BASEMENT COMMANDMENT. Bahram Zaimi
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move afraid of waking his son up,” He paused took the unbroken lens and placed it back. “I don’t understand, you mean you could read at the age of four. How come do you say you were reading?” The landlady asked doubtfully, her fury replaced with amazement of the sudden change in the man’s behavior. There was emotion in his expressions, imperiously glancing at her.
“I don’t know. I could not recall father’s voice, but I could see myself at that age and could read word by word every page. It was a story about thirteen fallen angels who came to earth. As the story goes, if one wants his wish come true he must be able to recognize his angel out of ordinary people. Unfortunately, her appearance is not different from normal people as she is wingless. The angels live among people but there is no way to find them unless you are blind. Their body smells different, inexplicable by no humans’ words. Blinds shape the scent as an angel in their mind, they ask for a favor, their wish comes true,” He paused for a second. Facing the landlady he continued, “I can recall the whole story word by word except the ending. Supposedly, I got sleepy and he didn’t continue. I have a strong urge to know the ending.”
“But the book is lost.”
“Tonight, the woman of heavenly scent, my angel, fulfilled my wish. The location of the book was always at the back of the mind of the four-year-old boy.”
“Where is the book?”
“The boy waited until the guests left the coffin room, went out of the room to his bedroom, took the book out the father’s chair. He then went back to coffin room, opened a gap in the lid with all power he had and slid the book in. A harsh punishment, the boy sentenced me to deprivation for life,” He inhaled and continued, “I am pardoned now, my freedom is granted; I am going to take back the book and read the ending.”
“You are insane. It is in a coffin, under tons of soil.”
“So I need a shovel,” he went to the tool room, grabbed a shovel and came back in front of the landlady who was staring at him round-eyed in amazement.
“But you can’t see.”
“I can see enough,” he took the one-lens frame.
“I am not going to give you the car key.”
“I don’t need that.”
“You cannot get to the graveyard at this time of the night.”
“I do not need your help; now that I have the picture of the book I feel strong. I go on foot with the lens, with the shovel. I will dig his grave, open the lid and take out my book. Then I will come back here with the book, the lens, and the shovel.”
He turned to the glass doors and walked to it, the doors slid back and he stepped outside. He looked around, neither the woman was there, nor the greedy air left any scent of her. He didn’t need the scent, he had the picture. He tightened his coat and put the handle of the shovel over his shoulder, a weak body but strong steps, holding on the picture of his father with a child in his laps, taken from the mysterious box of lost and found in his mind. The man walked up to the Milwaukee graveyard.
4
The Horse
Outside the building, a cold breeze of the end of fall twisting around her bare legs welcomed her. She raised her head to the night sky, the moon was going to hide behind some scattered clouds; she wished for snow then looked down at her car parked across the street, a red Mustang, old but the silver horse was still shining. The street was dead vacant. She remembered the psychoanalyst, “How can you be afraid of the darkness? You belong to the wild nights. That is the time when you can communicate with your real identity in a survival struggle against the circumstances of the dark side of Milwaukee if they surround you.” She entered the car, inserted the car key into the ignition switch, and turned it; the engine cranked but didn’t start. She looked at the gas tank gauge it was full. “My old horse I have not taken care of you well, I wait, be calm.”
She removed her hand from the key, “Don’t rush my horse, and let the night get longer.” She unfastened the safety belt, rotated back the car seat to a relaxing position then wiggled her back on the seating ridge to ridge to find a comfortable spot free of protruding springs. She laid, reclined the seat backward, crossed her hands at the back of her head, and watched the sky through the windshield. The clouds were getting thicker, no stars left, they were trying to hide the moon. “I hate the sun and the moon; make for me the darkest night.”
Out the window, a man appeared when the building glass doors slid open. She leaned forward; “Can I believe my eyes, the old man with a shovel?” She smiled, “Freedom at last.” She rotated back her seat, opened the glove compartment, took a piece of paper and a pen; depicted something on the paper and put back the pen. The dress did not have a pocket, tucked the paper in the tight cleavage between her breasts. “My faithful Old horse, take off even if it is going to be your last ride.” She turned the ignition, the horse whined aloud.
Soon for the second time, she passed the small area of the city that she had been living for years. The area restricted to a walking distance between her building and the psychiatrist office from one side and to the convenience store from the other side. Her tonight destination, the Botanist’s store, was about one hour or so driving distance. Although she had driven there in confusion only once, she could find her way with no problem. She rolled the window an inch down, the cold air guided her by the familiar smells of the streets leading to the store.
By the time, she had reached an intersection a combination of pictures and scents informed her of the right direction, she could sense to turn right, left, or go straight. She stopped the car at a stop sign, the last sign before reaching the dirt road in the outskirt of the city. She smelled a dustbin before turning into the last paved street and rats around it.
She turned left five minutes later she saw the dustbin at the left side, pulled over and parked her car across from the dustbin, let the engine continue revving. She looked through the window to the dustbin. The lid was wide open suspended at the back of the bin, garbage had overflowed, the liquid of the filth had run and stuck to the pavement of the sidewalk and the street. Smelly residues of dried liquid waste, oil and grease, permanent stains all around and the rats. They were devouring voraciously, leaking the dried streams, their appetizer. They were all over the place, the smaller ones were searching on and into the bin, the big ones lazy to jump up had marked their territory on the pavement, busy with the food until a bigger one would notice and invade to capture their lickerish territory. The gluttonous sound of their teeth chewing the dirt and the squeaking of joy were the only sounds of the city of Milwaukee crossing the street, they together with the smell of the dirt and rats passed through the gap in the window burned her nose, bothered her ears. “Thanks for more reasons to hate.”
She smiled of visualizing scenery in her mind: the rats were running and squeaking everywhere, a magnificent festival of glowing fires on the sidewalk and street. A huge fire up in the dustbin, jumping up and down of rats in the fire, the smell of burning dirty grease mixed with skin. The amazing show had started by splashing gasoline on them then a flint. The fire was burning them down, as a notion of the city people. The fat rat made a circle of glow, the mayor was burning. “All the Milwaukee on fire, the buildings, and the crowd. A gift of the squeaky night to me.” Her palm cupped on the gear knob, moved the lever gently, a few minutes later she was driving on the dirt road.
Felt cold in the car; she turned on the heater and put it to the full volume. The blow of hot air caressing her legs had a strange effect. Make her again to notice the lack of the panty. The hot air was coming from the lower heater close to the pedals. The sweat of her feet on the Y-shaped slippers was accumulating making her feet on the accelerator and clutch to slip up and down. The combination of hot air and dance of her feet on the pedals, friction between her massive thighs, brought her