So was David, probably, I said.
Well, perhaps, but he did fuck the giant.
Myths and lies! I shouted
Anyway, said Farhoud, you are probably a confused homophobe, afraid of it but secretly craving it. Like the rest of you men. But come anyway, just because you are such a crazy character. I will feed you. Come, my pretty boy, come.
So I rang Farhoud’s buzzer, and sat at his table. He offered me soup that released a vapour thick as sweat, and bread that incited riots, and a little salad that rested on a yellow plate on an old, squeaky table. Your table is shaky and squeaky, I said, smiling and winking his way. Maybe I should eat there, in the living room. Shut up and eat, you nasty boy, Farhoud said. He had a scarf around his neck and he was meticulous in arranging the utensils and plates, and he went in and out of the kitchen with ease, making everything presentable, tasty, and warm.
Stop smiling and stop shaking that table like a kid, said Farhoud. I invited you to eat, not to judge and speculate.
But, Farhoud, I never judge.
No, but you imagine things.
I deduce.
You assume.
I imagine.
And judge.
No, I just see things.
You presume.
I fancy and create.
You wish, said Farhoud. Now just stand still and eat or I might send you to your room.
I got a job at the Star of Iran restaurant, I told him.
Well, well, you are going to learn Farsi now. You were hired as what, a waiter?
No, a busboy, I said.
Well, congratulations. Farhoud went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine. Here, we should celebrate. Another immigrant landing a career!
Shohreh is angry with me, I said.
Well, do not worry about Shohreh. She will come around. She is a little funny with love matters.
I need to see her.
Call her.
She is not answering my calls.
Well, like I said. I warned you not to become attached.
I am not attached.
Wine? Of course you are not, sweetheart. Wine, I asked. Wine? Answer me: wine?
Yes, yes, indeed.
You are attached, my dear, and down to your ears, and around your neck. Face it. You can’t even hear me anymore.
We drank the whole bottle. I lay on the couch, and Farhoud lay on the floor across from me.
Look at the snow, Farhoud. It falls without shame. How did we end up here?
I do not know about you, my friend, but I know how I ended up here.
Tell me, Farhoud, how you ended up here.
Let’s open another bottle of wine. He swayed into the kitchen and came back with the corkscrew and gave me the bottle. Here, strong man, open it and I will tell you all about me ending up in the snow. After Khomeini won the revolution, we — you know, the gay community — held clandestine parties. Someone must have been an informer who told the regime about us. One of our parties was raided and they took us all to the jail. They separated us and asked us to sign a paper acknowledging that we were homosexuals and that we would never touch another man again. And that our acts were against God and his Prophet, that we would repent and pray every day, five times, and become good, decent believers. But I did not even know how to pray. And I was sick and tired of being pushed around all my life, and imagine me growing a beard, wearing those horrible long robes, and not touching a man anymore? No, baby, no way!
So you refused?
I refused.
Courageous, or fucking crazy. And?
More like crazy. But, oh well, everyone who signed that paper disappeared anyway — probably killed, who knows? No one ever heard from them, and believe me, some of them were loud, darling, very loud. I know. Anyway, all they wanted was a confession from us. The redemption part was bogus. After I refused to sign, they put me in a crowded jail filled with women. It was a statement, you know. When I entered the jail cell I saw a small space packed with women. Some had children, and even a pregnant woman was there. The place was so crowded, no one even noticed me. I even recognized a couple of old girlfriends, who started to cry when they saw me. I spent a few days in that cell until a bearded mullah came, shouted, and asked the guard to remove me. He protested the mixing of men and women, even if I was not a real man, as he put it. So I ended up in a small cell, as big as a box, with no one to talk to, no bed, no chair, and a filthy, disgusting toilet seat, oh my god. . The next day, I was led by the guard to a shower and asked to make myself clean. While I was in the shower that same bearded mullah passed by me and stood behind me, watching me clean myself. I turned my back to him, but I could feel his looks falling onto my thighs like drops of acid. At night a woman guard came, opened the door of the cell, and led me to an office. That same old man was there, sitting behind a desk. He smiled, and his gold tooth shone. He asked me to close the door and made me sit down across the desk from him; there was a plate of small dried figs between us. He smiled at me and pushed the plate towards me. I did not reach for it. He was insulted. You refused my hospitality, you kouny (faggot), he said, and he stood up. A thin cane appeared in his hand from inside the sleeve of his robe and he started to beat me with it. Then he asked me to take off my shirt and to position myself facing the wall. With my arms spread, my legs wide open, he flogged my back. It burned like hell, and then I felt his beard, his lips, and his breath on my wounds, licking my blood and asking me for forgiveness and touching me everywhere. For the next few months he fed me dried figs and raped me. Once I asked him if God approved of his acts. He replied that I was God’s gift to him, God loves beauty and rewards believers. And he smiled and touched me.
I played along with the bearded one. I became his concubine. He used to ask me if he was handsome, and I had to answer that he was a gift from above and recite some verses. I never knew if they were poems or prayers, I never asked. But the verses described a garden, flowers, and mountains. I promised the mullah that if he released me, we could still meet on the outside and we could go and walk in gardens above the mountains. Slowly I worked on him, and I was eventually released. He would come every day and pick me up from a corner next to my house and we would drive away to the mountains. He told me that he would always find me, and if I tried to escape he would skin me alive. Eventually, with the help of a few old friends, I dressed as a woman, covered myself, and was driven to the border of Afghanistan, then from there to India. In India I met a Canadian diplomat on the beach. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. We spent a month travelling together. We travelled all over India; we took the train everywhere. We stayed in fancy hotels, smoked dope, and made love in many places. It was the best time of my life! He had money and he was willing to spend it.
Oh, the good days, Farhoud said, and lifted his glass of wine. He looked at the wine from underneath the glass, swirled it gently, then slightly lifted his neck, and his lips opened just when the glass tilted and the liquid rushed towards his mouth. I tell you, I needed it all, after the hell I went through with that mullah. Then I asked my lover if he could bring me to Montreal with him. And I remember we were in the region of Orissa at the time, in an old hotel, both naked on the same bed and smoking, high and happy. Outside there were a few trees rustling, a few bicycles and a few bare feet that passed and brushed the crust of dust under our open window, and we could hear them all. And my lover said, I have something to tell you, Farhoud. And I said, Do not tell me you are gay. And we laughed for a while, and then he said, Well no, actually I have the life of a straight man, with a woman. We laughed some more. Oh my god, we laughed so much. Through a connection of his in Immigration, he got me a visa and bought me a ticket to Montreal. We flew here together. He left me at the airport and I watched him rushing towards a woman.