Asgar entered Ali's restaurant and asked his cousin Ali where Olga was.
“Salam khooshteep… she's waiting for you in the back office,” Ali said as he winked at Asgar.
Asgar nodded conspiratorially and made his way to the back of the restaurant. Ali watched Asgar walk towards the back of the restaurant and was filled with loathing and contempt. Olga should be his, he was the one who paid her and helped her with her English. Asgar wouldn't have even have met Olga if he hadn't taken him along to the Polish community centre to recruit staff. He would find a way to make Olga his no matter what the cost. He would prove to her that he was more of a man then Asgar. Just as his blood was near boiling point, Najeeb, the Afghani waiter, approached him.
“Ali Agha, zanet ru telephoneh…” Najeeb whined in his Afghani accent. Ali hated the way he spoke and disliked him even more for telling his English wife, Sharon, that he was free to speak to her on the phone.
The door creaked loudly as Asgar flung it open. He rushed towards Olga and took her in his arms. He kissed her passionately and they lost themselves in the heat of the moment. Their bodies pressed against each other, their limbs intertwined devouring each other, feasting on an orgy of flesh and hair. The scent of her perfume mixed with smell of Chelo Kabab. Asgar was torn between making love to Olga and ordering a Makhsous. The intoxicating mix of lamb and perfume reminded him of Maryam; he really loved her, he thought to himself, as he tore off Olga's clothes. He lost himself in her piercing blue eyes, his body responded to the Bandari music playing in the background and her body responded to his. His hips shook and gyrated as he moved his body to the rhythm of the song and Olga's body trembled with momentary pleasure…
Through a little crack in the wall Hossein watched Asgar and Olga making love. He was tired of spending every day and evening making Koobideh; his hands slowly shaped the minced lamb around the skewer moving up and down the meat leaving the indentations of his hands. He too wanted a woman to make love to, one that he didn't have to pay. But each time he approached a woman they complained that he smelt of onions. It wasn't fair that Asgar had Olga and Maryam. Maybe Hossein should ask Maryam out, but she was too stuck up and wouldn't even talk to him.
Maryam lay there quiescently on her bed dreaming of Asgar and Valetino's kiss. Just as she was slipping further into her arousing daydream until she was rudely awoken from her stupor by the shrill sound of her polyphonic ring tone — “Ey Iran ey marz-e porgohar…” Maryam hummed along to the tune…
“Allo who is dis… ?” She purred.
“Maryam is that you?” Said a deep passionate sounding voice.
“Yes dis is Maryam, who is dis… ? Maryam enquired.
“Bella it is me, Valentino… have your forgotten me so soon?” enquired Valentino pleadingly.
Maryam felt her heart pound against her chest as a thousand and one feelings ran through her mind. She closed her eyes and listened to his melodious voice:
“Bella I need to see you… can we meet this evening?” Valentino whispered.
Maryam started to feel anxious. That night Asgar was coming for khastegari. But she needed to see Valentino one last time before she got engaged to Asgar.
“I…, I…, I can't meet you this evening. But I will call you when I can,” Maryam stammered.
“Ok bella I shall wait for your call… I will leave you with a poem so that you do not forget to call me. I wrote it in Italian but I translated it into English for you:
“I try to paint a picture of you with a thousand words, The gentle brush stroke of my lips, Stains your cheek with my kiss, A kaleidoscope of colour fills my eyes, Your image is locked deep inside. The memory of your beauty burns and torments me. I try escaping it, But cannot forget your silhouette against the light, I search desperately for the words to paint you, So that I will not forget the look in your eyes, The shape of your mouth slightly open as it receives my kiss. The arch of your back as it feels my caress. As I speak silence fills my lungs, Inarticulate and mute I choke on my words, My hand trembles as it writes your name, I pour out my emotions, My tears spill out where words should be, Red ink leaks and stains the page. I try to paint a picture of you with a thousand words, But only moments and memories remain… ”
As Maryam was savouring the last of Valentino's words the line went dead…
“MARYAM!” a voice bellowed from downstairs. It was her father. Hhe had come home and wanted to speak to her about the khastegari and to make sure she was ready… >>>