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141 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2008
Your breath hangs on the ceiling of my secrets,she says, savouring the reversal of power.
I can talk to you about anything, without being interrupted, or blamed!The supine object of her dramatic monologue becomes her sang-e sabur, the patience stone of Persian lore to which
you confess everything in your heart, everything you don't dare tell anyone.The magic stone
listens, absorbing all your words, all your secrets, until one fine day it explodes...And on that day you are set free from all your pain, all your suffering.During this process the woman becomes increasingly aware of the enormity of the injustices she has suffered. In the monologues that follow, the reader listens in on her tirades lamenting a life of misery in a society marked by brutality and neglect.
A fly sneaks into the heavy hush of the room. Lands on the man's forehead. Hesitant. Uncertain. Wanders over his wrinkles, licks his skin. No taste. Definitely no taste.The story's suspense undoubtedly comes from the unresolved situation at the bedside of the woman's half-dead husband, in whom the woman confides more and more of her innermost thoughts and most intimate secrets while continuing to care for him. In the end it all - unexpectedly - comes to a head in a catastrophe that can not be revealed here.
The fly makes its way down into the corner of his eye. Still hesitant. Still uncertain. It tastes the white of the eye, then moves off. Nothing chases it away. It resumes its journey, getting lost in the beard, climbing the nose. Takes flight. Explores the body. Returns. Settles once more on the face. Clambers on to the tube stuffed into the half-open mouth. Licks it, moves right along it to the edge of the lips. No spit. No taste. The fly continues, enters the mouth. And is engulfed.