Blunt/Vishdehi
1990. Toronto, Canada
Chapter One
I’m bleeding.
This is why he’s so intense, why he’s in such a rush. The one up front. Driving.
Alex, that’s his name. Both hands on the wheel. He’s jerking the car around like a mad man. Through all the traffic. Fast.
I’m in the back, lying lengthwise across the seat. Short of breath. Wondering if it’s from the wound.
That’s wishful thinking, really. I know it’s the wound.
Is my lung punctured?
It’s definitely not my heart. If it was, I’d be dead. I wouldn’t be breathing.
It’s somewhere in the chest, though. That’s where the blood is pooling, soaking through two layers of clothing. I’m pressing my bloodsoaked jacket. Tight. Because I’ve heard that’s what you’re supposed to do to a wound like this.
I need to take a deep breath. That’s what I really need, but the pain won’t let me.
Alex suddenly hits the brakes. I’m thrown forward, hitting the back of the front seats.
I groan in agony.
Alex does a quick head shift to look back at me. Sorry, sorry, he says. Using one of the few English words he knows.
Then he hits the gas again, and I’m thrust back in the seat. This time I hold in my groan, biting down on it. I don’t want to worry Alex. He needs to drive.
And I don’t want to worry myself. Even though the warm, wet blood is spreading down my torso.
I need that deep breath. I need it so badly. Just one. Because I’m starting to fade.
What’s happening to me?
I can’t take that deep breath. Something’s not working.
Am I drowning? That’s what it feels like, and I’m not even in water. This is what happens when a blade enters your body. You’re not the same anymore.
I’m afraid.
I admit it.
Even though you told me I’m a man, I’m still afraid. I need to tell you this, father.
Pedar.
Because things have happened and I need to speak. To tell you even though you’re a world away.
Even though coherency isn’t my strength, I’ll do my best to piece it together. So you understand how I ended up like this, with all this blood — khoon, as we call it in Persian — seeping out of me.
People. That’s all it comes down to.
Those who help. Those who don’t. And the few who are somewhere in the middle.
I’ll put myself in the latter category. Because sometimes you’re the villain in your own story. And the person you’re hurting the most is yourself.
So I’ll start there.
It’s you against yourself. And each step, each breath is a war. To the bitter, brutal end.
And this is what I’m asking myself, right now, in the backseat.
Is this the end?
I don’t have a clear answer. Just a heartbeat, continuing on, churning the khoon.
Yes, blood is the only neutral player in all this. It carries everything. As a runner, I know this. Even thoughts and memories. They pulse through me. All that I’ve ever done. It’s there. And coming out of me.
And I hear your distant voice. It’s like my khoon is talking.
To mard hastey. You’re a man now.
You told me this before you left. Or disappeared, I should say. Almost a year ago.
And it’s been repeating itself. Now and before.
I believed it, because my father said it to me. But for the first time I’m not sure it’s true. Because I’m just sixteen. And I’m afraid. And a man doesn’t fear anything, does he?
To mard hastey.
Did you really believe those words? Because I took them seriously. I really believed it. Didn’t you notice it in my eyes? Your eyes I still see, as if they’re in front of me now. All those details of our last day together are so real. The two of us driving to the airport. The three kisses on the cheek, Persian style. The keys for the car. You put them in my hand as if they were the most important thing in the world. Then, you looked me in the eye, just a fraction of a second as if you didn’t want me to feel anything, and you told me I was no longer a kid. Before you walked away and disappeared behind the dark glass of the security area. Poof. Gone. Black magic.
I just stood there. In the airport. Without moving. Staring at the security glass. As if you would come back at any moment and tell me that you had changed your mind. With those car keys smashed tight in my hand. I squeezed the keys so hard, until my palm shrieked with pain. And I repeated the words. To mard hastey. You’re a man now. Over and over.
I must have been there twenty minutes. Motionless. The echoes of the giant airport, people with their rolling suitcases rumbling by, all of it blurred vision and white noise. Until an older lady with a cream colored hijab on her head stopped right in front of me. It’s the hijab that snapped me out of it. The head scarf wrapped tightly around her hair and cheeks a vision from our old life in Tehran.
She’s speaking Farsi. Asking her family if they’re in the right place. I speak up, giving her directions:
- Meykhay berey Iran, oon vare.
She looks at me with surprise. With delight.
- Shoma Irane hastey - Are you Iranian? she asks. You don’t look it.
- Half, I say. My father. He’s on that flight.
And then she says it.
- Che khoob Farsi sohbat meykoney pesaram. You speak Farsi so well, my boy.
I wasn’t ready to hear it. Not the last part anyway. About being a boy.
So I laugh now. Not out loud. Not in this condition. But inside.
I laugh because it makes no sense. A man of sixteen. A harsh laugh without joy. Because look what I’ve done.
All this regret. It’s a bitter pill.
Words can’t describe it.
I know you can’t hear me, but I’m saying it anyway.
I’m sorry. Besyar motasefam.
I’m sorry I ended up like this. That I’ve fallen short.
Amin is some kind of genius. Iman’s going to med school. And look at me.
I’m sorry to let you down, Pedar.