Seasons of Purgatory

by Shahriar Mandanipour, Sara Khalili

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The first English-language story collection from "one of Iran's most important living fiction writers" (Guardian)



In Seasons of Purgatory, the fantastical and the visceral merge in tales of tender desire and collective violence, the boredom and brutality of war, and the clash of modern urban life and rural traditions. Mandanipour, banned from publication in his native Iran, vividly renders the individual consciousness in extremis from a variety of perspectives: young and old, man and woman, conscript and prisoner. While delivering a ferocious social critique, these stories are steeped in the poetry and stark beauty of an ancient land and culture.

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Bellevue Literary Press

Print pages: 202

Sample

Shadows of the Cave

MR. FARVANEH SAID, “Let’s assume it isn’t so. But don’t be surprised if one day you see a vulture of the bald species sitting on the edge of the trash can in your kitchen, excavating it.” And then he talked about that old lion and how it was no coincidence that in these types of nightmares, and even in our wakeful hours, any lion we imagine is old and weary. “If you prefer, you can roll over in bed and think of the few hours of sleep left until morning. But if you half rise on your elbows and look, you will see that the lion has rested his paws on the edge of your bed and is staring at you with his sleepy eyes. The magnificent halo of his reddish brown mane is unforgettable, and he looks as if he has just smelled an unpleasant odor for the very first time, which has caused his cheeks to pucker like that.”

Apart from his occasional ill temper, Mr. Farvaneh was a pleasant talker and possessed exceptional powers of depiction and analysis. In the bakery, he could be singled out for the way he stood on line sideways, perhaps because of his dread of coming into contact with others, or in the morning, for the one bottle of milk and the one pack of cigarettes he carried as he climbed the stairs up to his apartment. If you were rushed in greeting him and did so in passing, he would pretend not to have noticed you at all, but the moment you stopped and talked, for example about the spread of that mysterious smell, he would undoubtedly open up to you and begin to explain his frightening theories in detail. And, finally, with perplexity and sorrow in his eyes and a smirk rife with insight into people’s hidden thoughts on his lips, he would again warn, “All of us who live in this neighborhood and in this city are in danger, a danger far greater than the Mongol invasion and our massacre at their hands.”

Mr. Farvaneh was an admirable man, because of his infinite knowledge in all fields of science, the fruit of years of reading and research, and because it is said that in the years preceding the 1953 coup d’état he had held a key government position. It was only after the page turned in the book of times that he took to a secluded corner, or was obliged to do so. Consequently, he was regarded as a man worthy of attention. However, as one would expect, he seldom allowed strangers to enter the sacred confines of his home. From time to time, it occurred that the midday nap or early-evening slumber of the residents of our apartment building was broken by his shouts of “Get out of my house,” and then someone, in shock and anger, would slam the door to his apartment and descend the staircase. But there were also occasions, though not many, when neighbors or relatives would for hours delight in his company, replete with humor and engaging pleasantries.

Mr. Farvaneh believed that man is a pitiable two-dimensional creature with one half of his being inclined toward a societal life and the other half preferring the sanctuary of instinctive isolationism. He said, “Well, what does society imply? Man faced with a done deal, just that.” And perhaps to avoid such primitive circumstances, he had chosen heavy curtains for the windows in his apartment, plain and dark, which together with light from a floor lamp created a multi-faceted space of light and shadows. He would sink into this somber velveteen space and drown in distant, protracted thoughts. But suddenly, he would leap up in a panic and light incense so that its scent would engulf the apartment and infiltrate the stairway from the gap beneath the front door.

One day, three or four years ago, Mr. Farvaneh told one of the neighbors, “The presence of the smell of animals is by no means accidental. It is most certainly deliberate. There is a purpose to it. They are not as odorous as this. However, as long as it is written in their destiny that they must endure the cage, this is the only means by which they can flaunt their presence. This is the prelude to an inevitable historic battle, ominous and void of human principles. Therefore, for the sake of the sanctity of our living environment, we must take action and fight against this odor by any means possible. I believe the entire populace, from those pious-looking birds to that aged rhinoceros, has conspired to make its scent more pungent and offensive to us. They are fully aware of their effect.” No one, of course, took the last segment of Mr. Farvaneh’s comments seriously, and given their previous failed attempt at a neighborhood petition, they all preferred to get used to the smell, and they did. They only noticed the odor on occasions when he would pontificate about it on the staircase and they, with innocent nods, would endorse the need for decisive action.

“Gradually, they will make us addicted to the conditions they have imposed on us. Little by little, and in the end … disease! Never would I intentionally strike fear in you, but from the commingling of the incompatible lifestyles of so many different creatures—I take us into account, as well—a new disease will undoubtedly emerge. Who knows what? A contagious and unpreventable illness that could result in the extinction of humankind, and I am sure they will all be immune to it. Why all of them? Because after years of coexistence, they have developed a cunning collective instinct. I declare a state of danger.”

And in the end, Mr. Farvaneh discovered that man is a lonely, helpless creature, condemned to being misunderstood. Imagining him on the dreary days of this city, standing for hours behind a window and staring at rows of cages and the ghosts huddled inside them, would wrench the heart of any friend of the noble sons of our land, especially when the winter drizzle fell from eternally dark clouds. He couldn’t spend all his time reading, preparing a simple lunch and dinner didn’t take up much time, and washing his clothes, ironing, and polishing his shoes were no match for the remaining obstinate hours of the day. Mr. Farvaneh told one of the neighbors, who by chance was accompanying him on his return from a summer-afternoon stroll, “I am tired,” or something to that effect, and of course he didn’t mean tired from walking. He was referring to something far more profound and inclusive of mankind. He had then sighed, rubbed his hands together, and stared into the distance, far away. Perhaps he had talked about his insomnia. It is rumored among his neighbors that he barely slept three hours a night. It is natural that in old age one needs less sleep, and Mr. Farvaneh was well over sixty-five. Lamps that remain lit in an apartment throughout the night could at first pique one’s curiosity, but not for long. Perhaps he slept with the lights on, most likely because light alleviates loneliness and could be considered a companion, or because he was afraid. But no, it’s hard to imagine an old man afraid of the dark. According to one of the people Mr. Farvaneh spoke to—the bookseller who has a small stall across the street and stocks up on books that suit the taste of his regular clients—Mr. Farvaneh found that in the quiet and still hours of the night, no book was as satisfying as a book on history. He believed that imagining the majesty of ancient times from the comfort of an old cozy armchair made one long for unattainable glory; of course, if the howls of the hyenas copulating and the hoots of the owl that even in a cage hadn’t forgotten its nightly vigil would permit. One can understand Mr. Farvaneh’s agony. Isn’t it true that there is no place for animals in history, except for a small niche for horses and elephants as mounts and as elements that define the geographic diversity of commanders who preferred one over the other? How one yearns for the long-lost silence of their forebearers when today curtains, even heavy curtains, cannot stop the covetous call of the male ape from infiltrating a small apartment overlooking the zoo. Mr. Farvaneh closed the book, raised his head, and gazed at the window. The shadows cast by the old lamp next to him created melancholic images on the curtains. How wide is a bark’s scope of sound, for example the bark of a baboon? And then the wolves would start, especially if it was wintertime and if there was a full moon. Perhaps they saw Mr. Farvaneh’s lit window. In the silent nights of the city, every call seeks a listener, and behind that window …

“I can hardly tolerate it. I pace up and down until I think they have fallen asleep, and only then do I find some peace and relax in my armchair. That dear departed lady offered me this armchair, and this desk and lamp, so that I would have a suitable corner to read. But every time I sit down to read a few lines, I have barely made myself comfortable when another one of them starts. I’m afraid it may not really be them. How can I tell in the dark of the night? After all these years of coexistence in a manner that would not have been possible in any jungle or desert, perhaps they have learned to mimic one another’s sound. Or perhaps their howls have grown so similar that …” that not everyone could tell whether it was now an owl or a hyena or a monkey or a wolf or just that old parrot with the flaking beak. According to the bookseller, whom Mr. Farvaneh visited with the excuse that he might have received new merchandise, Mr. Farvaneh had found, purchased, and read all the books available on animals and their habits and behavior several years ago. Those who visited his apartment would see the collection sitting on a shelf set apart from his library and arranged in the same order as the animal cages facing his window. And there was a pair of hunting binoculars, with ample magnification, hanging beside the window. Mr. Farvaneh had a complicated allegory for animals: “If you realize that people are mocking you, and you behave in such a way that they remain ignorant of your realization, and especially if you repeat the cause of their mockery, it is, in fact, you who has mocked them and who has the upper hand. These animals use the same intelligent ploy; with only a few exceptions, in their cage they behave as they would in the jungle. At times, their indifference to humans is truly insulting. Don’t you understand?” No! Many didn’t grasp this fine point, or they didn’t want to. Perhaps if they had had a better view and a better opportunity, the situation would have been different. For example, if they had had a window overlooking the zoo, a pair of hunting binoculars, and a comfortable chair, and they could sit for hours at a time with their elbows resting on the windowsill, at dawn, on rainy days when visitors were not blocking the view of the cages, or on moonlit nights when the ghosts with their vulgar cries called out to one another.

“I catch them off guard from my hiding place. They don’t know they’re being watched. It’s just like hunting, but far more personal. Have you seen that elephant? Take notice of him. He is large enough that you won’t need binoculars. He defies and mocks us with his patience and poise. I personally don’t believe there is any need for his shackle. He won’t go anywhere; he just stands there. They always take the children up on a ladder to sit on him and take pictures, and this way … What occupation could be better than this? ...