LIFE

I remember one summer evening at our house, in the sitting room with the twilight creeping in through the large windows that went floor to ceiling. Outside, the muted sounds of traffic from one of the main thoroughfares filtered through the canopy of the beautiful plane trees lining the avenue, and every so often, a small puff of air would cause the sheer curtains to billow out with a low hiss. We were all there, even my mother and father, seated around the perimeter of the room in the style of a Persian get together.

As I half-listened to the ebb and flow of the conversation, hypnotized by the contractions of the curtains, my mind wandered off to the time a few years ago, before the revolution, when I had brought T back to this very room from a night out carousing. It was summer too, but quite late and still – every movement and whisper muffled by the heat. She was beautiful, stunningly attractive with a visage one could stare at for hours. Full, heavy hair wound with curls colored a deep brown framed her not quite perfect face and fell to her shoulder. A broad, open forehead and eyes flecked with green that continuously teased and laughed at me, and soft freckles like raindrops on her cheeks courtesy of her Irish mother.

Her mouth was always aquiver, egging me on with full lips that were slightly parted, as though waiting for a kiss. The stark white of her teeth, barely visible through the opening of her lips, was a dizzying contrast to the smooth honey-colored skin. She spoke with a slight lisp as she would smile and say “David… come here”, the words drawn out and musical, reeling me in. Eyes half-closed she would watch me approach.

I remember nothing else but that face.

We sat down on the sofa and started kissing, the sound of the soft smacks as we separated causing a ripple in the still darkness. I tasted the salt on her tongue, mixed with the faint afterglow of the whiskey she had drunk earlier. I felt the touch of her lips, every curve and recess and pore in contact with mine. The universe shrank to the diameter of that oval and everything else was black. As our lips, locked together, spun through space, we were disturbed by a whisper. She breathed and the tickle of her breath against my cheek drew me back. I opened my eyes. Everything was still and quiet, only her breath could be felt on my face. For a fleeting moment, I was reminded of the times when, as a child, I would lie flat on my back in the darkness and sense the spinning of the planet beneath me as it rushed through the void. It was terrifying and exalting all at once.

She pulled back and I kissed softly around her mouth. Down her cheek and to the nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, as she bent her head back. I drew her closer to me, my hand around her waist. The soft curls of her hair tangled around my fingers and snaked around my head and neck, pulling me in, holding me in a vise.

“God you are beautiful”. It came out as a hoarse croak.

She laughed softly, as only a woman who knows already could. She looked at me steadily and I could see her eyes glinting. I held her close again and kissed her.

“I need to have you.”

“Why?”

“You know why for god’s sake. I can’t take much more of this.”

“I can’t sleep with you, you know that.”

I knew that and I didn’t know that. I did not give a fuck anymore. This woman inhabited my dreams and my every waking moment with thoughts of nothing else but tearing her clothes off and fucking her for days on end. She had me by the balls and she knew it. I had spent all I had on her, taking her to the best spots in town.

A few weeks later, we separated. She said she wanted to remain friends but I never saw her again. I heard later from others that she was hanging out with some group smoking hash. I felt like shit.

No matter how hard I tried to hang on to its remaining shreds, my reverie drifted away and I came back to the conversation. It seemed like sex was in the air, wafting in and around like the curls of cigarette smoke, tendrils of desire that made us sit on the edge of our chairs, sniffing out every last scent.

One of the Chileans was recounting the story of one of their neighbors who had a predilection for public lovemaking. It appears that each evening, the lady would come out to her apartment balcony along with her lover and proceed to engage in a long and boisterous bout of fucking. Needless to say, that show kept the neighbors engaged every night.

My father particularly enjoyed this tale. With his glass of vodka in one hand, he asked again how this could be. Did no one take any action against this couple?

“In Chile it is not like here. It is not a crime to do that.”

“Wallah khosh sheni” he exclaimed, incredulous. Arabic was his native tongue as he had been born in Iraq and lived there for many years. Even after decades in Iran, everything was still suffused with his Arabic accent, even his Persian and broken English and French, but in the art of flirting with women it did not matter.

As the conversation petered out, I stared out the drape covered windows again. It was so different just a few months ago, even during the last stages of the Shah’s regime. It seemed like ages had gone by, a different world altogether from the seductive confines of the living room.