Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Remote Control

2009; University of Oklahoma; Volume: 83; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/wlt.2009.0191

1945-8134

Moniro Ravanipour, Assurbanipal Babilla,

Remote Control Moniro Ravanipour A memberof the Association ofIranianWriters, Moniro Ravanipour has written severalnovels,shortstories,and children'sbooks. As a supporterof anti-censorship movements inIran,she finds herwork continuallyunder governmentalscrutiny. Ravanipour waited sevenyears toreceivea publishing permit for her first collectionofshortstoriesand a decadefor her third novel. In Iran,many ofher titlesare banned frompublicationentirely. small card worth twenty euros is sup posed to connect her to a world from JL JL which she has fled. It says on theback of the card that she can contact twenty-one coun tries,but she isonly interested inone country.She sees that Munich is sunny-From her room she should dial zero first, and then keep dialing and dialing until she's connected to her home. From Orly Airport she had managed to holler in the receiver: "I've arrived!" She had intended to say that theperson who had died on theplane wasn't her. She had snickered secretly. . . . It's obvious that I'm not dead. So now shemust say how and when she's arrived and say ... At thismoment she's thinking that she has imagined thewhole thing: she has called no one, has heard nothing, said nothing. She feels at this moment obsessed with the old-fashioned tele phone inher hotel room. She dials zero. Then dials and dials more digits. At theother end of the line a woman mellifluously says something inFrench. She understands nothing. There's no choice: shemust go down to the lobby, ask the concierge to dial the number for her. How does one ask?Well, I'll just show him the card. he woman at the desk isGerman, and like other Germans she's too busy, has no time, and only speaks inhermother tongue.And when she's in her beloved homeland, she speaks only ^^^H German and never smiles. ^^^H She gesticulates using her arms and legs and ^^^H eyes and eyebrows tryingto communicate to the ^^^H woman thatshe desperately needs to call Tehran ^^^H because her family there isworried and extremely ^^^H anxious. The manager of thehotel has heard her. ^^^H Surely he's themanager. Since thismorning she ^^^H has seen himmany times.He's ofmedium height ^^^H and iswearing a white raincoat. He lowers his ^^^H head likea ballet dancer: "Madam." ^^^H He has a manly and romantic voice. She ^^^H languishes in the smell of his eau de cologne that ^^^H feels likean invitation to sleep.His face is squeaky ^^^H clean, and his nose hair is not exposed to the ^^^H world. His teeth are as white and hard as pearls. She gesticulates one more time: she needs to call home, hear her son's voice. Her son is eight years old and must be reassured thatshe's alive and not dead ... Again she giggles secretly: it's obvious that I'm not dead. She imagines that she's sweating profusely. She imagines thatshe's blushing. As it isher habit she touches her face and tucksher hair under her head kerchief. But remember you're inMunich, not Tehran. She letsgo ofher scarfandmanages a smilewith parched lips. The man extends his hand likea ballet dancer to take the telephone card. The woman says, "I'm i8 i World Literature Today 3 sorry," and quickly writes down her home num ber on the card. The man takes the card and turns away fromher on the tipofhis toes.He goes to a small room behind thecounter.Now she can only see half ofhis shoulder and thecolumn thathides the restofhis face and body. From the movement ofhis hand she realizes thathe's dialing, and from the frownon his face she assumes thateither the line is busy or that something iswrong with the connection. Finally theman gives up and puts ? down the receiver.He produces a cellular phone * out of his pocket and shows it to thewoman who < ismesmerized by his hands and fingers. "Please, ? madam." o X She feels thatno one, in her entire life,has spoken with so much kindness. The voice calms her down and puts her at ease. The voice seems to restoreherworth and helps her return toherself: me, myself,where have Ibeen? She takes thecell phone as she notices a slight trembling inher hands. Her mind is a blank. She has forgotten her home number, the code for Tehran, the code for Iran.Now, in all probability, he is thinking thatno one in Iran has ever seen a cell phone, thatwe ride camels. She smiles. She's about to dial thenumber, but theman takes the cell phone and dials thenumber. Then he offers her thephone. May-June 2009 i Moniro Ravanipour was born in 1952 ina small town in southern Iran. Her lifeand works are controversial in Iran,where she openly supports equal rights forwomen against such practices as stoning. Her story "Satan's Stones" was selected and published inStrange Times, My Dear: ThePENAnthology of Iranian Literature. In2007 Ravanipour spent sixmonths at Brown University's Watson Institute as a visiting fellow in the International Writers Project. Currently, she is writer-in-residence at the Black Mountain Institute inNevada. Assurbanipai Babilla isa playwright, painter, writer, and translator. He was born inTehran, Iran, and studied theology inBeirut. His plays have been produced in Beirut, Tehran, Los Angeles, and New York. He has traveled extensively around the United States and Europe to perform with his theater group, Purgatorio Ink. Thank you. She takes a deep breath when she hears her son's voice. She smiles at the man and says in Persian thather son is asking fora gift.The man smiles back. The woman suddenly remembers that the man is a foreigner.Talking toher son she promises toget him a toy.She says thatshe cannot talk to the fatherbecause the telephone belongs to a friend. The little boy says: "What friend, mommy? What friend?" The woman answers: "A good friend. A very good friend." Soon she finds out that theman is Italian, a native of Florence. The one place she has never seen. She has been to all the European countries where she has attended seminars and conferences concerning human rights?except Italy. The man doesn't know anything about Iran,he has merely encountered passengers from Iran who have been guests of thehotel,who have come and gone. They are now in the coffee shop of thehotel. The woman has invitedhim toa cup of coffee.The man speaks English well. Very well in fact.The woman is not so confident concerning her com mand of the language, but she doesn't care.All she wants to communicate is tomake him understand how grateful she is and thatItalians, like Iranians, are so kind and warmhearted . . . She says everything but imagines she's said nothing ... as if her words have been borrowed. She cannot express herself with borrowed words. She's unable to say what she wanted to say. But what is itthatyou want to say?All shewants is to sit and look at the man forhours. It'sbeen a long time since she has seen such a clean man. His ges tures, his voice, are like an unfamiliar music she has never heard before. hat night she's unable to sleep. The man has told her that his name isAntonio. He has lived in Munich forfiveyears, he has divorced his wife, and now he lives all by himself.Antonio tells her that she reminds him of a young woman he used to love. She lived next door with her family, but one day she and her familyhad disappeared. Sleep seems impossible. She tosses and turns. His white teethand clean nostrils. She looks over her head where she has always opened her eyes to a glass ofwater with a pair of dentures inside, right above her pillow. . . . How many years has it been that she has woken up to the sight of those dentures? How many years has she put up with the sight ofhair juttingout ofher husband's nostrils? The hairy nostrils recede into the distance. Antonio appears with his graceful hand gestures and beautiful smile that never leaves his lips. They stroll together in the cold streetsofMunich. Antonio stops at a shopwindow, extends his arm, takes a bottle ofperfume, and sprays her all over as if itwere an insect repellent. She's soaking wet when she wakes up. There's no glass ofwater above her head. She sits on thebed, and for the firsttime inmany years she feels embarrassed by the smell of her sweat. She goes straight to the bathroom and turns on the shower. She wants to sing?something in Ital ian. But she can't. Her knowledge of Italy is lim ited toMarcello Mastroianni and Sophia Loren. . . .She makes up a song: Marcello Mastroianni, Antoniani. . . Antoniani. The moment she finishes taking a shower, she remembers that she has not used her special body shampoo. She turns on thewater again, washes her armpits and thighs. It's been years since she has abandoned herself to water to this extent. She's now in front of the mirror?she looks at herself.How long is it that I've not looked at you? She touches thewrinkles on her forehead. Where was the door throughwhich fortyyears sneaked away? She has forgotten where she has read the poem that image came from.She dries herself with a towel and looks at her breasts: they're still firmand girlish, ready tobe fondled by a man?a man like Antonio. What clothes should she choose? Do you have anything besides a pair of jeans and a black turtleneckpullover? She doesn't wait for the elevator. She flies down the stairs?two at a time?to the hotel lobby.Antonio still in his white raincoat, a cup of coffee in his hand, emerges from the coffee shop. Nods his head and smiles. Coffee? She says no, and together they leave the hotel, walking toward his car. Antonio has promised to show her around. She has an intense desire togo shop ping. She wants tobuy herself perfume, a blouse, and underwear. She has not used a bra fora long time; it'sbeen a long time since she bought herself a lovely slip. When they are in the car Antonio lightly places his hand on her hand. The woman does not pull her hand away. She allows him to gen tly squeeze her hand. Antonio is talking about his girlfriendwhen he was very young and the uncanny resemblance that she bears to her. He talks about her laughter and her skin that was the 20 i World Literature Today color of bronze. Antonio continues talking and she slowly puts her head on his shoulder. Outside the sun is hiding under a black cloud and the pedestrians are all bundled up. Antonio is a man, and as a man he understands that women?even women like her who have devoted so much of their lives to human rights?love shopping. He tells her so with a soothing and romantic voice. He parks the car, takeshis camera, holds her arm, and guides her toward the stores. . .. Now this is your turn, forgetabout human rights. When they get to a perfume store, she feels numbness in her legs. Antonio holds her hand and pulls her toward the store. He's smiling furtively.The woman checks the labels and is shocked by the exorbitant prices. Her poverty makes her sweat. She's embarrassed and notices that the man ispointing toa certainperfume. The saleswoman gives him the bottle. He makes her smell the perfume by holding the bottle under her nose and says inEnglish: "Do you like it?"A long-lost sensation assaults her heart. She's stam mering like a fourteen-year-old girl. Finally she points with her finger to theprice tag.Antonio, still smiling, combs her hair with his fingersand presses her head tohis chest. He signals to the salesperson towrap the perfume. The sales girl, quickly and expertly, wraps thebox and hands it toAntonio. Antonio puts his arm around her shoulder and offersher the perfume. Antonio is tryingto etch thismoment indel iblyon hismind forall eternity?he is aware that she would eventually leave. He wants to take a picture with her, and the saleswoman iswilling tooblige. The woman iswalking on clouds?she has abandoned the earth. They have spread a carpet of swan feathersunder her feet.She has her arm around his waist now and, oblivious of others, theygo fromone store to another. Antonio pays foreverything and thenumber of shopping bags she carries grows more and more. The salespeople take theirpicture.Antonio tells all of them thathe has found thewoman he had lost ages ago and has found her accidentally in a hotel. Everyone listens tohis love story with wide smiles. Most of the pictures are taken at women's undergarments stores?laughing out loud sur rounded by panties and bras. His laughter is con tagious; the salespeople participate inhis joy.The woman isoblivious of thepassage of timeand the human rights conference. Now she knows that for many years her own rightshave been trampled underfoot. She doesn't want to go back to the hotel. She wants to savor every singlemoment. For the firsttime in her life she abandons herself to the moment and toAntonio, who is brimming with delight. She allows him to put his hand behind her neck as theypose forthesnapshots and allows him tokiss her on the cheek. She doesn't mind if her cheeks are burning with an unfamiliar sen sation that she has denied herself foryears and years. Could itbe thatas a young woman she too had a next-door friend who looked likeAntonio? Is that the reason why he looks so familiar, this man with whom she seems to have become one? Now it is time to take thebags to the car and go someplace to eat. Since he is now calling her Moon?her childhood name?she says nothing until she has swallowed the lastmorsel, which shewashes down with thewine fromAntonio's glass. Suddenly she looks at Antonio's watch. Grabbing his wrist she asks for the time?only half an hour to conference time. Itwill take them twenty minutes toget to thehotel. Antonio offers to takeher directly to themeeting, butMoon has lefther notes at thehotel. They have to swing by the hotel. Antonio slams down on the accelerator, but before theyget to thehotel he holds her hand twice and squeezes it. He parks the car in frontof the hotel but keeps the engine running, giving her time to get her notes. Moon runs into thehotel. She doesn't wait forthe elevator; she climbs up the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor,opens the door, gets her notes, and presses the button for the elevator. When they arrive they still have fivemin utes. She takes her pocketbook and her papers. Antonio doesn't move frombehind the steering wheel. Moon asks him: "Don't you want to come to themeeting?" Antonio answers: "I'm going to get the pictures printed." Moon asks: "Are you coming back to pick me up?" Antonio answers in English: "With one condition," and laughs. Moon is also laughing. She asks: "And what is the condition?" Antonio clears his throat and responds flawlessly inPersian: "Iwill come only ifyou promise not to spout political bullshit." Translationfrom the Tarsi ByAssurbanipal Babilla ...