Flowers of Flesh | Sadeq Chubak | Ali Salami

Murad was standing in the middle of the crowded street. Divesting himself of his coat, he sold it to the clothes peddler. He felt as if a handful of false social bounds and restrictions had been lifted from his shoulders. A peculiar feeling of freedom filled his entire being. Slightly, he waved his hands to and fro freely, thinking that he could do without a coat. At first, the thought of having two tomans in his pocket – the proceeds of his sale - awakened in him an excessive desire for eating food and smoking opium neither of which he had touched since the day before.

For want of opiate pleasure, his nerves had tautened like wood. The joy he was seeking exceeded all other joys and desires. In his mind’s eye, he stuck opium to his pipe and smoked it out with a single breath at the thought of which he felt a wondrous sensation of joy come over him that somewhat calmed his nerves. An instant afterwards, he gave a noisy yawn which of course merged in the din of the street but which left in his nerves a promising delight and softness. His eyes were wet with tears. Murad had nothing to his name in life. A bag of mobile bones, an acute sense of pessimism and some rusty knowledge which did not even avail himself made up his constitution. In a minute a thousand different ideas went racing through his mind none of which he put into practical shape.

This fellow was a misfit sewn into the crappy crotch of society. Somewhere in its seams, he occupied a place like a louse and lived a dying life. That was why he was incapable of adjusting himself to the society. His joys, pains, and thoughts were as different as chalk and cheese from those of others. He liked his agonies and regarded them as an inseparable part of his existence. People, even babies were loathsome to him.

He had acclimatized himself to solitude. Even in the most densely populated places, he felt lonely and barely at all paid attention to people around him whosoever. He didn’t see them and didn’t want to see them. He had built round himself an egg-like shell in which he squirmed. At times, he was seized with fits of epilepsy. Willy nilly, he became conscious of others every time he felt a need in himself. Soon, he laughed away his thought and swayed his head this way and that coolly and languidly like a roused snake and dismissed everything from his mind. To him, honor, dishonor, morality, religion, veracity and mendacity hardly held and atom of meaning. He abided by nothing but his desires. Even they were temporary ones. Once they were gratified, he felt the absurdity of life even more intensely. Never did he pay attention to his past or future sorrows. How could he now escape an encounter with the Jew who owned a shop on the side of the street? From a distance, Murad cast a glance upon his shop and saw him perching like an eagle on the stool in front of the shop. In an instant, a tremor shot through his spines.

He fell reflective.

“I don’t give a fig if this goddamn Jew grabs me by the collar in front of people and wants his money back. So far, he’s raised a ruckus about it more than a hundred times. If I paid attention to a handful of silly asses what would be the difference between the likes of me and the likes of them?! They disregard me as a human being who lives amongst them, has passions, and needs like them while they have in their store a harem of concubines for themselves and for their cronies. I am not afraid of them bastards.

People would collect if we fell into quarrel. Women would think:” What a handsome young man! He is good to sleep with.” But none would come and say that to me. I have not had a bath for months, and have no coat, no social status, no money and no father and mother. Who would pay attention to me?! As for men, they would think to themselves:” He is every inch a loutish ruffian.” We would pour forth a volley of vitriolic oaths and then would depart. At all events, I need my money. I want to live by it. Why should I lose this damned paper if my life depends on it? I had better go, smoke my fill of opium, drink a hearty glass of arrack, and then go to Mahin’s house to sleep with her. Fuck the Jew! I will mix up with the crowd and buzz off! How can he see me in this twilight with his purblind eyes? “

At this point, a young, exquisite, slender, seductive stately woman-Murad could not even dream of caressing her gown dangling from the rack in a laundry –strutted past him and scattered behind her a soft morphemic scent. Instantly, one of his desires began to neigh wildly in his bosom. He inhaled the scent as far as his lungs allowed. Hardly did he wish to exhale it! He retained the smell in his chest so much so that he was seized with a fit of cough. All his nerves took in her scent like morphine. She smelled of baked opium blended with tincture. He felt as if he had dragged a firm puff from his opium-pipe. His head grew hot and an overpowering desire aroused in him. It was not clear from which source it sprang and what it wanted but which was mingled with jealousy, poverty, passion, and lust. However, it belonged to none. The hollow of her waist and the delicate broadness of her shoulders and her statuesque buttocks were made in so masterly a way that only a sculptor who had long suffered the agony of separation of women in a God-forsaken place could have made such a well-proportionate statuesque woman to his heart’s content.

The poppy flowers on her transparent tight gown seemed to have been tattooed on her flesh. With the delicate movement of her naked shapely feet, these flowers shook seductively and thrilled the soul. Each and every flower swayed so lustfully that it conveyed a message, grimaced at him, attracted him and disappointed him. The woman seemed to be naked. It was as though the blood flowers with their opium colored petals had been tattooed on her flesh, on her buttocks and on her waist. Murad desired to walk behind her, inhale her morphemic scent and feast his eyes on those frowning living fleshy flowers- flowers of soft warm living flesh!

The graceful movement of her buttocks made the flowers rise and fall like the valve of a car-somewhere more, somewhere less but charming, eloquent, and enthralling everywhere. Her waist produced such alluring waves that you thought she was walking on a rope, sometimes giving a shake to her buttocks as not to fall down. From this shake rose so elegant a grace that sufficed to thrill your soul and make you a prisoner of life and desire. A pair of frail shanks covered with tiny golden hairs, which resembled a field of wheat in the afternoon sun of August, carried her slim elegant body.

Her graceful body strutted past him in a pair of buffalo leathered shoes. Murad was intoxicated by the dazzling opiate charm of the woman and the fact that she was inaccessible dampened his spirits. He fell cogitative.

“A good fuck, eh? Who fucks her? Don’t know in what way I am inferior to her fuckers. If I get my hands on the beneficent Lord, I know what to do. I don’t seem to belong to this world.”

All his senses were riveted upon her poppy flowers as if he had never seen them before, as if he had recognized them in a sudden. Again he drooped in a muse. “Poppy flowers are so beautiful, so nice, so good. How charming they have made her!”

Again a strong desire of smoking opium came over him. He had become desire itself. He wished to fill his eternal void with the scent of the woman and the heavy smoke of opium and the smell of the poppy flowers. For an instant, his gaze was averted from the fleshy flowers. All at once, it seemed to him as if the flesh of the woman crumbled in the shade of the trees and all her fleshy flowers faded away. The shapely form changed into a ridiculous punctured skeleton staggering away before his eyes. His stomach turned over and a feeling of nausea laid hold of him. He was hallucinated.

Murad was still in a state of stupefaction that the Jewish creditor caught sight of him and shouted his name several times. As soon as Murad stopped, he sprang down from the stool. Several seconds went on but the Jew had not yet crossed the street because he was stopped by a Chevrolet. So he waited. His patience was up. He fidgeted nervously, waiting for the car to pass.

Yet, his glance remained full on Murad. He did not take his mole-like eyes off him. Murad was standing on the other side of the street, summoning all his strength to confront the obstinate shopkeeper. The morphemic scent, the voluptuous redness of the poppy flowers and the sexy movement of the fleshy flowers were soon forgotten. Instead, the red two-toman bill he owed to the Jew loomed up before his eyes. A bitter feeling of baseness seized him. To him, all the people in the street were his foes. He pondered: “Fuck you! I won’t give you a penny for the world. I can pay you back but I won’t. Now come and get it if you can.”

The Chevrolet raced swiftly off. The creditor had kept on gazing at him and triggered his eyes at him in the attitude of a skilled hunter indicating the direction of his prey amidst a dense meadow. He thought to himself: “You confounded Moslem! I will not allow you to escape my clutches again. If I get my hands on you, I’ll debag you in front of people to see you cannot gobble down Jacob’s money.”

Hardly was he in the middle of the street that a lorry loaded with flour ran over him. Before the grisly sound of its breaks boomed out, it had dragged his body a few meters away. His body was completely crushed and the rest of him caught fire like wool. Overcome with solace, Murad thrust his hands in his pockets, standing there motionless. He heaved a sigh of relief as if unburdened. It was as if nothing had happened. Like a spider squashed beneath the chubby feet of a camel, the creditor was crushed to death in the street. Now his fear of crossing the street was gone.

He thought to himself: “Now the way is open. It wasn’t my fault. I am no longer indebted to him.”

In a twinkling, a large crowd of people gathered round the lorry like ants swarming round a big carrion. Their faces betrayed violent traces of contortions at the sight of death. It was completely obvious that their faces displayed no such thing in ordinary life. People had left their houses in fear of death and solitude, taking refuge in society. Now they were standing there, sunk into an abyss of mortal apprehension.

Murad thought to himself, “When a fowl is decapitated, and its innards are thrown out, the other fowls fight over it until at last one of them picks it, taking it in a corner and eats it. But the rabbles dread their own dead bodies.”

He slowly merged into the crowd. His hands were still resting in his pockets. During this period, the lorry had moved aside. A pool of blood and a fractured skull whose bits still clung to the fat tires of the lorry were scattered all over the ground. Black curdled blood spread over the cobble-stoned street, sunk in the crevices of the stones.

A white blood smeared substance like the whites of an egg which was amalgamated with the coagulated blood could be seen amidst a pack of fractured bones. Murad felt like nauseating. He let out a prolonged yawn and recalled his opium.

Gradually, he extricated himself from the crowd, making for his solitary cellar. Fatigue enveloped him. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders leaning backwards and his chest up. He was whistling a vague tune as if there were nobody but him in the street. His feet felt heavy. A sharp sense of pain shot through his nerves. He stopped for a moment. Whistling, he turned back. The street, the crowd and the lorry were not in sight.

He dropped his eyes and thought: “Fuck it! It’s as if someone is pulling out my veins.”

He, then, threw out a sticky spit like the whites of an egg on the street asphalt and pursued his train of thoughts.

“She was a dainty morsel. If only I could undress her!”

He kicked a cigarette case lying before his feet. Since it didn’t open, he bent down, picking it up. It was empty. Distraught, he threw it in the earthy water creeping in the gutter like a wounded snake.

“Fuck it! If I had a piece of luck in this country, my life would not be so desperate.”

His gaze fixed on the cigarette case floating in the gutter, he bumped into a plane tree.

“Fuck it!”

Changing his direction, he sank in the crowd. He jostled and was jostled. He was heedless. A singular feeling of freedom pervaded every fiber. He felt unburdened. He was alone again. People who walked past him did not exist for him. They were for themselves and he was for himself. The sound of the horns and the din of the people left him cool. He was alone, completely alone. At this instant, a woman strutted past him.

Suddenly, he trembled and turned round. He beheld the same slender graceful figure pirouetting out of a haberdasher’s shop. The same statuesque buttocks tattooed with poppy flowers grimaced at him. She emanated the same morphinic scent. However, this time, she gave off an acrid odor of dung, of skull bones, of blown-out brains and of black coagulated blood.

Translated by Ali Salami

 

The Stray Dog | Sadeq Hedayat | Ali Salami

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