Gently her voice broke the silence, "You look tired. Why don't you rest a bit? Later you can go to the national fete (Jushn-e Melee). Tonight is the last night you know..."

"National Fete...", he murmured, his eyelids getting heavy. Pacing on the edge between sleep and wakefulness, he remembered...

They used to go together to the Meadows, where every year, poor or rich, people celebrated their nation's independence from the once "superpower of the time".

His father used to tell him about "...how years ago ordinary people had refused to become subservient of a foreign power and had defeated the invader three times; how the dark period had started, and the Black List had reached all those wonderful nameless heroes one by one, in shadowy nights, never to be seen or heard from again.

How the brutal governments had deprived people from education, wealth and freedom of thought, to ensure their own stability and to satisfy their secret allies' political interests; how the religion had been twisted, turned and deformed to serve the purpose of the government, decades after decades; and still, how the isolated, tough seeds of freedom, in shabby clothes and mud houses had kept growing...those self-taught scholars, invisible to the big world, outside".

He remembered that wintry night, when his father had gone to one of his secret meetings, and supper was getting cold. It was years ago. His father did not come back that evening, or ever again...

"Now with the Red Flags, they don't like it if people won't show up," said Aya, sipping her tea slowly and continuing, "You might even get to meet the right kind of workers, the comrades." Sarcasm poured bitterness into his short, light laughter.

His eyes still closed, he listened to the wondering voice of his mother saying, "Today I asked them, in the Big House, what dictatorship of proletariat means, and the youngest son told me it means a government by the workers for the workers."

"Wolves in sheep's clothing, that is what it means.", he murmured. His mother looked swiftly towards him with worry, and rushed to continue, "I told them how hard you work, then the party guests arrived, and I think they didn't hear me, and I had to get back to work. I will talk to them, tomorrow."

She lowered her voice, almost to a whisper; "I heard them talking about the ones who are showing betrayal by refusing to join the social events. 'Those are enemies of the people, and they should be punished for being traitors.' they said." He put his empty cup down on the floor beside him and stretched his legs, thoughtfully rubbing his forehead.

"Later, on his way out, the Comrade himself asked me if we had gone to the celebration?" said Aya and she sounded alarmed. Then forced hope slipped beside her words, as she continued, "I think it's real nice of him letting me still work for them in the house, not anymore young and strong as I used to be. They could have hired a real worker, you know. They could have taken this shack from us, you know." He sneered quietly, and she tried again to convince him, her voice trailing off between the desperate persuasion and the thoughts of vivid past, empty present, and the unknown future.

"Look my son! Don't be stubborn like your father... as if he had to speak for everyone else. So there, we lost our home and were left all alone. But he was such a good man... He used to dream of making sure that every child could go to school. That someday you may become a doctor and help others. Dreamer he was, and he got himself killed."

She sighed, feeling a sharp pain in her chest again. She hurried on, "Listen! You have got to go out tonight. I am fine. The pills that you got for me are good. I took one today, and the pain stopped. Remember? You always loved to go there to "Chumman"*.

Now it is the same. Just the color of flag has changed. I would have gone too, but it's a long way for me to walk. I have some patching and mending to do any way. I'll get supper ready. The soup is still warm, I think."

She stood up and slowly moved towards the oven, her back in a curve, bent forward. "This dear old body was once so quick and upright..."

sadly he thought, before drifting into sleep, his head leaning against the wall, slightly turned to one side. Aya checked the soup. It was still warm. She went to the shelf and took some dishes. She set the low table and placed the glass containing a bunch of wild grown lavenders next to the candles. Suddenly, her face felt ice cold. Sweat drops appeared on her forehead. The pain cut its way sharply from the left side of her chest to her left arm. She could hardly breathe. Her hazel eyes widened in horror. With her right hand, she took out of her pocket the small red capsule, and after biting it open, placed it under her tongue. The unbearable congestion of sudden rushing blood inside her head made her gasp for air. For a short moment she thought that her head would explode.

Then slowly the pain left her, drained out of strength. The candle was burning low. The enlarged shadow of the mother moved slowly on the wall. She came to her son, and watched him quietly. His handsome face, deeply tanned by long summer days, was covered with dust. Without making a sound, she sat down next to the blanket and leaned back, thinking...

"Every thing for the workers," the comrade boy had said, and she had felt like an outsider, guilty for not being the right kind of worker. She was thinking, "had not she worked all the time...in the time of kings and in the time of the revolution? No, her son must not end up like her. What must he do to become the right kind of worker? Those who called themselves comrades... what kind of work did they do?"

She kept wondering "Her son's friend had worked all his life. Such an honest and nice young man he was...and so full of humor, always making her laugh whenever he came to visit. One day he had been dragged away by the police. It had been raining that day, lightly. A few potatoes and a bunch of green onions scattered on the sidewalk were left behind. No one saw him again. Poor soul, he did talk too much for his own good," decided Aya and concluded in her mind, "No! Her son is going to be just fine. He will not talk too much, and he will not go to meetings, and he will become the right kind of worker, the comrade kind. Tonight he has a chance. May be he will get to know someone nice... Maybe they will notice him. He will be safe then. She will make him go there tonight. He would go for her sake, to make his old mother happy. Yes, he is going to be safe..."

Through the feverish alleys in the quiet of the summer night, leaving the shack and Aya behind, the tall shadow moved on. Now, away from the construction site where he carried bricks day after day, and away from home where he felt helpless for not being able to change the hard life of his mother, he was alone by himself...covered by night and caught in the whirlpool of thoughts...

Smiling, Aya had blessed him before closing the creaking door behind him, saying that she will keep the candle burning. A tender feeling warmed his heart. She always waited up for him... as long as he could remember. He was a kid when Aya had started to work as a maid in one of those large houses, after his father had disappeared and they had lost their house. Tagging along with his mother, he had run errands around the house. In exchange they got their meals and could stay in the shack. He had been teased and ridiculed by the children of the rich household, and had envied them for going to and coming from school, their cheeks flushed with excitement. He had been watching and feeling out of place and out of time, peeking through an invisible window at another world, a dream world...

Childhood had passed him by. Physical work made him strong and brought them leftover foods at the back doors of the town's busy motels. Aya, older and weaker, continued to work in the big house to keep the shack.

In his mind, still, he dreamt his father's dream. His young heart raced for love and justice. His burning dark eyes told stories of the world of ruins, bricks and soundproof labyrinth of the life that they were caught in.

He left the last narrow road. Then, one by one the city lights appeared. He could walk faster on the paved streets. Now he could see the Meadow (Chumman), jeweled with thousands and thousands of lights, and he could hear the festive sounds shutting the doors to the solitary night beyond.

He crossed the bridge over the river and passed the narrow lane to the green meadow. For merely a second the little boy, his hands tucked in the safety of his parent's warm hands, stepped in the large shoes, while scents of ripe melon, steaming snacks and kabobs, kids' chatter, and sounds of laughter and music filled the air in "Chumman". His foot hit a rock and the little boy vanished in time.

Fireworks poured bursting stars in gold, purple, green, and crimson. Way ahead, the many decorated camps resembled the miniature palaces of fairy tales. The area was surrounded with flags in the color of blood. Shiny cars were jamming the road on the campsite, dropping off or picking up the ones from the "other worlds". Aimlessly, he walked away from the bright side.

Carefully he inched his way among the ordinary ones, gathered in small family groups sitting around on old blankets. His wondering gaze paused over a small kid's face turned up towards the sky, her mouth full of juicy melon, her juice dripping fingers still holding another piece close to her mouth. A far away feeling clasped his heart. He moved on, passing through unfinished phrases and giggles, feeling strangely alone ... among all those people.

In the nearest camp someone was playing an accordion and was singing his mind's words through the verses written by a poet his father had known. His mother used to hum the song, when she was healthier. "What happened to that poet?" he wondered. A crowd was blocking the view. He stood under a tree, unnoticed in its dark shade, and listened...

"Life will come to an end anyway
Slavery is not needed.
If slavery be the bargain,
Then life is not needed.
If the sky pours rain of pearls
Upon you with insult,
Tell the sky, "Leave,
Rain is not needed."

He left the shade and walked to an empty space and lay down on his back. The grass was damp and cool against his thin shirt and warm skin.

He watched the millions of sparkling stars far above, "What are people doing just now on the other side of the earth?", he wondered with a strange sense of seclusion.

Sounds of music, crowd, fire works, and cars faded behind the glass borders of wild hopes, tender memories, and the already lost "dream world" of his that years ago, sitting on these grasses he had looked forward to. He thought about Aya. What had happened to her hopes? How hard she was trying to make believe...for his sake, believing that he will be safe. How desperately she was trying. His eyes felt the burning, painful sensation of dry tears. He blinked several times, pressing his eyelids together, and then kept them shut. The earth under the grass was hard and matched the muscles of his back. Silently he stayed there. How long? A fallen leaf in the dark whirlpool of life...

Nearing whispers of soft steps, a strangely sweet and wild perfume, the gentle rustle of a skirt and its sweeping downy touch on his hair, a thud...all as a passing wonderful breeze traversed his solitary world. Before fading away the voice of a woman wavered in a simple phrase "Oh, I dropped my purse." and shattered the invisible border. He opened his eyes and leaned on his elbow, turning towards the sound. Floating softly in the night, coming closer and closer towards him, was an angel in white. Waves of dark hair bouncing away from the beautiful face of the woman and curling on her almost bare shoulders. Now she was gracefully bending down, so near to him.

His heart began throbbing and he lowered his gaze. The small sparkling purse next to his elbow stared mockingly back at him. His ragged hand reached down for the lost treasure and timidly held it up for the delicate hand of the woman, her fresh breath almost touching his, her bright eyes joyous and bold looking through him. Her fingers softly brushed against his. A strange vibration burned its way to his pounding heart and softened the stab in pleasure. "Thank you," she said quietly, and then she was gone.

Her quick and smooth steps took her over to her waiting friends. They circled around her, as if they were listening eagerly to what she was saying. Suddenly in a burst of laughter they turned and looked at him, and then rushed away into their world...

The pleasing echo of a voice died in the emptiness of an angry soul. The surrounding sounds became unbearable for the solitude. The bright lights hurt his blurred vision. The far away starry sky poured its quivering dark blue shadows over him. Somewhere, in some valley of his being a silent scream started and was joined by many more. All through the mysterious world of his ego, it overflowed coming to a halt behind his well-shaped lips. A painful lump tightened his throat. His eyes felt like burning coals. Standing, his wide shoulders seemed slightly drooped. The hushed grass under his leaving heavy feet whispered quietly with the summer breeze.

The empty streets echoed the dull sound of the worn-out shoes racing with the night. The alleys, dark and forlorn, shut the doors to sounds of joy and bright colors, and the tall handsome shadow crept in. Dusty roads did not give away the secret of passing shadow, and kept silently puffing to themselves...

The shack was dark. He stopped, then he walked faster. The screams vanished and fear spread its dark wings. In his mind, denial strived against the lash of forbidden worries and he hauled himself forward. The door was slightly ajar.

"Aya?", the word came out of his mouth as a broken whisper. His tongue felt dry and bitter. He said again, "Aya?", and gently pushed the door open. It caught on something. He slid in and bent on his knees. Hesitating and fearful, his hand reached out and touched the curved back, thin shoulders, wintry hair and the beloved, dear face-so cold, so horribly cold...

He called her name, at first soft and pleading, then the screams returned, from each cell of his body and each hollow of his soul, bursting into sobs, "Aya... Aya... Aya..."

Outside, a stray dog shrieked out of sleep and walked away into darkness... |