Will you Shut up or should I?
Bahere Rahnama
I suddenly come to and worry that I might have said something out loud. I quickly mix up the cards and say, “Leila, get up and go home. Your son is going to be there any minute now, hungry and thirsty. I swear, you’re going to be late and I’m afraid the kid will be locked out behind the door. Come on, get going …”
From across the table I slap my hand on your shoulder. You push my hand away and lean back into the chair and say, “Mind your own business. I wonder why you, being such a great defender of children’s rights, have never gone down that road yourself. My mother is over at the house, I don’t want to go. You have to lay them out again. You just made more work for yourself. If you’re fed up, kick me out.”
I say, “I swear you’re destroying everything. As my mom says, we women poke our nose into our husband’s business so much that we finally find something rotten. Come on dear, why do you take it so seriously? Even if, assuming the impossible, there is someone, something, I swear it’s not serious, unless you yourself make it serious. You put up with the guy’s penniless days and now that he’s made something of himself and has a pretty penny to his name you want to leave the field open for her?”
You say, “How can you pass such a decisive judgment about someone you don’t know? What if it is very serious and she stays. Then what do I do? Start having prayer-and-curse readings for the rival second wife to drop dead?”
How foreign the term “rival second wife” is to me. I quickly remember that I’m far too second-hand to be someone’s rival second wife, even with this deep burgundy hair I won’t be anyone’s rival second wife. I say, “Would you like some coffee?” You say, “No, I’m hungry. Bring me something to eat.” I walk toward the kitchen and say, “Shall I bring some Yazdi cake? What do you want to drink with it?” You say, “Anything, just bring it, I feel faint. I didn’t eat breakfast.”
I bring a plate of cake and put it in front of you with a cup of tea. I serve one for myself, too. As always, I put my hands over the velvety skin of your hands and I murmur, “Calm down little birdie.”
I feel your ring’s emerald against my hand. We went around the jewelry stores on Karim Khan Avenue for almost two hours and pretended to be a middle aged couple in love, one of those couples who found each other a bit late in life. If it was for me, I would have preferred a plain wide band with a design or an engraving on it, but I had to choose something to your taste. We both knew you love emeralds, but finding a well-cut emerald that fit Saiid’s budget wasn’t easy. During the entire two hours I thought that he would offer me a small gold something or other to thank me for having accompanied him. But he didn’t. I wasn’t too upset. Instead, we went to Lord Café and had a cappuccino and cake. I ate half of Saiid’s cake, too, and really enjoyed it. He later told me that you had been quite surprised by his selection. Anyway, it’s thanks to me that you have this ring and maybe that’s why I like it more than all your other rings, maybe because it was bought under my name and I wore it before you did; although it would barely fit on my pinky.
By the time my mind snaps back to the present, you make your way across this forty-meter cage to the kitchen and take the box of pastries out of the refrigerator. You look at the lid and say, “You fiend, you come all the way up to our neighborhood and don’t stop by to visit me?”
With my mouth dry I answer, “Get lost, a customer brought it for me. Have you turned into Miss. Marple again?”
I walk up to you and tickle you from behind, I know you’re ticklish. You’ve always been. Like a little girl you run and jump up on the edge of the counter with your legs folded and you say, “Sara, if only I could reciprocate!”
I don’t have the courage to tell you you’re too good for this sort of reciprocation. Again, you go on, “I wish we could hire someone to play the role of my lover, like they do in the movies.”
I say, “Is your artistic flare flaming again? And where are we going to find someone to play the role of Madam’s madly enamored lover?”
You say, “You loser. You’re thirty four years old, you old mold. Don’t you know of some young good looking guy among your friends who has a bit of a talent for acting?”
We both jump at the buzz of the intercom. You ask, “Are you expecting someone?”
I say, “Yes, I’m expecting a young good looking guy.” You say, “Oh dear, you mean you have a guest?” I say, “Just sit down.” And I go to answer the intercom. From the other side he says, “I will love you ‘til the end of the world, tell my crazy little wife to come downstairs. Her mother said she’s here.” I don’t respond. I walk toward you. My face has turned as white as the plaster on the wall, but I pull myself together and say, “Get up crazy, this poor lovelorn wanderer is in love with you. He got worried and has come to pick you up. Your mother told him you’re here.”
Your eyes shine, but you act nonchalant, you gather up your things and put on your overcoat. Preserving your poise, you say, “Yes, I should go. My son will be coming home now. He won’t eat a proper meal if I’m not there.”
As usual, you say “Goodbye” in passing and from the staircase you shout, “I’ll call you.” I watch how you run toward Saiid’s car. It’s still girlish. Saiid’s words ring in my ears, “I will love you ‘til the end of the world, tell my crazy little wife to come downstairs.” I feel dizzy and I want to vomit out my entire being. Saiid is opening the car door for you. With his hair cut short he looks like the Saiid of our high school days. You smile at him, I remember my dream—you and I and Saiid and a big ugly cardboard Queen of Clubs … Stomach acids fill my mouth.
I run to the bathroom. Over the sound of the running water and my vomiting, I hear my landlord’s voice complaining that my rent is late again!
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Bahere Rahnama - Bahareh Rahnema, born in 1973, Bahareh Rahnama is a poet, story writer, actor, journalist, column writer, blogger
Iranian cinema and TV actress and peace walker of hemophiliac children in Iran.Also, she has worked with
some newspapers and magazines in recent years. “Will You Shut Up or Should I?” has been chosen from her
first collection of short stories, Four Wednesdays and a Wig (Chahar Charshanbeh va yek Kolahgis),
published by Cheshmeh publishers, 2009. Her book of short stories was one of the best sellers and published more than
5 time. Since her young days she has been active as a successful actress(the first Iranian
actress who had attended Cannes Film Festival with the movie “Ghavkhooni”
). She also won the best actress award in Urmia Festival (lateral part of Fajr
Festival) .Writing the weblog “the Moon of Seven Nights” from 1382
(2003-04) up to now in Persian Blog.