false dawn, and relying on his old age and deafness as an excuse, he pretended not to hear her. The incessant hiss of the falling rain helped him in his ruse. He turned into a dark alley and disappeared out of his daughterâs sight, back into the darkness and the rain.
On the way back to his house, so as not to forget, he kept repeating one word over and over again: âshroud.â He hummed it out loud all the way: âshroud, shroud, shroud, shroud.â As he turned the key in the lock he had to break the rhythm, but after opening the door and stepping into the courtyard, he picked it up again, but this time whimpering the word, like a dog shivering in the cold, wailing the word out, with long pathetic pauses: shroud⦠shrouâ¦oud⦠shrouâ¦oud. He carried on whining softly as he switched on the light and opened the chest and rummaged through blankets and his old
abandoned uniforms until he found a length of canvas at the bottom. His soft whimpering was like a camel pack, on which he was loading all the burdens of his misery, sending them off to their fate. His only worry was that he might get so carried away that he would forget to collect the pick and shovel, which he had left propped up by the gate. He told himself never to let himself become so absent-minded in such a situation.
Iâll never allow myself to get absent-minded! I have made up my mind to keep a cool head through this awful business. Iâll wrap up the shroud, just like the country people wrap their lunch in a cloth, and sling it over my shoulders, with two corners tied round my chest. Iâll stick my hat on my head and Iâll put the pick and shovel on my shoulder, just like the Khorasani peasants Iâve seen in Birjand 15 and Iâll roll up my trouser bottoms, just in case I trip over them. My overcoat, Iâll have to do something about that⦠but before all that Iâve got to switch off the lights and lock the door. I canât help it, this door locking has become an old habit and I canât do anything about it, but⦠oh, nothingâ¦
It was not clear why he could not bring himself to look the photograph of The Colonel in the eye, or even in the boots. He just felt a sense of shame, which prevented him from raising his head to look at him. He thought that the smaller and more abject he became, the greater became the distance between himself and The Colonel. He felt he had lost the capacity for friendship with him, that they no longer had anything in common. If the day ever came when he could no longer look The Colonel straight in his bright black eyes when he spoke to him, he would die. He knew that with every step that he took away from The Colonel, a man who throughout his life had
embodied all his ideals, he was moving one step closer to his own death.
Yet he must be able to see the bind Iâm in. If the person closest to you canât see the problems youâre having, what can you expect from anyone else?
He thought that it was nearly time for the dawn call to prayer, but the false dawn had fooled him. The blackness of the night was made even darker by the heavy clouds. The rain beating down on the tin roof rasped his nerves.
Is that Amir? Is that his voice I can hear? Amir⦠Amir?â
He would have to turn back and go down to the basement. There was nothing else for it. Hearing Amir speak was becoming quite a rare event. This was only the second or third time since Amir had retreated to the basement that the colonel had heard him clearly. Going down the steps to the cellar now, he called Amirâs name once more, this time loud and clear. But he got no answer, no proper answer, just a string of broken syllables, like the noise someone might make who had just been struck dumb. Odd, frightening gargles. the colonel was so distracted that he realised he had forgotten to turn on the light. He reached out for the switch. The basement lit up and he saw his son huddled on
On the way back to his house, so as not to forget, he kept repeating one word over and over again: âshroud.â He hummed it out loud all the way: âshroud, shroud, shroud, shroud.â As he turned the key in the lock he had to break the rhythm, but after opening the door and stepping into the courtyard, he picked it up again, but this time whimpering the word, like a dog shivering in the cold, wailing the word out, with long pathetic pauses: shroud⦠shrouâ¦oud⦠shrouâ¦oud. He carried on whining softly as he switched on the light and opened the chest and rummaged through blankets and his old
abandoned uniforms until he found a length of canvas at the bottom. His soft whimpering was like a camel pack, on which he was loading all the burdens of his misery, sending them off to their fate. His only worry was that he might get so carried away that he would forget to collect the pick and shovel, which he had left propped up by the gate. He told himself never to let himself become so absent-minded in such a situation.
Iâll never allow myself to get absent-minded! I have made up my mind to keep a cool head through this awful business. Iâll wrap up the shroud, just like the country people wrap their lunch in a cloth, and sling it over my shoulders, with two corners tied round my chest. Iâll stick my hat on my head and Iâll put the pick and shovel on my shoulder, just like the Khorasani peasants Iâve seen in Birjand 15 and Iâll roll up my trouser bottoms, just in case I trip over them. My overcoat, Iâll have to do something about that⦠but before all that Iâve got to switch off the lights and lock the door. I canât help it, this door locking has become an old habit and I canât do anything about it, but⦠oh, nothingâ¦
It was not clear why he could not bring himself to look the photograph of The Colonel in the eye, or even in the boots. He just felt a sense of shame, which prevented him from raising his head to look at him. He thought that the smaller and more abject he became, the greater became the distance between himself and The Colonel. He felt he had lost the capacity for friendship with him, that they no longer had anything in common. If the day ever came when he could no longer look The Colonel straight in his bright black eyes when he spoke to him, he would die. He knew that with every step that he took away from The Colonel, a man who throughout his life had
embodied all his ideals, he was moving one step closer to his own death.
Yet he must be able to see the bind Iâm in. If the person closest to you canât see the problems youâre having, what can you expect from anyone else?
He thought that it was nearly time for the dawn call to prayer, but the false dawn had fooled him. The blackness of the night was made even darker by the heavy clouds. The rain beating down on the tin roof rasped his nerves.
Is that Amir? Is that his voice I can hear? Amir⦠Amir?â
He would have to turn back and go down to the basement. There was nothing else for it. Hearing Amir speak was becoming quite a rare event. This was only the second or third time since Amir had retreated to the basement that the colonel had heard him clearly. Going down the steps to the cellar now, he called Amirâs name once more, this time loud and clear. But he got no answer, no proper answer, just a string of broken syllables, like the noise someone might make who had just been struck dumb. Odd, frightening gargles. the colonel was so distracted that he realised he had forgotten to turn on the light. He reached out for the switch. The basement lit up and he saw his son huddled on
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