I like the fresh air and I do not live far. Walking is fine.
Sure, walking is good, but it is cold outside, Shaheed persisted.
I know it is cold, the man said, slightly closing his eyes and giving Shaheed a small smile, but I will walk. I don’t mind the cold. I like it.
Shaheed laughed upon hearing these incredible words.
In any case, said the blond man, I will send you the document and we shall meet again soon. Is your stay here okay? Is the place to your taste?
Yes, very good, Shaheed said, and thanked him again.
Then the blond man told Shaheed that he would like to talk to Reza and see the musical instrument once more.
Yes, yes, this is the most famous and oldest instrument in Iran; it is beautiful, beautiful, art. . Shaheed tried to explain.
Reza stood up and bowed goodbye to Shaheed from afar.
I watched the blond man smile and walk toward Reza’s music box. Reza welcomed the man with a smile and the man started his questions, and a long conversation ensued that went longer than our closing rituals of sweeping, toilet cleaning, dish drying, and oven scrubbing.
When closing time came I left the restaurant with a general goodnight that was ignored like a flat note. I went outside, crossed the street, and waited. I stood in the bus-stop shelter. There was some graffiti on the glass. I angled my face between a red circle and a bit of the graffiti and I kept a watch on the restaurant door.
The blond man left and Reza followed him, and they talked some more on the sidewalk.
Then they shook hands and separated. I waited until Reza turned the corner and started my pursuit of the man. He walked briskly, his briefcase brushing against his long coat. At the collar of his coat bulged a burgundy scarf that gave him the air of a tall, well-dressed bird. I followed him, wondering if he had lied to Shaheed about the restaurant’s close proximity to his house. I was hoping he had not lied because the streets were wide and empty, and the sidewalk made noises like the insides of wooden houses, and our breaths left vaporous trails that could be detected from distant mountaintops, read, and decoded by red coyotes, crazy horses, and pipe-smoking chiefs. We breathed against the cold wind in the manner of chimneys and coal trains crossing between Indians’ mountains. And I pursued the blond man, hoping he was someone who never looked back, never remembered he had forgotten a glove, an umbrella, or a paper on the floor. If he did remember, I thought, and if he went back to the restaurant and crossed my path, I would walk straight past him. I would not give him even a nod or a smile.
But one day, I knew, I would be intimate with him. One day I would get to know him well. And I wouldn’t forget where he lived.
TWO DAYS LATER I was up before dawn. Through a small crack in the curtains I could see a blue-grey sky reflecting little waves of colour on the glass. I alternated opening one eye and then the other. One eye at a time. One streak of light at a time. And I stayed in bed to see the sky’s progression, the slow approach of the light, and I watched the wall get slowly, gradually brighter. Some objects on the floor couldn’t be fully seen, but I knew what they were: shoes, a dirty plate, an ashtray, and a chair. When the room was light I stood up, washed my face, and decided to walk down my street in the hour before the newspaper gets thrown on doorsteps and the squirrels dig up underground roots for their morning meals. I got dressed and went outdoors. It was a bearable day. The cold had mellowed, the wind was in retreat, the wet asphalt held streaks of neon light, reflections from shop signs that skimmed its surface in the shape of unreadable letters and words that lost their meanings when flattened and splattered on the ground. But then, who wants to know the meanings of words at this hour? Everything has turned into shapes and forms that confine you and guide you, between the city streets and building walls, to your final, inescapable destination.
I arrived at the blond man’s house. I stood across the street and waited for a minute. The cold didn’t bother me. I knew my reward would be grand: food and a morning glass of milk. Of course, the blond man would have milk. What well-established man does not own that exquisite liquid? But I couldn’t just stand there on the street for too long, not working, not moving. I would raise the neighbours’ suspicions. Everything on this street had to have a purpose. Stillness and piercing foreign eyes would soon be questioned by uniforms under whirling police-car lights. As I was drooling over my future looting, I saw the blond man’s door open. A large dog and the blond man, bundled and ready to jog, left the house. They reached the sidewalk and both started jogging, the dog trailing behind. That dog, it seemed, loved the colour red. There was no red-painted hydrant that didn’t interest him. The dog was also fascinated by upright, refined three-dimensional shapes. A true art connoisseur.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction. When I arrived at the street corner, I grew wings and I hurried back to the soil below the blond man’s garden, seeking pipes and the road to warmth. Inside, I ate my breakfast first and then went to the living room. It was a modest house for a man with such a respectable exterior and manners. There were books, of course, many on war and politics. No TV, believe it or not, not even in the bedroom. And no wife or kids. That is good, I thought. Why have the extra expense? It is enough that one has to pay lavishly for handsome clothing and oversized hardcover books. With bread and a glass of milk in hand, I went over to his desk. Sure enough, there was that leather briefcase he happily swung in the cold the other night when I followed him home. I finished my food, went back to the kitchen, and rinsed out the glass of milk. I opened the cupboard, looked for the hot sauce, and put a few drops in the dog’s bowl. Have some spicy food, and welcome to a new world, my dear friend. Bland food is passé. Curry and exotic food are in style. I picked up the briefcase and walked out of the house, calm as if everything were routine. I walked with my head down to work, to the office in the high building, in that morning hour when the trains clear the way so the bureaucrats can be on time.
LATER IN THE DAY I went down to the Café Artista. I looked for the professor. He was not in his usual seat. I asked the waitress where he was, and she pointed to the bathroom.
Indeed, his coat was on the chair. I sat in the chair and slipped my hand into his coat pockets. Nothing was there, nothing, not even a piece of a crumb.
When the professor saw me on his seat, he rushed towards me, rubbing his wet hands against the sides of his trousers. What are you doing in my chair?
Oh, I didn’t realize it was yours, I said.
Well, it is someone’s. There is a coat on it. It is reserved.
I stood up and pulled the blond man’s briefcase out of my bag. Twenty dollars, I said, showing it to him. Leather. Real leather. I swung the zipper back and forth and rattled the buckles up and down, opening and closing the little golden locks. Solid and light, I said, thinking that it was a good thing I had emptied the files and the pens and everything the briefcase had contained. It is light, I said. Light is in, light is a brilliant marketing tool, light meals, light women, everything is valued by its lightness these days.
The professor forgot about our territorial dispute. He picked up a napkin from the table and passed it around and between his fingers, looking at the briefcase.
Fifteen, I said, and pushed it towards his chest.
He held the briefcase. He flipped it over. He couldn’t help but take a peek inside. Is it yours? he asked me.
It is yours, I said, for ten dollars.
I do not buy stolen goods, he said.
Well, professor, I said, what land is not stolen, what seat is not claimed, what container is not the product of theft and destruction? We are all coyotes in this land.