Little by little, bit by bit a crispy chocolate finger disappears between two solid rows of his teeth, and I notice I’ve started talking to myself again and to the walls around that would bear my bickering as much as it goes on. ‘The future is bright’, my sudden dull and gloomy optimism oozes out of my lips and makes him stop chewing the mouth-moistening chocolate and confirms with a nod repeating ‘The future is bright and green’, and ignores what I add to his saying: ‘…and yellow. The future is bright and yellow’. And he walks away preventing me to see how my half-an-hour breathless speech has put a heavy burden on his eyelids, while I’m still explaining to yellow walls how bright the future must be. But even yellow could be considered ‘bright’.
Suddenly I recall a yellow figure, long and clumsy with hands longer than his legs, warped lips borrowed from a shark, huge round eyes to capture as much as possible nailed down in a disproportional head, ears pricky enough to replace Putin’s locators and a tummy eager to enter any room before the skinny rest of its owner.
A decade ago he used to deserve my admiration, perhaps due to a considerable distance between our figures and worlds. The closer I went to discover his world and study his being the deeper went my disappointment. Questions started erupting in my mind if it was the same enthusiastic freedom fighter Mirza whose very first well-appraised journalistic work was a lengthy article based on an interview with a 15-year-old Darius (with a different name).
Our last face to face conversation took place in an elevator by Wenceslas Square in Prague straight after Massoumeh’s resignation was announced. It was his day-off, but he couldn’t afford to miss the meeting and was craving to hear the predictable news and clumsily joined the meeting at its last minutes. By then everything had been done: we had listened to Massi’s moving farewell speech when I was trying not to get too sentimental, and my announcement to follow Massi’s suit and quit my job had risen Michelle (the deputy director)’s eyebrows before turning them into a broken pair of crow wings. He missed the most essential part of the meeting, but Noor was there for him as a trust-worthy informer to whisper a couple of words into his joyful ears: “She’s leaving.” Although he did not know that the picture looks much prettier to his taste and I was leaving too. He discovered it later, but it was too late to retract his silly comments in the elevator: “She had to leave indeed. Just because she did not deserve this position. She was totally accidental.”
I am certain, Mirza still remembers how my outrage brought him to a standstill for a while before leaving the elevator hastily on the second floor while he had pushed the ‘G’ button. Good for him, saved an eye or a ball (I doubt though he got any). But my carelessly thrown words visibly struck his feeble guts: “If you consider her an accidental person what the fuck are you doing here with your walnut-size brain and nothing to deliver except for flattery? Now you are saying this… Mind your words before you utter them and know your tiny space, you little being.”
The only thing he could mutter upon his blocked nose was “You too. You are next to leave.” But when my agony took another revenge the only thing left to do for him was taking his pompous ass out of the elevator before reaching his destination.
After that he was just a tiny pitiful lifeless picture no matter how big his tummy was. A murky moving being entering the space, filling it with disgust as if he’d farted out whatever shit in his bowels was stuck and leaving the premises with no words leaving his curved lips. A fallen head attached to a broken neck on a diminishing figure sits behind a computer, jerks a keyboard and drags his tail between two legs out of the office. While I’m sending my farewell messages loudly over the phone and laughing as if Hadi Khorsandi’s presenting his best act for me.
And now, four months after, I try to fathom out what had caused this unhealthy atmosphere between two of us. The answer is: ‘dollar’. Just 20 or 30 more dollars to be added to his monthly salary by overworking on night shift. I was advocating for those who preferred a decent and civilized nightshift pattern of 4 nights a week. But he thought it was better to work one night more with a day and a half off and get few pennies more. Thus, he decided I was his bitter adversary and did what he did not have to do. His regrets will never work.
But do you think he cares what I’m talking about at all? Of course not. Firstly, this language is out of his reach as his ‘native’ proper Persian. Secondly, he’s serving Turkic rulers at the “Liberty” (what a farce!) at a higher position as a deputy director of Tajik Service with a couple of dollars more than in November. Two dollars! That’s a fortune for some beings. I wish I knew his bank details to transfer two more dollars that I give to beggars in London’s Brixton, to calm down his python appetite.