FICTION | NoN | FICTION

پوستم سفید بود. موهای ریخته روی گردنم زردی گندم را داشت. دو لکه‌ی باریک تنباکویی لای دست‌هایم بود. فکر می‌کنم بوی اسب بودنم از روی همین لکه‌ها به دماغم می‌خورد.

روزی که توانستم از دیوارک کاج‌های پاکوتاه، جست بزنم و بی‌آنکه پل را ببینم قالان‌خان را از روی آب رد کنم و آن طرف رودخانه، جلوتر از همه اسب‌ها به میدان دهکده برسم، دو ساله بودم. قالان‌خان یک زین یراق‌دوزی و یک پوستین بلند پر از منجوق جایزه گرفت و به پاکار گفت که در اصطبل، خاک‌اره بریزد تا اگر گاهی بخواهم غلت بزنم، پوست پهلو و شانه‌هایم خراش برندارد.

روز بعد، قالان‌خان آن زین را روی پشتم گذاشت تسمه‌اش را زیر شکمم سفت کرد. باران می‌بارید. تا باران بند بیاید مرا بین ردیف درختان غان، روی سینه‌ی تپه‌ها و در حاشیه‌ی باغ‌های پنبه دواند. کنار رودخانه پاشنه‌ی چکمه‌اش را به پوست شکمم کشید و مرا هی کرد که خودم را تا گردن به آب بزنم. بعد آلاچیق‌ها را دور زدیم. از بوی دود اجاق‌ها رد شدیم. زین و تسمه، خیس شده به تنم چسبیده بود، خراشم می‌داد، مثل براده‌ی شیشه.

نزدیک ظهر به دهکده برگشتیم. دختر قالان‌خان کنار چاه بود. به طرف ما دوید. پاکار دهنه‌ام را گرفت و قالان‌خان بی‌آنکه پیاده شود مرا به اصطبل برد. آنجا هر دو پایش را از یک طرف زین آویزان کرد و خودش را به پایین سر داد. پاکار زین را باز کرد. تا او برود و یک تکه نمد برای خشک کردن پوستم بیاورد، صدایی نرم، مثل علف، گفت: سلام.

قالان‌خان گفت: سلام آسیه.

آسیه گفت: بده من خشکش کنم.

قالان‌خان گفت: دختر خوشگلم، این چکمه‌ها خیلی خیس شده، باید بگذارمش کنار بخاری.

آسیه گفت: اسب را می‌گم بابا!

پاکار، نمد به دست رسید.

قالان‌خان گفت: بده آسیه خشکش کنه. و با پاکار رفت.

آسیه پوست سرخ سیاه‎‌شده‌ای داشت. دو تا گردوی زیر جلیقه‌اش به سختی دیده می‌شد. موهای بلندش را روی گوش راستش گیس کرده بود. دنباله‌ی گیس روی سینه‌اش افتاده بود. نمد را روی تیرک اصطبل گذاشت و کف دست‌هایش را گردنم مالید. بعد تا جای خالی زین کشید. کف دست‌هایش از روی کپل‌هایم گذشت و عرق ران‌ها تا مچ پاهایم را خشک کرد. از جیب دامنش یک حبه قند درآورد و آن را زیر لب‌هایم گرفت. نتوانستم بخورم. انگشتانش بوی عرق تنم را می‌داد. و خود آسیه بوی جنگل.

یوزپلنگانی که با من دویده‌اند || بیژن نجدی

The sun has not reached noon. It’s been half a day since I got here. An hour after noon, it first reaches my shoulders. Then my hands fail and my eyes close and my head bends, it begins to turn to the oblique midday light and the harmony of the orchestral notes. I become half earth, half shadow, half light. Half cold, half hot. Half cloud, half sun. Half dry, half wet. Half asleep, half awake. The sun will not shine on all of me. Today, however, I have lost myself until he reaches me. I get up and reach out to him. I cling to glass, to light. I want to take my face with him. All of me. I leaned my head against the dim light. I would like some light. A little clear. Rain and clouds are gone with autumn. From winter only this light remained dull and icy flowers that I did not find. I’m silent in myself.

– Do you face yourself every day?

I have not encountered myself for a long time. Today, however, I encountered. with myself. With silence. With a little light. I’m a little cloudy. For no reason. No sorrow. I’m quiet and a little cloudy. The cloud of this winter that is passing by and without it. There is a desire for it, it is not an excuse. My dolls. I’m not a cookie. With two glass eyes. With both hands of glass … my glass behind the staff desk.

– You, the first man. In the sad room of your house. Outside the cycle of the world.

I have to be home. Even if it is not cloudy and rainy. Even if it is not foggy. One of the scenes from Angelopoulos’ films or one of Roberto de Mitter’s photographs is enough to save me. I have to be home and reach the river that borders all the distances of the world. To the Danube. And smile for all the people across the river. A smile covered in fog. I have to kiss the lips of unaccompanied travelers. I look forward to them. Hold a string of their rotten coats and let them go. That someone is always waiting for them. With a thousand rotten coils. With memories left.

– How kind you were, my friend. How kind you were when you lied.

On the way home. May has joined me. We are silent. Without words. All my non-verbal music. The fog is from me and I am from the fog. My eyelashes are closed with dew. Darkness has swallowed up the filthy sky and we are on our way. Without words. No grief. Without a mirror. Autumn leaves on the inertia of the cut branches. Dancing. There is no rush to get home. The steps are calm, in foggy and dewy breaths. The street vendor does not say: How beautiful? He pulls a bag of pomegranates from the blue of his van to pass. The smell of tin cans is like fire. In my masked breaths and fog. Pomegranate bowls for you, pomegranate bowls for him. A little lie for a little life.

– Never before. This is amazing. And the night, with its endless form, is on its way again.

my house. I look up and go to the mirror. I In The Mirror. In May. Shadows. The gray of my shadow in the style of a tree, a complex branch in all the endless promised lands. Silent. Calm and moving and lively. Leave in the dreams of unaccompanied travelers. With a thousand rotten coils. Shadows. The glorious sleep of dancing far from the river. Shadows. All with the moon. Shadows. My collegiate. I read. I dance and I dance. The shadow of my colonies. I give a kiss of love, I remove sorrow from your lips and I adorn myself.

|| Andisheh

“I did not experience them, they happened to me.” I read somewhere in one of my favorite author books. And I thought I did not experience them, they happened to me. And then I lived them. And not from these ordinary and unusual lives these days. No. Of that model of life that has been drawn once every thousand years, and how can I be the winner? I was the winner who did not win my name in any of the draws, and now twice in a row, and so close that it may not have been twice at all, and I still make mistakes. Maybe just once my name comes up after a thousand years and my eyes do not work well, probably out of great joy and disbelief. But that one or this one seems to have come and gone to establish the other, and now I see everything in pairs, like a person who is not accustomed to myopia. But I know they are one, and the problem is with my camera. My head hurts too, and you can safely blame it on your eyes. Nor is it the fault of the fault. I mean, I don’t think it was bad at all. It does not matter if you see two or one. In any case, they are one. My head hurts and I have to close my eyes so they don’t go any further. “Night in every word, now manifest” and words that have been waiting for months and maybe even years tonight and are now slipping and falling incessantly, and I, who had been waiting for the past, had been waiting for so long that perhaps this weakness of vision and this blur of It was the gaze of Jacob staring, that now I could not gather the words that I would take at least one or a few of them and put them in my pocket for the day, lest I still stare and say: I was amazed and he says: I thought you knew. And I did not know or I thought I did not know and now that I hear I do not know I knew before or now even when I hear and I am updated and I think about him and I am still staring. I’m silent too. The house is cold again and I am no longer sick when I get warm and I open the window and I think I have always been warm and I forget how many days it has been winter. And now the house is cold again, and he speaks of a red flame blossoming, and night, and he speaks of floods and storms, and of his safe place. I still stare and my head hurts and I close my eyes until the courier arrives with 300 grams of dry ham and 300 grams of pitted olives and cans of energy drinks, to get some sleep. “Nostalgia has always been and still is,” he says. “I have to go a little farther to understand it,” he says. I have to drink a little to sleep. More than a little. So much so that my head is heavy and my eyes are blurred and I spell the wrong words and now my head hurts still. On the fifth day of the trip, I wake up and he hugs me and we look at the hill through the wooden window and the green walls and we do not remember that we stayed on the hill at night and drank so much that our heads and tongues were heavy and now we still do not know I stare at the wooden window on the hill or at the hill through the wooden window. He says: Close your travel bag. And I still think there is a long way to go to the ocean. I am asleep and the smell of spring orange has intoxicated me and he says: I have said it forever. And he says: this one slice is enough for a lifetime and I should have known how. My eyes are dim and he sinks into it, and I have drunk my tongue heavily and there is nothing left for the morning call to prayer. And there is nothing left until the night of the incident and the journey is still left. I never knew if they were one or two. After a good look, I realized that what is there can not be explained to anyone. The lottery was named after me, and now it is ridiculous to explain it to those who are very lucky to have an unusual life. It was only a few hours later that I realized that some things could not be explained or, as he puts it: unable to say. Only with this secret that hurts and half-blind eyes, I understand what beautiful means. The young poet had once tried to say the same thing: What does beautiful mean? And now only I know what beautiful means. I have been named lottery and I have seen things that no one has seen or heard or touched for a thousand years. Only I understand the meaning of the river and the meaning of cold and the meaning of autumn. He says: I have always loved you and he says: something more than loving. And I think the waters of Elbe and Sen eventually end up in the same ocean. And I’m silent, staring at the romantic interpretation of shapes and thinking happy means me. And I can not say what beautiful means, when no one has seen beautiful. Or as I have seen, not seen. Beautiful were those bright nights, nights of happiness that were enough for a lifetime. And from those nights there are still other nights, a thousand nights of events and a thousand nights of travel, and I am still happy and I know what beautiful means, but I am still unable to say and I am still excited about all this discovery and liberation from all this. That tonight I am free from last night and I have to leave my body in the ocean waters. Someone is ringing the doorbell.

|| Andisheh

The woman was standing in a corner of the mall, holding a large can of tomato paste in her hand, and her dress in light gray was lonely and beautiful. I was on the other side, imagining myself looking at the shelves and looking at the prices and not shopping and spinning but finding what I needed when I saw a woman standing in a store who was tall and looked like someone. It was as if I had seen somewhere and could not remember, and with all this talk, she was a beautiful woman. The woman was standing and the wind was blowing and the wind was blowing and the weather was cold and I was in the store and it was not raining and I had not seen a woman in a tomato paste shop standing in the corner for years and staring at an unknown place. I thought to myself that there were many days in our lives that we had to stare at an unknown place, many other days came or will come to see a woman standing in a store and waiting and staring at an unknown place with a large can of tomato paste in hand . I have returned from these very days, you have returned from these very days and you do not know when and where another day will come when you will see a woman staring at an unknown place with tomato paste in her hand

Years ago, if it was up to you, if it was up to you, you could fall in love with that woman. You do not remember that day, you do not remember that look, it goes as it came, and behind the dust of a multitude of unknown memories it disappears or it escapes and does not return. To write about that woman means to remember, it means to remember, it means to go next to that woman and stare at an unknown place next to her. Writing means remembering all the gazes and the intersection of the gazes. That means falling in love with a woman standing in a store with a large can of tomato paste in her hand. You come back from this post, you often stare at a woman standing in the store. You have seen this woman many times before, you have fallen in love with her many times and you do not remember her. You are out of the sun and you do not remember him, you walked in the snow, you fed the hungry dogs and you do not remember him. In the summer sun, you walked in Karim Khan Street, in Enghelab Street and you do not remember him. You are sitting on the thorny rocks of the mountain, on the highest peak and on top of the mountains and rocks and trees, staring at an unknown place and you do not remember that woman in the shop. He will remain in your memory until the day he returns. You do not remember her and you fall in love with her and you think you remember her and you do not have her and you stare and you get eager and you look and you look at yourself and you stare at the woman and you do not find anyone and she does not know you.

You come back from this look, one day you came back from such a look, you stared somewhere, stared and then fell in love, what love are you? The second is the moment, the eternity of the moment is recorded in writing. Go back from that moment and write it down. Write that a woman was staring at you face to face and before she turned her face towards you, did you fall in love with her or did you want to fall in love with her and in the distance between reaching her and passing by her, you whispered to her many times in your heart and while You passed him talking and he stayed behind, staring away and a can of tomato paste in his hand. You pass her, you remember, because it is only in the stories that people turn back in vain, fall in love in vain, and fall in love with the woman’s gaze and do not give up, and go so far that love gives them work. These are written in stories and in reality you pass by that woman and later you sit in the past and remember the past and think to write that I could have fallen in love with that woman and continue that look forever. Eternity can be an extension of that moment if you knew, if you remembered that woman was beautiful.

Writer || Davoud Penhani

اول پاییز بود و بعد تاریک شد. برگ‌های نور، قطره قطره جذب زمین شدند و تاریکی، شاخه شاخه عریان‌تر شد. پاییز تاریک بود و بعد ما بودیم در میانه‌ی تاریکی، چنان عریان؛ روشن‌تر از هر چراغی.

چشم‌ها را آرام آرام بستیم مثل نارون که برگ برگ پاییز می‌شود. هم‌ارض هم تاریک شدیم. این‌طور نبود که یکی کمی از چشمش باز باشد یا یکی کمی بسته‌تر. همه‌ی قدم‌ها در یک ارض بود، در دو نت چسبیده‌ی سیاه به چهار ضرب و یک گامِ سفید سکوت. نه کسی کمی جلوتر را دیده بود و نه کسی کمی بیشتر چشیده بود. و گاهی هم روی نتی یا نت‌هایی توقف کرده بودیم و آرشه را تا جا داشت کشیده بودیم.

از شکافِ پشت کلمات دیده بودیم. بیشتر او و بعدتر من. اول او و کمتر من. کلمه که جایی بلند بود و جایی پهن، جایی شکم داشت و جایی مست، لمیده بود و گاهی در خواب، بیدار بود. در تراکم و ازدحام، تلنبار بودند و حاشیه‌نشین و بی‌مسافر؛ کلماتِ من. و بعد مسافر رسیده بود با چمدان جادویی کلماتش. کمی که مانده بود دیدم چطور زهر را از کلمه می‌گیرد و در باران می‌خیساند و به شاخه‌های بهارنارنج آویزان می‌کند و بعد مزمزه‌اش می‌کند در گوش‌های به خواب رفته‌ی من.

و بعد ما بودیم در میانه‌ی تاریکی. ذره ذره تاریک شده بودیم. و ذره ذره نقطه‌ای از ما روشن می‌شد. مثل همان کلمات که می‌گفتند برای به دست آوردن چیزی باید چیزی دیگر را از دست بدهی. روشنایی را از دست می‌دادیم و روشن‌تر می‌شدیم. شب‌ها، معبد همه محرابِ میعاد و معراج بود بی‌که هم‌عرض بوده باشیم. یکی از این طرف و یکی از آن طرف، آغشته به تاریکی در زمین فرو می‌رفتیم و در هم‌عرضیِ هم، به روشنی بالا می‌آمدیم. در سیالیت قدم‌هامان بی‌که ارض و عرض مفهومی داشته باشند. در جهانی فراخ و بی‌پایان که از هر طرف که می‌رفتیم به هم می‌رسیدیم.

و بعد ما بودیم در میانه‌ی تاریکی، چنین عریان. به ازای هر شبی که روشن‌تر می‌شدیم، عریانی‌مان هم بیشتر می‌شد. که روشنایی کم‌سوی روز را تاب نمی‌آوردیم و با چشم‌بندی روز را به روشنایی خودمان می‌رساندیم. بینایی را از دست می‌دادیم و بیناتر می‌شدیم. تاریکی مطلق یا روشنایی مطلق، یا عریانی؟ چنین عریان که ما هستیم. روشن‌تر از هر چراغی در بارانی که ریز ریز باریده بود تمام وقت. آن‌قدر راه رفته بودیم در مه، در باران و خاکستری ابرها را بارور کرده بودیم که رسیده بودیم به گل یخ که فصل سرد را بشارت می‌داد.

و حالا ما هستیم در میانه‌ی تاریکی، چنین عریان؛ روشن‌تر از هر چراغی، در آستانه‌ی فصل سرد. آغشته به پولک‌های زمهریر و شاخه‌ای گل یخ، آویخته میان انگشت‌های او و من. که بارورمان می‌کند چون شعله‌های سرخی در سپیدی عریان و تاریکی زمهریرِ ما، تا رسیدن به رویش در آستانه‌ی فصلی دیگر که آمدن او را نوید می‌دهد.

حالا ما هستیم. روشن‌تر از هر چراغی و عریان‌تر از هر زمهریری. من هستم و کلمات شاعر. حالا صبح به صبح عطر بهارنارنج‌ها بیدارم می‌کند و شب به شب ملاحت کلمات باران خورده به خوابم می‌برند.

|| اندیشه

The woman is waiting, in nightmares. The man is gone. He did not come back. Woman staring at the glass. To the light that has been left behind the windows for the past months. Does not see other windows. Other lights. And he does not see a shadow staring at the glass, at the lamp that illuminates the woman’s window. sometimes. Woman is staring at nothing and shadowing at woman.

The shadow in the darkness and in silence, holding a cigarette, looks at the cigarette between the woman’s fingers. He sees the cigarette smoke that sometimes disappears from the woman’s face. And he sees a woman cutting her long hair close to the corners at night behind a window light. And sees the woman’s tears. The shadow does not get tired of watching. Out of silence.

The shadow gets closer. The woman is not calm. He walks constantly. behind the window. She cries constantly. behind the window. The shadow is getting closer. The woman sees the movement of the shadow and passes by.

The woman has turned gray in her halo of sorrow. The frightened man approached the woman. The woman sees the shadow moment and goes back to the steps. This side to the other side of the window.

The woman fell asleep behind the window. The man distances himself from his fearfulness and extends his hand slightly towards the woman. He restores his hand and his shadow. The woman who opens her eyes smells an unfamiliar smell. He lights a cigarette. Is walking. She cries and falls asleep again.

The shadow is approaching again. Closer than the night before. Rapid blood flow pulses throughout. It brings the fingers closer and catches the wetness of the female cheeks. It smells wet on the fingers. Fearful is the man who speaks.

– Living in the vacuum you drew.

The woman’s face, twisted to her left shoulder, shakes and becomes more curved. The man and his fear in words are still.

– I saw you in silence at night. I saw you with long hair and short hair. You saw that you were going from the unknown to the unknown. behind the window.

The woman behind her eyelids sees a shadow going back and forth behind the window. The shadow stays with the woman until she wakes up. To get wet afterwards from the eyelids. That did not drown the woman.

The woman opens her eyes to the shadow. The man is asleep. The woman remembers the unfamiliar smell.

– I heard the sound of your feet sometimes. There was no one to roll my eyes at.

The woman looks at the man’s wet fingers. He brings his face close to his fingers and smells himself.

– I still know. I go behind the window to the unknown and return to me. How did you get out of the shadows?

The man holds the woman’s fingers between his fingers. It smells.

– You are settling down. Like the pains of wine.

The man’s eyes are still closed. He opens his eyes. The woman takes a little distance.

– Peace be upon you. in peace.

The man lights a cigarette on the woman’s lips and takes his cigarette from the woman’s cigarette fire.

– This ruin celebration. With your shadow lines.

The woman opens and closes her eyelids on the cigarette smoke.

– Celebration of destruction! Celebration of destruction! I saw your shadow sometimes. Or cigarette smoke behind closed windows.

The man moves towards the woman. He returns as if he has given up. He turns and puts his eyes on the woman.

Night is a restless orbit of temptation.

Reads a piece of female poetry. The woman continues the poem.

– … from the shining window. The night is a repetition of the sound of chains behind my silent window.

The man is sitting on a chair with eyes following the woman’s footsteps. The woman stands behind the man. He pauses. His gaze reaches the always-off window. They walk behind the window. Returns. She sits on the floor next to the man.

– Real life does not bore me.

And puts her head on the man’s feet. The man repeats the woman’s sentence several times. He sighs and repeats. He sighs.

– I have to light a cigarette.

The woman’s face, which is on the man’s legs, hears the rapid flow of blood in the man. The woman puts the man’s fingers close to his mouth and lights a cigarette. The man is still repeating.

– Real life does not bore me. Remember flight is a dead bird.

The woman gets up. She walks in front of the man. The man does not see him. Remaining in the female sentence. The woman walks and takes the man’s cigarette with her this way and that. The man whispers.

…Das wirkliche Leben macht mich nicht müde –

The woman stands behind the man. He looks at the blackout of the window in front of him and returns to the man a little later. The man whispers in the shadow of the woman.

– The end of the world is a sad song … Light becomes a woman from whom my share is to unite with her shadow in darkness.

The woman bends over and squats in the man’s shadow. She whispers to the man.

– My share of her is to unite with her shadow in the dark.

They also sleep in the shade. When they open their eyes, it is autumn. The man sings in the woman’s eyes.

– I cried with you in clear solitude for the sake of the living.

The woman has forgotten time. And the window. Fear rises. He goes to the window. The window is still off. He does not know how many days and nights he passed through the window. She does not know how many days and nights she slept in the shadow of a man. It opens the eyes. He remembers the shadow of a man, and sleeps in the shadow of a man. He thinks he has a fresh taste of shadow. It tastes like sweet. Similar to fun. Like a dream. A fresh taste that is none of these. Turns to the man.

– I have to light a cigarette.

The man kept the cigarette lit for the woman.

– I look at you in the middle of the night in a cruel waiting place.

The woman takes the cigarette from the man’s fingers. The man gets up from his chair. The woman sits on the man’s chair.

– There are days that are full of holes.

The man walks on the line of fading circles around the woman. The woman’s cradle shakes and moves closer and closer. The woman sings a sad song.

– The day is full of black holes and I walk on water.

The man reached the window. He stands where he saw the woman through his own window. He looks where he has seen the woman’s night and day. To the closed window. A window in complete resemblance to its own window. Returns. He looks at the woman. The woman’s voice drowns out the woman.

– I have to hit the water.

And a bouquet of flowers lies on the water in his arms. The man approaches slowly. Water gently takes the woman in and with her. The man kneels to watch.

– Because you’s beautiful.

The woman falls asleep quietly and the man slowly falls asleep in the woman’s melancholy.

– Is it a temptation to sleep or wake up here at your party?

The man goes with the woman and with the water. Calm and enchanted. The woman goes to sleep and in the water. Calm and enchanted.

Writer || Andisheh

اوفلیا؛ ناقوسِ نیم‌شب

زن به انتظار نشسته، در خواب‌هایی که به کابوس می‌زنند تازگی: مردِ رفته می‌آید. نیامده برمی‌گردد. زن چشم چسبانده به شیشه. به چراغی که پشت پنجره‌ای خاموش مانده ماه‌های گذشته. نمی‌بیند پنجره‌های دیگر را. روشنایی‌های دیگر را. و سایه‌ای را نمی‌بیند که چشم چسبانده به شیشه، به چراغی که پنجره‌ی زن را روشن می‌کند. گاه‌گاهی. زن به هیچ خیره است و سایه به زن.

سایه در تاریکی و در سکوت، سیگار به دست، به سیگارِ میان انگشت‌های زن نگاه می‌کند. می‌بیند دودِ سیگار را که محو می‌کند گاهی صورت زن را. و می‌بیند که زن شبی پشت روشنی پنجره موهای بلندش را تا نزدیکی گوش‌ها کوتاه می‌کند. و اشک‌های زن را می‌بیند. خسته نمی‌شود سایه از تماشا. از سکوت.

سایه نزدیک‌تر می‌شود. زن آرام نیست. راه می‌رود مدام. پشت پنجره. گریه می‌کند مدام. پشت پنجره. سایه نزدیک‌تر شده. زن حرکت سایه را می‌بیند و می‌گذرد.

زن در هاله‌ی اندوهش خاکستری شده. پرهیب مرد به نزدیکی زن رسیده. زن لحظه‌ای سایه را می‌بیند و دوباره برمی‌گردد به قدم‌ها. این طرف به آن طرفِ پنجره.

زن پشت پنجره به خواب رفته. مرد از پرهیبش فاصله می‌گیرد و دستش را کمی به طرف زن می‌برد. دست را و سایه‌اش را برمی‌گرداند. زن چشم که باز می‌کند بوی ناآشنا را حس می‌کند. سیگاری روشن می‌کند. راه می‌رود. گریه می‌کند و به خواب می‌رود دوباره.

سایه نزدیک می‌شود دوباره. نزدیک‌تر از شب قبل. جریان تند خون، نبض می‌زند در تمامش. انگشت‌ها را نزدیک‌تر می‌برد و خیسیِ گونه‌های زن را می‌گیرد. خیسیِ انگشت‌ها را بو می‌کشد. پرهیب مرد است که حرف می‌زند.

– زیستن در خلأیی که تو ترسیمش کردی.

صورت زن که چرخیده به شانه‌ی چپش، تکانی می‌خورد و خمیده‌تر می‌شود. مرد و پرهیبش در کلمات‌اند هنوز.

– می‌دیدمت شب‌ها در سکوت. می‌دیدمت با موهای بلند و موهای کوتاه. می‌دیدمت که از معلوم به مجهول می‌رفتی. پشت پنجره.

زن پشت پلک‌هاش سایه‌ای را می‌بیند که پشت پنجره این طرف و آن طرف می‌رود. سایه در کنار زن مانده تا بیداری. که خیسی پس‌زده از پلک‌ها بگیرد. که زن را آب نبرد.

زن چشم باز می‌کند به سایه. مرد به خواب رفته است. زن بوی ناآشنا را به یاد می‌آورد.

– صدای پاهات رو می‌شنیدم گاهی. چشم که می‌چرخوندم نبود کسی.

زن به انگشت‌های خیس مرد نگاه می‌کند. صورتش را به انگشت‌ها نزدیک می‌کند و بوی خودش را حس می‌کند.

– معلومم هنوز. تا مجهول می‌رم پشت پنجره و برمی‌گردم به من. تو چطور از سایه رد شدی؟

مرد انگشت‌های زن را میان انگشت‌هاش می‌گیرد. بو می‌کند.

– در حال ته‌نشین شدنی تو. مثل دُردهای شراب.

چشم‌های مرد بسته‌اند هنوز. باز می‌کند چشم‌ها را. زن کمی فاصله می‌گیرد.

– در صلحم ولی. در آرامش.

مرد سیگار روی لب‌های زن را روشن می‌کند و سیگار خودش را از آتش سیگار زن می‌گیراند.

– این جشن ویرانیه. با خطوط سایه‌های تو.

زن پلک‌هاش را به روی دود سیگار باز و بسته می‌کند.

– جشنِ ویرانی! جشنِ ویرانی! سایه‌ت رو می‌دیدم گاهی. یا دود سیگارت رو پشت پنجره‌ای خاموش.

مرد به طرف زن تکان می‌خورد. انگار منصرف شده باشد برمی‌گردد. برمی‌گردد و چشم‌ها را می‌گذارد روی زن بمانند.

– شب، مدار بی‌قرار وسوسه است.

تکه‌ای از شعر زن را می‌خواند. زن شعر را ادامه می‌دهد.

– … از پیِ پنجره‌ای تابان. شب تکرار صدای زنجره است پشت پنجره‌ی خاموشم.

مرد نشسته روی صندلی با چشم‌هایی که قدم‌های زن را دنبال می‌کنند. زن پشت به مرد می‌ایستد. مکث می‌کند. ردِ نگاهش به پنجره‌ی همیشه خاموش می‌رسد. پشت پنجره قدم می‌زند. برمی‌گردد. کنار مرد روی زمین می‌نشیند.

– زندگی واقعی خسته‌م نمی‌کنه.

و سرش را روی پاهای مرد می‌گذارد. مرد جمله‌ی زن را چند بار تکرار می‌کند. آه می‌کشد و تکرار می‌کند. آه می‌کشد.

– باید سیگاری افروخت.

صورت زن که روی پاهای مرد است جریان تند خون در مرد را می‌شنود. زن انگشت‌های مرد را به دهانش نزدیک می‌کند و سیگار را افروخته‌تر می‌کند. مرد هنوز تکرار می‌کند.

– زندگی واقعی خسته‌م نمی‌کنه. پرواز را به خاطر بسپار پرنده مردنی‌ست.

زن بلند می‌شود. راه می‌رود روبروی مرد. مرد نمی‌بیندش. مانده در جمله‌ی زن. زن راه می‌رود و سیگار مرد را با خود این طرف و آن طرف می‌برد. مرد زمزمه می‌کند.

…Das wirkliche Leben macht mich nicht müde –

زن پشت به مرد می‌ایستد. به خاموشیِ پنجره‌ی روبرو نگاه می‌کند و کمی بعد برمی‌گردد رو به مرد. مرد در سایه‌ی زن زمزمه می‌کند.

– پایان جهان، آواز اندوه‌ناکی‌ست… نور، زنی می‌شود که سهم من از او یکی شدن با سایه‌اش در تاریکی‌ست.

زن خم می‌شود و در سایه‌ی مرد چمباتمه می‌زند. با مرد زمزمه می‌کند.

– سهم من از او یکی شدن با سایه‌اش در تاریکی‌ست.

در سایه‌ی هم به خواب می‌روند. چشم که باز می‌کنند پاییز شده. مرد در چشم‌های زن می‌خواند.

– در خلوت روشن با تو گریسته‌ام برای خاطر زندگان.

زن زمان را فراموش کرده. و پنجره را. هراسان بلند می‌شود. خودش را به پنجره می‌رساند. پنجره خاموش است هنوز. نمی‌داند چند شب و روز از پنجره گذشته. نمی‌داند چند شب و روز در سایه‌ی مرد خواب بوده. چشم‌ها را بازتر می‌کند. سایه‌ی مرد، و خواب در سایه‌ی مرد را به یاد می‌آورد. فکر می‌کند طعم تازه‌ای داشته سایه. طعمی شبیه به شیرین. شبیه به لذت. شبیه به خواب. طعمی تازه که هیچ‌کدام از این‌ها نیست. به طرف مرد برمی‌گردد.

– باید سیگاری افروخت.

مرد سیگار را برای زن روشن نگه داشته.

– میان شب در مجالِ بی‌رحم انتظار، تو را می‌نگرم.

زن سیگار را از انگشت‌های مرد می‌گیرد. مرد از روی صندلی بلند می‌شود. زن می‌نشیند روی صندلی مرد.

– روزهایی هستن که پر از حفره‌ان.

مرد روی خط محو دایره‌ای دورِ زن راه می‌رود. گهواره‌ی زن را تکان می‌دهد و دور و نزدیک می‌شود. زن آهنگی محزون می‌خواند.

– روز پر از سیاه‌چاله‌ست و من روی آب راه می‌رم.

مرد به پنجره رسیده. همان جایی می‌ایستد که زن را می‌دیده از پنجره‌ی خودش. به همان جایی نگاه می‌کند که نگاه زن را دیده بوده شب‌ها و روزها. به پنجره‌ای خاموش. پنجره‌ای در شباهت کامل با پنجره‌ی خودش. برمی‌گردد. زن را نگاه می‌کند. صدای زن در زن غرق می‌شود.

– باید به آب بزنم.

و دسته گلی در آغوش روی آب دراز می‌کشد. مرد آرام نزدیک می‌شود. آب زن را آرام در خود و با خود می‌برد. مرد زانو می‌زند به تماشا.

– چرا که از آنِ توست زیبایی.

زن آرام به خواب می‌رود و مرد آرام در مالیخولیای زن سِحر می‌شود.

– وسوسه‌ی خواب است یا بیداری اینجا در بزم تو؟

مرد با زن و با آب می‌رود. آرام و مسحور. زن در خواب و در آب می‌رود. آرام و مسحور.

نویسنده || اندیشه