A Persian Requiem Read Free Page B

right and free your own poor, blighted Ireland you wouldn’t have had to pay so dearly for that move.
    “Away from home,” he paused, “I remember making up tales of Ireland, boasting to others of her countless poets, and sighing for my impoverished land. I remember saying that in our land the youth were innocent, uncorrupted, and people would ask me if I thought they were corrupt in London. We were all fooling ourselves. We’d forgotten Ireland’s alcoholics. We’d forgotten the ships which arrived every week and loaded up their cargo—the youth of Ireland—and set sail for America. We ignored the fact that the convicts among them would be sent to the colonies—like our tailor here. That big tailor has surely got it in for you, Yusef. He can’t stand the sight of you; nor me, for that matter. I told the Consul yesterday to count you out. But the big tailor won’t let him….”
    He half-drained his glass, then continued:
    “Some people are like rare flowers; others resent their existence. They imagine that such a flower will use up all the earth’s strength, all the sunshine and moisture in the air, taking up their space, leaving them no sunlight or oxygen. They envy it and wish it didn’t exist. Either be like us, or don’t be at all—that’s what they say. You Persians have the occasional rare flower among you, but also a lot of oleander to keep mosquitoes away, and then some plain grass which is only good for the sheep. Well,” he rambled on, smiling, “there’s always a branch on every tree which is taller and leafier than others. And this taller branch has its eyes and ears open and can see everything clearly. But no one likes it that way. So they send the drunken Irish poet, the war correspondent, to mollify you, Yusef, and this reporter carries his father’s letter here in his coat pocket; his father who’d written to say he’s sorry that … well, if you give in, Yusef, it’s all over.” He took a long gulp. His eyes were barely open. Then he continued sorrowfully:
    “O Ireland, O land of Aryan descent, I have composed a poem for a certain tree which must grow in your soil. The name of this tree is the ‘Tree of Independence’. You must nurture it with blood, not with water. Yes, Yusef, you were right. If independence is good for me, it’s good for you too. And that story you told me turned out to be so useful when I began to write. You said that in your folklore they talk of a tree whose leaves, when dried and put on the eyes, make you invisible, allowing you to do whatever you want. I wish there was one of these trees in Ireland and one here in your town.”
    McMahon fell silent. After a while he lit a cigarette and continued :
    “All this mumbo-jumbo was just to keep you listening. When my father’s letter arrived with the news … I sat and wrote a story for your Mina—for your twins. Where’s my story?” He searched in his pockets. “I thought I put it with my father’s letter … you see, I want to build an airplane which drops toys for children … or else pretty stories. Ah, here it is!”
    He took out a notebook and began to read.
    “Once upon a time there was a little girl called Mina. She always cried for the stars when she couldn’t see them in the sky. When she was smaller, her mother would pick her up in her arms, show her the sky and say: ‘Little little moon, pretty pretty stars, come to Mina’ or something like that, which is why Mina fell in love with the stars. Now whenever it’s cloudy at night, Mina cries for the stars. If only the maid would sweep the sky—she’s slapdash and brushes the dust away here and there, so on the nights she sweeps, at least some of the stars can be seen. But alas, if mother sweeps, she polishes the sky clean and gathers up all the stars and the moon and puts them in a sack. Then she sews up the sack, puts it in the cupboard and locks the door. But Mina found out what to do. She plotted with her sister to steal their mother’s