“When did you start shooting up?” I asked not wanting to know.
“Two years after I left, I could not get into any orchestras, the language barrier was killing me, and I had no money, so I started playing at this jazz café.”
“You hated jazz.”
“I did not play jazz, I started for the jazz bands,” Narges said. “I met an Arab art dealer, Fwaz. He used to live in Iran. He knew Anis and I from the golden days. Back then, he sold couple of Anis’s work in Paris. We started shooting up…” she looked out the window to aviod my furious eyes. “Turns out, art was not the only thing he dealt with” she smiled.
“You were so confident, so proud; your amour-propre just killed us all. I moved toward the window so that I can catch her eyes.
“You know I used to watch you practice from my office. You remember the little hole we shared,” I asked desperate to know.
“Oh yes, what was that hole?”
“ …I used to take the foam out quietly and watch you when you played. Did you know they sent Asghar seven times to fill the hole? I paid him off every single time.”
“I knew you were watching, so I kept writing complaints.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“I used to watch you when we were kids. I climbed up to the roof of the greenhouse and watched you for hours. You used to wear skirts then. You pulled it up slowly, and held your cello between your legs, then you’d pull you skirt even more. Those thighs. I could have just died there…sea of sperm I wasted dreaming of those thighs.”
“You came all the way here to tell me this!”…she looked at me exhaling a sad breath.
I quietly sat on her bed, thinking of the crimes I committed against everyone in my life.
“I liked the feeling of the cold wood on my flesh,” She said, tears rolling on her face.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I sorry for all you went through.” I looked at her taking full responsibility.
“You know after they found Anis’s body, they could not issue a death certificate. So, they took a plastic bowl. They put a bit of his brain, some of his heart, bits of his intestine, his hair, and some skin in the white plastic bowl, they gave it to me and send me to the forensic people in Tehran. I drove, and cried the whole time. I was praying for my own death, yet I did not have the guts to turn the wheels towards the cliff.”
“… killed him didn’t’ they,” I asked.
“The forensic doctor knew of Anis. He called me up to his office. He said the cause of death was suicide. With tears in his eyes he told me, yet your husband would have never committed suicide.”
“How is Neda,” Narges asked desperate to change the subject.
“She is here in Paris. She lives with him now. She left me a years ago.”
“Why did you marry her, you knew she has an affair with him. We all knew.”
“I know…the crimes I committed….”
“Ali sent me your latest CD. He wrote on it, ‘composed and conducted by Abed.’ He also said you named a piece “Naked Cello,” but the ministry did not let you publish it.”
“Yeah, I would have liked it to be called "Naked Cello." Did you like it,” I asked
“Yes, but I was expecting some solo parts for the instrument you loved.”
“Well, that would have been too painful. It was actually Ali that once wrote criticizing me for ignoring the heavenly sound of the cello, when it is most needed.”
“hmm, he always knew you best.”
“Ali always tells me, you are a great composer and horrible conductor”
“He is right you know, why did you go for conducting anyways,” Narges asked.
“So that I can take a better look at you thighs, embracing your cello, while conducting my dream orchestra. Little did I know that they would come and cover you all up! Cover those heavenly thighs up....”
Narges, laughed. I looked at her in terror.
“Come help me get out of bed,” she said.
I took her wrinkly weak hands and directed her to the wooden chair in front of her wooden music stand.
“Give it to me,” she pointed at her cello.
She slowly moved her robe up her legs, held her cello between her legs; she pulled the robe up even more. She then pointed her bow at me, directing me to sit on her bed…and she started to play Brahms, sonata No. 1 for cello and piano, Op. 38: allegro non troppo.
