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Fiction

Green Sour Orange

By Neda Kavoosifar
Translated from Persian by Sara Khalili
In this contemporary story from Iran, a young doctor struggles with her memories of childhood abuse.

Announcements of all kinds, from notices of death to ads for used household goods or floral design lessons at the lowest prices, have an assigned place in our neighborhood: on the wall outside the police station at the corner of the main street and Ninth Alley, this same narrow road where my family has lived for the past twenty-seven years. Every morning, before buying their bread from the bakery that sits in the shadow of a sour-orange tree whose roots have penetrated the street gutter, the residents of the neighborhood stop and take a quick look at the flyers. Consequently, over the years the corner of Ninth Alley has turned into a sort of wall newspaper, a free source of information.

I see the notice announcing Mr. Moadab’s death posted on the wall newspaper in the half-light of dusk one evening toward the end of March, after the New Year, when people are either visiting friends and family or hosting parties at home. There’s a picture of him from when he was young, with a smile that seems to have crinkled in the corner of his mouth by force.

The hospital uniform weighs heavy on my arm. It has been raining since early morning. The alley is empty and quiet and the damp air is filled with the scent of wet sour-orange leaves. A wrinkled hand, warm and alive, runs over my face. A slimy wetness spreads on my neck and the warmth of blood, urine, and sweat trickles down my inner thighs and onto my knees. My shoes feel like heavy weights hanging from my feet. A young girl is playing hopscotch in the alley. Her hair is flying in the air behind her. She kicks a piece of broken brick forward, it stops on six and the girl screams, “My cat is pretty.”

Mr. Moadab is a fat, sallow man who wears thick glasses with black frames, shoes that are two sizes too big, and a four-pocket vest that knows no winter or summer. He has a small haberdashery and odds-and-ends shop near the corner of Ninth Alley. A small shack under a staircase, with ribbons, lace, bobbins, and elastic bands hanging from the ceiling, shelves, and every nook and corner. He is a harmless, surly man who every day pulls up his storefront gate before the rest of the local shops open, and every night goes home carrying his empty lunch box after everyone has already gone. His house is two alleys away. He doesn’t mingle with the people in the neighborhood. But whenever the locals run out of things to talk about, they talk about Mr. Moadab. About the fact that he used to teach at the school for the deaf and was politely forced into retirement after he tried to molest a retarded girl, about the fact that no one has ever seen his wife’s face. Some say half her face is paralyzed, others say she comes from Pass-Koohak and shuns people. Whatever the truth, until the day they move away, no one ever learns anything about what is tucked away in the coffer of Mr. Moadab’s life.

The taxi driver complains about the high price of gas, about its impurity that has choked the air with smog and soot, about his wife who only recently had to have one of her lungs removed. He points to the uniform I’m holding and, looking in the rearview mirror, says to the passenger sitting next to me, “The lady knows what I’m talking about.” There’s a cold wind blowing and the window won’t roll up. The man next to me is pressing his fat thigh against my thin, freezing leg. Mumbling under his breath, he reads an SMS on his cell phone and, ignoring the driver, bursts into laughter. I huddle and squeeze against the car door like an ailing cat and I let my burning scalp cool in the air. A wrinkled hand creeps through my hair and a voice whispers, “It’s like silk . . .” I smell a moldy wall, I smell a man’s lust. The raindrops coming through the window dampen my clothes. My shoes are wet. The stench of urine and the smell of menstrual fluids waft from the seat. The car up front skids on the wet asphalt. There is gridlock up ahead.

I play hopscotch with my friend. Her house is at the end of the alley, at the very end of the dead end. She is one year ahead of me in school and knows things that I’m oblivious to. She tells things to the kids and I look at her, stunned and with my jaw hanging. “You’re stupid,” she says, “really stupid.” It’s the third time she and I have walked up to Mr. Moadab’s shop and I haven’t had the courage to walk in. I’m supposed to ask him for a red ribbon and then I have to go behind the alcove curtain. My friend says she already got three red ribbons and wants to go again. She says, “If the stone lands on six, I will go. If it doesn’t, you have to go. You must.” I want to know what goes on behind the curtain. My hands shake and my heart races. A crow perched above me on the elm tree shrieks instead of crowing. The stone stops on the line between five and six. “You’re a cheater,” my friend says. “You have to go there tomorrow.” Then she whispers in my ear, “There’s nothing to be scared of, silly.” Tomorrow is my sister’s marriage ceremony.

I ask my mother for money to buy a few sheets of the paper we need to write our school exams on. She is preparing the traditional marriage spread and asks me to pick a few leaves from the sour-orange tree on my way so that she can decorate the candles and the bowl of sugar-coated nuts. Mother has sewn a pleated pinkish-yellow skirt and a ruffled pink shirt for me. The shirt has shiny pink pearl buttons and a row of pleats on the cuffs. All I’m missing is a red polka-dot ribbon. It snowed last night. I drag my rubber boots on the ground and mix the snow and mud. I stack the bitter orange leaves in my hand and at exactly 7:35 I close the wooden door to Mr. Moadab’s shop behind me.

I’m ten years old. I’m wearing a short pleated skirt and knee-high rubber boots and I’ve used a rubber band to gather my hair in a tight ponytail. Mr. Moadab is standing in front of a kerosene heater, facing the door, and as usual he is counting his ten-tuman bills. He stuffs them in a box and takes two sheets of exam paper from the bottom shelf and puts them on the counter.

My mouth is dry. My bladder feels full.

I tell him I want a red ribbon. I hear my voice rippling in the air.

Mr. Moadab’s eyes seem to laugh behind his eyeglasses.

“It will suit your hair very nicely,” he says. “God bless you, it’s like silk. You know, you little devil, I always see you through the shop window . . .”

He runs his fingers through my ponytail and moves his hand all the way up to my scalp.

He locks the shop door and goes behind the curtain.

I hesitate, I regret having come. Mr. Moadab pokes his head out and snaps, “What’s the matter? What are you waiting for?”

I put the sour-orange leaves on the counter and I automatically follow him.

The small storeroom is right under a staircase. It’s where Mr. Moadab eats and naps, and it’s separated from the front of the shop by a grimy tarp curtain. There are stacks of cardboard boxes half filled with ribbons, elastic bands, tape, and crepe paper.

I rummage through a box and pull out a gold-trimmed red polka-dot ribbon. A warm wrinkled hand creeps up and down under my skirt. Terrified, I swing around. With his eyes bulging, Mr. Moadab murmurs, “It’s like silk . . .” I shriek like a wild animal and I dig my teeth into his fingers.

I clutch the polka-dot ribbon and the sour-orange leaves in my fist. My rubber boots feel like heavy weights hanging from my quivering legs. I huddle under the sour orange tree with my back to the street corner and I feel warm liquid oozing down my legs and into my boots.

I put my wet shoes in the closet and I leaf through the unit’s log. From eight in the morning until seven at night two complete pages have been filled. Forty-seven out-patients, twenty-five in-patients. I think, In the midst of all these accidents and incidents, what color is the tragedy of my life? Red, burnt blue, or chocolate brown? Dr. Sardari is sleeping in the doctors’ lounge. Until three in the morning, one after the other, I line up X-rays and tests and medical histories on sheets of paper, small and large, white and blue and yellow. The room smells of men’s sweat, of their pungent frothy urine. I take the disinfectant spray from my handbag and spray it on the desk and in the air. I put the stethoscope over the scar on the inside of my left wrist to listen to my pulse. It stubbornly beats, gentle and regular. According to the second arm on my watch, there are seventy-seven beats per minute. My uniform is covered with splattered blood, filth, and urine. I take it to the laundry department and go to the lounge.

Dr. Sardari’s eyes are drooping. He puts his tea glass on the bed and leans back on the sofa behind the curtain.

“Damn the New Year and the holidays,” he grouses. “Everyone goes mad.”

He gets up, takes his dirty stain-covered uniform, flings it over his shoulder and says, “It’s all crap. What kind of life is this . . . constantly buy sweets, buy pastries . . . new clothes for the kids . . . new clothes for the wife . . .”

I’m tired. I need to sleep. The lounge reeks of Dr. Sardari’s cigarettes and the bedsheets reek of women’s perfume. I wake up with a start. Mr. Moadab twists a sharp knife in my stomach and murmurs, “It’s like silk . . .” Tiny insects crawl around on my hands and feet, on my stomach, on my legs that are cut and bleeding. With their sharp teeth they are slowly eating my flesh, and no matter how many times I brush them off me, every time I open my eyes, they’re back where they were. I said I tripped and fell in the street gutter. At home no one is paying attention to me. I’ve washed myself in the bathroom and crawled under the bedcovers. The vague sound of the women guests singing marriage ballads has merged with Mr. Moadab’s laughter and the sound of my body tearing.

They say I have jaundice. Some say it’s typhoid. My hair has become so thin that Mother can’t even put it in a ponytail. My face is so yellow it looks almost green. My tongue tastes bitter in my mouth and I eat nothing but vegetable broth.

“Your friend has stopped by to see you more than ten times,” Mother says.

I don’t want to see her. With a horror-stricken look in her eyes, we part ways. She goes to the end of the alley and I take the shortcut home, a narrow path that goes through the open plain behind our house.

Me, a high-spirited obstinate girl who would show up at home only for fear of my father, have buried my nose in my books, as if the only thing that can save me is the magic of those parallel lines and side-by-side columns.

I bury my face in the pillow. It smells of a man’s body, of stale food, of worm-infested flesh. Someone is running behind the door. A man whispers, “Damn their hospital.” A woman moans, “My arm, look, it’s broken here.” Dr. Sardari twists his sharp knife in his wife’s stomach and along with her small intestine pulls out a long red scarf.

The glow of the florescent light has spread over my eyes like a thin sheet. The scent of women’s perfume is enmeshed in the fabric of the pillow. I press my face against it, but there is nothing resembling tears in my eyes. I don’t want Mr. Moadab to die. I want him to suffer just as I suffer. I can’t tell months, weeks, and years apart. Why should it be Winter Solstice tonight, or New Year’s Eve? I know I’m different from the children I sit with in the same classroom, on the same bench, and I know what separates us is our dreams and fantasies.

During the years that seem feverish and long, I see him only once. Before walking to school, I hide behind the alley wall and look, in case he’s outside sweeping in front of his shop or pulling open the gate. During all these years, my only partner is the wall of Ninth Alley. We share the same pain. It knows my secret and understands. Every day its body is slashed with razors and fouled with glue. Unrewarded and silent, it conceals secrets. At times it looks so shabby that even the locals don’t want to post their notices on it. But they always come back. Perhaps they know they won’t find any place better than this. I stand in front of it, read the fliers, and cool my burning hands and cheeks against its grimy, sticky, soot-covered surface. One day, before reaching the corner, I see Mr. Moadab standing there with his nose almost touching the wall, trying to read something with his far-sighted eyes. I hide behind the wall and wait until he limps across the alley and closes the shop door behind him.

The emergency room is quiet. A few patients are sleeping on gurneys in the hallway. I tell Dr. Sardari to go get some sleep. “Fooled!” he says. “Everyone was fooled. We were fooled, too! What kind of a job is this? Why deal with these people, a bunch of long-eared asses. Build a high-rise, make ten times more money than we make. Look at him, he’s barely sixteen, and instead of being out there living it up, he’s here . . . it makes me want to cry . . .”

He picks up his germ-infested tea glass and leaves . . .

Through the barred window above me, the orange light of early morning is shining on the leaves of the potted Indian coleus on the windowsill. In a few days I have to take the board exams. I take the physiopathy textbook and leaf through it. Fifteen million people worldwide suffer from Hepatitis D. The hepatic antigen virus remains in the patient’s body for the duration of their life and it can transform into various forms of entrovirus hepatitis. Every year, one million people die from one defective icosahedron virus that has a strong tendency to multiply and attach itself to a host cell.

I’m sixteen. Six years have passed and my breasts have grown and my straight, shiny hair flows down below my shoulders. I have twice slit my wrists with Father’s razor blade and once I have overdosed on aspirin. It tastes better than all the other pills in his first-aid kit. Twenty-five pills. The dosage is low. They pump my stomach all night long. I look at the yellow and green sticky liquid that pours into the bucket and suddenly my pain subsides. The next day I smear on Mother’s pink lipstick and wear a tufted hairdo under my headscarf. Using a dropper I drip acid into a small bottle of liquid fever reducer and I tighten the cap as much as I can. With shaky hands and knees, at exactly 7:35 on a December day six years later, I open the door to Mr. Moadab’s shop. He is frowning and talking loudly on his ancient black telephone. He ignores me. I say, “A red polka-dot ribbon . . . like this one . . .” And I put the frayed ribbon on the counter. A smile puckers in the corner of his mouth and he points behind the curtain . . .

Urine and blood ripple in my ankle-high shoes and my hands shake. I sit under the sour-orange tree at the corner of Ninth Alley and I press my back against the cold rained-on wall. I take the vial of fever reducer out from between my breasts. I can’t open the cap. I hit the top against the wall. Shards of glass shine like diamonds on my skirt. The splattered acid leaves sharp smelly streaks on the wall. I caress the dripping wounds with my index finger. The scent of blood and of the disintegrating flesh on my fingertip makes me nauseous. I spew the bile in my stomach over the young, green sour oranges that have fallen from their branch.

I close my textbook. I think about the icosahedron cell that somewhere in my veins is circulating among the red and white blood cells, in plasma or diluted in platelets, so that one day or one night, in a matter of three seconds it can multiply into two, four, sixteen, and infinite deadly cells.

I take the announcement of Mr. Moadab’s death out of my handbag and I lay it open on the desk. I color his eyes with a red pen and draw a large X across his face. But the patriarch of the Moadab dynasty still ogles me with a vulgar sneer on his face. I purse my lips, look around, and with all my might I spit at his smirk that is now hanging over the edge of the desk. Saliva streams down his lips and wets my feet . . .


“سبز نارنج” © Neda Kavoosifar. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Sara Khalili. All rights reserved.

English Persian (Original)

Announcements of all kinds, from notices of death to ads for used household goods or floral design lessons at the lowest prices, have an assigned place in our neighborhood: on the wall outside the police station at the corner of the main street and Ninth Alley, this same narrow road where my family has lived for the past twenty-seven years. Every morning, before buying their bread from the bakery that sits in the shadow of a sour-orange tree whose roots have penetrated the street gutter, the residents of the neighborhood stop and take a quick look at the flyers. Consequently, over the years the corner of Ninth Alley has turned into a sort of wall newspaper, a free source of information.

I see the notice announcing Mr. Moadab’s death posted on the wall newspaper in the half-light of dusk one evening toward the end of March, after the New Year, when people are either visiting friends and family or hosting parties at home. There’s a picture of him from when he was young, with a smile that seems to have crinkled in the corner of his mouth by force.

The hospital uniform weighs heavy on my arm. It has been raining since early morning. The alley is empty and quiet and the damp air is filled with the scent of wet sour-orange leaves. A wrinkled hand, warm and alive, runs over my face. A slimy wetness spreads on my neck and the warmth of blood, urine, and sweat trickles down my inner thighs and onto my knees. My shoes feel like heavy weights hanging from my feet. A young girl is playing hopscotch in the alley. Her hair is flying in the air behind her. She kicks a piece of broken brick forward, it stops on six and the girl screams, “My cat is pretty.”

Mr. Moadab is a fat, sallow man who wears thick glasses with black frames, shoes that are two sizes too big, and a four-pocket vest that knows no winter or summer. He has a small haberdashery and odds-and-ends shop near the corner of Ninth Alley. A small shack under a staircase, with ribbons, lace, bobbins, and elastic bands hanging from the ceiling, shelves, and every nook and corner. He is a harmless, surly man who every day pulls up his storefront gate before the rest of the local shops open, and every night goes home carrying his empty lunch box after everyone has already gone. His house is two alleys away. He doesn’t mingle with the people in the neighborhood. But whenever the locals run out of things to talk about, they talk about Mr. Moadab. About the fact that he used to teach at the school for the deaf and was politely forced into retirement after he tried to molest a retarded girl, about the fact that no one has ever seen his wife’s face. Some say half her face is paralyzed, others say she comes from Pass-Koohak and shuns people. Whatever the truth, until the day they move away, no one ever learns anything about what is tucked away in the coffer of Mr. Moadab’s life.

The taxi driver complains about the high price of gas, about its impurity that has choked the air with smog and soot, about his wife who only recently had to have one of her lungs removed. He points to the uniform I’m holding and, looking in the rearview mirror, says to the passenger sitting next to me, “The lady knows what I’m talking about.” There’s a cold wind blowing and the window won’t roll up. The man next to me is pressing his fat thigh against my thin, freezing leg. Mumbling under his breath, he reads an SMS on his cell phone and, ignoring the driver, bursts into laughter. I huddle and squeeze against the car door like an ailing cat and I let my burning scalp cool in the air. A wrinkled hand creeps through my hair and a voice whispers, “It’s like silk . . .” I smell a moldy wall, I smell a man’s lust. The raindrops coming through the window dampen my clothes. My shoes are wet. The stench of urine and the smell of menstrual fluids waft from the seat. The car up front skids on the wet asphalt. There is gridlock up ahead.

I play hopscotch with my friend. Her house is at the end of the alley, at the very end of the dead end. She is one year ahead of me in school and knows things that I’m oblivious to. She tells things to the kids and I look at her, stunned and with my jaw hanging. “You’re stupid,” she says, “really stupid.” It’s the third time she and I have walked up to Mr. Moadab’s shop and I haven’t had the courage to walk in. I’m supposed to ask him for a red ribbon and then I have to go behind the alcove curtain. My friend says she already got three red ribbons and wants to go again. She says, “If the stone lands on six, I will go. If it doesn’t, you have to go. You must.” I want to know what goes on behind the curtain. My hands shake and my heart races. A crow perched above me on the elm tree shrieks instead of crowing. The stone stops on the line between five and six. “You’re a cheater,” my friend says. “You have to go there tomorrow.” Then she whispers in my ear, “There’s nothing to be scared of, silly.” Tomorrow is my sister’s marriage ceremony.

I ask my mother for money to buy a few sheets of the paper we need to write our school exams on. She is preparing the traditional marriage spread and asks me to pick a few leaves from the sour-orange tree on my way so that she can decorate the candles and the bowl of sugar-coated nuts. Mother has sewn a pleated pinkish-yellow skirt and a ruffled pink shirt for me. The shirt has shiny pink pearl buttons and a row of pleats on the cuffs. All I’m missing is a red polka-dot ribbon. It snowed last night. I drag my rubber boots on the ground and mix the snow and mud. I stack the bitter orange leaves in my hand and at exactly 7:35 I close the wooden door to Mr. Moadab’s shop behind me.

I’m ten years old. I’m wearing a short pleated skirt and knee-high rubber boots and I’ve used a rubber band to gather my hair in a tight ponytail. Mr. Moadab is standing in front of a kerosene heater, facing the door, and as usual he is counting his ten-tuman bills. He stuffs them in a box and takes two sheets of exam paper from the bottom shelf and puts them on the counter.

My mouth is dry. My bladder feels full.

I tell him I want a red ribbon. I hear my voice rippling in the air.

Mr. Moadab’s eyes seem to laugh behind his eyeglasses.

“It will suit your hair very nicely,” he says. “God bless you, it’s like silk. You know, you little devil, I always see you through the shop window . . .”

He runs his fingers through my ponytail and moves his hand all the way up to my scalp.

He locks the shop door and goes behind the curtain.

I hesitate, I regret having come. Mr. Moadab pokes his head out and snaps, “What’s the matter? What are you waiting for?”

I put the sour-orange leaves on the counter and I automatically follow him.

The small storeroom is right under a staircase. It’s where Mr. Moadab eats and naps, and it’s separated from the front of the shop by a grimy tarp curtain. There are stacks of cardboard boxes half filled with ribbons, elastic bands, tape, and crepe paper.

I rummage through a box and pull out a gold-trimmed red polka-dot ribbon. A warm wrinkled hand creeps up and down under my skirt. Terrified, I swing around. With his eyes bulging, Mr. Moadab murmurs, “It’s like silk . . .” I shriek like a wild animal and I dig my teeth into his fingers.

I clutch the polka-dot ribbon and the sour-orange leaves in my fist. My rubber boots feel like heavy weights hanging from my quivering legs. I huddle under the sour orange tree with my back to the street corner and I feel warm liquid oozing down my legs and into my boots.

I put my wet shoes in the closet and I leaf through the unit’s log. From eight in the morning until seven at night two complete pages have been filled. Forty-seven out-patients, twenty-five in-patients. I think, In the midst of all these accidents and incidents, what color is the tragedy of my life? Red, burnt blue, or chocolate brown? Dr. Sardari is sleeping in the doctors’ lounge. Until three in the morning, one after the other, I line up X-rays and tests and medical histories on sheets of paper, small and large, white and blue and yellow. The room smells of men’s sweat, of their pungent frothy urine. I take the disinfectant spray from my handbag and spray it on the desk and in the air. I put the stethoscope over the scar on the inside of my left wrist to listen to my pulse. It stubbornly beats, gentle and regular. According to the second arm on my watch, there are seventy-seven beats per minute. My uniform is covered with splattered blood, filth, and urine. I take it to the laundry department and go to the lounge.

Dr. Sardari’s eyes are drooping. He puts his tea glass on the bed and leans back on the sofa behind the curtain.

“Damn the New Year and the holidays,” he grouses. “Everyone goes mad.”

He gets up, takes his dirty stain-covered uniform, flings it over his shoulder and says, “It’s all crap. What kind of life is this . . . constantly buy sweets, buy pastries . . . new clothes for the kids . . . new clothes for the wife . . .”

I’m tired. I need to sleep. The lounge reeks of Dr. Sardari’s cigarettes and the bedsheets reek of women’s perfume. I wake up with a start. Mr. Moadab twists a sharp knife in my stomach and murmurs, “It’s like silk . . .” Tiny insects crawl around on my hands and feet, on my stomach, on my legs that are cut and bleeding. With their sharp teeth they are slowly eating my flesh, and no matter how many times I brush them off me, every time I open my eyes, they’re back where they were. I said I tripped and fell in the street gutter. At home no one is paying attention to me. I’ve washed myself in the bathroom and crawled under the bedcovers. The vague sound of the women guests singing marriage ballads has merged with Mr. Moadab’s laughter and the sound of my body tearing.

They say I have jaundice. Some say it’s typhoid. My hair has become so thin that Mother can’t even put it in a ponytail. My face is so yellow it looks almost green. My tongue tastes bitter in my mouth and I eat nothing but vegetable broth.

“Your friend has stopped by to see you more than ten times,” Mother says.

I don’t want to see her. With a horror-stricken look in her eyes, we part ways. She goes to the end of the alley and I take the shortcut home, a narrow path that goes through the open plain behind our house.

Me, a high-spirited obstinate girl who would show up at home only for fear of my father, have buried my nose in my books, as if the only thing that can save me is the magic of those parallel lines and side-by-side columns.

I bury my face in the pillow. It smells of a man’s body, of stale food, of worm-infested flesh. Someone is running behind the door. A man whispers, “Damn their hospital.” A woman moans, “My arm, look, it’s broken here.” Dr. Sardari twists his sharp knife in his wife’s stomach and along with her small intestine pulls out a long red scarf.

The glow of the florescent light has spread over my eyes like a thin sheet. The scent of women’s perfume is enmeshed in the fabric of the pillow. I press my face against it, but there is nothing resembling tears in my eyes. I don’t want Mr. Moadab to die. I want him to suffer just as I suffer. I can’t tell months, weeks, and years apart. Why should it be Winter Solstice tonight, or New Year’s Eve? I know I’m different from the children I sit with in the same classroom, on the same bench, and I know what separates us is our dreams and fantasies.

During the years that seem feverish and long, I see him only once. Before walking to school, I hide behind the alley wall and look, in case he’s outside sweeping in front of his shop or pulling open the gate. During all these years, my only partner is the wall of Ninth Alley. We share the same pain. It knows my secret and understands. Every day its body is slashed with razors and fouled with glue. Unrewarded and silent, it conceals secrets. At times it looks so shabby that even the locals don’t want to post their notices on it. But they always come back. Perhaps they know they won’t find any place better than this. I stand in front of it, read the fliers, and cool my burning hands and cheeks against its grimy, sticky, soot-covered surface. One day, before reaching the corner, I see Mr. Moadab standing there with his nose almost touching the wall, trying to read something with his far-sighted eyes. I hide behind the wall and wait until he limps across the alley and closes the shop door behind him.

The emergency room is quiet. A few patients are sleeping on gurneys in the hallway. I tell Dr. Sardari to go get some sleep. “Fooled!” he says. “Everyone was fooled. We were fooled, too! What kind of a job is this? Why deal with these people, a bunch of long-eared asses. Build a high-rise, make ten times more money than we make. Look at him, he’s barely sixteen, and instead of being out there living it up, he’s here . . . it makes me want to cry . . .”

He picks up his germ-infested tea glass and leaves . . .

Through the barred window above me, the orange light of early morning is shining on the leaves of the potted Indian coleus on the windowsill. In a few days I have to take the board exams. I take the physiopathy textbook and leaf through it. Fifteen million people worldwide suffer from Hepatitis D. The hepatic antigen virus remains in the patient’s body for the duration of their life and it can transform into various forms of entrovirus hepatitis. Every year, one million people die from one defective icosahedron virus that has a strong tendency to multiply and attach itself to a host cell.

I’m sixteen. Six years have passed and my breasts have grown and my straight, shiny hair flows down below my shoulders. I have twice slit my wrists with Father’s razor blade and once I have overdosed on aspirin. It tastes better than all the other pills in his first-aid kit. Twenty-five pills. The dosage is low. They pump my stomach all night long. I look at the yellow and green sticky liquid that pours into the bucket and suddenly my pain subsides. The next day I smear on Mother’s pink lipstick and wear a tufted hairdo under my headscarf. Using a dropper I drip acid into a small bottle of liquid fever reducer and I tighten the cap as much as I can. With shaky hands and knees, at exactly 7:35 on a December day six years later, I open the door to Mr. Moadab’s shop. He is frowning and talking loudly on his ancient black telephone. He ignores me. I say, “A red polka-dot ribbon . . . like this one . . .” And I put the frayed ribbon on the counter. A smile puckers in the corner of his mouth and he points behind the curtain . . .

Urine and blood ripple in my ankle-high shoes and my hands shake. I sit under the sour-orange tree at the corner of Ninth Alley and I press my back against the cold rained-on wall. I take the vial of fever reducer out from between my breasts. I can’t open the cap. I hit the top against the wall. Shards of glass shine like diamonds on my skirt. The splattered acid leaves sharp smelly streaks on the wall. I caress the dripping wounds with my index finger. The scent of blood and of the disintegrating flesh on my fingertip makes me nauseous. I spew the bile in my stomach over the young, green sour oranges that have fallen from their branch.

I close my textbook. I think about the icosahedron cell that somewhere in my veins is circulating among the red and white blood cells, in plasma or diluted in platelets, so that one day or one night, in a matter of three seconds it can multiply into two, four, sixteen, and infinite deadly cells.

I take the announcement of Mr. Moadab’s death out of my handbag and I lay it open on the desk. I color his eyes with a red pen and draw a large X across his face. But the patriarch of the Moadab dynasty still ogles me with a vulgar sneer on his face. I purse my lips, look around, and with all my might I spit at his smirk that is now hanging over the edge of the desk. Saliva streams down his lips and wets my feet . . .


“سبز نارنج” © Neda Kavoosifar. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Sara Khalili. All rights reserved.

سبزنارنج

اعلامیه های مرگ و میر، خرید لوازم دست دوم منزل یا آموزش گل چینی با نازلترین قیمت توی محله ما، همیشه جایشان از قبل تعیین شده. نبش کوچه 9 روی دیوار کلانتری که یک سمتش توی خیابان است ویک سمتش توی همین کوچه که خانه ما از بیست و هفت سال پیش بوده وهست.اهالی محل  هر روز صبح، قبل خرید نان ازنان سنگکی زیر سایه نارنج که ریشه هایش توی جوی آب کنار کوچه کشیده شده می ایستند ونگاهی به اعلامیه های نبش کوچه 9 می اندازند. اینطوری است که بعد از گذشت سالها نبش کوچه 9 برای خودش یک جور روزنامه دیواری شده، کلاتنر محل یا کعب الاخبارمجانی.

 آگهی فوت آقای مودب را توی تاریک و روشن یک غروب اوائل فروردین که همه یا رفته اند عید دیدنی یا توی خانه هایشان مهمان دارند، توی همین روزنامه دیواری محله امان می بینم. عکس جوانی هایش است با لبخندی که انگار به زورگوشه لبش جمع شده.

 روپوش بیمارستان روی دستم سنگینی می کند. از صبح زود باران باریده. کوچه ساکت و بی صداست. بوی برگهای خیس نارنج توی هوای نم گرفته پیچیده. دست پرچروکی گرم و زنده روی صورتم می چرخد.خیسی لزجی روی گردنم پخش می شود وگرمای خون و ادرار و عرق ازکشاله های رانم روی زانویم سر می خورد. کفشهایم مثل وزنه سنگینی از کف پاهایم آویزانند. دختر کوچکی توی کوچه شش خانه بازی می کند، موهایش پشت سرش توی هوا پخش شده. با پایش آجرشکسته ای را پرتاب می کند، می افتد توی خانه شش و دختر جیغ می زند گربه من قشنگه.

 آقای مودب مرد خپله زردنبویی است با عینک ته استکانی قاب مشکی، کفشهای دوشماره بزرگتراز پایش و جلیقه چهارجیب سورمه ای، که تابستان وزمستان ندارد. سرکوچه 9 خرازی دارد. یک دکه زیر پله ای که از سقف وقفسه و زاویه و پستوهایش یراق وروبان ونخ و کش آویزان است. آدم بی آزاراخمویی است که هرروزقبل ازبازشدن دکانهای محل کرکره اش را بالا می برد و شب بعد رفتن همه با قابلمه خالی غذایش برمی گردد خانه. خانه اش دو کوچه پایین تراست.کاری به کاراهل محل ندارد. اما اهل محل هروقت نَقلهایشان ته می کشد، می روند سروقت آقای مودب. اینکه معلم مدرسه ناشنوایان بوده و خواسته دخترعقب مانده ای را دستمالی بکند وبنابراین محترمانه بازنشسته اش کرده اند. اینکه صورت زنش را تا به حال کسی ندیده است. یک عده می گویند یکطرف صورت زنش فلج است.عده ای می گویند ازپس کوهک آمده وازآدمها گریزان است. اما هرچه که هست تا روز رفتنشان ازمحله ما چیزی ازقوطی زندگی آقای مودب بیرون نمی آید.

 راننده تاکسی ازخرابی وضع بنزین می گوید ازناخالصیهایش که خیابانهارا پرازدوده کرده، اززنش که همین چند وقت پیش یکی از ریه هایش را برداشته اند. اشاره می کند به روپوش دستم و توی آیینه به مرد کناری من، می گوید، این خانم ملتفتند که چی می خوام بگم. هوای بیرون سوزسردی دارد و پنجره ماشین بالا نمی رود. مرد کنار دستی ام ران چاقش را به پاهای باریک ویخزده ام چسبانده. اس ام اس موبایلش را زیرلبی می خواند و بی توجه به راننده قه قه می زند. مثل گربه مریضی خودم را به دستگیره درمی چسبانم ومی گذارم بن موهای گَُرگرفته ام هوا بخورد. دست پرچروکی می لغزد توی موهای من و زمزمه می کند مثه ابریشم می مونن…  بوی دیوار نمناک می آید، بوی شهوت مرد. خنکای آب باران از شیشه ماشین، لباسم را نمناک می کند. توی کفشهایم خیس آب است. بوی عفونت ادارارو بوی حیض از صندلی نمناک توی تاکسی می پیچد. ماشین جلویی روی آسفالت کشیده می شود. ماشینها توی هم کیپ شده اند .

 با دوستم توی کوچه شش خانه بازی می کنیم. خانه اشان ته کوچه است درست ته بن بست. یک کلاس ازمن بالاتراست و چیزهایی می داند که من روحم ازهیچکدامشان خبر ندارد. برای همه بچه ها می گوید و من با دهان باز و حیرت زده نگاهش می کنم. می گوید تو خنگی، خیلی خنگی. بار سوم است که تا مغازه آقای مودب رفته ایم و من جرات داخل شدن نداشته ام. باید بگویم یک روبان قرمز می خواهم و بعدش بروم پشت پرده پستو. دوستم می گوید، یه بار که بری ترست می ریزه. سه تا روبان قرمزگرفته ومی خواهد بازهم برود. می گوید اگرافتاد توی خانه شش من می روم، اگر نیفتاد تو باید بروی. حتما باید بروی. دلم می خواهد بدانم پشت پرده مغازه چه خبر است. دستم می لرزد، قلبم تند و تند می زند. کلاغی روی شاخه چناربالای سرم به جای قارقار جیغ می کشد. سنگ روی خط شش و پنج می افتد. دوستم می گوید تو جِرزنی. همین فردا. توی گوشم پچ پچ می کند ترس که نداره خنگ  خدا. فردا عقد کنان خواهرم است.

  برای خرید برگه امتحانی ازمادرم پول می گیرم. مادرم دارد وسایل سفره عقد را مهیا می کند و می خواهد سر راهم، چند تایی برگ ازدرخت  نارنج سر کوچه برای قدح شمع ونقلش بیاورم. مادر برایم دامن پلیسه گل بهی با بلوزصورتی والان دار دوخته، دگمه هایش مروارید صورتی براق است و سرآستینهایش یک ردیف چین دارد. تنها چیزی که کم دارد یک روبان قرمز خال خال است. شب قبل برف آمده. کف چکمه لاستیکی ام را توی برف می کشم و برف و گل را با هم قاطی می کنم. برگهای نارنج را روی هم دسته می کنم و درست راس ساعت هفت وسی وپنج دقیقه، در چوبی، مغازه آقای مودب را پشت سرم می بندم.

 ده ساله ام. دامن کوتاه  پلیسه پوشیده ام  با چکمه های لاستیکی بلند  وموهایم را با کش قیطانی پشت سرم محکم بسته ام. آقای مودب جلوی بخاری نفتی روبروی در ایستاده و طبق معمول، اسکناسهای ده تومانی اش را می شمرد . پولها را توی جعبه کنار دستش می چپاند واز قفسه پایین دو تا برگه روی پیشخوان می گذارد.

 آب دهانم خشک شده، احساس می کنم مثانه ام پرازادار است.

 می گویم که روبان قرمز می خواهم. صدایم را واضح می شنوم که توی هوا موج بر می دارد.

 چشمهای آقای مودب زیر شیشه عینک می خندد: به موهات خوب میاد. ماشالا مثه ابریشم می مونن. همیشه از پشت شیشه می بینمت، ها خیلی بلایی…

 دستش را می کند توی دم اسبی موهایم و تا کف سرم بالا می آورد .

 در مغازه را از داخل قفل می کند و پشت پرده می رود.

 مردد و پشیمانم… آقای مودب سرش را بیرون می آورد و با تشر می گوید ها چیه معطلی؟!

 .برگهای نارنج را روی پیشخوان می گذارم وبی اختیار دنبالش می روم.

 انباری مغازه درست زیر پله ها است. محل غذا خوردن وخوابیدن آقای مودب که با پرده برزنتی کثیفی از بقیه جدا می شود. پشت پرده پُر است ازقوطی های مقوایی نیمه پر روبان و قیطان وچسب وکاغذ کشی.

 دستم را توی جعبه می گردانم  وروبان قرمز خال خال با حاشیه طلایی را ازبین روبانها بیرون می کشم. دست گرم پرچروکی زیر لباسم بالا و پایین می رود. وحشت زده به عقب برمی گردم. آقای مودب با چشمهای از حدقه بیرون آمده، پچ پچ  می کند، مثه ابریشم می مونه….. مثل حیوان وحشی فریاد می کشم و انگشتش را با دندانهایم پاره می کنم.

 روبان له شده خال خال و برگهای دسته شده  نارنج را توی دستهایم مچاله می کنم. کفشهای  لاستیکی ام مثل وزنه سنگینی از پاهای مرتعشم آویزان است. پشت به نبش کوچه زیر درخت نارنج می نشینم و احساس می کنم آب گرمی ازمیان پاهایم، توی کفشم سرازیر می شود.

 کفشهای خیسم را توی کمد می گذارم و کارِدکس روزانه بخش را ورق می زنم، از هشت صبح تا هفت شب دو صفحه تکمیل شده. چهل و هفت مریض سر پایی، بیست و پنج بستری. فکرمی کنم لابلای اینهمه حادثه، فاجعه زندگی من چه رنگی دارد؟!. قرمز، آبی سوخته یا بنفش شکلاتی. دکترسرداری توی رست روم خوابیده. تا سه نیمه شب پشت سرهم، عکس وآزمایش و هیستری روی کاغذهای کوچک و بزرگ سفید و آبی و زرد ردیف می کنم. اتاق بوی عرق تن مردانه می هد، بوی ادرارتند کف کرده اشان. ازکیفم اسپری سایدکِس را بیرون می آورم، و روی میز و توی اتاق می پاشم. گوشی را روی خط بریدگی مچ دست چپم می گذارم تا صدای نبضم را بشنوم. با سماجت می کوبد. آرام و منظم. با عقربه ساعتم درست 77 ضربان در دقیقه می شود. روپوشم پر شده از شَتکهای خون، چرک و ادرار. می دهم به لندری و می روم توی استیشن.

 دکتر سرداری پلک هایش، روی هم افتاده. استکان چایش را روی تخت می گذارد و روی کاناپه پشت پرده لم می دهد.

 می گوید :-  گند بگیره عید و تعطیلی. همه دیوونه می شن.

 روپوش کثیف پر لک و پیسش را روی شانه می اندازد و می گوید:  – گند و گه .زندگی که نیست همه اش شیرینی بخر… لباس بچه بخر. لباس زن بخر…

 خسته ام و باید بخوابم. رست رم بوی سیگار دکتر سرداری، ملافه ها بوی عطرزنانه می دهد. ازخواب می پرم. آقای مودب  کارد تیزی را توی شکمم می چرخاند و پچ پچ کنان می گوید مثه ابریشم می مونه… حشرات ریزی روی دست وپاهایم می خزند، روی شکمم. روی پاهایم که زخم وخونریزاست. حشرات ریزی که با دندانهای نوک تیزشان آرام آرام گوشتم را می خورند و هرچه با دست پسشان می زنم دوباره تاچشم باز می کنم سرجای قبلشان هستند. گفته ام توی جوی آب افتاده ام. توی شلوغی خانه کسی به فکر من نیست. خودم را توی حمام شسته ام و زیر پتو خزیده ام. صداهای مبهم واسونک خوانیِ* زنهای مهمان با خنده آقای مودب و صدای پاره شدن بدنم یکی شده .

 می گویند یرقان گرفته ام. بعضی هم می گویند تیفوئید است. موهایم آنقدرتنک شده که مادر نمی تواند با کش قیطانی ببندتشان. صورتم از زردی به سبز می زند. چیزی نمی خورم جز سوپ سبزی و انگارزبانم توی دهانم تلخ است.

 مادرمی گوید دوستت ده بار بیشتر است که آمده سراغت.

 نمی خواهم ببینمش. چشمهای ترسخورده اش راهمان  را ازهم جدا می کند. او ازته کوچه، می رود و من از راه میانبرباریکی که از صحرای پشت خانه می گذرد.

 من دخترشیطان سرتِق که فقط ازترس پدر توی خانه پیدایم می شود، سرم را کرده ام توی کتابهایم وانگارتنها چیزی که می تواند نجاتم دهد جادوی سطرهای موازی و ستونهای مقابل هم اند .

 سرم را توی بالش فرو می کنم. بوی تن  مردانه می دهد، بوی غذای فاسد، گوشت کرم گذاشته. یکی پشت در اتاق می دود. مردی پچ پچ می کند، خراب شه بیمارستانشون. زنی  ناله می کند دستم، ببین، اینجاش شکسته. دکتر سرداری چاقوی تیزش را توی شکم زنش می چرخاند وهمراه روده کوچکش، جعبه شیرینی و شال دراز سرخی بیرون می کشد.

 نور مهتابی مثل ملافه نازکی  روی چشمهایم کشیده شده… بوی عطر زنانه توی تار و پود بالش پیچیده. سرم را توی بالش فرو می کنم، اما انگار چیزی مثل اشک، توی چشمهایم نیست. نمی خواهم آقای مودب بمیرد، می خواهم  مثل من زجربکشد. نمی فهمم فرق ماه وهفته و سال به چی هست. چرا باید امشب شب یلدا باشد یا مثلا عید نوروز. می دانم با بچه هایی که توی یک کلاس، روی یک نیمکت می نشینم فرق دارم و می دانم چیزی که ما را از هم جدا می کند رویاهایمان است.

 توی چند سالی که طولانی وتب دارمی آیند، فقط یکبار می بینمش. قبل از رفتنم به مدرسه خودم را پشت کوچه پنهان می کنم. نکند جلوی مغازه اش را آب و جارو کند یا  کرکره مغازه اش را بالا بکشد. در تمام این سالها دیوارکوچه 9 تنها همدستی است، که دارم. درد مشترکی داریم. رازم را می داند و می فهمد. هرروز با چسب و تیغ، تنش را پاره پاره می کنند. بی مزد و ساکت ورازپوش است. بعضی وقتها آنقدرازریخت، می افتد که حتی آدمهای محل رغبتشان نمی آید، اعلامیه هاشان را رویش بچسبانند. اما دوباره برمی گردند سراغش. شاید می دانند جایی بهترازاینجا پیدا نمی کنند. کنارش می ایستم، آگهی هایش را می خوانم و صورت ودستهای داغم را با تن چرب و چسبناک ودوده گرفته اش خنک می کنم. یکبار نرسیده به نبش کوچه آقای مودب را می بینم که با چشمهای دوربینش، چسبیده به دیوار چیزی را می خواند. پشت دیوارپنهان می شوم، تا لنگ لنگان ازخیابان رد شود و درمغازه را پشت سرش ببندد.

 راهرو ساکت است. چندتایی مریض روی برانکارد پرتابل، کف راهروی اتفاقات، خوابیده اند. به دکتر سرداری می گویم برود وبخوابد .می گوید: خر. همه خرشدن. مگه ما نشدیم ؟!. اینم شغله؟!. برج بساز ده تای ما پول درآر، نه با یه جماعت دراز گوش سرو کله بزن .همه اش شونزده سالشه، عوض عشق و صفا ..توی اتفاقات بستریش کردیم …آدم گریه اش می گیره…

 لیوان جرم گرفته عقد زده اش، را بر می دارد و می رود…

 نور نارنجی صبحگاهی از پنجره میله داربالای سرم روی برگهای حسن یوسف، طاقچه افتاده. چند روز دیگر امتحان بورد است. کتاب فیزیو پاتو را اززیرمیز، برمی دارم و ورق می زنم. پانزده میلیون نفردردنیا مبتلا به هپاتیت دی هستند. آنتی ژن هپاتو ویروس درتمام طول عمر شخص در بدن می ماند ومی تواند به انواع آنترو ویروسهای هپاتیت، تغییرشکل دهد. سالیانه یک میلیون نفرازیک آنترو ویروس ناقص بیست وجهی، که تمایل شدیدی برای همانند سازی واتصال به سلول میزبان دارد، می میرند.

 شانزده ساله ام . سینه هایم بعد ازپنج سال برجسته شده وموهایم لخت وبراق می رسند تا زیر شانه هایم. دو بارتوی دستشویی خانه رگهای دستم را با تیغ پدر زده ام. یکبارقرص آسپیرین خورده ام. از همه قرصهای جعبه کمکهای اولیه پدر خوشمزه تراست. بیست وپنج تا. دوزش کم است، برای همین معده ام را با لوله تخلیه شستشو می دهند. یک شب تا صبح. به مایع زرد و سبز، خیس و چسبناکی که توی لگن می ریزد نگاه می کنم و یکباره دردم کم می شود . فردای همان روز رُژصورتی مادرم را روی لبهایم می مالم، موهایم را زیر روسری کاکل می کنم. اسید را با قطره چکان توی شیشه تب بر می ریزم ودر شیشه را تا جایی که قُوَت دارم محکم می کنم. با دست و پاهای مرتعش درست راس ساعت، هفت و سی وپنج دقیقه دی ماه  شش سال بعد، درمغازه آقای مودب را باز می کنم. دارد با تلفن مشکی عهد بوقی اش، بلند بلند حرف می زند و سگرمه هایش توی هم است. مَحلم نمی گذارد. می گویم  :روبان خال خال مثه این یکی… روبان له شده خال خال را روی پیشخوان می گذارم.لبخندی گوشه لبهای آقای مودب جمع می شود و به پشت پرده اشاره می کند…

 توی کفشهای ساقه بلندم، ادرار و خون موج بر می دارد ودستهایم رعشه وار می لرزند. زیرنارنج  نبش کوچه 9 می نشینم وپشتم را به دیوار سرد وخیس بارانش می چسبانم. شیشه تب بر را از میان سینه ام بیرون می کشم. در شیشه تب بُرباز نمی شود، گردن شیشه را به دیوار می کوبم . خرده های شیشه روی دامنم، مثل دانه های الماس می درخشند. شتکهای اسید، روی دیوار مقابلم، خطی بویناک و برنده، گلوی دیوار را خط می اندازد.  با نوک انگشت سبابه  زخمهای خون چکان دیوار را نوازش می کنم. بوی خون و گوشت له شده سرانگشتم ، دلم را به هم می زند. زرداب معده ام را روی گلوله های نارنج سبز وکوچکی می پاشم که جدا مانده از شاخه  روی زمین افتاده اند.

 کتابم را می بندم، فکرمی کنم به یک سلول حلقوی چندوجهی که گوشه کناری، از رگهای خونی ام، بین گلبولهای قرمزوسفید، توی پلاسما یا حل شده در پلاکت می چرخد تا روزی یا شبی در عرض سه ثانیه به دو، چهار، شانزده و بی نهایت سلول مرگبارتکثیرشود.

 ازکیفم آگهی ترحیم آقای مودب را بیرون می آورم وروی میز پهن می کنم. با خودکار قرمز چشمهایش را رنگ می کنم و روی صورتش ضربدر می کشم. اما بزرگ خاندان مودب، باز هم با لبخند وقیحی سرتا پای من را براندازمی کند. دهانم را جمع می کنم، نگاهی به دور وبرم می اندازم وآب دهانم را با قوت پرتاب می کنم، روی خنده اش که از لبه میز به پایین خم شده. آب از لب و لوچه آقای مودب به پایین سرازیر می شود و انگشت پایم را خیس می کند…

 

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