In Case of Emergency by Mahsa Mohebali

Author:Mahsa Mohebali
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Absurdist, Women, Asian American, Fiction
ISBN: 9781952177866
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY
Published: 2021-11-28T21:00:00+00:00

Latif opens the door but not with the usual smile and bowed head. His eyes flutter.

“Miss Shadi! This is the end!” He wipes the tears at the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief. “They’ll be left for dead. If it’s like this here, then just think—”

He sobs into the handkerchief then looks up to stare straight into my eyes. I should say something. Something, anything. Something to calm him down a little, to get rid of that twitch in his eyes and give them back their usual smile. But my tongue’s tied. Like I’ve gone mute.

“This is the end!”

His knees give out. He plops down and beats his head with the handkerchief.

“Is Sara home?”

“Yes, miss. But Mr. Siamak left early in the morning. Mr. Ali is in, and Miss Shahnaz left just before you arrived—I believe she was angry. Mr. Mazyar I don’t know, and Mr. Ashkan’s been out since last night. As for Miss Sara, the lady’s been making music all day.”

It’s impressive Latif still has a handle on the occupancy rate around here.

“Get up, Latif, everything’s fine. These half-assed tremors—I mean, you can hardly call that an earthquake.”

Latif doesn’t move. He’s squatting down holding a handkerchief to his head, staring into space. I squat down next to him. A few months ago I’d cast a spell, talking to him about this and that. Now my mind works like a charm but my jaw won’t budge. What do I say? If only I could preach like Mazyar does, say something like, Life goes on, or maybe more like, What’s so great about life anyway that’s got you holding on so tight? Or if only I could explain to him, logically, reasonably, like Rahim would, that this earthquake has just hit Tehran and has nothing to do with anywhere else, let alone Afghanistan. My jaw won’t budge.

He keeps staring at the dry leaves in the garden with those green eyes of his that now look a little yellow and soon swell with beads of tears that slide down his leathery cheeks. He is and isn’t here. I reach into the pocket of my backpack and press a blister pack of Tylenol 3 into his palm.

“Take two or three of these, get in bed, and you’ll feel better.”

If he takes two or three, he’ll sleep for two days straight. That one time he caught a cold and Rahim gave him codeine, he was high for three. He won’t move. Like they’ve screwed him to the ground. I give him a friendly pound on the shoulder and half rise so he’ll get up too. He doesn’t.

Bach’s Invention no. 8 sounds from the house. As Latif likes to say, the lady’s making music. When it gets to measure six the music stops then starts over. Each time the composition gets stuck one or two notes earlier or later, then again from the top. If I had to listen to Sara practicing all day, I’d go insane.

She’s sitting at the old out-of-tune piano like usual, mashing down the pedal and making the windows of the Kolah Farangi Emirate shake.

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