Kaka Siyah

After leaving the theater, they set off toward the dormitory, both silent and gloomy. Davoud, who seemed to be in a hurry to get back, turned angrily to Arash.

"Did you hear what he said? Did you hear him? Man, I can't believe this is the same guy who came to the college a month ago. I can't believe he's the same humble, down-to-earth man I talked to that day. Remember? Remember how modestly he spoke in front of the professor? What an actor this guy is!"

Arash wrapped the strap of his bag around his hand and with the other hand stopped Davoud from stepping forward.

"Yeah, I remember. I remember everything. But the poor guy wasn't disrespectful tonight."

"Wasn't disrespectful? Wasn't disrespectful? Give me a break. And why did you stop me?"

Arash pointed to the red light across the street. A blue Peykan sped past them and splashed water onto both their shoes. Davoud grumbled and looked miserably up at the sky.

"Did it really have to start raining now?"

"I think even God is disrespecting you now."

When the light turned green, they began running across the white pedestrian lines, wet from the rain, and passed Asal Piroshki Shop. At that hour of the night there were no customers, and the husband and wife who owned the place were getting ready to close when Arash grabbed Davoud's arm and hurried inside.

The shopkeeper poured a bucket of water onto the floor.

"Sorry, friends. No hot piroshkis tonight."

Arash looked at the display case.

"That's all right. Even Asal's cold piroshkis taste good."

The man smiled with satisfaction.

"Looks like there's no dinner waiting for you at the dorm tonight."

"Come on. The guys aren't that heartless."

Davoud picked up Arash's sentence bitterly.

"Right, they're not heartless. They're kind enough not to throw the leftovers in the garbage. They save them for us. But tonight I don't think even those leftovers will be there, because this gentleman was on dorm duty tonight, and by the time we get back we're in for trouble."

Arash looked at him in surprise.

"I was on duty tonight?"

"Yes. You forgot that at the beginning of the week you said you'd take Abdollah's turn too? Someone ought to tell you, when you can't even do your own duty, why do you have to play the big shot and volunteer for other people?"

"Don't get worked up. I'll figure something out tonight."

"What are you going to do? Look at the time. It's ten thirty."

The shopkeeper turned and looked at the wall clock behind him.

"That clock's broken. I think it's probably close to ten."

Arash said happily,

"Then there's still hope."

"What difference does it make? The bakeries are closed at this hour. You can't even find a grocery store to buy some stale bread. And Ahmad Agha's piroshkis are cold and stale."

Ahmad Agha pointed up the street.

"On your way, before you get to Enqelab Square, there's a clean sandwich shop. The owner's an Azeri from Zanjan. Great guy. His sandwiches are great too, especially the cutlet sandwich."

"Oh, come on, Ahmad Agha. You must be kidding. If we start spending money like that, we'll have to shell out a whole month's student allowance, especially with how broke we are right now."

The shopkeeper picked up a piroshki with a pair of tongs, placed it on a sheet of paper, and said to Arash,

"Looks like your friend's in a pretty bitter mood."

Arash laughed.

"Once he eats these piroshkis, he'll sweeten up."

Inside the Enqelab minibus, Davoud had sunk into his seat and was staring outside at the street, still wet from the early evening rain. It reflected the colors and lights of the cars like a huge but tarnished mirror.

Arash slid the minibus window open.

"Look how much it rained. What a shame. See our luck? Of all times, it had to rain while we were sitting inside the theater."

Davoud did not answer. Maybe he had not heard him, or perhaps he was pretending not to.

Arash went on.

"But it was a good rain. I love rain, especially spring rain. We really were unlucky not to be there for the drizzle."

Davoud suddenly turned toward Arash.

"Yes, I got it. You love rain, and now your bad luck is that you happened to be sitting in the theater while the spring rain was falling. You really think you're unlucky? I'm the unlucky one. Every time I start something, I hit a dead end. I'm the unlucky one because I'm that stupid and gullible. I'm unlucky because I have a friend like you."

Arash said casually,

"On that last one, you got lucky. Come on, you expect too much. Did you think Mr. Director was going to put the play on a tray and present it to you the first time you asked?"

"No, I didn't expect that. But I didn't expect him to make a fool of me in front of Ms. Rezaei either."

"What are you talking about? Rezaei left right after the show. Her brother came to pick her up. Didn't you see? The poor girl didn't even say goodbye to us. I think she was afraid her dear brother might get all protective again, like last time."

"Are you serious? Then who was that woman?"

"Which woman?"

"The one whose ridiculous laughter is still ringing in my ears. It was as if she was laughing at me instead of the director."

"You've really started imagining things, Davoud. First of all, nobody laughed at anything you said. Why are you so wound up? Why are you so suspicious of everyone? Be reasonable, man. After all this time, someone has finally written a decent play and he wants to work on it himself. If you were in his place, would you just hand your original play over to someone you didn't know? Would you?"

"Yes. If it were me, I would. Every one of them, old and young, keeps shouting slogans about giving the new generation a chance. They say young people should be encouraged and supported. But when it comes time to actually do something, they all show their true colors. Then you realize every one of them is more jealous and narrow-minded than the next."

Arash gave Davoud a reproachful look.

Davoud stared at him.

"What?"

"You're not yourself tonight. As usual, you built yourself a whole dream, and now all those imaginary clouds have scattered. And apparently I'm the one to blame because I rejected your idea of buying the director a bouquet of flowers."

"Yes. If we'd gone there with a bouquet, maybe things would have turned out differently."

"Believe me, my friend, even if we'd gone there with a truckload of flowers, he wouldn't have agreed."

Davoud lost his temper and jumped out of his seat.

"You screwed it up, Arash. You really screwed it up. You always do this. I told you we should buy the damn flowers. You said no, no, the man I met doesn't care about things like that. This man is this, this man is that."

Then, in a comic tone, he went on.

"Buy flowers? What is this, are we going to propose marriage? See? This turned out to be more important than a marriage proposal."

Arash was less upset by what Davoud had said than by the fact that he had mimicked him.

"So what do you want me to do now? Want us to go back so I can throw myself at his feet?"

Davoud glared at Arash without answering and got off the minibus.

Arash was searching his pockets for money when the driver said irritably,

"Brother, instead of arguing with your friend, wouldn't it have been better to have your fare ready?"

Arash put a few coins into the driver's hand and hurried after Davoud.

The driver shouted after him.

"What's this, pal? The late-night fare is higher."

Ignoring the driver's shouting, Arash hurried to the other side of the square. But when he reached Kargar Street, there was no sign of Davoud. At that hour of the night, the street was deserted as far as the eye could see. Not a soul around.

The next day, Arash and Davoud finally agreed that the only way to get the play was to have one of the college professors act as an intermediary.

Davoud came out of the cafeteria carrying two cups of tea and sat beside the statue of the solitary man. He placed one of the red plastic cups, its white circles standing out, in front of Arash and took a sip of hot tea without sugar.

"Where'd you go, Arash?"

Arash, who was staring at the building across from them, answered.

"Tell me something. Haven't you ever wondered why the building here and the Museum of Contemporary Art were built to look so much alike?"

Davoud gave Arash the kind of look one gives a fool and picked up his cup of tea.

"They say they had the same architect."

"I'm not talking about the architecture. Look, there's quite a distance from here to the museum, but why should these two buildings look so much alike? It's very strange. Don't you think this confrontation between tradition and modernity, especially at a time when what we fundamentally need is to strengthen and lay the foundations of Iranian thought, might have been some kind of conspiracy by foreigners?"

Davoud practically shouted.

"Man, you're hopeless. Look at the situation we're in. Look at what we're going through just to get that damn play. And you're talking to me about the confrontation between tradition and modernity?"

"First of all, it makes no difference to me whether we get the play or not. You're the one who's fallen in love with the production and the script and wants to take it to the provinces and, as you put it, knock them dead. Second, as long as you and I stay on the surface and don't look deeply at questions like these, we won't be able to understand what today's audience really wants."

"I can't tell whether you're serious or getting yourself ready for philosophy and logic class. Believe me, even Professor Seyed-Hosseini doesn't get as hung up on tradition and modernity as you do."

Arash poured the rest of his tea onto the ground and stood up.

"Thanks for the tea."

Davoud answered casually,

"Don't mention it."

Arash was about to leave, but sat down again.

"If we want to get our hands on Kaka Siyah, we have to go through one of these professors. We need to persuade one of them to put in a word with the writer for us."

"Bravo. Now you're finally acting like a real friend. You know, I've thought about this a lot, Arash, and I think the only person whose word carries any weight outside this college is Dr. Sedghi. He's active in the arts, he's worked in theater, and he knows how to deal with people."

Arash continued sarcastically.

"Handsome. Well dressed. Athletic. Go on, keep going."

"I'm sure if we go to him for help, the problem's solved. And we're lucky. The first Traditional Performance Festival is being held at City Theater next week, and Dr. Sedghi is bound to show up there. We'll hang around until he appears. Then we'll walk up to him as if we've just happened to run into each other, and in that dramatic atmosphere we'll convince him to talk to the writer of Kaka Siyah."

"Really? You're serious about this?"

Davoud answered confidently.

"The doctor is well known among theater people. He has a special standing. Did you know a lot of the people who later became directors and critics used to be his students?"

Arash, who seemed determined to keep dampening Davoud's enthusiasm, said,

"With the good doctor you can only talk about Beckett, Peter Brook, Meyerhold, the Theater of the Absurd, and modern plays. Haven't you noticed how many times he uses the word ru-howzi when he wants to dismiss a production as worthless? All he needs to hear is that one of his students wants to stage a ru-howzi play. At the very least, he won't let us into class. And if he does let us in, he'll make so many digs at us that we'll regret the whole thing."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Professor Sami? No, not many people in theater know Professor Sami. Professor Rokni, though, is perfect for this."

Davoud asked without much hope,

"You think he'll agree?"

"Of course he will. You have no idea what a lovely man he is. Didn't I tell you what happened that snowy day?"

"No."

"It was just last year. One snowy day we drove the professor home in Morteza's car. You know me, I always shake hands when I say goodbye. I held out my hand. Do you know what he did? Right there in the falling snow, in that cold, he calmly took off his leather glove so he wouldn't disrespect me by shaking my hand with his glove on."

"What a guy."

"That's why I'm saying we should go to him. Only Professor Rokni's capable hands can untie this knot. No one else."

"If the professor asks why we're so determined to get the play, what do we tell him?"

Arash laughed.

"With complete shamelessness we'll say, dear Professor, we're planning to stage Kaka Siyah in the provinces, make a lot of money from it, and become famous."

"For God's sake, Arash, just once in your life be serious. I think we need to tell a white lie. Tell the professor we're doing a research project in ritual and traditional arts and we need a few ru-howzi texts. The professor loves the genre, so he'll agree right away."

"I don't lie."

"Oh, come on. It's not exactly a lie. Didn't you once tell the professor you wanted to do research on the history of Iranian dramatic literature? We'll tell him the two of us are going to work in this field together."

Arash laughed.

"And the professor will say, wonderful, what bright, studious, talented boys. Come with me and I'll get that play from the writer myself and hand it to you with both hands."

"We'll talk to the professor in a way that won't make him suspect a thing. Of course, the key is to show him that we're passionately devoted to ru-howzi. We'll talk about Lalehzar theater, Dehqan Theater, and Sa'di Afshar, and we'll sigh and lament. Oh, Professor, look at what's happening. Look how this authentic form of Iranian theater is disappearing and being neglected."

Arash smiled mischievously.

"The way you're describing it, maybe we should shed a few tears too and then throw ourselves at the professor's feet."

"Oh, shut up. You think you're very funny? I'm telling you we have to be serious and follow a plan, and you keep cracking jokes. And here I was, counting on you."

Davoud gave Arash a sulky look and quickened his pace.

Arash took longer steps to catch up with him.

"Don't sulk again. God, the slightest thing happens and the gentleman sulks. All right, I won't say anything else. I swear on my life I won't make any more jokes. I promise."

"Word of honor?"

"I promise. I swear on our friendship."

Davoud suddenly stopped and looked carefully around him.

"Listen, Arash. We shouldn't underestimate Professor Rokni. Yes, he's a decent and well-mannered man. Yes, he can't stare you straight in the eye like Dr. Sedghi and say bluntly, who do you think you're fooling, handsome? But he takes offense very easily."

A week later, Davoud and Arash were sitting on either side of Professor Rokni in the main auditorium of City Theater, waiting to see the final performance of Kaka Siyah.

From the beginning to the end of the performance, Davoud kept his full attention on the professor, watching him in the half-dark auditorium. From Professor Rokni's unguarded and sincere reactions, it was obvious that he had become captivated by the play.

When the Siyah, the black-faced clown of the show, answered the psychologist in his funny accent,

"Help me, Doctor. At night I see nightmares. In the daytime, minibuses."

Professor Rokni could not stop himself from laughing out loud.

Arash leaned close to Davoud's ear and whispered,

"What was funny about that line?"

They were both pleased that the professor had become so taken with the play.

After the performance, they separated from the professor and quickly left the auditorium so they would not run into the director again.

On the grounds of City Theater, a performing group from Khorasan was dancing in a circle, dressed in local costumes and holding small wooden sticks.

Davoud said to Arash,

"Do you think the professor can get Kaka Siyah from the director?"

Instead of answering, Arash put his hand on Davoud's shoulder.

"Here comes the professor."

Professor Rokni stopped in front of them holding a carefully stapled folder. Davoud was so eager to get the play that he almost snatched it out of the professor's hand.

"You went to all this trouble, Professor."

The professor smiled.

"It was no trouble. I hope your research turns out well. What did you say the title was?"

Davoud answered hesitantly,

"Foundations of Traditional Arts in Iran."

The professor, clearly in a hurry to leave, looked at Arash.

"Did you change the title, or am I mistaken? In any case, I hope both of you succeed. It's my daughter's birthday tonight, so I have to get home early. There's just one more thing. The writer had one condition."

They both spoke almost at the same time.

"What condition, Professor?"

"The writer said you can use this play only for research purposes."

Arash tried to appear calm.

"That's what we're going to use it for, research work. Right, Davoud?"

Professor Rokni took his gloves out of his coat pocket.

"What I mean is that he hasn't given you permission to stage the play. Goodbye, boys."

Arash and Davoud stood there cold and motionless, like statues in the middle of the City Theater grounds, watching Professor Rokni walk away.

Arash was so dejected and upset that he even forgot his usual habit of shaking Professor Rokni's hand when saying goodbye.

Ru-howzi is the traditional Iranian comic theater, once performed on a platform laid over the courtyard pool.