I am lucky. Everyday, every minute, every moment… I am lucky. Mahmood says:

Sometimes I think that I am dreaming. And I think that it is just impossible for others to be as lucky as I am.

I take my hands out of the blanket, and with my toe I search for the hole in the mattress. I feel dizzy after a long day’s sleep. I lie motionless and senseless on the bed all afternoon. Nobody and nothing waits for me. If an interesting incident takes place, I shall tell Mahmood about it. I have nothing in my mind to tell him, I mean something worthy to talk about - an amazing topic to attract him. The only thing I know is that I am lucky. I am lucky from sunrise to sunset. But what lies at the end? Mahmood says, “What do you mean by ‘at the end’? You are really lucky, what else do you want?”

I look at my watch. It is 4:20 pm. I have to do something with all my luck. I wish I would die—then there would be something to talk about to Mahmood. When my father passed away, deep down in my heart I was happy, because finally, I had found something to talk about. But whatever, he was my father and I loved him very much. But Mahmood said:

Mahmood was right. Who is my father? I have to think about very important issues. He was just a simple clerk in registration office and his absence does not make any difference to this world. I shrug and laugh. I remember my sisters and wonder what they must be doing. Oh no! I definitely do not want to be in their shoes. Never! Mahmood is right. My sisters are useless... as useless as stinky, rotten potatoes. I ask myself, “What would have happened to me if I hadn’t found Mahmood?” Nothing. Then, I too, just like my sisters, would’ve been rotten and never understood what life is and what luck means.

I get out of bed. My body is aching. I want to go and talk to Mahmood. Of course, I have to have a good reason to do so, a very strong one. But I just want to talk to him. Ordinary talk, talk about the things I know. Mahmood says:
“You should not waste my time with balderdash. You should not disturb me.” I walk aimlessly all over the place. I wash my face. I arrange the clothes in my closets. I guess I might find something interesting in magazines - a critical point, a discussion or a poem to talk to Mahmood about. But Mahmood believes that I can understand less than a cow; therefore it is better not to talk and just listen.

How much do I have to listen? I have been listening from dawn to dusk for seven years. I am tired. My head is swollen. Finally, my turn to speak has to come. I hear a loud scream down the lane – the loud mourning of the crowd. I rush quickly towards the window. Then I stop. No, I should not care. I should not look. These people are ordinary, stupid people with trivial problems. Mahmood says:

If I should not talk, not look, then what have I to do? Mahmood is in his room. How will he know if I open the curtain and look through the window? There are many people outside. The woman from our neighborhood is beating her head and pulling her hair. She is tearing her dress. Suddenly, she faints and falls on her face on the tarred road. Somebody brings mud and makes her smell it to make her conscious. Then, they help her to get up.

I used to look at this woman from the gap in the curtain when Mahmood was not at home. I have seen how she always talks to her husband and I have also seen how she sits on the steps in front of her gate and talks to her neighbours in the evenings. I would like to know what they talk about, whom they talk about and how. But it is obvious. They talk about all those stupid things that all women talk about. Having such a silly husband, it is but natural for her to have silly topics. Mahmood cannot tolerate such talkative, illiterate women for even a minute. All the neighbours have gathered around her and are crying. Everybody tries to soothe her. Her husband gets out of the taxi, crying. He hugs her and takes her into the house.

I close the curtain and sit on the bed. I assume that her child has passed away. How cute her baby boy was! He had just started walking. I sometimes used to wave to him from the gap in the curtain. I shrug. Never mind, everyday thousands of people are dying. Mahmood is right. I have to think of the Vietnam War. I go to the corridor and I peep through his room’s keyhole to see what Mahmood is doing. He lies on the carpet with a magazine in his hand. I want to go inside. But no, he does not like it. I tell myself that I will go inside and sit on the other side of the room without uttering a single word. But no, no, he will not like this. I should not do anything that would ruin his mood. I am jealous of those women who work with him. Sometimes I have nightmares, I get up horrified. I ask myself what I would do if they seduced Mahmood and took him from me. But my mother says:

I want to tell him about the baby’s death. Finally, I have found an interesting topic to talk about. I want to express to him my ideas about life and death. I have to prove to him that one can talk to me also. But I am scared. He may sneer at me and as usual, beat me on my head. My mother says:

My mother does not understand. She looks at her life and her husband. My mother does not know how lucky I am. She does not know that marrying Mahmood has been the opportunity of a lifetime. I sit in the corridor and wait for him to call me. Finally, he will come out of his room. I start counting the floor tiles, at first horizontally and then vertically. I fetch a book and start reading. But the baby boy’s image does not fade away. I get up and slowly knock Mahmood’s door. He does not respond. I say, “Do you know what has happened?” and I hear the rustle of pages. I say, “You do not know what a big incident happened in the lane.” He says: “Keep quiet. I am reading.” But I want to talk. Since morning, I have been waiting. I stand up, sit and prepare myself to say, “I found an important topic and I want to talk about it. It is very interesting.” But silence follows my words. Mahmood is right. It is better to imprison words in my mouth. My existence is not important. I should back off. I should let people like Mahmood replace me. I should let them talk instead of me. I go to the kitchen, I close the door. I do the dishes. I start turning the pages of last night’s newspaper. I hope I can spot something interesting that Mahmood loves. I am just lucky. From sunrise to sunset, I am lucky. But what is the use?

I guess he is calling me. I run hurriedly to the corridor. I listen. No, nobody called me. I return. I think about my sisters, their stupid and ordinary husbands, and their meaningless lives. I know the value of my life.

Mahmood says, “Everybody wants to be in your shoes.” Who is everybody? We do not visit anybody, we do not go anywhere. But we do not need anybody. Mamhood says, “Just you and I are important. It means that I am important and you just exist.”
I am content to just exist and I am happy that, unlike my sisters, my life is not ruined. But my mother says, “No Nanny, you are unlucky, your life is dark. This person is not a husband. He is the messenger of death”. In my heart, I laugh at my mother’s ignorance. And I want to kiss Mahmood’s hands and feet because he has saved my life from these ordinary people. My sisters, with all their kids, servants, homes and every opportunity to travel , wish to be in my shoes. And I, in these two rooms, am the luckiest one. I belong to a higher world, to a better man. I am happy that I do not have any children. Mahmood says, “A child equals prison. It equals sin.” He says, “Nobody is competent to have children, not even us.”

I do not like children. I am not like I was before. I agree with Mahmood in every way. My mother says, “No Nanny. A child means life, it means youth. You have lost your youth living with Mahmood. Where did you find such an angel? Couldn’t you found anybody else?”

Mahmood looked at himself in the mirror once and laughed. He rubbed his hand over his hair. He laughed. I was afraid of his power, beauty and intelligence. I thought, “My God! Is it true that he is mine?” But Mahmood says, “I do not belong to anybody. At present, I just prefer this place to other places.”

I listen, there is no sound. I turn on the radio. I turn off the radio. I remember that I should not listen to stupid words. I walk through the corridor and enter the bedroom. I hear footsteps. I hear the fridge door being opened. I return to the kitchen quickly. I stand beside the door. He looks at me. He asks, “What was it? I reply, “Nothing.” He asks, “Did you want anything.” I say, “No.” I go to the bathroom.

I look at myself in the mirror. I see acne on my forehead. I gather all my hair with my fingertips and place it over my head. I move back and check how I look. Then, I let all my hair drop back again. I ask him, “Do you know what has happened?” He is thinking. I should not speak. I should not disturb him. I am a very careless and incompetent woman. Even after seven years of marriage, I have not learnt what to do and what not to do. I have not learnt that I should not ask a question, I should not insist, I should not expect anything from him. I should remain silent.

I wish to rest my head on his chest. I wish to hold his hands and turn with him around the room. I wish to go out. I wish to get in a bus. I wish to buy an ice-cream from the shop at the corner of the lane. I would like to tell Mahmood about the acne on my forehead. I would like to tell Mahmood that my abdomen is paining, that it is raining outside, that when I was a child I was afraid of the rain. I would like to tell Mahmood what I dreamt of. I would like to talk. I sit on the edge of the bed. I remind myself that tomorrow, without fail, I have to empty the dustbin. Mahmood’s head can be seen through the gap between the wall and the bathroom door as it moves to and fro. He has taken off his shirt. I wish somebody would come to our house. I tell myself, “It is better to get up and do something new, something entertaining.”

He searches for a cigarette. I fetch it. I go to the kitchen and hastily bring an ashtray. I sit beside him. Sometimes I think that no, I'm not tailored for such a life, I'm just an ordinary, talentless and stupid woman. But Mahmood says, “Never mind, gradually, you will mend with time.”
From behind the wall of our room, I hear footsteps and voices. I ask myself, “What do other people do? Where are they going? And what do they know?” These people, whose footsteps I hear from dawn to dusk… where are they going? I would like to go out. It seems as if this house is secluded from the whole world and everybody has forgotten it. Never mind, it is none of my business to know where other people go and what they do. We do not care about others. We two, here in this room, have our fair share of luck. I put my hand on his. Oh no, I do not want anything. No, I do not think about death, old age, not even about forgetfulness.

I look at Mahmood from the corner of my eye. His ears are very big. But I love them. What is the difference between big and small ears? I have always been lucky with those ears. I remember that I used to sleep with my sisters in the same room. I used to look at their long hair and swollen breasts with jealousy and curiosity and wished I could be in their shoes. I miss them. I wish to know what they are doing. It has been three years since I last saw them. I see my mother once a month. But of course there is no genuine relationship between us. I have changed completely. Mahmood has made a new person of me. I should not think about the past.

It is dark. I get up and turn on the light. It is 6:30pm. Mahmood yawns. He rubs his eyes and asks, “What is it? Why do you look so upset?” I try to laugh. And I swear that I am very happy. He asks me, “Are you bored?” I reply, “No, I swear upon God, no” and I explain to him how much I love silence, how much I prefer this secluded house to other places. I say that I never think of my mother and sisters, that he was right about my father, that my father was a prejudiced, greedy man and a miser, that this life of mine is God’s gift to me, that I know the value of my life, that I always try to rectify my mistakes, and that I will try my best. Mahmood takes off his pants, throws them on the carpet and asks, “Do I have clean clothes for tomorrow?” Happily, I show him his clothes that I washed and ironed, his shoes that I collected from the shoeshine boy and his socks that I had neatly folded and arranged in the plastic bag. He puts his hand on my head. He is satisfied. He takes off his watch and socks. I bring a glass of water and put it on the bed-side table. I massage his shoulders. I would like to explain to him what has happened. Why should it not be interesting to him? The lady in our neighbourhood is not an important person. She is neither an artist nor a politician. Nevertheless, she is our neighbour. He looks for a cigarette. He says, “Massage my waist. Lower. Harder.” I bow and kiss the back of his neck. I say, “You know, the lady in our neighbourhood almost died of grief.” He searches for a matchbox. I go to the kitchen and search in the cupboards. I turn everything topsy turvy. I am afraid… we have run out of matchboxes. I return to the bedroom. I search in my bag. I find one and hand it over to him. I stand beside him. I try to find something to say. I also take a cigarette and light it. My throat burns. The cigarette is bitter and tastes awful. He asks me, “Do you want to sleep?” I respond, “No. I am not sleepy. I was in bed all day. I don’t want to sleep.” He says, “If you don’t want to sleep, then turn off the light and shut the door behind you.” I don’t want to go to the other room. I want to talk, I want to shout, I want to be alive and show him how lucky I am. I sit beside him, take his hand, and kiss it. No, it is useless. I turn off the light, shut the door and leave the room. I open the window. It is raining. Car lights have been turned on. I press my face against the window pane. People pass quickly by our window without noticing me. They talk with each other. Nobody notices me. Nobody knows that I am here. Well, it is not important. There is no need for others to notice that I am here. I wish my mother was here. I wish my mother was literate and could read Mahmood’s writings. I wish my sisters knew how important Mahmood is. It rains more heavily. All heads are hidden under umbrellas. Every person looks like a blurred black circle on a pair of legs. I close the curtain. I listen. I hear no sound. I return to the bed room. I change my clothes, take a sleeping pill and get into bed. I want to lie close to him. I would like to stay close to Mahmood even if we turn our backs towards each other. I pull the heavy blanket over my body. I press my body against the mattress. I close my eyes tightly. I lie on my stomach, then on my right side, and place my hands under my head. I am sad. It seems as if an extra organ has been added to my body and that my body has lost the sense of natural sleep. A long time ago, my sisters and I used to sleep under one blanket. We stuck our legs out and laughed for no reason. Sometimes, we stole pistachios from the kitchen, took them to bed and ate them. My mother used to threaten us that the next time she would pierce needles into our tongues or throw chilly powder into our eyes. I knew that she was lying; I knew that the next morning she would prepare sandwiches of bread, butter and sugar for each one of us. I knew that she would tie colourful ribbons in our hair before we left for school. Mahmood says, “Your mother is a witch... an old, stupid and stubborn one. He says, “This woman stinks, like your other relatives!.”

I hear footsteps. Some people are whispering below the window. I would like to join them. I ask myself, “What are they talking about? What are they doing? Where are they going?” I turn towards Mahmood. In a low voice I ask him, “Are you awake?” He never ever responds. And I never ever understand whether he is awake or asleep. I am scared of the darkness of the room and the loneliness of my bed. I want to connect with him, even with our body hair. I creep towards him. And murmur, “Mahmood, are you awake?” I place my hand on his back with hesitation. I hope the sun rises sooner. I tell myself that I will awaken him right away. I will scream and say, “I had a nightmare!”, then pant and say, “My heart is aching!” I will slam the window and say, it was because of the wind. Ok, I believe I am lucky. But I need to tell somebody that I am lucky. I have to prove it to others that I am lucky.

Mahmood says, “Damn them all!” But until others do not understand that I am lucky I cannot believe it either. I ask aloud, “Mahmood, are you awake?” I would like to turn on the light. There seems to be something trustworthy and secure in this small light bulb. I press my face into the pillow and tell myself, “Don’t worry. Tomorrow I will forget that I want to speak.” But how can I console myself so that I will forget? Every night, I go to bed with the hope that tomorrow I will forget and I tell myself that finally, my turn will come - my turn to speak, my turn to get noticed, my turn to live. But there never ever seems to be any space in this room for me. I turn to my left. The beams of light from cars hit the wall and move up and down on it. I listen. I listen to the monotonous rain showers, to the slamming of windows, to the jamming of car brakes, to the whistle of the traffic policeman, to the voices of people greeting each other, shaking hands and bidding farewell, to the moaning of the woman in the neighbourhood, her husband’s voice trying to soothe her and to the murmuring of servants. I feel these walls, this bed, this room is hiding something from me. The important things have always lain on the other side of these walls and I am unaware. I sit. I shake Mahmood by his arm. I would like to awaken the whole city… all the people who have passed by me during these seven years and never noticed me. I would like to climb up the lamp post in the lane and shout that I am here, I want to talk, and even I know many things. I ask Mahmood loudly, “Are you asleep?” I pull his hair and lift up his head. His mouth is open and his teeth shine in the dark. He is as huge and strong as a wild animal. I take off the blanket and hastily leave the bed. My heart beats anxiously, but without hope.. My teeth chatter while my body gets warm because of anxiety. Mahmood turns in bed and stretches his hand towards my pillow. I look at him carefully. No, I do not love him. I have never loved him. I look around aggressively. I would like to awaken him, show him my swollen larynx and my exhausted throat. I would like to dance and twist around the room and express everything that I have kept in my heart for seven years - about my father, my sisters, the woman in the neighbourhood, the apricot jam that my mother prepares every year, the special rice dish that she makes every Friday, the grass in the courtyard, the chimney on the rooftop.. I would like to talk about myself, my skin, my body, my hair, my throat and my swollen belly. I take my dress off the chair. I put it on. From under the bed, I pull out my shoes. I tell myself, “Right now, I will go before it is too late, before I lose this chance. Right now, I will reach others. I have been deprived of life for seven years. It is enough! I want to wake him to show him that I am leaving, that I do not care any more about his art, his talent or his ability. I am going to rest my head on the oily, dirty lap of my mother and cry, I am going to tell my sisters that our neighbour’s boy passed away and just like them, I would also like to have some kids, I want to follow all these people who have hurried past our window – every day and night.. these people who are alive and who talk together.

I put on my shoes. My heart is as heavy as a boulder. I swallow my saliva with great effort. I tiptoe towards the door as if there is just one moment between death and life. I look back, I look at everything. I would like to get rid of every bitter memory the moment I step outside. I would like to become a sheet of blank paper, absolutely untouched. I listen. I can hear Mahmood’s rhythmic breathing. I hesitate. My feet have swollen and become heavy, as if my skin is stuck to the door and the walls of this house, as if my hands are deeply rooted like the roots of a thousand year old tree. I peep through the gap in the curtain, it is still raining. There is nobody in the lane. I see the policeman squatting under a shelter and pulling his hat down to his eyes. An empty bus rattles by. I listen. The entire city is asleep. It is still and carefree. Frightened, I ask myself, “Where shall I go? How do I know that I will reach others? That indeed, beyond this house, there is a place for me?” Perhaps my mom has passed away. Maybe my sisters have left this city. Perhaps nowhere, nobody waits for me, I stand. I stand there for hours. The rain stars running into the gutters. All the potholes in the street are filled with rain. Someone, in the old abandoned house in front of ours, is busy looking for something in the garbage. Mahmood searches for me among the bedsheets in the darkness. He is sure that I am there. He is sure that I love him very much, and he is sure that I am lucky. He murmurs my name. I remove my shoes and slowly go back and sit on the bed. I reluctantly put my hands on his face and think that I have never loved him and that all these years, I have deceived him. I place my hand on his face and think that I have kept him in this room for seven years. I see that I also have deprived him of life and kept him away from whatever lay on the other side of these walls. I see this and feel happy. If I were not here, he would not stay here and rot either.

He moves towards me and presses his head on my shoulder. I lie down beside him and pull the bed sheet over my body. With my toe, I search for the hole in the mattress. I get close to Mahmood and in his ear, I whisper, “I love you.”

Goli Taraqi, an Iranian woman writer, was born in 1932. She graduated in philosophy in the U.S. She won the “Best Short Story” award in 1979 in France. She has published I am also Che Guevara (1969), Scattered Memories (1993) and Two Worlds (2002). Her novel Winter Dream (1973) has been translated into French and English. “Luck” (‘Khoshbakhti’ in Persian) is one of the short stories in her collection, I am also Che Guevara.