Land of the Plane Tree Leaf by Amir Hosein Bakhshian, Translated by Farshad Torkashvand. Chapter 5: Lake Keo

 

 

 

 Chapter 5: Lake Keo

I asked Soya: "You were supposed to tell me about the Land of the Maple Leaf—about the Taiga forests and reindeer, about Prince Edward Island and Green Gables village, about Toronto and Yonge Street, about the Canadian Parliament and the statue of five famous women, about Rainbow Bridge and pleasure boats—by the way, who said Niagara is the world's most beautiful waterfall?"

She replied: "The same person who first recognized that your body is bronze. Instead of all this talk, it's better to hold my hand tighter and take better care of your Esfandiari eyes, especially while we're in this flying saucer, because its hatch might open at any moment and the ground could give way beneath us. Who knows—perhaps a paradise will bloom beneath our feet, full of exquisite Persian carpets and a cat watching caviar, a garden of laughing pistachios and a field of saffron flowers. Remember, we have little time together..."

I didn't realize when we boarded the flying saucer or when the doors closed—I only know the spinning had begun! Spinning and spinning and spinning—as if I were a piece of straw suspended in the air. Occasionally her loose, flowing hair would hit my face like a whip, and sometimes I'd get so close to her that her eyelashes would sink into my eyes. This spinning was normal for her, as if she were traveling in another world—so much so that she didn't notice my poetic gazes. The saucer's spin grew faster and faster until I got dizzy and darkness appeared before my eyes. I couldn't see anywhere. From fear, my muscles contracted and I felt nauseous! As if I were a tangled shirt whose sleeves had caught on the washing machine's drum—right when the drain water had found its way to the siphon and drain. My breathing became labored and my heart was about to burst from my chest. Unlike me, she didn't even flinch and laughed heartily at my antics. Suddenly a hatch opened beneath us and the ground gave way... without any support, without standing on any surface except her delicate, slender hands that gave me hope. We weren't falling, but like a mercy announcement, we were stuck to a billboard that said "A force contrary to gravity is protecting us, preventing us from falling. And instead of your childish antics, take a look down—that same paradise I promised you..."

I hear the "ding-dong" of the pendulum clock of "Mother's Square" announcing "six in the evening," and I see the solar-powered lampposts of the Zelze-bori area around the lake lighting up one by one in the eerie, fog-thick atmosphere.

From a distance, the "Q.PARK" amusement park is visible with its colorful neon lights—the Ferris wheel, roller coaster, drop tower, flying saucer, and giant wheel constantly flickering on and off, with the lush green hill of Keo, illuminated, as its backdrop, where unknown martyrs rest and white doves fly above their heads. Towers of various geometric shapes—with pyramidal, cylindrical, conical, and domed turrets—in different colors like chocolate, pistachio-green, shell-pink, onion-skin, have risen around the lake, making one feel they've entered the "Land of Lilliput." You feel that the modern-day Gullivers might step on you at any moment! Not to exaggerate, these towers, alongside mechanical shovels, loaders, bulldozers, and cranes, are night and day demolishing, excavating, and constructing Zelze-bori houses and vertical villages, and their work has spread white fiber particles from Styrofoam into the air, making you feel like artificial snow is falling.

Interestingly, around these towers and in their reflection—that is, in a park full of beautiful cypress and pine trees and its fish pond, while colorful autumn leaves are spinning, dancing, and descending—colorful balloons and kites are also flying, and I'm certain today is a special day, or perhaps this is a "Wonderland."

The sound of migrating birds left behind echoes in the air, and black and white smoke from burning dried autumn leaves—especially the maples on the other side of the river running parallel to Lake Keo—rises into the air, with a young boy's chirping soaring with it: "When I twist my hand in her hair, it's a rebellious curl / If I seek peace, it meets me with anger and reproach..."—as if carrying a message. From the other side, the sweet smell of raw forest wood, mixed with the pleasant scent of sap and resin, involuntarily makes my hair stand on end and sends my mind to the Land of the Maple Leaf, to Niagara City, church bells, Horseshoe Falls, Rainbow Bridge, and the sight of Canadian geese—where, according to reports and hearsay, Rozita, Behzad's unrequited love, has been residing for years! The same girl who made Behzad decide to emigrate under the pretext of continuing his education, to take a leap of faith, and to sacrifice his life for this love! He knew it was too late, but he wouldn't listen to anyone, and as he said himself: "Come, let's pack provisions and set out on the path of no return..." And immediately this poem comes to mind, which my brother Behzad always hummed:

*"Who would believe / The fire of your love / Turned the forest of my soul to ashes / Who will see my death without you / Sometimes I think / Who will tell you the news of my death? / When you hear of my death / From someone / I wish I could see / Your beautiful face..."*

I don't know what benefit there is in my intention to go to Canada and, before that, finding Rozita—whether uncovering the sealed secret of Behzad's past was the right thing to do or not. Because I always tell myself that perhaps I didn't do the right thing, since in a way, I poured cold water on Behzad's hopes to perhaps erase Rozita's thought from his mind forever, to free him from nightmares and nightly deliriums, and to finally resolve the matter.

I provided evidence for my claim—that she is alive but has given her heart to another. But I didn't know that with my description and the frame-by-frame negatives of the photos I showed Behzad, his motivation would multiply and a sense of competition would sprout in him—so much so that he said: "Looking at these photos and your description of my Rozita, I feel fresh blood running through my veins and flowers blooming from my emotions. It's true what they say: 'description is half the enjoyment!'"

The whole matter goes back to the day of Sizdah Bedar at Piedmont Park, which locals call "Keo" because of its blue lake. Suddenly, a mighty roar rises from the main corridor of this "water mine," coinciding with the annual bubbling of the Keo spring. In complete amazement, a large volume of dried leaves, ashes, and charcoal from burnt trees also emerges from the corridor, turning the lake pitch-black for a week. (Later it's discovered that miles away, in the summer heat, the thicket of Dasht-e Dalān in Borujerd catches fire, and in autumn and winter, heavy, multi-layered snow and ice cover the thicket—and in disbelief, the remains of the thicket emerge in Lake Keo in Khorramabad in the spring when the snow and ice melt.)

Behzad said: "That special day, when the undulating golf course of Keo Park was so crowded you couldn't drop a pin, we were like everyone else, mesmerized by watching the golf competition, which was in its final stages. The excitement of the golfers and spectators had reached its peak, and one by one, after a grueling, exhausting 18-hole competition lasting hours, the golfers were leaving the course—only one group and one hole remained for the game to finish. The shot started from the tee box, and the exciting part of the game was when a golfer managed to get the ball into the hole with just one shot, achieving a 'hole in one,' which caused great excitement among golfers and spectators. The golfer who made the hole-in-one was applauded by everyone. The golfer looked very familiar to me! He wore knickerbocker pants, a brimmed hat, leather gloves, and during the game, with a specific gesture, he kept lighting his pipe and taking puffs for better concentration. Once or twice, I saw Rozita—as if she were his assistant—conversing with him, exchanging vague and obscure words in English and sometimes French phrases. But I thought it was just simple dialogue and didn't pay much attention, until the dialogue became more intimate and my sensitivity naturally increased. Just as I wanted to get closer to them, suddenly the sound of 'splash'—something falling into the lake—and then an indistinct cry of a curly-haired little girl rose into the air. Both Rozita and I immediately dove into the lake to save her, as the girl's parents' screams deafened the sky. The water was cold and heavy, full of mud and algae and troublesome weeds, and I—whom Rozita jokingly called 'mole' because of my thick glasses—couldn't see clearly either. Only from the circular ripples on the water did I roughly know where the girl might have fallen, and I could hear her silent cry with my inner ear. I held my breath and wriggled like an eel as deep as I could go—down and down and down. Through the algae and weeds, and of course by God's will, my hand touched part of her clothing, and without hesitation I pulled her up, grabbing her curly hair in my hands and swimming her toward the shore and the lake's dock, receiving applause from everyone. My entire body was frozen, and I was shivering from the intense cold. No matter where I looked around the lake, I couldn't see Rozita! At that moment, I imagined myself as a little goldfish in a narrow, dark bowl, and everything became dark and blurred. The world spun around me, and from exhaustion, cold, and despair, I suddenly sank into the water and descended to the lake's depths. My hand unexpectedly sank into the mud at the bottom, and involuntarily I touched a transparent shell containing a shining pearl, which I immediately clutched in my hands—I thought it was all a dream! In fact, I experienced a world between life and death, where in the darkness, miraculously, between sleep and wakefulness, everything became bright and moonlit, and the transparent body of a white swan—introducing herself as the Queen of Waters—appeared before my eyes, grabbed my arm, pushed me toward the dock, and suddenly vanished."

When Behzad came out of the water, in complete disbelief, he couldn't find Rozita in the chaotic crowd. When he asked about her, everyone claimed ignorance, and Behzad himself thought perhaps Rozita had drowned in the lake's darkness. He raised a commotion, and with that, he and the others spared no effort to find Rozita—to the point that lifeguards and divers were brought in, but nothing could be done because their theory was completely wrong.

The news of Rozita's drowning—or rather, her disappearance—spread like wildfire through the city, and for a long time, rumors and gossip circulated about what happened, and involuntarily Behzad's name was also dragged into the matter. The finger of accusation, especially from Rozita's family—the Zarrin-Kafsh family—pointed at him, because they had been seen several times around the lake, running counter-clockwise, or playing golf near the lover's blind by "Niloufar Square." And on the day of the incident, he hadn't been able to save her—which compounded the matter, since there were many people Behzad had saved single-handedly. Aside from the crowd that constantly humiliated and reproached him, he also blamed himself and suffered depression for a long time, even though Behzad had never actually seen Rozita drown—and this was a baffling question for him.

At that time, I was part of the naval duty force, serving my mandatory military service on the island of Khak. I heard bits and pieces from here and there about how Behzad had caused Rozita's death. These false reports fell on my head like bombs and missiles until my service ended and I returned home. As soon as I arrived, I saw Lillian standing at her entrance, wearing a merino wool coat over her shoulders, looking depressed and helpless, without greeting or inquiry, she said: "It seems there's no news of the persimmon harvest this year." Involuntarily, my eyes fell on the persimmon trees around our house, which—unlike previous years, when they had been abundant, ripe, and juicy—that year were barren, unripe, and immature.

In an instant, Soya appeared on the balcony wearing an iridescent purple nightgown embroidered with what seemed like stars of the sky! First, she reached out and touched the branch and leaves of the plane tree that had grown tall beside the balcony, then plucked a colorful, enchanting leaf from its branch and, with her manicured fingers, placed it coquettishly in a lock of her curly hair, and with her unique playfulness, firmly closed the balcony door and went inside.

When I entered the house, I found Behzad in the "mother-in-law's suite"—which he had converted into his photography workshop—observing a comet through his telescope.

Behzad wept tearfully and said: "Every night I dream of a girl with a blue, swollen body in a torn wedding dress, appearing at dawn on the pitch-black Lake Keo, and I immediately abandon my books and papers spread on the park's chess table, beat my head and face, and suddenly throw the white horse chess piece into the water—I mean the same table where Rozita and I used to play chess..."

And how in secret he would listen to its tick and tock, place it on his heart, open its silver filigree metal lid, gaze at the photo in the enamelled frame inside the watch, and then kiss it. After the Tupolev plane crash and Behzad's eternal flight, the only thing left of him for us was this pocket watch—but unfortunately, Rozita's photo inside the metal frame had completely burned.

As I approach the lake, I hear the commotion and clamor of a crowd, which makes me immediately roll my "Esfandiari eyes" to see what's happening and what all the fuss is about! Around the lake, a procession from the Center for the Intellectual Development of Children and Adolescents—on foot and mounted—with their happy, cheerful, playful children, is moving slowly and snail-like toward the amusement park, their shouts and screams overshadowing the roar of Lake Keo's spring! They cheer, whistle, clap, jump up and down, and the orchestra, with trumpets and cornets leading the way, plays children's melodies and music, and amidst their music, the sound of bagpipes is also heard, involuntarily reminding one of the music from the film "Titanic."

Most of the children from the Center are wearing masks or costumes of storybook characters from Kalileh and Demneh and Marzban-nameh—such as the ring-necked dove, the turtle, the mouse and cat, the cow and lion, the jealous bear, the literate crow, the pedestrian and rider, the ugly and beautiful—or cartoon characters like Pinocchio, the Pink Panther, Little Red Riding Hood, SpongeBob, Batman, and Spider-Man, performing a special parade. The boys and girls who have come to watch are thrilled by these characters, costumes, and performances, throwing flowers at them and screaming for no reason. Several people sit in the mobile library, mobile theater, mobile cinema, and mobile observatory, painted and decorated, waving to the crowd, and in that same pose, they remove their hats as a sign of respect. This cheerful, lively carnival, with its witty spectators, moves slowly and turtle-like around Lake Keo, and some people are so excited they're on their tiptoes to get a better view of the crowd, but it seems some are jealous of this carnival and its ceremonies, their eyebrows knitted together.

A drunk, mad old man says: "I wish I could be like my childhood and youth, swirling through this crowd, acting goofy, and joining them—because I know plenty of tricks, much better than these clowns..."

A fishmonger woman says sarcastically: "Better think about buying a coffin and ordering your gravestone—because your health is failing at your age."

Somehow, I agree with the drunk, mad old man because I'm so excited that I wish I could move forward with the crowd—but the fishmonger's words aren't without merit either. And here, my business is something else. I shouldn't budge from my spot until Rozita and her foreign husband arrive, because last night when I checked at the Sarab-e Keo Tourist Hotel, there was no sign of them, and no name or details were registered under their names, so I'm forced to wait around Lake Keo, hoping to see them.

Beside me, a young couple—newly arrived in town—keep jostling me, telling me to move a little further away and not disturb them. I say to myself jokingly: "I won't move from this spot even if grass grows under my feet—as if I'm not a person too, or as if there's no carnival celebration and dancing going on. Their elders must have their eyes elsewhere, and they're fishing in troubled waters."

The yellow-nosed boy keeps saying: "I love you very, very much." And the girl responds coyly: "I love you very, very much too." Thank God I'm not stingy in this regard, because I know my turn will come one day. Today I've just come to see Behzad's golden fish in this colorful aquarium!

My eyelids are terribly heavy because I haven't slept since last night—it's like I've been traveling by plane, hours of flight exhausting me and wearing me out. Yet I can't take my eyes off Lake Keo because I've got a terrible urge to swim, even though at this time of year the cold makes one shrink. But I think a few good dives will revive me. Before Rozita and her foreign husband arrive, I must find a place and call my mother, and if there's time, sit down somewhere! I yawn, rub my head and neck, and stretch my back to wake myself up properly.

As soon as I get off the Oil Company bus, my head and neck rotation suddenly changes from normal to 360 degrees, and since then, my head and neck have been spinning and spinning—in normal state, my neck only turns sixty degrees, perhaps because my mind is so consumed with Behzad's story.

The cold has intensified, making my bladder shrink, and I desperately need to go. I completely forgot to go to the bathroom at the hotel and have been holding it in since leaving home. Finally, the excessive coffee drinking has caught up with me! It's all the hotel hostess's fault, who kept bringing me coffee after coffee with her special charm, and I kept giving her handfuls of pistachios in return.

I try to distract myself by looking at the actor boy and girl sitting in the mobile theater, waving to the crowd. They look so much like Sophia, Mr. Hakopian's daughter, or maybe I'm mistaken and it's an optical illusion—but I once saw her perform as a squirrel in the "Nutcracker" at the Chenar Oil Company amphitheater, and it seems she's been in charge of the Center's performances for a few years now.

The girl wears lovely velvet gloves, like wisps of cloud, and the boy wears a hat adorned with a bird feather, visible from every angle, reminding one of Robin Hood and Robin Marian. They look at me as if I'm playing the role of Richard the Lionheart.

The girl whispers to the boy and they giggle, and the boy laughs and waves playfully to the crowd, with a strange excitement radiating from his face—but the boy's expression is sad and withered.

The boy and girl beside me deliberately bump into me to tell me wordlessly that they're no less than these actor couples. The boy says: "My dear, I promise I'll never betray you." The girl replies: "I'll stay true to my promise to you."

But no one is there to tell them that this ceremony is just a performance—though I know their ears are deaf to anyone and they're thoroughly absorbed in their own affairs. Seeing this couple reminds me of when Behzad saw the transparent body of the white swan in the blue depths of Lake Keo—not only did his camera lens change, but his eyes also miraculously became like aquatic creatures'. Behzad had complete faith in her and hoped to reunite until his last moment, but he didn't know that his bird of happiness had perched on someone else's shoulders, and his sweet-scented flower, like all flowers, had thorns.

"Every rose has its thorn."

Honestly, watching this ceremony is interesting, fascinating, and not without charm for me. Occasionally I stare into the eyes of a clownfish-costumed puppet that seems to be mocking our black crow, warning me not to dive into the lake—or perhaps it thinks my drowning is inevitable... Behzad, by contrast, would dive and swim in Lake Keo, leaving everyone amazed, unlike me, who would even drown in our own house's pond.

As the mobile theater moves forward, the crowd's wave moves forward too, but I can't budge from my spot until Rozita and her foreign husband arrive. Because of their delay and all this noise and commotion, I'm completely fed up—or perhaps it's all a game and I've involuntarily become their plaything.

First, I glance at Behzad's pocket watch, set to Canadian time, then I look at Mother's Square clock, which is on our own Iranian time. This means we've been living—following Behzad's example—in two different times simultaneously for years! Our day is night and our night is day. Our bright, sunny, joyful days are cold, dark, freezing nights, and our clear, moonlit nights are rainy, flooding days.

The cumulonimbus clouds, visible from the lake's reflection, cover the sky, and the rain—with its song and abundant jewels—intensifies and weakens with each passing moment. The migrating geese flying overhead also add to the commotion. The girls' canoe-polo teams, wearing waterproof green phosphorescent and bright orange vests, are playing in the middle of the lake, indifferent to the cold and the possibility of snowfall. The boys' dragon-boat team, on the lake's edge, is drumming and rowing, shouting in unison: "We will rock you!"

On the pedestrian path around the lake, little girls and boys are skateboarding and cycling. On the asphalt path and the green part of the park, young men and women are playing badminton and volleyball. Several retired old men are fishing with their rods, constantly talking about pension increases, while some, detached from worldly concerns, are sitting by the spinning wheels, eating turnips, broad beans, and quinces, and chewing on liver, heart, and tripe.

I'm also forced to stand beside that yellow-nosed boy and girl still fishing in troubled waters, behind the drunk mad old man, and next to the fishmonger woman who, on the occasion of Yalda Night, has placed various sizes of carp in a woven basket for sale. The yellow-nosed boy made me realize you can't fish in troubled waters, or sit listening to the drunk mad old man's tales, or buy fish from the fishmonger to barbecue—because I love smoke, fire, and incense, but unfortunately, lighting fires and incense is forbidden here.

My hair stands on end again—this damned bladder won't leave me alone! It's all my own fault. I shouldn't have snatched the bowl of water from my mother's hands when saying goodbye and gulped it down. My mother slapped the back of my hand in annoyance and said: "I would have brought you a glass of water—it's bad luck for a traveler to drink the farewell water himself."

When I saw the blinking lights of an airplane through my room's frosted window, I rolled over on my bed, on which a strip of lamplight had fallen, and hummed to myself: "The scent of the Mulyan River comes to mind / The memory of the dear friend comes to mind." I picked up a butterfly-shaped hairpin that had fallen under my feet, pressed it in my fist, and told no one its secret. I wanted to leave on this journey without saying goodbye to my parents, but my mother, with sleepy eyes and constant yawning, bid me farewell with the Quran, water, and a mirror, promising to see me at Niagara Falls with my aunt and uncle. My father, who seemed to be half-asleep, caught up with me at the door at the last moment and told me: "The journey is not from Egypt to Baghdad / Passing beyond the self is the journey of men."

On my way, the darkness and gloom of the road outside the city increased, and the snow and blizzard intensified. The snowplows were out, and the heaviness and crunching sound of snow and ice crystals on the Oil Company bus's windows multiplied my fear and dread—until the airport control tower lights appeared like a lighthouse, and the blinking lights of landing airplanes were like torches in the darkness. In this commotion, suddenly the headlights of a car appeared like the luminous eyes of a desert wolf on the other side of the road, camouflaged and blending with the environment like a fox. It was stopped beside the main road along the airport's concrete wall, with its hazard lights on, and warning triangle signs placed around it. A man and a woman—about seventy years old, with red faces and steam coming from their mouths—stood beside the car, waving their hands in the air for help.

I immediately told the bus driver: "Drop me off here—let me see what's happened."

The driver said: "But your destination was the Sarab-e Keo Tourist Hotel, wasn't it?"

Without saying anything, I got off the bus. The driver said fearfully: "If you got off because of that car, be careful—it might be a trap."

He said this, took the report, and drove away into the night's darkness. When I crossed the road, it was clear from the evidence that their tire had blown. The man wore a boiler suit and immediately began explaining the incident. I lifted the trunk and started pulling out the tool kit and spare tire. The woman, with a distressed and agitated face, lit up when she saw me, and without a word, pressed her husband's hands in hers—a smile settling on her lips.

Snow was falling heavily, and the man, wiping sweat and snowflakes from his face with the back of his hand, said: "We've been stuck by the roadside for about an hour. I put on my work clothes to change the tire, but I saw that the smoke had already stopped rising from the chimney."

The woman, with a generous, forgiving face, said: "Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for coming. Your arrival is like a miracle. No matter how much I tell my husband to stop with this old, unreliable car, he won't give it up. As luck would have it, the car broke down too. Truly, God sent you." I immediately said: "Please sit in the car—I'll take care of the rest."

The man said: "Thank God the spare tire is here."

When I glanced at their beautiful sky-blue BMW 518, I was struck by its beauty and thought to myself—this man was right not to sell it. What caught my attention were the uniform, four-sided cut pieces of wood and an old double-edged axe with Latin-inscribed letters in the trunk. After changing the tire, they thanked me profusely, and I said: "It was my duty."

The woman said to me in a strange manner: "Your face looks so familiar to me—I think I've seen you somewhere."

The man said in German: "Der Apfel fällt nicht weit vom stamm" (The apple doesn't fall far from the tree), and then: "An apple never falls far from the tree. To me too, your face looks familiar. By the way, where did you come from at this time of night, and what were you doing heading this way?"

Without hesitation, I said: "I'm coming from our house in the Chenar Oil Company township, heading to Lake Keo."

The man said with surprise: "How interesting—you're coming from there, and we're heading there to visit old friends. Excuse me, I haven't introduced myself—I am Zarrin-Kafsh, and for many years our home was in the Lin-e Karmandi area of the Chenar Oil Company township. Later we were transferred to Neyside, Ahvaz. Now, after all these years, we're visiting this place. Thank you again for your kindness and generosity."

I smiled in response and jokingly asked: "Are you bringing firewood as souvenirs for your friends?"

Mr. Zarrin-Kafsh replied: "Previously, when we lived here, every Yalda Night I would place a piece of wood in the mailboxes of each house in the Chenar Oil Company township, so they could throw it into their fireplace that night—meaning their house would always be warm and bright."

Mrs. Zarrin-Kafsh said with a gracious smile: "Some people didn't use these pieces of wood, believing that perhaps by the next day, they might turn into gold."

I said: "May I ask which old friend's house you're planning to visit?"

Mr. Zarrin-Kafsh said: "God willing, and if no problems arise, we'll go to the house of our old and dear friend Mr. Shabrokh, I suppose."

Suddenly my eyes sparkled and my ears burned—I couldn't answer immediately. After a few minutes, I said: "As far as I know, their house is on Mohajeran Lane, plot SQ308."

Mr. Zarrin-Kafsh said: "Of course, with this appearance, we won't go there tonight—we're staying at the Chenar Oil Company Grand Hotel tonight, and the day after tomorrow we'll go to their house."

Then his wife said: "If you want, you can get in our car and we'll take you to your destination. It's dangerous on the road at this time of night in this cold, icy weather, and we'd like to repay your kindness in some way."

I said: "The next Oil Company bus will arrive in a few minutes—you go ahead and get in your car."

Then they got in their car and headed toward the Chenar Oil Company. It was very hard for me not to say that I was Mr. Ehtesham's son, and I wanted to say that I was searching everywhere for their daughter.

When I came to myself, I saw a splendid, illuminated carriage in the middle of the carnival procession, more decorated than the others, with two old, worn-out horses barely pulling it forward—I think it was an initiative of the language center children, because they had pasted English-language glow-in-the-dark collages on the carriage cabin. A mounted and foot guard accompanying the carriage wore ridiculous Trojan-style helmets.

The carriage's lights were shaped like a cheetah's eyes, as if watching to make sure no one stepped out of line—the closer it came, the more imposing it appeared, and the sparkle of its lights multiplied. A woman's hand emerged from the window, waving in the air! Her face wasn't very visible from a distance, and from my angle, only part of her ladybug-patterned dress was visible—she looked at the crowd with reluctance and haughtiness.

It was as if she had fallen from an elephant's trunk, or the sky had opened its mouth and she had descended to earth.

I wish I could have climbed the carriage steps, sat on that Saruq carpet, stared at its patterns and designs, and in complete peace, run my hand over the carpet's softness and said: "Its pair is in my bedroom." I would have set free those two old, worn-out horses to graze in peace for a while, and instead, I would have freed Shabdiz and Rakhsh from the mill and thrown the reins around their mouths.

It's a question to me why this one has no gloves or hat, and more importantly, why no one pays attention to this poor soul—as if this woman's existence or absence makes no difference to anyone, and no one has eyes for her, not even the Esfandiari eye.

For once, I want to swim against the current! Between us, just to spite that fake crowd, I want to wave to her and come to her aid. After all, I have nothing against her, and I'm afraid she'll melt from embarrassment or die of jealousy—as my mother said, women are very sensitive to others' attention and respect. As the poet said: "What does the clover flower lack compared to the red tulip?" This yellow-nosed boy and girl won't let go of the matter either—they don't care who comes or who goes, they're busy with their own affair, and it's important to them whether they're in the middle of the street or somewhere else—perhaps I'm wrong and don't understand their culture, and in their culture, sleeping in the middle of the street might even be acceptable.

Let me also wave, put on some airs, and carefully look around—in fact, I'll use my Esfandiari eye as a spyglass to reduce any suspicious looks, so perhaps this way I can attract Rozita and her foreign husband's attention and find them. I don't know how many minutes I waved my hand in the air like an invisible person—I only know my fingers dried and water dripped from my lips and cheeks, but I looked my fill to satisfy my heart.

Finally, in this commotion, my arrow hits its target, and for a moment, her eyes light up at my humble beauty. As soon as her eyes fall on me, a smile settles on the corner of her lips, and then she looks at me strangely. She scans me from head to toe, frowns, and again withdraws her head into the splendid, illuminated carriage. I don't know what happened to her all of a sudden—I think something is wrong with her head! Neither that smile and charm, nor this frown and haughtiness. Most likely, she's a wisher-washer and wants to pull back with one hand and push forward with the other. Perhaps in their school, they had the same thing done to her head that they did to mine! Surely she's a spoiled, pampered girl who used to study under an oak tree, and one day when an acorn fell on her head, her classmates called her "Wise Acorn," and now this Wise Acorn has come to prove a new law of gravity.

For a moment, the world went silent and still, like a ghost town, and I was like a moving corpse with open eyes, waiting for someone to close my eyelids.

Finally, with the help of strangers, the silence was broken! The drunk mad old man started blowing his horn, a white fish slipped from the fishmonger's hand and "splashed" into the water, the migrating mina birds flew from their nests—the cypress and pine trees on the lake's southern curve—the pleasure boat's horn sounded, and Mother's Square clock announced the new hour. Meanwhile, dark clouds grew denser, and everyone's eyes, with their mesmerizing lights, sparkled toward me.

I don't know what happened between the yellow-nosed boy and girl—the boy says with false anger to the girl "I hate you," and the girl responds in a choked, provocative voice: "I hate you too."

Just as I'm about to mediate, a protesting crowd appears, carrying placards reading "Conserve Water" and "Protect the Oak Forests," or photos of dried-up springs, dying animals, diseased oak trees, and burnt Zagros forests—suddenly pouring from every direction onto the streets around the lake, as if it's the Day of Judgment. Everyone is milling about, chanting in unison: "Incompetent manager, resign! Resign!" I was almost crushed when I leaped like a deer and ran backward, leaning against the lake's railings. I don't know—perhaps this is the second act of the play. Damn this scatterbrained Esfandiari eye—I don't know where it was looking when suddenly from the crowd someone shouted: "Help! Help!"

I immediately turn my head and see the carriage trapped in a siege. I wish I could save that woman trapped in her castle from the attacking soldiers.

For now, I must find an opening, and before anything else, I must hide the pearl box. Several protesters are dressed head to toe in red, with their faces blackened like "Mobaraks," each carrying a fire extinguisher. Some protesters wear forestry uniforms, with red salamander and leopard cub badges pinned to both sides of their chests, surveying the area with binoculars. Others wear white windbreakers and oxygen masks over their noses and mouths—some have wrapped themselves in fishing nets, probably as a sign of protest. I don't understand these things and I'm completely baffled, involuntarily humming this poem: "Whoever is satisfied with water other than fish / Whoever is unlucky, the light is delayed for them."

The first time I saw the sea up close was when I was a quiet teenager—that day the sea was wavy and stormy! Rain fell from sky to ground and from ground to sky, and the shore and sea became one. It rained so much that the area around the villa we were in flooded, and we were a boat in the middle of the Caspian Sea, unable to leave the villa. I had a terrible urge to swim and wished I could swim like that tall Russian girl on the shore. The day before, I had raced her several times but always lost, and I wanted to beat her just once. The urge to race her had gotten under my skin like a worm, and I was climbing the walls—but my father came at me with a wooden stick and beat me black and blue. My mother intervened, and my father only allowed me to see the Caspian Sea—and that too only through the window. Thick fog covered everything, and I could see her swimming in that weather. I turned on all the lights in the damp villa and room so she wouldn't lose sight of the shore—but it was I who kept losing sight of her, moment by moment. I don't remember when or where... She had blonde hair and colored eyes, a tall figure, and a transparent body. Damn that miserable life my parents built for me! A lifetime in a murky, dull aquarium, with them watching me from behind the colored glass.

When I come to, I see the protesting crowd and a girl with golden hair distancing herself from the crowd, tiptoeing closer and closer! She hands me a placard, and I immediately read what's written on it: "Shame on you!"

After much deliberation, I ask her: "What's this all about?"

Her expression changes and she says: "We're environmental activists, and we want our voices to reach the officials, as well as to inform the public." Without hesitation, I ask: "So what's your problem with that ladybug woman in the carriage?"

Her eyebrows knit together and she says angrily: "Our association is a grassroots organization that aims to form a campaign to protect oak trees and the Zagros forests, and to preserve and restore the Kashkan and Seimareh rivers and the Pol-e Dokhtar wetlands. But this woman—who has a name, title, and position, and pretends to be an environmentalist—is obstructing and blocking us, essentially embezzling the NGO's budget." I take the placard from her and ask: "Why did you choose today and this place for your protest?"

She says: "Today there was supposed to be a leaf-fall celebration, and this woman was scheduled to give a speech, so we seized the opportunity to remove the mask from her and her associates' ugly faces."

She says this and, without hearing my opinion, rejoins the protesting crowd. I laugh to myself—this ladybug woman seems to be the bride, and the rest her attendants, and the only thing she doesn't resemble is an environmental association director.

Police immediately place steel guardrails in front of the protesting crowd and, with loudspeakers, try to calm the protesters. Mounted and foot guards form a human chain around the carriage. The mounted guards, dissatisfied with the situation, constantly stomp their feet on the ground, showing their protest with persistent sounds. There's no sign of the mobile library, mobile observatory, mobile cinema, or mobile theater! I don't know where they disappeared to all of a sudden. Probably they're at the lakeside cafes, drinking coffee and watching from behind smoky glass, while photographers and cameramen are capturing the scene from every angle, and reporters are preparing reports and news.

I wish I could escape this perilous situation by any trick possible. Only the unlucky carriage is trapped in this melee, finding itself surrounded by mounted and foot guards. Some protesters, warned by the police, flee the scene, while the thicker-skinned ones are pushed aside. In this commotion, one of the photographer's cameras is broken by a foot guard's baton. My bronze body nearly burst, but the camera and its lens—which were like eyes—didn't break. Several people are standing around eating chips and puffs, as if this were Broadway in New York and they'd come to see an autumn production of Les Misérables.

I'm terribly upset with the mounted and foot guards, and I wouldn't mind hitting their skulls with a club—if insults could suddenly hit my bronze body, then I'd show these guards how much yogurt a pot makes. If my mother were here, she'd brew me borage tea and say: "Don't boil over, don't boil over—may I be sacrificed for you."

I take a deep breath and sigh coldly. If my father were here, he'd say: "They're struggling for their rights and to deliver their message, but why do you want to get involved in these fights—neither on this side nor that? Surely they're doing this out of boredom. If you have the courage, go—or perhaps you're itching for a fight!"

A gap has opened in the human chain of mounted and foot guards, leaving only the steel railings. I tighten my belt—though it puts pressure on my bladder, but it doesn't matter; I'll go to the bathroom after settling this personal account.

The Esfandiari eye zooms in on the carriage's wheels, mirrors, doors, windows, and body—so much so that for a moment I thought my eyes had glued my bronze body to the steel railings, which, lucky for me, had just been painted.

I peer and peer to finally see the carriage's special passenger clearly, and in this struggle, my wandering eyes finally prove useful. I see her! Not clearly, but this time I look at her with particular eagerness—to recognize her. I think she's something like a minister or lawyer. I think I once read her interview in a newspaper or saw her live program on Instagram—but I don't know why I feel I've seen her on a rainy day in the worker, employee, or immigrant lane of the Chenar Oil Company, under a window, and she, under the rain with the song of the gutter, ran her hand over my wet, rain-soaked head.

I feel the Esfandiari eye is experiencing optical illusion—and although this woman's mask covers half her face, I feel she looks so much like that Russian swimmer girl.

I'm completely confused and can't concentrate—her thought has totally distracted me.

The vain dream of my leopard was to leap toward the moon / And to pull the moon from its heights down to the earth / My leopard heart leaped and its paw struck empty space / For my high moon's love was beyond reach. Surely she can help me find Rozita and her foreign husband as soon as possible—she even has statistics on the lake's fish. As far as I know, Rozita was once part of environmental associations, so it's only enough for her to part her lips or give me a note to find Rozita faster—in these matters, women are more compassionate.

So before it's too late, I must give this lazy body a shake—now or never—either I'll go this way or that, either they'll put a stick in my sleeve or I'll become the staff of my family. Quickly, with an acrobatic move, I jump over the steel railing and sprint a hundred meters on the slippery asphalt to reach the carriage by any means necessary.

With great difficulty, I reach the carriage—but I don't know what happens, in the blink of an eye, several burly foot guards grab my collar and twist my wrist tightly. I struggle to stay on my feet, not knowing what lie or trick to concoct to make them leave me alone. They think I'm trying to harm the ladybug woman, so I tell them: "Please stop."

But my words seem to have no effect on them—why don't words come to my aid? Why doesn't my face reveal what's in my heart—that I mean no harm? In this fumbling, jumping up and down, it suddenly occurs to me to tap on the carriage window and, if possible, make myself heard. Perhaps this time my "poor orphan" act will work. I don't know how long I shouted and cried out—until suddenly the sound of the window rolling down is heard, and immediately one of the foot guards puts his head near the window and nods several times in confirmation: "Yes, ma'am, you're right."

The window rolls up, but the carriage doesn't move from its spot, and one of the foot guards says: "Please put your hands on the back of the carriage."

They thoroughly search me, reaching into one of my pockets and glancing at my passport, looking at me in surprise, and putting it back in my pocket.

Wait—the pearl box?!

They're badly searching my empty, holed pockets, as if looking for an eel. If I were in their place, I'd melt from embarrassment and sink into the ground—because the only thing they find is a handful of pistachio shells and a few packaged hazelnuts. Surely they have medicinal value, because with their squinting eyes, they're examining the pistachio shells—perhaps they're bored, though they won't admit it, but they don't know that the pistachio kernels are now in the hotel hostess's pockets. They start—I can't figure it out. God willing, each of them will be satisfied with a handful of pistachios. Their whispering continues, and unfortunately, I don't know Zargari language either—and the ladybug woman's lips aren't visible enough for me to read. Surely the ladybug woman has ordered them to put a stick in my sleeve, or perhaps she's ordered them to fill my mouth with talc. Well, flattery is part of diplomacy too—but no, I think I've thrown a bouquet into the water, and what a bouquet! I'd give anything to go back to that murky, dull aquarium my parents built for me, to sit on the windowsill and watch that Russian swimmer girl—even without the Esfandiari eye.

I sneakily roll the Esfandiari eye to see where the photographers and reporters are standing in this melee—I hope I won't end up on the front page of newspapers or social media in this state. What a disaster—it's washed away what little reputation I had. Lost in these thoughts, the carriage door opens without a sound, but from inside comes the sound of cannon and tank fire, and my heart is the Portuguese castle, brick by brick being destroyed. I see her high-heeled shoes anchoring on the shore of Lake Keo. She descends gracefully from the carriage, and to be fair, her feminine charm is impressive. They were right to elect her as head of the environmental association—but she's so haughty and full of coquetry, as if everyone must obey her commands. She wears a red, black-spotted tulip skirt and jacket with an open collar, a pearl necklace, and iron-heeled shoes—this time she walks on my heart, and I wonder how she walks in those shoes. My father used to say: "If you can walk just ten steps in those women's high heels, then you can put yourself in women's shoes—I certainly couldn't."

Sweat drips from my face, and as soon as she looks at me, I quickly wipe my forehead with my sleeve. Just as I try to back away a few steps with my "huffing and puffing," I see it's useless and I can't budge from my spot. I'm like a fat goldfish trapped in a small crystal bowl. I wish I had scales so I could slip from their hands and find a way out. The ladybug woman seems to have cotton in her ears—she hears nothing! No nod, no sound. She turns her piercing eyes toward the protesting crowd! A sideways glance, and with those same eyes, she projects her confidence to the mounted and foot guards surrounding me, lest I step out of line. She still hasn't looked directly at my face, pretending I don't exist—I who went through fire and water for her.

She says: "Stop—everyone has had their say, let this one speak too." The mounted and foot guards reluctantly leave me alone, temporarily leaving me with the ladybug woman.

I tidy myself a bit, run my hand through my disheveled hair using the carriage's side mirror, and suddenly see the shape of a girl through the dark carriage windows—with the help of the Esfandiari eye's infrared property—but recognizing her face is very difficult! I try, but to no avail. I turn to the ladybug woman and say: "Thank you, madam, for allowing me to speak."

She runs her hand over the pearls of her necklace, nods, chews her lips, and then extends her hand—meaning I should kiss it. I didn't know that kissing was also a form of speaking. Who says I have to kiss her hand anyway? My mother used to say: "If a woman extends her hand to you and you don't kiss it, know that sooner or later, her death is certain."

My mother was giving me this advice when her gentle hands were in my rough hands, and I was bending to kiss her hands—at the time of goodbye. So with this reasoning, the life and death of this ladybug woman—who is about the same age as Rozita—depends on me. When I take her hand, it trembles violently and her blue veins bulge.

Gently, my dry lips touch her cold hand, and involuntarily the scent of her "beloved of the night" perfume caresses my nostrils. As soon as I lift my head, she quickly withdraws her hand—lest I steal her ring—and I hope no photographer has captured this moment, because I was truly forced.

I puff out my chest: "Madam, I'm afraid I've mistaken you for someone else."

She replies sharply: "If they're not more important than me, it doesn't matter."

Perhaps she thinks I'm a simpleton—because I've lowered my head and I'm shuffling my feet on the pavement: "I'm very tired and lack of sleep has gotten to me, which is why I think I'm having trouble distinguishing reality. I'm actually looking for someone—when I saw you from a distance, I thought for a moment you were that person, but now that I'm in your presence, a feeling or force tells me that person is in your carriage—someone sitting directly opposite you. Could I just glance inside for a moment to be free of this doubt and stop wasting more of your time?"

I didn't know I also knew flattery, and I immediately run my hand through her frizzy hair and slightly tidy it. She brings her face close to mine—so close I feel her lips might touch my earlobe at any moment, or her teeth might sink into the softness of my ear.

So close that I hear the thump-thump of her heart, and the warmth of her breath spreads across my face—what a fragrant mouth! It smells like fresh lemons from the Chenar Oil Company.

She frowns and says: "If you look around you carefully, you'll realize you've mistaken me for someone else—or haven't you—meaning is recognizing reality that difficult for you?"

I slowly and gently roll my Esfandiari eye, quickly glancing around—but I see nothing except the carriage and the mounted and foot guards with their horses. The protesters' heads appear occasionally but quickly disappear—interestingly, their voices don't reach me at all, as if they're eavesdropping to hear what we're saying. I shrug and point with my finger toward the carriage—effectively ordering her to roll down the window. In the meantime, the mounted and foot guards take two steps forward, their horses four, tightening the circle of encirclement. If this damned carriage window comes down or the door opens, everything will be solved—either the person I'm looking for is lounging inside on a warm, soft seat, or someone else is sprawled there.

It seems my shuffling and stalling is useless—I don't know what language to use to explain that the ladybug woman isn't my missing person. I think this matter isn't as simple as I thought—it seems things have gotten complicated.

Her hair—in this light, it looks more like my mother's steel wool. In this commotion, for a moment I involuntarily touch her forehead with the back of my hand—it's like a forge. I'm about to say "Madam ladybug, you have a fever—I should call an ambulance," when white smoke, then black smoke, rises into the air. I immediately cover my nose and mouth, but it's useless—I start sneezing and coughing like a barrage... Surely a hay or rubber warehouse is on fire, with so much smoke rising. An ambulance would be a luxury—I wish someone would call the fire department. White and black smoke mix together, and from every direction come the sounds of protest and cheering—some shouting hooray, others booing—so much that I can't hear the ladybug woman properly. Worst of all are the photographers with their flashlights and the "click-click" of their cameras, blinding the speechless Esfandiari eye so I can't see exactly where the fire is, for the firefighters to aim their hoses.

I hear a broken, indistinct sentence from the ladybug—though I'm not sure if she said it to the protesting crowd or to me: "Appreciate the situation you're living in!"

Nonsense—what situation? What a mess! You didn't even let me look inside the carriage, and then without saying another word or paying any attention to the crowd or the flames coming closer every moment, she stares into my eyes. I think she wants to hypnotize me—but she doesn't know that with this act, she's only getting us both killed. She thinks she's Sudabeh and I'm Siavash, and she wants to lead me into the fire corridor. I don't know what to do—the unlucky one is me, trapped in a melee with no escape! Neither backward nor forward, and my situation is dire. The Esfandiari eye has started shedding tears—but whatever happens, I still glance at Mother's Square clock, which is also in a bad state! Smoke has covered its face, but one can guess what time it is—a few seconds to the ominous, ill-fated hour. We had comforted ourselves with the sound of its soul-soothing tick and tock—tick and tock aside, it's stopped even dinging and donging. I should have listened to my mother and stayed by her side—why did I break her heart? My mother used to say: "To you, the neighbor's chicken is always a goose."

No, no, dear mother—to me, the neighbor's chicken isn't even a cockroach—it's a mouse that's been burned with gasoline. The ladybug woman steps forward and says: "Don't be afraid—have patience, fortune has knocked on your door."

I say: "If I had fortune, I wouldn't be trapped in these factional and family disputes—neither with this side nor that, and at any moment I could be crushed like a cockroach under this neighbor's chicken's feet, or burnt like a little goat."

At our university, there was plenty of this noise and commotion too. It was this very noise that made me emigrate and become a wanderer in exile—otherwise, I should now be sitting at my mother's table, picking greens, cleaning poultry, and hunting sparrows with a slingshot to ease my mother's mind. God knows what these hazel eyes—that I don't know what they want from my soul—want from me. I'm trapped with the mounted and foot guards, and worst of all, the ladybug woman, with her piercing eyes staring hard at my tired eyes—and instead of the Esfandiari eye, I have Turkmen eyes, and at that moment, a hundred hearts fell in love with this deer caught in the snare. Wave after wave of the crowd surges toward us, and at any moment I'll be trampled underfoot, and they'll collect my corpse with a wheelbarrow, or tie me to a horse or car and drag me along the ground—straight into the middle of this conflict... The final scene is being dragged away.

Perhaps I've been bewitched—her gaze is like a gypsy's! When you've involuntarily revealed your life's secrets to them and they've thoroughly pickpocketed you, for only one reason—you don't want to let go of those plump, fleshy, tattooed hands of theirs.

She says nothing, but instead points with her finger at the Canadian flag mounted on an iron pole in front of the carriage and says: "To get residency, you must obey my commands."

She twists her face and seems like a role model to me. I think to be free, I must drink from the poison cup of her eyes—even if she forces a cup of hemlock down my throat, I don't mind, because my stomach is used to this poison and snake venom! Neither my father's bitter coffees knocked me down, nor the curdled milk my mother forced me to drink killed me. My mouth is bitter and my feet are stuck to the ground—I can't speak or move. It's not a duel where one of us must fall into this whirlpool. What seductive eyes she has, alluring one in a strange way.

Finally, she blinks, her eyelashes touch, and her lips open and close! A butterfly opened and closed its wings, and a sparrow opened its beak—but from this wingless butterfly and this frightened sparrow, no sound is heard except a few vague, incomprehensible words: "Big blue eyes!"

Mother's Square clock rings, preventing the ladybug woman from finishing her sentence. I don't know who took her heart or broke it—surely a young man with big blue eyes. Don't tell me she means Behzad, because that was a nickname Lillian had given him, and only a few people called him that. A pleasure boat's horn sounds, one of the guards falls from his horse and hits the ground in the worst way. Several coughs and—I freeze, and again the crowd's noise rises so loudly that one voice can't be heard over another. The world spins around my head, and I'm watching stones, embers, and red bricks flying—raining from sky to ground and thrown from ground to sky. I hope the angel of death's army hasn't mistaken me for one of them. I try to look around in this chaos—when suddenly I hear a "thud" in my head. Damn it, finally my turn came for something to hit my head hard—God willing, it's only a rotten egg that's smashed on my head. I bend my knees and cover my head with my hands, hoping things don't get worse than they already are. Surely the attacker was in the Esfandiari eye's blind spot, where I couldn't see him—that Russian swimmer girl must have seen something in me that made her leave me. Now she's probably laughing at me, cracking nuts with her tail. It was all my fault—I shouldn't have questioned my life.

I hear the ladybug woman's scream, the horses' neighing, the friction of horseshoes on asphalt, and the cast iron manhole cover—all making my hair stand on end—and the carriage driver gallops away, so that I can no longer see anything clearly or hear anything properly, except the sound and light of thunder and lightning, and the sky covered with gray, dense clouds, with crystal hailstones slowly descending on the black, dull asphalt. Lucky for our university kids—they're probably lounging at home now, watching their ceiling's greasy, blistering plaster, or lying face down counting carpet flowers. A green golf ball rolls past the Esfandiari eye—which seems to have developed color blindness—and "splashes" into Lake Keo, which I think means another incident is on the way.

Though the Esfandiari eye sees everything in black and white, it still won't let go of the matter, because it won't give up on the carriage, imagining that opposite the ladybug woman sits—and she watches the cityscapes behind her, with the damp streets, red-brick gabled houses, and smoky chimneys. The ladybug woman says: "It seems everything is going backward—if you're watching a film backward from the end to the beginning. If you're going to Canada, from today you must change all the definitions formed in your mind! If until yesterday you wrote from right to left, from today you must write from left to right—in fact, a reverse world of rightness!"

I say: "This world is all false."

The sound of Mother's Square clock is heard, and the sirens of police, ambulance, and fire trucks fill the air, along with sighs, groans, sneezes, and coughs. Police have led many protesters aside, and many wounded and injured lie on the ground, with nurses and medics placing them on stretchers and into ambulances.

A major commercial building is badly on fire, and the smell of burning spreads everywhere—I think it's the smell of my burnt nose, as I've been completely humiliated in this crowd. Struck by a stone, I've fallen to the ground, and with the help of the drunk mad old man and the fishmonger woman, I'm placed on a stretcher, with them standing over me to load me into the ambulance.

Then for the last time, I see the ladybug woman's face, fading into a haze of ambiguity and taking on a faint, disappearing form. Instead, I see myself, having wet myself from fear, lying on a stretcher. I hope no one has seen me in this state, and I whisper: "Go and tell Florence Nightingale from me:

*'The physician of love came to my bedside / Perhaps the pain of love can be cured / If the lover's hand is the physician's hand / Then why must the unfaithful be called?'*

In our family, no one faints—but I think I've fainted. My eyes are seeing cherry-colored glass, and my ears hear, instead of the tick and tock of Mother's Square clock, a tic-tic, toc-toc."

Snow began falling heavily, so much so that in the blink of an eye it covered the ground in white, and I saw Lake Keo transformed into a sea of milk. What brought my senses back and made me come to my senses was a half-alive lady in a dark mesh dress standing on the water near the wooden cabin where the ducks were suspended. I saw how the girls' canoe-polo team and the boys' dragon-boat team had surrounded her to rescue her. To my complete surprise, Sophia appeared in her white ice-cream truck, came over to me, and said: "The show is over—get in quickly so we can get to the children at the amusement park."

I helplessly puffed out my chest and said: "Alright, but first I must deliver the pearl box to that woman who fell into the lake."