Read Online The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer - Free Book Online Page A

HE IS brought back to his cell he finds Mehdi polishing a piece of wood and Ramin sleeping. Mehdi glances sideways, at Isaac’s feet. “They let you off easy,” he says.
    â€œYes.” Isaac walks to his bed, removes the one sock. He sits on his mattress, listens to Mehdi’s sandpaper shaving off the wood. He feels dizzy. Blisters have formed on his right palm, his cheek, and his chest. He lies on his back, carefully, avoiding all contact between the burns and the mattress.
    â€œYou should try to get some honey,” Mehdi says. “I think Gholampour had some. They let him have it because of his low blood sugar. Now that he’s gone, you might as well…”
    â€œHoney?”
    â€œYes. It helps heal the skin after a burn. And it prevents infection.”
    Isaac brings his hand to his cheek and touches the blister. It is tender and raw, a semiliquid bulb rising from his skin. The thought of a permanent mark on his face saddens him. But he realizes that “permanent” may not be all that long. “Did you get burned here also?” he asks.
    â€œNo. They wasted no time with me. They took me straight for the lashings.” Mehdi stops polishing and observes his wooden creation—an oval vessel, pointed in the front and hollowed out.
    â€œSo what are you making with that piece of wood?” Isaac says.
    â€œI’m trying to make a Dutch clog. Before they arrested me I had promised my little girl I would make one for her and we would paint it together. But I’m not very good.”
    â€œNo. It looks like a boat.”
    â€œI know!” Mehdi looks at the shoe and shakes his head. “It’s a piece of shit, isn’t it?”
    Isaac smiles, but the movement stretches his skin, reminding him of his blister and his pain.
    â€œAh!” Mehdi throws the shoe on the floor and lies down. “Enough artistic expression for today. I think I’ll take a nap.”
    Isaac turns on his left side, tucking his hand under his ear. He looks at the wooden vessel thrown on the floor—this so-called shoe—and sees, under its asymmetrical, jagged shape, the clean intentions of its maker, and the hope, however faint, that he will be reunited with his daughter. He admires Mehdi’s defiance, more so because he thinks himself incapable of it.
    The image that returns to his mind repeatedly now is Mohsen holding his hand and turning it around, palm upward, as if about to offer him something. In that brief instant before the burn, the two men, hand in hand, could have passed as friends. He wonders what Farnaz would do if she knew what just happened to him. The last time he saw her she was upset with him. It was the morning of his arrest.In bed she had spooned his body with her own, wrapping her arm around his stomach. He had flung the arm away. When he turned to her he knew it was too late. For some time he had been pushing her away, in invisible degrees. It had started with the flowers. He used to bring her a bouquet every now and then—lilies or roses, and whenever he found them, white orchids, because they were her favorite. But he had stopped and had not even realized that he had. “Is there a shortage of flowers also, because of the war?” she joked one night as he came home and found her, as usual, in front of the television. “Flowers?” he said. “The country has been destroyed and you’re thinking about flowers?” She shut off the television and looked at him. The sudden silence unnerved him. “How can you say this to me?” she said. “I have been watching the destruction scene by scene. Why do you think I kept insisting we leave, when we had the chance, when everyone else was leaving? Well, since it looks like we are staying, we might as well try to have a normal life.” She picked up her glass and took a thoughtful sip. “So where are my flowers, my dear husband?”
    He could not bring himself to