Thursday, November 30, 2006


- Bob! says Ghita. There’s an empty seat at her side, the stage is min now, but still I’m here in the back. - Bob! she sighs and stretches her hand into my darkness. I look at Thomas, but that is a dead end, he is the last person in the world for me to turn to. Thomas he hates me. - Come on, Nielsen! he whispers. And so I take her hand as we roll down the hill towards Boulevard Darya. This society is full of rules and laws, but no one respects them, not really. Each moment, each encounter is a tabula rasa, no one knows what is going to happen. You just walk right out into the heavy traffic, Inshallah, look the first one in the eyes, and the next, will he push the brake, or if not, you’d better do it. The same melancholic voice is singing his Iranian song of rain in a bad world filled with bad people, and what do we care? At the roundabout Ghita takes the left way round, off course, it is shorter, and proceeds right into the left lane of the boulevard. We are against all odds now, driving fast and right into the front lights of the closing in others. - Please! I say and let go of her hand and tap her shoulder, - please, I think we are in the wrong lane, this is a one-way and we are going the other, please! But she doesn’t really get it, and I don’t really know how we finally made it: The Iranian U-turn and back towards the roundabout, the wrong way round, but then at least down the right lane. We stop in the street next to ours, and I really don’t want to let him go, without the camera I don’t know what to do, on my own I am no one. Thomas gets out of the car, but he goes on filming and I am wearing a microport so at least he is able to hear me. I change into the vacant seat at the front, I am Him now, and so I take her hand. - Let’s go! I says, soft, but loud enough to be heard. - Bob! she says, - I don’t understand? - Why? I says, - what is wrong, I thought you asked me if I wanted to go to your home. So let’s go! But she just stares out into the darkness. - Why is he filming? she says almost whining, - whyy?! - Oh, that, I says and laugh, - that’s just Thomas, you know, Thomas loves his camera, he’s always filming, don’t worry! - Nooo, she says, - here, in this society, we don’t like that, you know, please! And so I open the door, and Thomas is just two meters away staring into the screen of the camera, - Thomas, for helvede! I says, - gaa lige lidt vaek, rundt om hjoernet, men bliv ved med at filme! I shout as he disappears round the corner. - So! I says to the microphone, - off he went! Come on, kiss me! And she kisses me, and it sounds almost too good, to real, like a “kiss”. - Let’s go, I say. - Nooo, she says. - Why? I says. - My son, she says, - my son in my house, my husband told him to go there.

- Fuck! I says, as I enter the apartment, and Thomas has sunk deep into the sofa, a bottle of milk in his hand, while he takes a look at the recordings, - fuck! It was the last thing in the world that I wanted to do, but now that I didn’t, it is even worse, yeah, this nothing, this being left over in this dirty apartment, this RAF cell filled with empty milk bottles, beer cans, old bread, stinking socks, dust midgets copulating into grey piles along every wall, this is definitely worse than the worst. At least I keep my shoes on, against all Iranian indoor rules, as I cross the living room to invade the sacred corner where all the wannabeoldEuropean furniture has been covered with white sheets. I enter the sofa and put my feet on the table and call her number as Thomas turns on the camera to get the right decadent framing of the failed revolution. - Bob! she sighs, and so, at three thirty the night between holy Friday and Saturday morning I get her entire (love me, doesn’t love me) story: “We lived like happy family, twenty four years”, and but “then Ashrar Hemmat and one student, you know, a bad girl, a bad bad girl”. And so in this dead end everything is the same as back home in Europe, same old story, that I don’t want to be part of, never! I says. But Thomas just laughs. And so I have to go on and I tell her to call me tomorrow when she is alone. And so, at the end of the scene at least, I get what I wanted, and this time on tape: - I love you, Bob!


Blogger Mikunis.Net said...

Bob, you can't be THAT sensitive about the "pedal" style toilets!

3:18 AM  

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