Bread, Pen, Power 2

This first stroke of Janette's, woke me up from a fool's dream. I was just about to become fond of the gifts of the free world. And I didn't want to be unemployed, losing the joy of my summer holidays at Greek or Spanish islands, or be deprived of my pension. My future was really in danger.
Still, it was not a very big problem to forget 10-15 percent of the words, but keep my job instead. Very soon I put aside 10-15 percent more of my vocabulary to keep my new flat and lovely furniture, my car and so on. Those words were nothing comparing to what I had. I asked Janette to read through all my "productions" before giving them to any editor or publisher. I was listened carefully to her critique and advice about "pessimism" and "negativism". Little by little I learned things about the consequences of these concepts. I loved Janette, and also all my friends, my life, my flat, car and my promising future. Loneliness is really painful.
When Khomeini issued the "Fatwa" on Salman Rushdie, I “produced” an essay, saying; “For decades democratic world has paid millions and millions under the table to assassinate Castro, Ho Chi Minh, Dag. Hammersjöld, Le Mumba, Che Guevara, etc. etc. The stupidity of Khomeini makes him brave to put the money openly on the table. On reading my text Janette became very angry and screamed at me; - Are you out of mind? Do you want people think you support Khomeini? I just laughed; - Every body knows that I've escaped from Khomeini.
- That's not good enough, she said. I was furious; - Not good enough? I left my family, my friends, life, culture, country and every thing behind, living in exile as an immigrant. That is not good enough to prove that I'm against Khomeini?
- Calm down, she said. They'll simply think you've changed your mind and that now you support terrorism.
I looked at her speechless for a while.
- Do you think people don’t have historical memory? Do they think I'm a politician changing my mind every second? Exactly this morning, my name was in the manifesto for "Free Pen" and against the "Fatwa" in all the newspapers, together with 120 European and American writers.
- But in your essay, you're defending Khomeini against "West"
Damn it! Janette knew very well that I'm allergic against concepts such as "West", "East", "North", "South", “Third World” and so on. She knew that I wouldn't go on with the discussion any more now. While I was dragging my toothpaste over my toothbrush, I said allegorically; - I wanted to look at Khomeini in a "positive" way, my dear!
That night I dreamed I was standing in front of a court of civilised world again, where it's jury were Mrs. Thatcher, Mr. Reagan, Mr.Köhl, Mr. Jacques Chirac...And I had to prove that I was Iranian but not Khomeini. I once more had to defend myself for the sin I didn't commit. I came out of the court, went to the kitchen and was awake whole night. Outside It was raining like anything. Janette was sleeping like a baby. I wished I had a clean conscience. Why on the earth must I concern myself with justice and injustice? What is this stupid feeling making me feel responsible for every thing in this world? Let the whole world go to hell. Let them die from injustice, let them burn in unfairness, what's this to do with me? If I don't have Janette, my job, a ceiling over my head....! God, it’s terrible to be alone. Then people will think there is some thing wrong with me, then they will distance themselves even more from me and I become more and more isolated every day.
From that day on, I started to behave "politically correct". I wrote down all possible "safe statements" and tried to learn them off by heart. I tried to stay in a safety zone behind these words and sentences. To be "politically correct" is a very safe trench protecting you and all your properties as a civilised and trustworthy citizen of the modern world. God, how beautiful is life when your mouth doesn't get open out of place and your pen doesn't move out of season. “Noon, va-alghalam va ma yastaroon”!
In a very cold late winter evening, I was walking home from a friend's visit. There was hardly anyone in the streets. Before passing across a street, I saw two people waiting in front of the traffic light. There was neither cars nor any police in sight for kilometre on either side. But those two were standing, gazing at little red man in the traffic light. I wanted to cross the street several times but these two and their polite gaze at the little red man stopped me. I felt the little red man, stern and strict, looking at me - so satisfied. I was standing there for ages when the little red man jumped 10-20 centimetres down, turned green and stands on top of the green light with open legs. The two crossed the street. The little green man with a light smile on his lips, almost appeared to waive benevolently to me that it was OK to walk. But before I come back to myself and move, he jumped up again, turned back to red and stood there stern and strict as before.
The two were almost lost in the darkness of the footpath on the other side. I tried to ignore the little red man and cross the street, but my feet were petrified to the ground. I was angry at myself but before I completely lost my patience the little man jumped down on the green light again and with open legs stood and smiled at me. I hated both myself and him. I felt like Faust, looking around terrified. The offending Copenhagen winter night made the terror ten times bigger. I walked back some 50 meters and without looking back at the red man, crossed the street.
When my mother was really tired of us disturbing her at home, she used to tell us the Islamic story of two angels who are sitting on our shoulders. The one on the right shoulder use to write down our good deeds and the one on the left, notes our bad deeds. My mother used to say that in the other world after death, they will put these two notebooks in a scale. If good deeds exceeds to bad deeds, one goes to paradise, otherwise direct to the hell. I, in my childhood fantasy world was quite relaxed about this - really one needed just a couple of more good deeds in her/his life to be lucky enough to go to the Paradise. So I nearly always forgot the angels on my shoulders.
I looked at my shoulders. They were both deeply asleep. I nearly shouted at them; wake up for God's sake, I just crossed the red light. They jumped up and looked at me confused. The one on my left shoulder looked around and after a while told me sleepily: - God damn it. This is the first ever vacation of our lives. You, trouble maker, let us rest a bit. You don't need us any more, idiot! There is a cop inside your head now. You're doing just fine.
It was true! Tomorrow they will write under my register number that I crossed the red light. That's it. I'm a number now; a number which is the date of my birthday. And they write under the number everything I do, be it day or night. And I myself take the initiative to fill out special forms every now and then and send them voluntarily. I've been programed now to know what is good for me and what is not. There are no police, no angels in this free world any more. People are doing very well by themselves. I found myself in Geneva, 16. century, saw Jean Calvin in front of me. A Calvin that looked like “The big brother” of Orwell. Then I found myself in "London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre".
I reached the middle of a tall bridge a few minutes away from our place. Without any hesitation I jumped down in the water.
The day after I saw my picture on the front page of "ExtraBladet" (a yellow newspaper), saying with a big title; “An Iranian writer who came as a refugee in Denmark and found it impossible to integrate into democratic society, committed suicide last night. His Danish ex-girlfriend said she left him 6 months ago because he had become alcoholic and junkie.”
The next evening, when we finished our delicious dinner in another exotic restaurant and we were thoroughly enjoying ourselves, I told Janette: - You know what honey! I'm really tired of being "positive" and "optimistic". I had to choose words carefully in my past life, too. But if I did something wrong, there was an executer to arrest me, jail me and torture me. I was a victim then but still a writer who could disgrace his executer with words. Here I'm a victim and my own executer at the same time. I carry my chain and jail with me. I'm afraid to die here without any identity.
Janette looked at me kindly and said:
- You know what, honey! you've mixed up freedom and anarchy together.
To be continued
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on July 15, 2020 01:25
No comments have been added yet.