted near him,
gazed at him intently and flew away as it realized that he was not yet dead.
These three crows had come to gauge out Pat's hazel eyes.
(Translated by Ali
Salami)
©Ali Salami 2017