The Blind Owl By Sadeq Hedayat (Translated by Iraj Bashiri), Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

It seemed as though she had come here involuntarily.

Was she sick? Had she lost her way? She had come here involuntarily, like a sleep-walker.

At this moment, no living creature can imagine the mental state I experienced.

I felt a kind of pleasant, yet indescribable, pain.

No. I was not mistaken.

This was that same woman, the same girl who had entered my room without astonishment, without uttering a word.

I had always imagined our first meeting to be like this.

This state was like a deep, endless sleep for me; because one has to be in a very deep sleep to have such a dream.

This silence was like an eternal life for me, because one cannot speak at the beginning, or at the end of eternity.

To me she was a woman, and she had something supernatural about her.

Her face reminded me of the confounding oblivion of other people's faces so strongly that upon seeing her, my whole body began to shake, and my knees gave way.

At this moment, I saw the whole painful story of my life behind her large eyes, her extremely large eyes, wet and glistening eyes, like black diamond balls thrown into tears.

In her eyes, in her black eyes, I found the eternal night, the dense darkness that I had been searching for, and I plunged into its awesome, enchanting darkness.

I felt as though some force was being extracted from my being.

The ground shook underneath my feet. Had I fallen to the ground at that moment, I would have drawn an indescribable pleasure from that fall.

My heart stopped. I stopped myself from breathing.

I was afraid that if I breathed, like a piece of cloud or a puff of smoke, she might disappear.

Her silence was like a miracle.

It was as though they had built a glass wall between us.

This moment, this hour suffocated me until eternity.

Her weary eyes, as if witnessing something extraordinary that others cannot see--as if she had seen death--were gradually closing. Her eyelids closed and I, like a drowning person who after much struggle comes to the surface, from the intensity of fever, was shaking.

With the edge of my sleeve, I wiped the perspiration on my forehead.

Her face had the same calm and motionless expression but it seemed that she had become smaller and thinner.

As she reclined she was chewing on the index finger of her left hand. Her face was the color of silver, and through her thin, black garment which

fit her tightly one could see the outline of her legs, arms, the two breasts, and all the rest of her body.

In order to see her better, I bent over, because her eyes were closed.

But no matter how closely I looked at her face, it was as if she was completely away from me.

Suddenly I felt that I had no information whatsoever about the secrets of her heart and that there exists no relationship between the two of us.

I wanted to say something, but I was afraid that her ears, her sensitive ears accustomed to some distant, heavenly and soft music, might become hateful of my voice.

It occurred to me that she might be hungry or thirsty.

I entered the closet of my room in order to find something for her, although I knew that there was nothing to be found in the house.

But, as if inspired, in the niche, I had a flask of old wine which I had inherited from my father.

I used the stool and brought the flask down.

Tiptoeing carefully, I went to the side of the bed.

I saw that she was sleeping like a tired, exhausted child.

She was in a deep sleep and her long eyelashes, like velvet, were closed.

I took the cap off the flask and through her locked teeth, gently poured a cup of wine down her throat.

For the first time in my life a feeling of sudden tranquillity appeared.

Because I saw that those closed eyes, like a canker that tortured me, and a nightmare that pressed my insides with its iron claws, had somewhat subsided.

I brought my own chair, placed it beside the bed and stared at her face.

What a childish face, what a strange disposition!

Was it possible that this woman, this girl, or this angel of torture (because I didn't know what else to call her), was it possible that she had the double life?

So quite, so unceremonious?

Now I could feel the warmth of her body, and I could smell the damp scent that rose from her heavy, black locks.

I don't know why I raised my shaking hand, because my hand was not under my control, and caressed a lock of her hair, the lock that was always stuck to her temple.

Then I sank my fingers in her locks.

Her hair was cold and damp, cold, and absolutely

Cold. It was as though she had died several days ago. And I was not mistaken, she was dead.

I passed my hand in front of her chest and placed it on her breast and her heart.

There was no sign of a heartbeat.

I brought the mirror and held it in front of her nose. There was not the slightest trace of life in her.

I wanted to make her warm with the heat of my own body, to give her my warmth and receive the coldness of death from her, perhaps I could possibly blow my own soul into her body.

I took off my clothes, climbed onto the bed and lay down beside her.

Like the male and female mandrake we became stuck to each other.

As a matter of fact, her body was like the body of the female mandrake severed from its mate, and it had the same burning love of the mandrake.

Her mouth, acrid and bitterish, tasted like the bitter end of a cucumber.

Her whole body had become as cold as hailstones.

I felt that blood was freezing in my veins, and the cold was penetrating to the depths of my heart.

All my efforts were useless.

I climbed off the bed and put my clothes on.

No. It was not a lie. She had come here to my room, to my bed and surrendered her body to me.

She gave me her body and her soul—both! While she was alive, while her eyes were brimful with life, only the memory of her eyes tortured me, but now, devoid of feeling and motionless and cold, with closed eyes, she has come and surrendered herself to me. With closed eyes!

This was the same person who had poisoned my entire life; or originally my life was susceptible to being poisoned, and I could not have had any life other than a poisoned life.

Now here in my room she gave her body and her shadow to me.

Her brittle, transient soul, which had no relation to the world of earthly beings, slowly came out of her black, wrinkled dress--the body that tortured her--and went into the world of wandering shadows. Perhaps it took my shadow with her as well.

Her body, however, devoid of any feeling or motion, was lying there.

Her soft, lax muscles, her veins, tendons and bones were waiting to rot. A delicious feast was prepared for the worms and rats that dwell under the ground.

I had to live next to a dead body for an endless, long, dark and cold night, beside a corpse in this adversity-stricken, miserable room, itself a grave, amidst the darkness of the eternal night which

was surrounding me, and which was sinking into the walls.

With her corpse.

It looked as if as long as the world has existed, as long as I have existed, a corpse, a cold, corpse, devoid of feeling and motion, has been with me.

At this moment, my thoughts had become frozen.

A unique, singular life was created in me.

Because my life was bound to all the existences that surrounded me, all the shadows that trembled around me, I felt a deep, and inseparable connection with the world, and the movement of all creatures and with nature. All the elements of myself and of nature were related to each other by the invisible streams of some mind-disturbing, agitating current.

No thought or image seemed unnatural for me.

I could discover with ease the secrets of the ancient paintings, the mysteries of difficult, philosophical texts, and the eternal foolishness of shapes and types, because at this moment I was participating in the revolution of the earth and the planets, in the growth of the plants, and in the activities of the animal world.

The past and the future, far and near, shared my sentient life and were at one with me.

At such times everyone takes refuge in a strong habit in his life, or to one of his scruples that he has developed in his life: the drunkard goes and becomes drunk, the writer writes, the stone-cutter cuts stones, each giving vent to his anxiety and anger by escaping into the strong stimulant of his

own life. And it is in such moments that a true artist can create a masterpiece out of his own talent.

But I! I who was devoid of talent and who was poor, a painter of pencase covers, what could I do?

What could I paint with these dry, glistening and lifeless pictures, all of which were the same, as models, that would become a masterpiece?

But in my whole being I felt an excessive upsurge of talent and warmth; it was a special agitation and stimulus. I wanted to draw those eyes, which were now closed forever, on a piece of paper and keep them for myself.

This sensation forced me to put my decision into action, that is, I did not do this voluntarily—one does not when one is imprisoned with a corpse.

This very thought filled me with a special joy.

Eventually, I extinguished the lamp which was giving off smoke, brought two candlesticks and lit them over her head. Against the flickering light of the candle, her face assumed more repose, and in the interplay of the light and darkness in the room, it acquired a mysterious, ethereal air.

I picked up paper along with my working tools and went to the side of her bed, because now this was her bed.

I wanted to copy this form that slowly, and very gradually, was condemned to disintegration and nothingness, this form that was apparently motionless and expressionless, without being disturbed. I wanted to record its fundamental lines on paper. I wanted to choose from this face those lines which affected me.

A painting, no matter how sketchy and simple, must have an impact and a soul.

But I, who was accustomed to printed paintings on pencase covers, now had to make myself think and I had to materialize in front of me, my own image, that is, that aspect of her face that had an effect upon me. I wanted to look at her face once, close my eyes, and then draw on the paper those lines of her face that I would choose.

In this way, maybe, using my own thought, I could find a remedy for my tortured soul.

Eventually, I took refuge in the static life of lines and shapes.

This subject had a special relevance to my dead style of painting--painting with a corpse as a model.

As matter of fact, I was a painter of corpses.

But the eyes, her closed eyes, did I need to see them again?

Were they not sufficiently engraved in my thought and mind?

I do not know until near morning exactly how many times I painted her face!

But none of them satisfied me. I tore them up as I finished painting them. I

neither felt tired because of doing this, nor did I feel the passage of time.

It was daybreak. Through the windowpanes, a dull light had entered my room.

I was busy working on a picture that I thought was better than the rest. But the eyes? The eyes that had assumed a reproachful expression as if I had committed unforgivable sins! I could not put those eyes down on paper.

Suddenly, all life and the recollection of those eyes vanished from my memory.

My efforts were useless.

No matter how intensely I looked at her face, I could not recall its expression.

Suddenly I saw at this same time that her cheeks gradually reddened; they were a liver-red color like the color of the meat in front of a butcher shop. She came to life and her exceedingly wide and astonished eyes, eyes in which all the brightness of life was gathered and glimmering in a sickly light, her sick, reproachful eyes very slowly opened and looked at my face.

For the first time that she was aware of me. She looked at me and again, her eyes closed.

Perhaps this event did not last more than a moment, but it was sufficient for me to capture the expression of her eyes and put it on paper.

With the sharp tip of the brush, I drew this expression, and this time I did not tear up the picture.

Then I got up and walked slowly to her. I thought she is alive, has come to life, my love had invested my spirit with her body; but closer, smell of a dead body, I felt the smell of a decomposing, dead body--

On her body, small worms were wiggling, and in

the light of the candle, two golden flybees were flying around her.

She was completely dead, but why and how did her eyes open? I don't know. Had I seen this in a dream?