FICTION

PART 4 (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

Subject: [Eidett Mobarak]
From: Pejman, pejman4444@hotmail.com
To: Payam, payamp@phtechnology.ir
March 25, 1:15:14 a.m.

Hi Dear Brother and Happy Norooz!

Our telephone conversation a few days ago was so brief and repeatedly interrupted by this or that relative that I am not even sure I got to wish you a happy new year in the midst of all the chaos. Obviously, speaking to you long distance in front of an army of relatives is not exactly the best scenario for a meaningful conversation. That is why I relish these late hours in the night when I have the peace and quiet to gather my thoughts and write to you from my heart.

Nightime has always been a respite for me from the cacophony of daily life. The same holds true of my new home. Or rather, the home that belongs to Nassim’s parents and where they have generously let us live.

Always a minimum of twelve people running in and out at all times. They may as well outfit the entrance with a revolving door. You can’t so much as scratch your bum without running into visiting friends or relatives loaded with brats who immediately start screeching in your ears and hanging on to your limbs like a pack of wild monkeys.

If miraculously, Mr. And Mrs. So and So aren’t invited for tea, it’s often because it’s the maid’s day. God bless her heart, she always manages to turn on her vacuum precisely at the moment that we have sat down to watch the evening news.

Meanwhile in the morning, I often wake up to such horrifying sounds that I think I have died and woken up in hell. At least, that’s what it sounds like when Martina shows up to train Toussi. I don’t know where Nassim’s parents fished that sadistic woman from. Her only « training » seemingly consists of yanking the chain around Toussi’s neck so violently that the poor creature’s head bangs on the walls, resulting in long, bloodcurdling yells.

I shudder to think that one day, she will succeed in completing Toussi’s training only to move on to yours truly. I imagine her showing up in my room one day bright and early with a plan to break in an Iranian « fresh off the boat » to his new life in Canada. Perhaps if I do well, she will even feed me treats and whisper « good boy » in my ear the way she does with Toossi.

Don’t get me wrong, Nassim and her family have been nothing but the most welcoming and warm towards me, asking me a hundred times a day if I would like anything, if I am hungry, cold, tired, comfortable etc. It must be hard for them too to have a relative stranger suddenly living in their house as part of their family.

Though the arrangement is set up to give us some privacy, with Nassim and I moving into the very spacious basement apartment, and her parents upstairs on the second floor, the reality is that we spend most of our time at home on the ground floor where the kitchen and family room are. There is hardly any time when we are truly alone.

At night, I wait for Nassim to fall asleep, which she does quite easily as long as the television is on. You won’t believe this but a couple of times, I turned off the TV after she had dozed off, and as soon as it was off, she opened her eyes and sat up suddenly, looking extremely startled. She abhors silence and must be surrounded by people and sounds and light all the time. On the other hand, I crave the dark and quiet, the only time when I truly feel at peace.

She is an early riser, waking with full energy and a perkiness that is at times overwhelming. Meanwhile, my insomnia has returned, that old friend who disappears from time to time but always finds his way back to my doorstep to keep me company til dawn. I truly believe that this seemingly minor difference in our personalities acts as a fundamerntal divide in our relationship, and will never allow us to be one, as they say.

What else can I talk to you about that is of any importance ? I am sure you and especially our parents must be wondering about my job. I wish there was more to tell you other than I show up to work and leave every day without the feeling that I have made a single, worthy contribution. The real star of that office is Sam, a young Iranian-Canadian architect and MBA, who is a friend of Kati’s from childhood. He is leading that business into very progressive and ambitious paths, towards eco friendly building or «green living» as they simply call it here.

Although my father in law remains the name behind the company, he is basically letting Sam run the show. Last night was the opening of his latest project, and he kicked it off by inviting the who’s who of Toronto society to a glamorous cocktail party thrown at his slick sales office downtown in the West end. Listening to Sam talking excitedly about building low emission housing and his vision for a new kind of urban living, I truly felt admiration for this guy and also a little sadness for myself.

As I watched him, I thought to myself, what do I lack that he has ? Certainly not the passion for progress and thirst for knoweldge. You know better than everyone how I immersed myself in so many different projects over the years. But unfortunately for me, I have no « poshte-kaar » as they say. Poor Baba and Maman Joon, who had to shell out all that money on future careers as photographer, painter, filmmaker, Internet entrepreneur and even architect for their poor failure of a son. I feel so guilty for putting them through all that. I have always wondered what is wrong with me. Is it possible to fix me ? Even the sessions with the therapist didn’t work. All I left with was the novel idea to become a psychologist myself! Thank god, Baba put his foot down. Imagine me trying to help others with their problems ?!

But even those turbulent times were a step above what I feel right now which is absolutely nothing. Payam, I feel so numb, so cold. And no, it’s not the fault of the Canadian winter althought it was extremely bizarre to celebrate Norooz whipped around mercilessly by the aggressive winds of the North, skidding around on the sinister « black ice » on the streets, and surrounded by those disgusting snowbanks, made of old snow mixied with dirt, that has turned into a brownish, icy mess.

I hope you won’t chide me for complaining so much. If I didn’t have at least one outlet for my true thoughts, I think I would go bonkers in a short time. I swear on my honor that I always have a smile on my face and kind words for my bride and her family. I am pretty sure they suspect nothing of what I am really going through. I will keep it that way for the sake of Nassim, this sweet, innocent girl whose gaze I feel never stops following my every move lovingly from the minute I step out of the room to the minute I get back to my seat.

Who knows ? Maybe I will become like one of those actors who immerse themselves in their roles so profoundly that they start believing they are the characters they play. If Bela Lugosi could happily sleep in a coffin every night, convinced that he was « the » Count Dracula, then maybe in a while, I can rest my head on the pillow next to my wife, turn my face towards her, and think that this is the best place to be in the whole wide world.For now though, I will continue relishing the solitude that is afforded me for a few hours every night, along with the rest of the tortured souls.

Your loving brother,

Pejman >>> part 5

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)