3 short stories - Bahram Zaimi

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fat garbage jumped on his feet, his stupid eyes had been widened, colour of horseshit; his open mouth, the pieces of meat and lettuce in the gaps of his yellow teeth. Your calm look on him, right at his brown pupils, ‘Sorry, I guess you’ve dropped something.’ How did you come up with the sentence, it was so funny.”

      “I don’t know, Shawnee, it just came to my mind,” Danny said while smiling and the smile turned to laugh. They both laughed.

      “The idiot jerked his left hand pressed it on the wound; I guess the stupid knew the pain was from a missing thing. He crouched down, snatched the ear off the ground, and ran away; his big ass was wobbling; a girl could run better. He had never again bothered you neither anybody else. It was from that time when every student in the Lafayette high knew who was the boss. The skinny boy became a strong twelfth-grade, the students in the corridor silenced when saw us entering with frowns, they gave way, no sound but the murmurs of the girls from behind.”

      “Yes, Shawnee, I remember.”

      “Soon fell a nightmare on the calm city of Lexington, us. Dark alleys were terrifying, our domain was extending. Quick and sharp, no reason needs a warrior in the occupied land. Soft bellies, deep cuts, broken ribs out the skin; the thrust of the long blade from one side shine of the tip from another side; the smell of blood in the air, red trails on the streets, the lord was in the city.”

      Danny’s lips were quivering, he was feeling the warm blood running through his veins, “Yes, Shawnee, we had blood in us.”

      “But then something happened. The new arrivals as they nowadays name them: Colourful, red and yellow, a variety of ivory, expensive woods and many other types, blades of steel and titanium. You know Jonny, I admire the progress, they were really much better than I in every aspect: easy to handle, lightweight, good balance and much sharper. I was dumped aside, forgotten, I am not complaining, Jonny, I understand.”

      “And my bad days have begun. I have got lost, Shawnee,” Sadness in his voice.

      “That’s the way it happens every time, dear friend.”

      “So what is that?”

      “Somewhere between the line; the man looks back and says if it is the same path, how I am lost in my way? There is nothing wrong with the path; the line comes from his past, stretches out to future. He sits on the shoulder of the road, perplexed. He has forgotten why chose the road. Then there is no road, but an illusion.”

      “Yes, Shawnee, no passion” He leaned forward, place his hands on his forehead and murmured, “I forgot my real name was Jonny, the man who used to sing Bitter Tears. Now I am nothing but Danny.”

      “What are you saying? Your real name is Jonny.”

      “When I was six, I asked my father why you named me Daniel. He said, ‘because it is the name that I hate. I named you Daniel before you were born when I found out your mother was pregnant to hate you more.’ We were living in a small town close to Bonnesborough.”

      “Who was your father?”

      “Somebody who hated his surname, Boone, whenever looked into a mirror. On night very late, he woke me up in my room; two glares of blue upon me. ‘Get up, it is the time.’ He sat on my bed, he was wearing only underwear, red stains of blood; in his hand, his favourite, a large sharp knife, blood was dripping on my white sheet. ‘I have cut your mother’s head off, now it is your turn’, he said. He took my hand; I was in my birthday gift pyjamas. I always loved when he held my small hand, when mine disappeared in his warmth. Head down, looking at his bare feet, I followed every step of his toward the bathroom. He opened the door, turned on the lamp; the light bounced the big mirror, shined the white tiles on the walls. I was obedient as long as he held me warm. He freed my hand to place his at the nape of my neck. I was a little taller than the white china sink, the flange of the drain was brass, and the black stopper wasn’t there. He pushed my neck against the edge, my head bent in; I liked the smell of the china when it was clean. He pushed, my neck sat on the edge of the sink, it was cold. A moment passed, he took his hand off my head, a narrow stream of red was going to reach the brass. I raised my head; he was staring into the mirror, a cut on his neck. A bitter smile, and then the knife went deeper, slowly and very slowly. He smiled at the suffering of the man in the mirror. The red streams were joining on the brass, dripping sounds was whirling out the drain. He lowered his hand in suspension, the smeary knife touched his hip, the fresh blood stained his underwear. The smell of blood in my mouth, my wish, to hold his hand, as long as warm. The red found a new way to flow; his neck was supplying it all the way down his fingers. They dropped some on the floor white tiles, some on my birthday pyjamas. My feet on the tiles weren’t cold anymore. The crystals overflew my eyes, taste of brine at sides of my lips; the man’s suffering was not ended. The knife dropped, I took his hand, still warm. He died standing, with his cold stare into the mirror. The blue glares died down.”

      Danny stopped, gave time until the vibration in his voice died down. The old tree hushed its quivering leaves to listen. Shawnee in grave silence. Danny leaned back, his eyes followed the cracks on the ceiling, continued, “His hand cold, I left it free in idle suspension, went out of the bathroom, heading my parent’s bedroom at the end of the corridor. I pushed open the crack of the door. The light was still on. I stood at the bed by the footboard, her bare feet in front of me, blood of the neck on the pink pillow. She was lying on her back, not familiar was she to me, when rest headless. I turned on my heel, looking for the face. Found it on the toilet table. Her pale face in reflection of the mirror; the blonde hair at the back of the lonely head. The eyes were watching the head in wonder, what was the reason for the murder.”

      “Keme”

      “What is that?” Danny looked at Shawnee.

      “I named your father, Brave.”

      “Why?”

      “The soft soil.”

      “Soft soil?”

      “They say soft soil is thirsty. It sends a message, reminding the massacre is unfinished. Reminding the diseases to pure soil, smallpox, and syphilis. The soft soil keeps the footprints of the warriors, fills them with hatred and vengeance.”

      “I betrayed you, Shawnee. The punishment was that Jonny reduced to Danny.”

      “Nobody calls you Danny.”

      “She says.”

      “She calls you, Danny? I thought you’ve hated the name.”

      “Still I hate it; I let her say so I hate more. You know I have left Lexington, the city of my school days, and moved to Lafayette. She moved too, the girl from my high school time. Apparently, I had done something, which seemed to her heroic. You know girls; they see something and when alone in bed make dreams out of it.”

      “You see Jonny, now that you brought the subject; well…,” Shawnee did not continue.

      “Yes? Shawnee,” Danny wiggled on the sofa straightened his back. “What do you want to tell me? I trust you and your opinion matters to me; you know it.”

      “Jonny, I am not a man to interfere with people’s personal life. I know my boundaries and respect privacy, but it was that you were in the basement and I was there. She came down; I could recognize her from the way she came down, shaky, unstable, two feet on a tread once at a time. Then some argument, loud, I did not expect. The words were pouring out her mouth so easily.”

      “You are right, Shawnee. She has been kind of out of control recently. It is that dream of hers.”

      “Prairie; and what was that. She was repeating the word on and on.”

      “I don’t know. It was like that she woke up one morning with a dream, ‘Prairie’, but forgot the picture. From that time on, I hear a repetition of the word. She believes there should be something in the

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