- I LOVE YOU BOB ...
CHAPTER 3
I wanted to sit beside Thomas, but they put him in the car with the younger woman and drove off with him, and so I was left alone with Ghita Noerby and she had the language, the car, the keys and the steering weel in her hands, I was nothing but a puppet, - Bob, she whispered, - Bob, and we rolled down the dark alley past the Evin prison and the Evin Hotel, which isn’t but a sign and the scattered remains of an explosion, she had put on her scarf and regained some of that mystery I like about the Iranian women and the Islamic regime, this play beyond rules that exactly the rules and the framing of the beauty opens. She put her hand on mine as we entered the endless series of spirals and loops of highways that one has to go through to get from one part of the city to the next, yet another of the Persian paradoxes where everything is its own opposite, the order of highways is the chaos that no one has planned, each new loop just another panic reaction disguised as metropolitan planning, and so somewhere along the highways we lost track of the other car (Thomas!) and from that moment onwards I was alone in the dark and deserted city with her. Only once every second minute another car passed by with it’s single leftover light on, or completely darkened, just a moving shadow in the dark alleys with all the melancholic and naked trees turning the whole city into a long gone world, a sunken and lost part of Europe, and she started telling me I had to stay in Tehran, not for years but forever, - Boob! she sighed, and from the radio a longgone man with his longgone voice of the fate of a people was singing about the rain that fell, the snow and the mountain accompanied by some all too authentic string instrument ... Later we were at another party which wasn’t a party just some post funeral family mourning or birthday and Thomas was there too with his Adidas football making him look like Franz Beckenbauer lost in a Cassavetes movie and somebody offered me a beer and it tasted very clear and refreshing until I realised that half of the beer was pure vodka, beer & Absolute, the only cocktail you are able to shake in a country where the only alcohol you can get access to is Heineken cans and vodka, and every body was seated on the floor carpet drunk in persian depression and off course the television was on, showing a mixture of veiled porno and vocoder pop from the Los Angeles satellites, and on top of it one of the women started singing and Thomas sat bolt upright the white off his eyes turned out and that stiffened cream cheese smile on his face, until he suddenly woke up or just turned his eyes outwards again, and there right in front of him he saw the rounded belly of a standing and not too old woman, and he saw it was good and so he leaned forwards and put his hand on the belly and smiled and caressed it, and all the still very muslims in the room just stared at him, the Tehrangeles porno pop tv playing in the background, and the bellyowner woman obviously didn’t know what to do, she just stood there mouth open and waited for the return of the 12th prophet that would free her and separate the good from the evil, the Persians from the Europeans ... And later we were in the car driving through the darkened and long gone European city where all the latin letters had been turned into pure ornamentics and every windowless wall covered with oversize paintings of two old men, both with long beards, but one of them modernized with a pair of heavy framed glasses that he must have bought at the sale after some shot down nineteen seventies African dictator, and Thomas was lying on the back seat loud asleep, head on the football in suit and tie like Franz Beckenbauer regrediated into the oral phase, and Githa just smiled and hummed and put her hand on mine, which as always was cold as the hand of a corpse, but hers was soft and warm, and finally the night had come to an end, she stopped in front of our house in Mottahari Sahel Seh, leaned back and opened the back door and Thomas rolled out into the street like a corpse and I wanted to save him, - Thomas! I cried, but she held my hand and caressed my chin and told me that tomorrow, tomorrow at six pm she would enter the stage of the city theater and from there she would play just for me, - just for you, she whispered and kissed me, she kissed me, - I love you, Bob ...
I wanted to sit beside Thomas, but they put him in the car with the younger woman and drove off with him, and so I was left alone with Ghita Noerby and she had the language, the car, the keys and the steering weel in her hands, I was nothing but a puppet, - Bob, she whispered, - Bob, and we rolled down the dark alley past the Evin prison and the Evin Hotel, which isn’t but a sign and the scattered remains of an explosion, she had put on her scarf and regained some of that mystery I like about the Iranian women and the Islamic regime, this play beyond rules that exactly the rules and the framing of the beauty opens. She put her hand on mine as we entered the endless series of spirals and loops of highways that one has to go through to get from one part of the city to the next, yet another of the Persian paradoxes where everything is its own opposite, the order of highways is the chaos that no one has planned, each new loop just another panic reaction disguised as metropolitan planning, and so somewhere along the highways we lost track of the other car (Thomas!) and from that moment onwards I was alone in the dark and deserted city with her. Only once every second minute another car passed by with it’s single leftover light on, or completely darkened, just a moving shadow in the dark alleys with all the melancholic and naked trees turning the whole city into a long gone world, a sunken and lost part of Europe, and she started telling me I had to stay in Tehran, not for years but forever, - Boob! she sighed, and from the radio a longgone man with his longgone voice of the fate of a people was singing about the rain that fell, the snow and the mountain accompanied by some all too authentic string instrument ... Later we were at another party which wasn’t a party just some post funeral family mourning or birthday and Thomas was there too with his Adidas football making him look like Franz Beckenbauer lost in a Cassavetes movie and somebody offered me a beer and it tasted very clear and refreshing until I realised that half of the beer was pure vodka, beer & Absolute, the only cocktail you are able to shake in a country where the only alcohol you can get access to is Heineken cans and vodka, and every body was seated on the floor carpet drunk in persian depression and off course the television was on, showing a mixture of veiled porno and vocoder pop from the Los Angeles satellites, and on top of it one of the women started singing and Thomas sat bolt upright the white off his eyes turned out and that stiffened cream cheese smile on his face, until he suddenly woke up or just turned his eyes outwards again, and there right in front of him he saw the rounded belly of a standing and not too old woman, and he saw it was good and so he leaned forwards and put his hand on the belly and smiled and caressed it, and all the still very muslims in the room just stared at him, the Tehrangeles porno pop tv playing in the background, and the bellyowner woman obviously didn’t know what to do, she just stood there mouth open and waited for the return of the 12th prophet that would free her and separate the good from the evil, the Persians from the Europeans ... And later we were in the car driving through the darkened and long gone European city where all the latin letters had been turned into pure ornamentics and every windowless wall covered with oversize paintings of two old men, both with long beards, but one of them modernized with a pair of heavy framed glasses that he must have bought at the sale after some shot down nineteen seventies African dictator, and Thomas was lying on the back seat loud asleep, head on the football in suit and tie like Franz Beckenbauer regrediated into the oral phase, and Githa just smiled and hummed and put her hand on mine, which as always was cold as the hand of a corpse, but hers was soft and warm, and finally the night had come to an end, she stopped in front of our house in Mottahari Sahel Seh, leaned back and opened the back door and Thomas rolled out into the street like a corpse and I wanted to save him, - Thomas! I cried, but she held my hand and caressed my chin and told me that tomorrow, tomorrow at six pm she would enter the stage of the city theater and from there she would play just for me, - just for you, she whispered and kissed me, she kissed me, - I love you, Bob ...
posted by Thomas and Claus at 8:48 AM
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