My Venice and Other Essays by Donna Leon

Author:Donna Leon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2013-10-29T00:00:00+00:00

My First Time

Eating Sheep’s Eyeball

Only I didn’t eat it, so you can keep on reading. It happened in 1979, in Iran, toward the end of the country’s revolution, which would drive us all out. My companion, William, and I were invited to the home of Iranian friends for a special dinner. Martial law had been declared, and it was evident to everyone—except, of course, the U.S. government—that we would all be leaving Iran soon, and so our friends wanted to show their affection and regard for us by offering us a special meal.

We had been to their house before, they to ours, so we were familiar with Parveen’s cooking and thought she’d make one of her specialties: stuffed grape leaves, fried patties of egg and spinach, grilled lamb. When we arrived at their home—early, because we had to eat and get back home before the curfew began at dusk—we noticed that her mother was in the kitchen at the back of the house, surely a good sign, for the Hanumm, or lady, was known in the entire neighborhood as a good cook. Not only was Parveen’s father there, but so were her married sister and her husband; the more family members dined with us, the greater the respect being shown.

We sat at the low table, feeling very transgressive at this mixing of men and women at the same table in a traditional household. There were pistachios, almonds, and raisins on the table, a bowl of yogurt and cucumber. We drank tea and made polite remarks, all of us avoiding the sound of machine-gun fire that occasionally filtered over the walls of the house.

After ten minutes or so, Parveen excused herself and went across the courtyard and into the kitchen, only to return quickly with a platter of rice the size of an inner tube, from the center of which rose a steaming mound of meat. She placed it in the middle of the table and started to heap rice and meat on each of our plates. When all of us were served, she reached her spoon into the remaining meat and drew out, in quick succession, two marble-shaped and -sized objects and dropped them first on William’s plate and then on mine.

Agonizingly aware of what had just been done, I kept up a relentless monologue on the use of the past perfect tense, while William, equally sensitive to what lay ahead of us, listened breathlessly, as though a full understanding of the past perfect tense were the only desire he had ever known in life.

Everyone began to eat, I perhaps more slowly than the others. Rice had never been drier; each of the raisins cooked to rich plumpness in the rice caught in my throat. I drank a few glasses of tea, the edge of my fork occasionally brushing the offending ball from one side of my plate to the other. Occasionally, I looked down at my plate, admiring the delicacy that awaited me, making it obvious to everyone that I was saving it for last.

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