Black Light Read Free Page B

Hafez and a nightingale would repeat it in the language of paradise; his days as magic-maker in the Isfahan bazaar; his year as camel driver with the great caravans of the deserts—the delights of the caravanserai, the magical taste of water hauled into the blazing daylight from quanats that ran many miles under the desert; his first glimpse of the ruins at Tahkte Jamshid, seat of the mightiest empire the world has known. . . . And at the urging of Varoosh, who was an Armenian Christian, the darvish also told of the strange, holy people in the Lebanon, which had been the western extreme of his travels.
    Now Jamshid came to a doorway which had a bird of paradise for a knocker. Here he and Varoosh had sat and planned how they would run away and be darvishes themselves. He thought of how he had left his father’s shop early one day and waited for Varoosh at the door of the Mission School. They had set out with a sheet of bread and a flask of curd-water. It was Varoosh’s plan that they would go first to the Lebanon, where the miracle-hungry Christians would welcome these sunburnt, enigmatic travelers from the east. Varoosh told Jamshid about these people, their barbaric marvels—wanderings in the desert, burning bushes, roads opening through the sea, graves from which men aroseas from a hotel bed, dying lepers suddenly feeling better, meals made of the Son of God’s flesh, crucifixions in the sky. . . . Even Jamshid began to feel the bloodcurdling thrill.
    He entered the street where the police station was located.
    He remembered that night very clearly, though he had not thought of it for years. Where the desert begins, at the outskirts of the city, they had taken shelter in a half-ruined shrine dedicated to some rich wastrel claiming to have descended from the Prophet. When they broke the bread and poured the curd-water, Varoosh had assumed a tragical look and had said, “Take and eat. This is my flesh. This is my blood.” Jamshid had been frightened and he was thankful it was not his god who was being mocked. He laughed and he ate. Each time he bit into the bread, Varoosh would wince.
    The next morning Varoosh spread himself on the slope of the dome. He lay there slipping and hanging on, and obliged Jamshid to poke him in the side with a stick and to hand him up the flask of curd-water. He took a swig, couldn’t hold on anymore, cried, “It is finished!” and leapt to the ground. Jamshid laughed too, but he was terrified.
    Now he could see the red, white, and green flag slowly flapping over the door of the police station, as if trying to soothe the breeze that agitated it.
    He remembered how cold they had been that morning. He had offered to go back and fetch sheepskin capes, but Varoosh, who had a deeper grasp of things, said it would be unnecessary, since they were returning home anyway to get themselves educated. A true darvish had to be educated, he told Jamshid, otherwise no amount of travels would do him any good.
    Jamshid was not surprised when, a few weeks later, Varoosh’s mother died in childbirth. Several days after the funeral Varoosh’s family moved to Tehran, and Jamshiddid not see Varoosh again. When Moharram came round a month later, Jamshid took part for the first time in the flagellation processions. He beat his head with a small flat sword, and made himself bloodier than anyone.
    Jamshid stepped out of the sunlight, and into the darkness of the police station. Nobody was at the desk, so he sat down on the oaken bench. The door and windows were blazing with light. Another door led into a place of greater darkness. Jamshid cleared his throat loudly and coughed. Finally a policeman in a rumpled blue uniform came out. With hardly a glance at Jamshid he installed himself at the desk and began leafing through some papers. Jamshid went over and stood before him. Jamshid could feel the downward tug of the umbrella. The man continued to poke about in his papers. His