Letter to Marcelo

11th of October, 2024

To Marcelo,

If you come to see me, bring your whip.

You went all out; I said, if you come to see me, bring your whip, and you didn’t fall short, you fully embraced the spirit of a rogue! In my writings, there’s no struggle to preserve your presence. Should I write about keeping the scent of your horse in my skin cells, or should I write about mourning the word "cry"? Neither, I won’t write about them. I only indulge in squeezing out a few missing measures of the unknown.

22 years ago, on the second of October, I fell in love, and from the various stages of perhaps loving, I reached the peak. Every second of October, with the memory of that moment of our meeting, passed in such a way that it was immeasurable. Our wedding should have been on the second of October. Every autumn that came, we awaited a small celebration for the second of October. But in the years that followed, when he became a disciple of the oppressors, and the street-fighter spirit of his grabbed my throat, his betrayals left marks on my devotion, and his addiction drained my soul, even his subsequent marriages stripped my dignity. This date became the most bitter day of the calendar for me. Like a star that turns to powder and smoke, it had neither light nor love within. Later, I grew to despise this second of October. One day, in my refuge, I wished for the light of a man, a waking male, to break the curse of this second of October in my life. I wanted to sit and write of a sweeter second of October, more delightful than a new season’s fruit.

When, by chance, the time of our meeting was the second of October, I woke up at eight in the morning, opened the attic window, and let the light spill over my sheets and blanket. I burned incense and frankincense, and in the circular bathtub of my home, I sang loudly. Around the mirror screen partition in my attic room, colorful birds had gathered and were watching me. A gentle breeze passed under my arms, and I, being a woman awake at night, prepared myself for an embrace with you, even at this early hour, when most people were still asleep, and no sound of any carriage wheel could be heard in the cobbled streets.

So, I didn’t sit even for a moment in anticipation and walked the length and breadth of the room, counting every second. I walked for eight hours, continuously going to the mirror to look at the red gown with a long train and the 16th-century lace bodice. I wished that the sunlight wouldn’t shift and wouldn’t leave my window. I wanted time to stop, and the sun, like a coin, to stick at the same point in the sky, so you could come. For eight hours, I didn’t sit on a chair. All this was from eagerness, not from heartache or disappointment from your absence. You sent your messenger, telling me your carriage had broken down in your relatives' farm and that you couldn’t make it. Once again, I couldn't create a real second of October with a beautiful memory.

And then, on the 17th of October, when the man on horseback, who was you, wrapped in the noble scent of a horse, appeared before me, I couldn’t contain myself. I looked at your hands resting on the paper, ready to draw around them. I stared at the edges of your nails, and my eyes moved over the dryness of your skin. I connected the crayon as if crossing a border between this beloved part of you and the paper. If you had any taste, you would’ve taken the lines from my fingers as well. Just like I drew lines around your fingers, you would’ve traced mine.

I gather the remnants of my taste and put them in my closet to show you. I choose a fish-scaled dress and wear it. Hey! You! After you shot me in the eyes and saw me fall into your embrace, did the fish scales on my body flutter well?

On our drawing paper, you wrote a poem by Mehdi Akhavan Sales: "The breath that comes from the warmth of the chest, turns into a cloud, darkens..." and I was stunned by the beauty of your handwriting on the paper. I wished that this empty canal would fill forever. Even though you didn’t write that poem for me, seeing it felt like witnessing a naked body, both sexually thrilling and terrifyingly beautiful.

I had drunk a sip of wine, and I wasn’t so drunk that my mind wandered. Just like reaching the woman’s lips, igniting the flame of life after coupling, that heavenly orgasmic moment. When you picked up your phone to film me, did you see that I was playing coy? Did you see that you had to record our laughter with my phone? Now that same film, with the explosion of laughter set to the mournful music of " Ne me quitte pas " by Jacques Brel, accidentally stayed in my phone. How did you turn that beautiful moment of laughter into hell, you, the lion of courage? How did you strike me with your whip, after all the chatting, dancing, and laughter under the flashing blue lights of my house? I, like an innocent child, sat before you, wiping the wet laughter from my eyes with my palms, looked at you, and asked, "Don’t you love me?" And you, laughing, stared at my eyes, unblinking, clearly and transparently said, "No! I don’t love you." To write how I was destroyed in front of you, I’d need a lifetime, not a few hundred notebooks. Alas, being a writer is something one can never truly become. I had never felt more helpless than in that moment, and you, like a filmmaker playing the lead role, both whipped me and gave me, the fish, as a gift to the moon in your painting!

I’ve seen how in your circus stable, you embraced and kissed your horse, Sabita, in those restless moments to deliver a message to your former lover.

No! You are not the one who’s been kicked and rejected. What does it matter that I read your back with my wet eyes and broken heart? "Hero!" Ha! A hero who, with all his heroism, gifted autumn to its host, gave his rain and his twilight pains to it, turning the time when two people could seek refuge in each other’s souls and bodies in the aftermath of a war-ravaged period into hell.

I loved you, selflessly. I’m sending you this film so you know how I lived through it, like the anxiety of a condemned person waiting for the verdict at the gallows.

You said, "Why should we take the rented off-road car to travel? Don’t I have a car?" Which road were we going to visit? I saw you at a magnificent level because I wanted to become a horse for you, but you never allowed my soul and body to be part of yours. For me, just seeing the dry, multi-colored autumn road with its anklet and sinking into the branches of its trees was enough.

This letter is not for you, Marcelo. It’s for October, whose hell passed through me. For11th of October, for the "M" not the month. For the man whose animalistic nature I fell in love with, but who was enamored with his epaulettes and wept for the women who loved the gleam of their clothing, not the sharpness of his heart.

In all these letters, I praised you, but in this one, let me moan a little! Huh? "Why did I give you my heart, only for you to break it, or what did I do that you won’t look back at me?" Shajarian's voice sing this.

Sorry that I "exist."

Sorry that I left my heart in your eyes and the broken bones of your nose.

They said, "Don’t inform men about love, they’ll run away," and I thought you were a legend, not an ordinary man.

I thought you had anchored yourself in the shade of poetry. The virtue of companionship and the pleasure of it, not everyone understands.

For you, who gave me neither a single flower, nor ever hosted me, nor poured me a cup of tea because you didn’t have the conditions, my friend.

A poem by Mehdi Akhavan Sales – "Winter"

Mohammadreza Shajarian – "The Song of the Meeting"

Sanaz seyed esfahani