That Song
Translated from the Farsi by the Author
The woman washes the dishes. It is a habit. It's a must. One should wash the dishes, that's all.
But her shoulders are stiff. The water is warm and soft and greasy. She doesn't wear rubber gloves.
Before turning on the hot water tap, she always looks first at her hands in pity; then she slowly
puts on the rubber gloves. But in the middle of the task she grows sick of it. Her gloved hands sweat,
the gloves tight and sticky. She gives up having beautiful hands. She takes off the rubber gloves and
throws them away. Now her hands are soft and warm and greasy. It's disgusting. She grabs sodden lumps
of bread and hauls them out of the water. When she puts in the inferior imitation Rika dishwashing liquid
it doesn't produce enough suds; it doesn't get rid of the grease. But it does hurt the thin skin between
her fingers. The greasy warm soft water in the pot isn't foamy white, but turbid and discoloured.
When she uses the imitation Scotch-Brite dishcloth it shreds and gradually dissolves in the grease
of the dirty water. The hungry stomach should be filled, so the dishes should be washed.
The dirty hands should be … no, she shouldn't dirty her hands. But only dirty hands can
clean up stains. The dishcloth isn't working well. She scrapes with her nails. She shouldn't
have put off washing so long that the leftover food and grease hardened and stuck to the plates and
bowls and spoons and forks. The pile of dirty dishes offends her eyes. The glasses are better. The
pots and pans are the worst. Her fine fingers, the soft tender skin, and those hands, those clean
hands! What is far recedes further and what is nearby can't be seen. Why does something sting her
back? That song … that song …
The wind blew. The cool breeze of October touched her skin and she pressed the warmth of the fresh sangak bread
against her hungry belly. In late afternoon the lane was quiet, the sky cloudy. The clamorous party of sparrows
was breaking up. The tiny multicoloured birds were tumbling leaves among wet branches. Like leaves, the grey
sparrows sat on the ground and flew into the air. So where the hell did the afternoon sunshine atop those
high bricked walls fly to? From the clothesline on the terrace the damp white shirt had stirred in the wind.
But that song …
One should stretch one's shoulders. One should wash the dishes. That's all. But her shoulders feel stiff and
something stings her back and bites her skin. She pulls her hands back. She flexes her waist and straightens
her back. She'd washed the shirt by hand and rinsed and shook it out. Maybe the wind had brought something
like a thorn or a mote of dirt. Now the shirt, no longer white or damp, scratches her back between her shoulder
blades, the spot where its heaviness presses on her. Without free hands, what can she do other than twist her body.
The stiffness shifts from shoulders to spine and stays in her thighs. She shifts from one foot to the other.
She raises her arm and wipes off the warm dampness on her temples. She turns her head and neck and wrinkles
her eyebrows. The pile of dishes doesn't grow any less. She bends and pulls her shoulders forward. She takes
her greasy and slippery hands out of the dirty water. She takes off the shirt and crumples it and rubs the
skin between her shoulder blades with it. But the sting has lodged in the skin and the bite isn't temporary
any more and there is no end to unwashed dishes and that song incessantly recedes.
… Or if it wasn't the wind that had brought the sting and it wasn't the damp white shirt stirring in the wind,
then the sting has come from where that song has suddenly gone. As if there were no line between sleep and
wakefulness. Her dirty hands wash the dishes and her eyes see black and the skin starts to smart and a
sting that's no longer temporary at all lodges in the flesh too. That song incessantly recedes.
She closes her eyes. She could wash the dishes with her eyes closed and even in her sleep. She must wash
the dishes with closed eyes and in her sleep. That's all. The nightmare and wakefulness mix. She can
still clearly hear the howling dogs. They came at midnight and gathered beyond the window and barked.
They still do that. She washed the dishes in her sleep and regretted not hearing that forgotten song.
The dogs came every night and barked beyond the window. Every night the dishes mounted higher than
the night before and that song went away further and the dogs barked louder than before. Such is still
the case. Nonetheless the thin shivering line of the leaf's sound carried away by the wind ran between
the dogs' barking. She still hears this thin line of sound.
So it is the wind that carries away the leaf and that song along with the barking of dogs, and the thorn and
the mote of dirt remains on the damp white body of the shirt. But the sting that has lodged in her back has
passed through skin and flesh and reached the bone. As if there is no line in between sleep and wakefulness
and one should wash the dishes. That's all.
Fereshteh Molavi, an Iranian-Canadian writer, published her first novel and collection
of short stories in Iran in early 1990s. Listen to the Reed, a chapbook published by PEN Canada in 2005,
is based on her dialogue with Karen Connelly, a Canadian writer. She has been included in
various English and Persian anthologies and magazines and has had readings in Sweden, US, and Canada.
Her latest collection of short stories in Persian, The Wandering Nightingale, was released in Tehran in 2005.
A selection of Molavi's stories in English will be released in Toronto soon. She is a member of PEN Canada
and teaches Persian literature at U of T.
Email: Fereshteh Molavi
Fereshteh Molavi Web Site
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