This Translation Tuesday, we present new hybrid, experimental fiction from Iranian author Nasim Vahabi whose debut novel in French Je ne suis pas un roman (I am not a novel; Tropismes, 2022) was released to critical acclaim. Abstract in a generative way, A Triangle with Four Sides cleverly interrogates the notion of resistance. In each of the four angles that mirror and complement one another, we find a progression to expose and reconcile the many absurdities in everyday life and a wry attempt to rise above micro-oppressions. This is a well crafted puzzle of a piece that will definitely linger in the mind. Read on!
Geometry is more than a mathematical concept. It is the art of observation and comparison.
For example, the line—alone, single, and aimless—has geometry wrapped around its finger. It gets along with any shape. The line is the circle’s entire existence. Sometimes smooth or curvy, straight or zigzagged, sometimes boring and stretched out into eternity, other times stupidly coiled like a snake or long and high maintenance, and sometimes, like a hyphen, humble and content with its small lot in life.
The line is its own boss. When it wills, it folds over, straightens up, creates a sharp edge, or lies parallel with itself, but if it lies parallel with another line, it is liberation and generosity.However, once it decides to stretch even longer, its determination gets on your nerves. It seems something must interfere to save the line from itself. Perhaps self-replication? Or breaking into parts to create an independent entity such as a triangle—the perfect form, an archetype of stability. The square has always been envious of the triangle’s fortified flexibility. With three sides equal in length, whenever it wills, with a delicate, subtle movement, it could demonstrate equilaterality. But the square is heavy. Its movements are coarse. And yet, all it needs is to look at the rectangle or trapezoid to realize it could be worse: cumbersome and uneven. It could always be worse. The rectangle is the master of optimism. Rectangle considers itself the best of all shapes. Hates others and takes pride in having four sides staring at each other. Fanatic and self-absorbed, it only socializes with the rhombus, which is always uncomfortable and self-loathing. The rhombus is the shiest with the least confidence among all shapes: an unlucky rectangle.
The line would have never imagined having such offspring. The line is the rebellious child of two insignificant points that came into existence because of one movement of a pen. No one would ever know if that single movement was intentional or accidental. Right from the start, the point knew the line would not be satisfied with having a simple destiny as, let’s say, an em dash. The points knew the line’s ambition would make all the other points proud one day. Yes, the point—despite its insignificance—was aware of all these.
The geometry family, like all families, has its own untold stories. Geometry is life’s summary despite all its good or bad surprises.
I call my story triangle in honor of geometry, and I know that all it takes for my story to fall apart and turn into a coarse, inflexible square is one broken angle.
The First Angle: Gargle
Gargling loudly in the morning is my daily habit.
Gurr. Gurr. Spit.
The morning spit has become more than an insignificant routine for me.
It’s the stress before getting a test’s results,
the nervousness on the first day at a new job,
the fear of not being safe,
the stress of going home alone at night,
the fear of getting caught for entering a no-entry zone,
the stress of waiting outside the operating room,
the indescribable feeling of being grounded, seeing your father’s anger, getting your mother’s silent treatment, your husband’s frowning, your child’s whining,
being stressed for no reason,
the anxiety before an exam,
the stress of not knowing how the dinner will turn out,
the worry when receiving an unexpected phone call,
the fear of being blocked on Facebook,
the Sunday blues,
the fear of one’s own helplessness, of someone else’s, of indifference, of distrust, of power, of unemployment, of money problems, of illness,
the fear of someone intercepting your calls or emails,
the anguish of waiting,
the anguish when watching the 8 o’clock news,
the worries of long winter nights,
the stress of being indecisive,
the fear of growing old,
the fear of stress, the anxiety, the anxiety of being afraid, the anxiety of being afraid of anxiety,
the misery of unexplainable anxieties.
The stubborn, sneaky fears, the relentless draining anxieties, the opportunistic, slimy worries.
Anxiety begets anxiety, stress begets fear, fear begets hopelessness, hopelessness begets bitterness, and bitterness leaves you exhausted.
I’ve decided to gargle them and spit out the sour taste of the mixture.
Gurr. Gurr. Spit.
I must not swallow it. Swallowing it means acceptance, means hopelessness, means defeat, means death.
My only weapon is hope; It is my resistance to losing hope.
Gurgle, gurgle. Spit.
The morning means another day awaits.
Who knows, maybe today will be a good day.
The Second Angle: The Wanted Ad
I scroll down the classified page and read the long ad I sent them yesterday. It’s published. Now, I’m waiting for someone to reply to the email I left. Eventually, someone will find it interesting. It’s not just one or two needs; it’s the longest wanted list ever posted.
WANTED
a person to take beatings or
a hairdresser for bald women,
a chemistry graduate to make champagne,
a trustworthy sex worker who knows how to kill her clients by too much fun,
a dead person for cadaver photographs,
a writer to write a will,
a cold-hearted nurse,
a chef willing to prepare drunk food at inconvenient hours,
a radiologist for diagnosing compassion,
a registrar willing to register a deed without the seller’s signature,
a pharmaceutical scientist for making a tasty poison,
a patient teacher for a dumb teenager,
a poet to be a butcher,
a thug to be a security guard,
a person to pick on and bully,
an architect to convert an outhouse to a tomb,
common sense,
a designer to create a shroud,
a female drug dealer,
someone in love to play Raskolnikov,
a male salesperson to flirt,
an empty room for criminal activities,
an hour of peace,
a smile at the chemotherapy clinic,
a dentist to torture prisoners
a cook for a cannibal tribe,
a stylist for the dissection lab,
a single man to run miscellaneous errands,
Jean Valjean to take care of Cosette,
two old trees for putting up a hammock,
a signature forger,
an old lady to play Claire Zachanassian,
two reputable archaeologists to dig for justice
a colony of bees to set up a hive,
an OCD person to clean up the trash thrown around the garbage can,
saliva to lick collectible stamps,
healthy longs to breathe in filthy, polluted air,
A hopeful person is needed.
The Third Angle: The Firsts
A beginner is uncorrupted. Anything a beginner does is visceral, any connection a beginner makes is genuine, and the things a beginner experiences for the first time are the most memorable:
The first day of school,
the first friend,
the first real beating for lying,
the first class to flunk,
the first orgasm,
the first time my heart raced out of fear
the first wedding I attended,
the first time I smoked the end of my cousin’s cigarette,
my first secret sip of alcohol,
the first time I saw a dead person up close,
the first time someone belittled me,
the first surgery with general anesthesia,
the first romantic kiss that felt more awkward than good,
the first joint I smoked lying down, and everything looked purple for a few minutes,
the first burial I went to,
the first teary goodbye,
the first time someone told me, “I don’t love you anymore.”
the first time someone told me, “I love you,”
the first time I told someone, “I don’t love you anymore,”
the first time I told someone, “I’m still in love with you,”
the first time I realized I had reached the end of my tether,
the first time I got fired,
the first time I got caught red-handed,
the first time I looked at myself in the mirror, and felt sorry for myself,
the first time I looked at myself in the mirror and felt self-love,
the first time I didn’t like myself,
the first time I felt incredibly lonely,
the first time my sixth sense turned out to be right,
the first time I took the university entrance exam,
the first therapy session,
the first time going back home,
the first time I was on a plane,
the first exit stamp on my passport,
the first time making love,
the first meeting at a coffee shop,
the first time I heard a recording of my voice,
the first time I visited someone in prison,
the first time I heard the word cancer,
the first slice of pizza I had,
the first hike,
the first play,
the first book,
the first imaging,
the first gray hair,
the first time my body trembled from a shock,
the first time I rambled on nervously,
the first exuberant happiness,
the first hopelessness,
the first no,
the first restriction,
the first regret,
the first amazement,
the first longing,
the first connection,
the first wrong thing I did . . . that didn’t bother me or make me regret it, and I know I will do it again.
A beginner is unsure of everything and thinks others know what they are doing. Since the boredom of repetition has not yet hit, a beginner sees things with a fresh eye.
That’s why if you tell a beginner that a triangle has three sides and a triangle with four sides never existed, the beginner will probably believe you.
The Fourth Angle: Happiness
“Waking up to the chirpings of sparrows;
the smell of a baby’s neck,
Watching the blooms;
sitting by the window and getting warmed by the autumn sun;
respecting; being respected;
listening; being heard;
saying no to someone we’ve always disliked;
listening to the stories of someone who remembers our childhood;
dozing off on the couch and feeling the warmth of a blanket someone puts over us;
waiting for a friend we haven’t seen in years to open the door for us;
getting validation;
being seen; being seen with admiration; being looked at with love;
the brief time when alcohol and blood begin to mix;
smiling for no reason;
the sound of a brook;
experiencing a few seconds of climax;
putting our hands around a warm cup of tea in a cold winter
the feeling of knowing someone is proud of you;
the smell of freshly baked bread;
having a nice dream;
tasting a fresh fruit;
crying from laughing so hard;
feeling good without knowing why;
getting an unexpected kind message from someone;
knowing we have someone we can trust;
hearing the specialist say, “It’s not serious”;
touching the lobule of a baby dear to us;
receiving an appreciative smile;
watching a flock of birds fly against the backdrop of a summer afternoon’s sky;
hearing, “I love you”;
chitchatting with an old friend;
staring into a starry sky;
trying a recipe for the first time and being happy with the result;
finishing a job completely and letting out a sigh of relief;
the feeling of freedom the day after the last exam;
care-free money spending when you have no money;
witnessing your enemy’s defeat;
seeing a good movie;
being trusted;
the fragrance of daffodils;
the wonderful feeling of discovering the watermelon you bought is red and sweet;
and happiness such as these.
That’s all; the small things make overwhelming sorrows bearable. Go ahead, resist. Take a deep breath, and shame the polluted air.
I’m talking nonstop, like a monologue.
The subway is not crowded. The passengers stare and wait for me to tell them the ending. They must be wondering if I want money or if I’m selling my poetry book. Some might think I’m an actor and advertising for my play.
I say the last word as the train slows down. The monologue is exactly as long as the distance between the two stations. I finish, and the train stops to load and unload passengers.
I get out of the car and hurry into the next one. As soon as the doors close and the train moves, I let out my scratchy, low voice.
Waking up to the chirpings of sparrows;
the smell of a baby’s neck,
Watching the blooms;
sitting by the window and getting warmed by the autumn sun;
respecting; being respected;
listening; being heard;
saying no to someone we’ve always disliked;
. . .
Translated from the Persian by Parisa Saranj
Nasim Vahabi is a prominent Iranian writer who has published three books that won prestigious literary prizes in Iran. Her first novel in French, Je ne suis pas un roman (I Am Not a Novel; Tropismes, 2022) about censorship, was published in 2022 and received rave reviews from critics and readers.
Parisa Saranj is a writer, translator and editor at Consequence Forum. Her writings on contemporary Iranian politics and translations from Persian have been published in several publications, including West Branch, Ms. Magazine, Defunct, Two Lines, and Your Impossible Voice. She has also translated two books, Empty and Me (Lee & Low, 2023) by Azam Mahdavi and Women, Life, Freedom: Our Fight for Human Rights and Equality in Iran (Cornell University Press, 2023) by Nasrin Sotoudeh, and two documentaries, Nasrin (2020) and Sansūr (2023), on women’s rights in Iran.
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