Pool's stories

Sunday Post

Friends

I will not give up. I continue to write about the pool. Gert is my friend whom I lost. He was a strange man. I met him at the pool. Six months ago, I told him I wrote a story about the women's revolution in Iran, and he's the main character in the story. He laughed, saying, "I don't know Persian, but when you translate it, give it to me to read." I didn't tell him that I killed him off in the story. Sometimes, after swimming, we would sit in the library and read poems we had written for each other. Now, it's the anniversary of the revolution. I translated the first part of this story. Gert is not here to read it. I'm publishing this story in memory of him and all those killed in Iran; I'm posting this story here. I will write about Gert, but I repeatedly ask myself, would he still be alive if I hadn't killed him in the story?

Nika and reeds of Mahshahr نیکا ونیزارهای ماهشهر

Part one

Twenthy years later, Gustav Madden was sitting on a plane of Hadis Airlines, listening to the voice of an Iranian flight attendant:

"In a few moments, we will land at Mahsa International Airport. Please fasten your seat belts and do not take any photos of what you see outside the window, as it is useless. No photo can be taken, even with the strongest satellites revolving around the Earth. From this moment on, all the images you see from behind the airplane window belong to thirty years ago and can only be seen for a week each year during the "Mahsa Days." For more information you can read a booklet behind the seat in front of you."

Gustav fastened his seatbelt and looked out the airplane window. The plane was slowing down as it approached the ground, and from afar, he could see spears rising toward the sky from the ground. Hands were raised as if to call for help in protest. And the wind had fallen on the spears. The protruding stems were twisting and turning, and an indistinct sound echoed in the plane. Gustav ignored the attendant's comments and zoomed in on the video on his mobile phone, pressing it against the window plane. As he looked around, he also noticed other passengers taking photos and videos.

At the passport and customs queue in the airport's lounge, Gustav checked his mobile phone. Nothing had been recorded. No sound, no images. The girl stamping his passport greeted him with a pleasant voice and a beautiful smile, saying, "Welcome to Mahshaher." Gustav ran his hand through his thick and lush hair, nodded, and smiled back at the woman, showing off his mobile phone: "She was right; nothing was recorded." The girl replied, "Nobody lies here. I hope you've read the Ghost story in the notebook." Gustav asked, "Ghost?" The girl held up her passport towards him and said, "Yes, the season of remembrance. The spirits of the slain come to my city like everyone else. They all live like everyone else. We see them, but we can't touch them.

Behind Gustav, there was a line of passengers. Tourists were moving around with their mobile phones and cameras,

checking the photos they had taken and the sounds they had recorded from above, thinking that no one had captured anything from up there. The girl smiled and gestured towards them, saying:

"This week is the world's encounter with us, just like every year at this time, the week of commotion and uproar."

The girl smiled again, pointing her hand behind the glass towards a girl holding a white cardboard, among others, waiting and looking around. Looking closely, he saw his name written on the paper.

So, he had finally arrived! He had reached the land

That had destroyed his Uncle's life.

They buried his songwriter, Uncle, in the Eastern Cemetery. He went to his notebooks, and without waiting for his eighteenth birthday, on the very first night, he understood what had happened to him in all those years. His Uncle had lived alone and died alone. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone, and his task was to repeatedly draw the sketch of a young girl and inscribe and write a word that Nobody knew where he had learned from, over and over again, using an alphabet that Nobody recognized.

He had written the word "Eshegh-عشق" in English several times before this word.

The word that Gustav had been unable to find its meaning in any dictionary.

One day before Uncle Gart's death, Gustav sat beside his bed in the hospital with his father. Uncle Gert held his hand, saying, "You won't touch anything until you're eighteen." Then, to discovered he told the story that had devastated his life.

Gustav had gathered himself and persuaded his Argentine mother, who

She still fled from the government, like in her childhood, to come to this land.

He had postponed it for many years.

But now he was at the airport, heading towards the exit gate, surrounded by the travelers behind him. The girl was pulling on his neck, waving her hand, and lifting a cardboard sign with her name.

As he walked out, He walked straight towards the girl. A breeze of warmth hit his face. The girl separated from the crowd and waved the cardboard sign above her head. As he got closer, he noticed the radiance on her face. She had an undeniable youthfulness. A captivating smile formed on her lips as she was coming towards him. Her long black hair was braided on both sides, and the woven braids on her chest swayed like waves. She wore a blue T-shirt and a short, warm skirt. The weather was hot.

The girl, holding the cardboard above her head with two hands, smiled and said,

"Shaghayegh."

Gustav, with a gesture, ruffled his hair onto his face, smiled, and, with a heavy accent, said:

"Shaghaik."

The robot trying to book a hotel room for him quickly informed him that the hotels were full, and he needed to choose another option and go to homes that provided services for tourists.

They were heading towards Shaghayegh's house on the highway. Both sides were lined with narcissus fields. The breeze was caressing the narcissus flowers, and the scent of the flowers was everywhere. Shaghayegh seemed to realize Gustav had lowered the car window, she said, "Twenthy years ago, there was no highway here, and the road didn't have so many narcissus flowers."

Shaghayegh was an excellent guide. Step by step, she described what she saw. Gustav, however, needed help understanding most of her words. He had no familiarity with this land and had come only to find traces of a girl he used to chat with his Uncle about.

Uncle Gert, filled with regret, had written about her until his last moment:"

"She had a beautiful and astonishing voice, and with a lyrical accent, she would sing the song I had written. I wish I had recorded her voice. She could have been an amazing singer. It was planned that when she turned eighteen, she would get her passport and come here. She was supposed to join our group."

Uncle's group was called "The Big Loser Group," a subset or offshoot of the Marilyn Manson group... All of them were now dead, each with peculiar and bizarre names.

On a page of his diary, Uncle had written with a red underline: "The girl tells me to change the group's name. She says these names bring their meanings. Why do you want to be a big loser? The Big Loser Group."

Uncle was indeed a big loser. During his work, he suddenly lost a girl he liked, and later, cancer took him without anyone knowing where it came from. He lost his Voice and ability to walk and his strength. In his final days, he looked at a tattoo on his arm from the girl. A tattoo that, according to him, didn't resemble her much.