A Persian Requiem Read Free Page A

Singer shrugged and moved on to ask Khanom Hakim. Zari looked over at Yusef who was sitting a few chairs away. His eyes were fixed on her, those eyes that seemed to her deeper in colour than the azure of spring skies. He winked at her, and she felt a pang in her heart. A faint teardrop always seemed to lurk in the depths of Yusef’s eyes, making them glisten like two moist jewels—like the emeralds of her earrings.
    Now the Colonel and Singer, either together or singly, began to accompany some of the men on a brief walk to the bottom of the garden. After a few minutes they would return and head straight for the bar, where they drank each other’s health. Zari saw Singer whisper something in Yusef’s ear, at which Yusef rose and set off with him down the garden path, with its border of illuminated cypresses and orange trees. But they were back almost immediately . This time they did not visit the bar. Zari saw Captain Singer make a sign to the Colonel, whose expression reflected hisannoyance. Yusef came and sat next to Zari, his face flushed and his fair moustache trembling.
    “Let’s get up and leave quietly,” he said.
    Flicking her hair forward to cover her bare ears, Zari said: “As you like.”
    She was getting up to leave when McMahon appeared, drink in hand, and sat down next to them. He had drunk so much gin he could barely keep his eyes open. He spoke in English:
    “You’re at loggerheads with the big tailor again, Yusef?” he asked. “I must admit, it’s even more difficult for you Persians to deal with the British than it is for us Irish … Did you like my poem that I recited for you earlier tonight? You did, didn’t you? Now I’m thinking of composing a poem for your town …”
    Pointing to the slice of lime in his drink, he said: “The lime with its light green delicate peel, its fragrance combining all the perfumes of the plain, and the cypress tree with its strength and restraint—these are the things which grow in this region. People usually resemble the nature surrounding them; in this case, delicate and restrained. They’ve sent me to ask why you’re not delicate and restrained, Yusef. I’m doing well you know, even though I’m blind drunk. Look how easily I’ve accomplished my mission!” He turned to Zari. “Cheers!” he said, draining his glass and putting it on the table.
    “Let’s go and sit on the bench near that ship of flowers,” he suggested. “Zari, you come too—the presence of a lovely woman is always inspiring. That warship laden with flowers is a gift from our Supreme Command.” They moved across to the bench. “That’s better. Where’s my glass? Zari, please pour us another drink.
    “We are related, aren’t we?” he carried on, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Iran and Ireland. Both lands of the Aryans. You the ancestors and we the descendants. O ancient, ancient ancestors, console us! Here am I a Catholic Irishman, a patriarch, a drunkard, bound to end up dying in a ditch one foul, rain-sodden day, or wandering around poor houses looking for some old woman to claim as my mother. I can see her now, knitting woollen socks with little patterns for her son at the front… like the ones I’m wearing. You see, my father was on air-raid duty; he knew that the planes were bombing our area, he knew that at any moment they would wipe out our home, and he knew that mother was there knitting patterned socks for her son at the front. When they pulled her outfrom underneath the rubble, she was still clutching the knitting needles—and now my father has written me a letter. He has written to me to say he’s sorry … he’s sorry that …”
    McMahon’s speech was becoming slurred and he broke off for a moment. Then he raised his hand in a grandly drunken gesture:
    “Why did you, you home-loving Catholic family, wrapped in your traditions, with your confession and such nonsense … why did you uproot yourselves and move to London? If you had stayed to help put