Thirty Shadow Birds, page 1
THIRTY
SHADOW
BIRDS
Copyright © 2019 Fereshteh Molavi
Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.
Cover design: Val Fullard
eBook: tikaebooks.com
Thirty Shadow Birds is a work of fiction. All the characters portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Thirty shadow birds : a novel / Fereshteh Molavi.
Names: Molavi, Fereshteh, 1953– author.
Series: Inanna poetry & fiction series.
Description: Series statement: Inanna poetry & fiction series
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190147733 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190147741 | ISBN 9781771336536 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771336543 (epub) | ISBN 9781771336550 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781771336567 (pdf)
Classification: LCC PS8626.O4488 T55 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Printed and bound in Canada
Inanna Publications and Education Inc.
210 Founders College, York University
4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M3J 1P3
Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax: (416) 736-5765
Email: inanna.publications@inanna.ca Website: www.inanna.ca
THIRTY
SHADOW
BIRDS
a novel by
Fereshteh Molavi
INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.
TORONTO, CANADA
I do have a tale, with a bird as a head, with a bird as a tail. Shall I tell it, or shall I not tell it?
Well, tell it!
I do have a tale, with a shadow as a head, with a shadow as a tail. Shall I tell it, or shall I not tell it?
Don’t tell it!
I do have a tale…
I say shut up!
Yes, I will shut up; but I do have a shadow bird tale for you, and I do have a shadow bird tale for me…
1.
BUT THIS IS A DREAM!
I cannot see myself. I’m sitting somewhere, I don’t know where, staring at a quatrefoil window. I, Yalda the beholder, the invisible, am looking at a Yalda that is visible, right in front of me, here and now, in four shots: Yalda, besotted, in a Montreal pub, staring with eyes wide open at the long forehead of the shadow man who is pressing a napkin to her bleeding right temple; Yalda, injured, in the Montreal emergency room, her eyes closed tight so as not to see the surgeon’s hand stitching her head wound; Yalda, offended, in a Toronto office, her eyes fixed on the mouth of Negative Judy, who is spitting words onto her face: “Sorry, Michael didn’t include you in the new project”; and Yalda, shocked, in her home looking vacantly at her son wearing a bulletproof vest and duty belt with a baton.
And then I, Yalda the beholder, unable to bear watching, dive through the window to leave behind a broken me, Yalda the tangled, with the echoes of that awful sound: bang, bang, bang.
She feels her body, made of flesh and bones and nerves. With a lump in her throat, dissolving into trickling tears, she opens her eyes to murky light. She still can’t determine where she is. Yalda hears him humming in his bass voice:
“It’s raining
It’s pouring
A crazy girl is touring.
Bumped her head,
Went to bed,
And didn’t wake up in the morning.”
“Ah, I’m at your place again,” she whimpers.
“Yeah. Kismet is a bastard! It’s our annual meeting, this time in Montreal. A bit late, though,” the shadow man replies from behind the canvas curtain that divides his studio. “You had a short nap after those goddamned hours of waiting à l’urgence! Make sure you get some rest before you go home.”
“Home! I’m not going back to that hell,” she laments.
“Okey dokey! Go to the Sheraton Hotel, lady. Or sublet my cave for a month, poor woman. I’m packing my stuff for my tour across Québec.”
Having forgotten about her wound, Yalda rolls onto her belly and presses her face against the pillow. The sharp pain makes her groan and roll back onto her side.
“Need a painkiller?” the shadow man asks.
“No! Leave me alone, please!” she sobs.
“Fair enough! I’m going chez ma blonde. Your pills and the key are above the fridge. If you happen to disappear, leave the key with the concierge.”
She suppresses the urge to blubber by pressing her hand against her mouth. She hears the door creaking.
“If you don’t want to end up in a nuthouse, get over this fucking breakdown, girl!” he says, stepping out the door. “It’s sink or swim, honey.”
As his words and footsteps fade, Yalda stops breathing to savour the complete silence.
“Remember the other time you offered me a story?” the shadowman says, storming back inside and breaking the silence right at the moment Yalda feels a definite urge to resume breathing. “What was it you said? Shall I tell it, or shall I not tell it? Well, go ahead and tell it—that can be the rent for my place. Yeah! Spin time and weave your tale, girl!”
Yalda hears him slam the door a second time and finally go away. With the echo of the bang resounding in her head, she dashes out of bed and reaches the closed door. She beats her fists against it and bursts into a fit of tears. When her eyes stop tearing up and her wailing comes to an end, she hears her own voice pour out of her mouth; her words are clear: “Yes. I did have a tale for you … and I do have a tale for me…. Shall I tell it … or shall I not tell it? Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Yes, I’ll shut up, but I do….”
2.
“AND THEY SEE ONLY THEIR OWN SHADOWS, or the shadows of one another….” He breaks off from reading aloud and turns to me with an accusatory glare. His heavy gaze, along with a sudden chilly breeze coming from where he sits, settles on my face. I stop opening the tea thermos, pause, and muster an apologetic smile to prove I’m listening. I know I shouldn’t ruin this dubious reunion after so much time has passed. That he is interested in sharing his reading with me is a good sign. It suggests that he is at peace, that his inner skyline is free from ominous clouds. But clouds have no home other than the sky, so they could return at any moment. The reunion is suspect. My goodness! I’m dying to talk to him without any restrictions. Why does he always direct the conversation to what he likes? Nonetheless, I should celebrate this long-awaited moment of companionship. “…Which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave,” he continues. No! That’s not a fire behind us. It’s a dazzling evening sun, right across from me, on the tangible edge of sky and sea.
BUT THIS IS A DREAM.
To remember it when she is awake, she studies the scene: Guildwood beach, down the bluffs, a fall sunset over the lake, each of them sitting on a rock. He, slouching, immersed in the book; she, back straight and motionless, mesmerized by the sun. It is the perfect picture. But just as she begins to take it in, the sun starts to sink into the dark depths. Gradually, the silent sea swallows not only the sun, but the sky, and finally the dream itself.
And then ripples of pain, sporadic, emerging from the bottom of the sea, creep over her back and gnaw at her sleep. Turning to the other side, she stretches her back to fight the pain. Another defence: she remembers the upcoming visit to her doctor. An eidetic image distracts her: a submissive lakeshore, yielding aggressive ridges, appears for a second and vanishes.
A fugitive visual perception, she thinks.
Yalda senses the light over her closed eyelids. Out there, right behind the white curtains, towards the east, a bit above her sofa bed, another day proclaims itself. Fully awake, she’s reluctant to get up. She prays she won’t get a call from Negative Julie asking her to take over her morning ESL class. Her internal clock says that it’s around seven in the morning. It’s not unusual for Negative Julie to wait so late to seek a substitute, as if she gets enormous pleasure from lording her permanent employment over the substitutes; proof of why she deserves the title “Negative.” Remaining still, she keeps the thought of a likely call away with an imaginary flyswatter. She had hoped to teach ESL permanently and drop both of her other positions, the AutoCAD teaching gig and the casual project work with the firm, but now her plan is looking iffier than before. Nonetheless, uncertainty is the norm for all the jobs she’s tried in North America so far. Isn’t that the lot of a newcomer? Or maybe it is a peculiarity of our times. Whatever the hell it is, it sucks!
Now, it’s time for her brief pre-rising ritual where she goes over her daily schedule in her mind. Hooked on the habit of perpetually reminding herself of what she’s supposed to do, she wonders if she commands her brain, or if her brain commands her. Either way, both she and her brain must prepare to start a new day.
Q: What day is today?
A: Um, Thursday, I g
Q: What are your tasks today?
A: At 10:00 a.m., medical appointment, downtown. At 4:00 p.m., class, uptown.
Okay. Ça suffit!
Now she is ready to open her eyes and get up.
On the threshold of her room, Yalda pauses to do her brief morning stretches to relieve muscle tension. She holds up her arms to grip the top of the door frame with her fingertips. While she’s standing on her tiptoes to stretch her chest forward, in the dull grey light of the room, it seems to her that a stout headless man, squatting and with a big belly, looms on the opposite wall of the living room. Something, a sort of sword, dangles over this massive dark bulge. She feels a cold shiver run down her back and her grip loosens. She places her heels flat on the soft, thick carpet and blinks several times. It’s just his backpack and a fishing rod leaning against the wall. Except for the shiny yellow shoulder straps, the bag is all black. On one side is the cooler; on the other the tackle box. Perfect prep! When it comes to camping, she’s pretty sure that “procrastination” is not part of his vocabulary. She recalls that, in his clipped, telegraphic style, he announced he would be going camping for a few days. Over the years, she has been forced to get used to this form of conversation.
On her way to the bathroom, Yalda passes the half-closed door to her son’s room. She pauses to look at Nader. In his eternal fetal position, his body covered by a blanket, his uncovered face radiates a mild, sweet serenity.
“Asleep in the Deep,” she murmurs, recalling the song. “My son is not drowned.” She longs to keep looking, but turns away and enters the bathroom.
With her face under the weak stream of the hot water and her eyes closed, Yalda still sees in her mind the face of the young man who sleeps in the only bedroom of her cozy condo in Bayview Village. The bedroom is next to the den where she sleeps, or works, or takes refuge whenever she needs a hole to hide herself in, or to keep the world away. Nevertheless, it seems to her that her son’s room is a strange realm not fully open to her. That she sometimes longs to stare at his face when he’s asleep is maybe because she hopes to find traces of her sweet baby bird—the delicate face, half-hidden in the pillow or on her bosom, half-visible to her eyes. That still profile, like a sleeping baby bird, made her murmur, “Oh, mon petit oiseau!” Nowadays, when she looks at her son, there is no hint of even simple familiarity, let alone that profound, intertwined intimacy they had once shared.
3.
AT THE INTERSECTION OF YONGE AND SHEPPARD, at a red light, Yalda worries about arriving for the appointment on time. It shouldn’t take more than an hour to reach the parking lot of St. Michael’s College. If nothing happens, she won’t be late. But stress is all about ifs, and ifs are the inevitable fruits of an imagination gone wild.
“Should we suppress our imagination in favour of peace of mind?” she argued once with a health counsellor, who became confused and eventually recommended a psychotherapist.
She takes her eyes off the car clock, recalling “Fast Tips to Fight Time Stress.” When did she read it? Was it to give her brain a break from her tedious work with AutoCAD or to kill time waiting in a doctor’s office? It’s not worth bothering her brain about that now. Chinese, Indian, or Tibetan, it was just another American adaptation of an old Eastern method. Ignoring clocks is what one might call “American Fast Stupidity,” she thinks, recalling how this expression, a play on American “fast food,” made Marc burst into laughter. She can’t help but smile, if regretfully. Marc used to tell her that inventors of fast stupidity were not stupid at all, so she shouldn’t be unfair. She catches herself before her thoughts continue to linger on Marc. Letting her mind sneak towards thoughts of a colleague, who was once a potential prince charming, is another stupidity, an Eastern type, though—a sign of sentimentalism rooted in her Eastern background and culture. She should keep her mind on a leash to keep it from wandering off. As such, she’d do better to recall the superiority of ignorance over stupidity. After all, who can deny the power of immunity that ignorant people enjoy? Even if the rest of the world can do that, Yalda won’t. How could all these drivers in four directions drive, if they didn’t ignore the probability of accidents? Even if it would not necessarily save their lives, their ignorance certainly helps them maintain their sanity. And….
An angry driver’s honking disrupts her inner debate. She gives him a calm glance in the mirror before turning left on Avenue Road. Well, she admits that whenever she is behind another car taking a left turn, she blames and sometimes even curses that driver for any delay. The driver in front cannot take a risk, though, just to satisfy the person behind him. The golden rule is that our position determines our judgment. What shit! She must stop arguing with herself while she is at the wheel. In fact, it’s just as unsafe as talking on a cell phone. Yalda reminds herself to ask the doctor if having a hyperactive mind is somehow related to her sedentary lifestyle. She knows that the doctor tends to relate any “not to her knowledge” physical problems to lifestyle. The interaction between a hard-working mind and a butt addicted to sitting may not even be known to a young general practitioner. Yeah, she’d better give it up and stop thinking.
Avenue Road, from Wilson to Eglinton, seems dull to her. Despite this, such a familiar road relaxes her; the less there is to pay attention to outside, the more she can dive into her thoughts. When her thoughts tend to be gloomy, Yalda knows she has to escape them. She knows some tricks, such as listening to classical music, work well for her. For a moment, she misses NPR Classical—its on-air pledge drives made her less lonely during her frequent solo trips between Montréal and Springfield. They always gave her a sense of belonging to a group of unseen people who loved what she loved. Now is not the right time to listen to her new favourite soundtrack, The Fountain. Without taking her eyes off the road, she turns on the radio. Hearing rap music, she curses Nader for changing the station and tries to bring it back to 99.1 FM by repeatedly pressing the seek button. At last, she recognizes The Current. Today, the familiar voice of Anna Maria Tremonti grabs her attention with an interesting hook:
“It’s been nearly nineteen years since a gunman walked into the École Polytechnique in Montréal, sat down on a bench for a couple of hours, and then went on a killing rampage. And it’s taken nearly nineteen years for his mother to come close to processsing what he did that day….”
On the hump of Avenue Road, where it winds back to a straight continuum before St. Clair, Yalda slows down, pressing the brake to maintain a safe distance from the car in front of her. A sudden doubt about what constitutes a “safe distance” between her and the car in front of her flashes across her mind for a second, then vanishes as the sad voice of the interviewee grabs her full attention:
“It was just ’orrible…. You know…”
Yalda tries to concentrate on the accent. It sounds pleasant to her ears, but the sediment of sorrow in the voice is overwhelming.
“When I heard…. I couldn’t believe that….”
She passes Upper Canada College. A woman, maybe as old as that gunman’s mother, is walking her puppy along the sidewalk.
“I had the feeling that I was a criminal…. It was ’orrible….”
The woman, well-dressed, has silver hair and a contented, delicate face. Yalda tries to imagine what the old woman in Québec looks like.
“Madame, don’t feel guilty about the event…. You know….”
She fails to imagine how she looks. She’ll see her picture in the papers or on the computer screen soon, she thinks.
“I didn’t raise him to become a killer, you know….”
Yalda notices her palms are wet with sweat. She holds the steering wheel with one hand and dries the palm of the other by rubbing it on her jeans. As the interview continues, the woman repeats the words “you know” over and over, like a refrain. Yalda considers counting them, if only to deviate her attention from the burden of the other words.
“I was a single mom….”
Yalda wonders what is behind this statement.
“He was a narcissist….”
