Tuesday, November 28, 2006


The curtain has fallen, everybody rose up and applauded, and now we are out in the white lights of the theatre loo’s, Thomas filming me from over the top of the door while I pee into the third world hole in the ground, - come on, Nielsen! he says, - you’re the main actor now, we want to see you go all the way through that alley of scarfs into the secrets of the Iranian woman, come on! Down in the lobby some of the actors have appeared, the auteur director is offering filled chocolates from a box, - take one, Nielsen! Thomas shouts, and so I take one, and it looks like a praline, but when I bite it turns out to be the usual Turkish lack of delight covered with wannabe but not succeeding chocolate, an Iran en miniature! The auteur director is telling about his years in the theatres of Vienna, half of the actors speak German, and suddenly Ghita is there and she secretly takes my hand, - kiss her, Nielsen! but I can’t, and not just because I’m incapable of such Don Juanian acts, but because it’s illegal, - you cannot touch me! she whispers, - not here! She invites me to come with her to a private party in the home of one of the actors. - And Thomas? I say. - He want to come with you? she whispers and looks at him with almost disgust. - But he isn’t (that) drunk tonight, I say, and Thomas smiles and waves his hand from behind the camera, and I really don’t understand why it is me, why I am the one that she wants, it has always been Thomas, even though I am “Amerikie”, or at least European, and so being far more attractive than any good looking Iranian man, but in the moment they see Thomas, almost two meters high in his black suit and with this superiority of an ambassador, the Roger Moore of reality, the Franz Beckenbauer with two balls instead of just one, they have long since forgotten me.
And so once again it is “me and Ghita Noerby in her car thru the night”, but this time it is not just another Iranian coup or conspiracy, this time it is part of the European history, the camera is on and I’m not so lost and alone. But in the last moment before we enter the car, a third man appear and opens the back door and shows me the way in, and once of a sudden I’m on the back seat with Thomas and this Iranian has taken over my place in the front. I can’t really see him, not from here, not in this dark of the car, but what do I care, Ghita is at the steering wheel as we drive through the Tehranian night past wall after wall of wildly lit cartoon martyrs and mullahs, and she takes my hand and holds it over the seat behind her shoulder while she (tries to) tell me about her two children, a girl and a boy, she has had them very early, the girl is twenty three and studies graphic design at the University in faraway Marshad, the boy is seventeen and stays in the house of his father, - kys hende! says Thomas, and I bow my head and kiss her hand, while she goes on in Farsi, talks and listens to the man in the front seat, and now that he turns his head to look at her and even cast a short eye on me, I can see him, deep, dark and intense, the moustache and the black hair with blitzes of silver gathered in a knot behind the scull, the cliché of an “artist”, but wild and masculine, an Iranian lion, - and this, Ghita says, - is my husband.
- Your what? I say. - My husband, she says and lets go of my hand to put hers on his shoulder. He turns his head and looks at me. - Aha, I say, and then, - what is his name? - Amin, she says, - but here in Iran everybody know him as Ashrar Hemmat. - Ashrar Hemmat, I mumble and he hands me his right over the left of his shoulder, and I try to shake it, but I can’t, it is far too heavy and big. - Ashrar Hemmat is artist, she says, - but also he is actor, very famous, from the tv, she says and mentions the incomprehensible name of a TV series, I never have heard of, - you know? she says. - No, I say. - No?! she says, with the mix of startle and wonder of a Dane who encounters an American pretending he never has heard of Matador or, even worse, Bille August. - No, I say and finally manage to shake it and then slide out of his hand and back into the darkness. - I loved Ashrar Hemmat for twenty four years, she says. - Aha ..., I say and nod and turn my head towards Thomas, but he is lost in the darkness, eyes fixed on the camera screen, and I really don’t know, I just hope this is also part of his masterplan, his script about “me and Ghita Noerby in Tehran”.


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