Bahram Esmaeilbeigi – Newspaper (English)
Haydar Ali himself did not know how he had suddenly become the center of the story. Rasoul said, “It’s those students who…” He didn’t let him finish and said, “I know where this is coming from!” Rasoul was right. A few days after their last visit to Qazarían’s garage, this had happened. On Saturday morning, when he went to pick up the warehouse list from the office, the clerk, smiling, broke the news to him. He gestured to the newspaper on the desk. It was him, Haydar Ali Torabari. Ever since he had become a municipal worker, they had added Torabari to his name. It was thirty years ago. He took his wife and children’s hands and came to the city. Tabriz was so big for them that they were initially lost among the crowds and the hubbub of all those strangers. After he had prepared a home for Zivar and the children, the next day he went to see Engineer Yashar. He was his mother’s cousin and had his own office and desk somewhere in the municipality. With his simple face and robust body, he sat on the chair next to the window waiting for permission to enter. The nameplate beside the door read Engineer Ghavamloo. He muttered to himself, having almost forgotten his last name because they always called him Engineer Yashar. The clerk occasionally glanced at him sideways. Haydar Ali couldn’t tell if the looks were good or bad. He was focused on not mentioning his relationship with Engineer Ghavamloo when introducing himself. After about an hour, it was his turn, and he went inside. The engineer had cheerfully ordered tea for him. As he drank his tea, he thought about how the clerk would look at him if he were here. That day, Engineer Yashar had promised to find him a job and told him to come to the office at the beginning of the month. Twelve days later, he was already busy with the machinery at the engineer’s site. He had gone to the transportation department and, in his words, had become the driver of a three-wheeled motor. Over time, as the city and the municipality grew, he had become a Nissan driver. For twenty years, he had spent his days with the Nissan and Rasoul. Rasoul knew that Haydar Ali loved his family first, then the Nissan, and deep down, there was a place for him too. Rasoul loved the Nissan right after Haydar Ali. Whenever the Nissan had a problem, they went to Qazarían’s garage. The old Armenian man had a garage next to the Safavi Mosque. They had gone to pick up the Nissan on a cold winter’s day. Rasoul had treated himself to tea from Qazarían’s always-hot samovar while Haydar Ali sat behind the wheel, warming up the car. The Armenian man had changed his apprentice three times in the past three years. But he had had his cat for about five years. Rasoul had named it Dove Cat, saying it was Qazarían’s mascot. As Haydar Ali warmed up the car, Dove Cat sat next to the Nissan, staring at him. Haydar Ali picked up the bread pieces from the dashboard and stretched his hand out the window. The cat had come, perhaps hoping to grab something. Just then, one of the students who occasionally came to the Safavi Mosque for photography had taken his picture. It was published in the newspaper with the headline of a storytelling competition. Haydar Ali picked up the newspaper from the clerk’s desk and read it carefully. He did not understand anything from the explanation under the picture. Rasoul took the newspaper, widened his eyes, and said, “They want to make up a story about your transportation.” And he laughed loudly. As they left the office, Haydar Ali secretly thrilled that his picture had been taken and put in the newspaper, but he did not want Rasoul to know his feelings. As he started the old Nissan, with a feigned frown, he said, “Remind me to buy the newspaper in the city tonight to show it to Zivar.” Rasoul repeated his laughter from the office and said, “Ah, you want to show off your picture.” Realizing he had been caught, Haydar Ali said, “No one knows my story better than Zivar.” Rasoul looked through the side mirror at the office building, shrinking in the distance, and muttered, “It should have been me and the Nissan in the picture, not Dove Cat from Qazarían.”
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