The Blind Owl By Sadeq Hedayat (Translated by Iraj Bashiri), Chapter 3

 

Chapter 3

I was not allowed to rest.

How could I rest?

I had formed the habit of taking promenades at sunset.

I don't know why I wanted, insisted to find the stream of water, the cypress tree and the lily plant.

In the same way that I had become addicted to opium, I had become accustomed to these promenades; it was as though some force compelled me to them.

All along the way, I thought only of her, recalling my initial glimpse of her.

I wanted to find the place where I had seen her on the Thirteenth day of Farvardin.

If I could find that place, if I could sit under that cypress tree, surely some tranquillity would appear in my life.

But alas, there was nothing there but refuse, hot sand, the ribcage of a horse, and a dog sniffing the top of the trash.

Had I really met her?

Never!

I only saw her stealthily through a hole, through an ill-fated hole in the closet of my room.

Like a hungry dog who sniffs the garbage and searches, but who, as soon as people appear with more trash, runs away and hides himself out of fear. Later he returns to seek his favorite pieces I was in a similar situation, but the hole had been blocked up.

To me she was a fresh and tender bouquet of flowers thrown on top of a trash pile.

The last evening that, like other evenings, I went on a walk, it was dark and it felt like rain, A thick mist covered everything.

In the rainy weather that decreases the sharpness of colors, and diminishes the rudeness of the lines of objects, I felt a particular freedom and relaxation, as though the raindrops washed my black thoughts away.

During this night, which should not have happened came to pass.

I walked about involuntarily

But during these lonesome hours, during those minutes the duration of which I cannot recall exactly, in spite of the fog, her vague and shocking face--like the picture on pencase covers emerging from behind the clouds and smoke—her motionless, expressionless face continued to materialize before my eyes much more powerfully than ever before.

When I returned, I think it was quite late at night.

A dense fog was hanging in the air, so thick that I could not see in front of my feet clearly.

But out of habit, and through a special sense which was awakened in me, when I arrived at my

doorstep, I perceived a black-clad figure, the figure of a woman, sitting on the platform of my house

I struck a match to find the keyhole, but for some reason my eyes involuntarily caught sight of the black-clad figure. I recognized the two oblique eyes--two large, black eyes amid a silvery thin face--the same eyes which stared at a man's face without actually seeing.

I would have recognized her, even if I had not seen her before. No. I was not mistaken.

This black-clad figure was she.

Astounded and bewildered, I stood petrified in my place, like someone who is dreaming, and who knows that he is asleep, but who cannot wake up when he wants to.

The match burnt itself, and then my fingers.

Then, suddenly, I returned to reality and turned the key. The the door opened. I drew myself to the side. Like someone familiar with the way, she got off the platform and crossed the dark corridor. She opened the door of my room and entered. I, too, following her, entered my room.

Hurriedly I lit the lamp. I saw that she had retired to my bed and was now lying on it.

Her face was in shade. I did not know whether she sees me or not! Could she hear my voice or not! Her outward showed no trace of fear or of desire to resist.