Monday, December 04, 2006


When I came out the first snow had started to fall over Tehran, it was five thirty, but still dark, the streets all deserted, no sign of life and, oh, so silent. It is all over, I thought and I stopped and just stood there, the snow falling and slowly, silently covering my grey suit. I wait for five, ten, maybe twenty minutes, and finally an old grey-rusty Paykan, the archetype, come creeping, rattling up the hill. This is for me, I thinks, in the end they are coming to pick me up and drive me away. I open the door and look in at the driver, and sure, it is him, hammered right out of the mountain stone, dark and sinister and bent over, his square head almost touching the front screen. I get into the car and he starts driving and he doesn’t even look at me, he just stares out into the darkness and mumbles, curses in that incomprehensible farsi, and during the night the road has been destroyed, it’s all holes now, the car slowly humps and cracks from side to side and I nearly fall over upon him, - sorry, I say and try to get hold of myself, I am cold now, freezing, and so I put my hands between my bony knees, but he sees it and suddenly he turns on the heat and violently takes my hands and put them in front of the heater as if it was a fire, - Iran! he howls, and once of a sudden he turns his head towards me and his eyes are wild and his scull is almost bald and shining, just here and there some remains of hair sticking out, - Mohammad! he howls and takes my hand and shakes it and lets go of the steering wheel and points at me with the other and hammers his finger into my chest, - Nielsen! I twitter, - Nielsen! - Ooooh! he howls, - Neslin! Neslin! and he starts swearing, spit hitting and slowly gliding down the front screen, and he turns towards me and again he lets go of the steering wheel and the car just rolls on its own down into the smog dome of Tehran while he shows me how somebody enter the car and they start fighting and somebody hits him from behind, and he turns the back of his head towards me and it is square like Frankensteins and all scars, as if they had opened the scull and taken the entire humanity out and suddenly he bows down and drags up something from beside his leg and it is a long knife and he stares me wildly in the eyes and passes the knife over his throat and cries, - BAD! IRAN BAD! IRANIAN PEOPLES BAAAD! - Yes, I say, - no! and he drives the knife back down into the darkness and grabs the steering wheel with both hands and holds it tight like a baby, his scull leaning onto the front screen and now it sounds as if he is crying, and I don’t know what to say or to do, so that’s what I do: Nothing, nothing, I just hope, that if this is The End, then please let it end! Suddenly the car has stopped and we are in front of our house, and I apologize and take out the last money we have, the last thousands of Rials, and I hand them to him, but he just pushes them away and shakes his square head and smiles and hammers his finger into my chest, - Neslin! he howls, - Neslin! and takes me into his arms.
When I enter Thomases room the grey light of a new day is already there and it looks like the day after, socks and suit and tie and dirty shirts, cameras, coins and torn up papers, worn out books and Beckett boots upside down and scattered all over, and on the bed just a gaping laptop and that long bony feature hidden under a white sheet. Then a hand appears and removes the white sheet from the face, and he looks at me with his dead eyes. - Nielsen! he says. - I did it! I say, - I went all the way and now it is done. Mission accomplished!


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