After all, Abbas’s pockmarked face isn’t attractive, but when the woman was talking to the doctor I saw Abbas pulling the young girl aside and kissing her.

* * *

Up to now no one has come to see me or brought me flowers. It has been a year. The last time it was Siavosh who came to see me. Siavosh was my best friend. We were neighbours. Every day we went to the Darolfonoun* together and walked back home together and discussed our homework. In leisure time I taught Siavosh to play the sitar. Rokhsare, who was Siavosh’s cousin and my fiancée, would often join us. Siavosh wanted to marry Rokhsare’s sister but one month before the day of the marriage ceremony, he unexpectedly fell ill. Two or three times I went to see him and to inquire how he was, but they said the doctor had strictly forbidden anyone to speak with him. No matter how much I insisted, they gave the same answer. So I stopped insisting.

I remember that day quite well. It was near the final exams. One evening, I had returned home and had dropped my books and some notebooks on the table. As I was about to change my clothes I heard the sound of a bullet being shot. The sound was so close that it frightened me because our house was behind a ditch and I had heard that there had been robberies near us. I took the revolver from the drawer and went to the courtyard and stood there, listening. Then I went up the stairs to the roof, but I didn’t see anything. On my way down from the roof, I turned to look at Siavosh’s house from the top. I saw him in a shirt and underpants standing in the middle of the courtyard. I said in surprise, “Siavosh, is that you?” He recognized me and said, “Come over, nobody’s home.” He put a finger on his lips and with his head he signalled to me to go over to him. I went down fast and knocked on the door of his house. He himself opened the door for me. With his head down and his eyes fixed on the ground, he asked me, “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

“I came two or three times to see how you were, but they said that the doctor wouldn’t permit it.”

“They think I’m ill, but they’re mistaken.”

“Did you hear the bullet shot?”

He didn’t answer but took my hand and led me to the foot of the pine tree where he pointed at something. I looked closely. There were three drops of fresh blood on the ground.

Then he took me to his room and closed all the doors. I sat on a chair. He turned the light on and sat opposite me on a chair in front of the table. His room was simple. It was blue, and up to the middle the walls were a darker colour.