Free Black Light by Galway Kinnell Page B

construction workers were gone. A policeman was standing over him. Curse these flimsy pajamas, Jamshid thought, sitting up.
    â€œThe snake must learn to uncoil itself if it is to get into its hole,” he said quoting the proverb. “Where are my mates?” he added, in feigned alarm. It wasn’t the right word. “Allah save me, I have overslept!”
    â€œI believe your mates . . .” the policeman said, stressing the word sarcastically, “have gone off to work.” He pointed up the street. “There, where you can see that other crane . . .” The policeman went off chuckling at his witticism. Jamshid got up and walked toward the construction site. Up in the open second story he saw some workers huddled at a fire making tea. When the policeman was out of view he inquired of a kerosene-vendor the whereabouts of the nearest highway out of town.
    â€œThe Tehran road starts just over there,” the man told him.
    Why not? Jamshid thought. Where is it easier to lose yourself than in a great city?
    When he reached the outskirts of Shiraz he sat down under some trees. He was uncertain what to do. As for walking all the way to Tehran, it was out of the question. And yet he was afraid to hitch a ride, lest the police had put out a warning about him. He ate his bread and cheese and considered his situation.
    Once in a while a tank truck would roar by, throwing up clouds of dust. He watched them pass. Some part ofhim wanted to remain in this city, where he had learned it was possible to be happy. Perhaps he would never be able to come back. He would not see the widow again.
    While Jamshid sat brooding, a little white automobile drew to a stop before the trees. A foreign man got out and walked to the rear, where one of the tires was flat. He was muttering in a foreign tongue. Had the man been Iranian, Jamshid would have slung the carpet over his shoulder and trudged off. But these foreigners, everyone knew, drove about the countryside perfectly ignorant of the local murderers. They were known to be somewhat dim-witted and untrustworthy, but the best of them were said to possess a trace of charity. Probably due to their Christianity, Jamshid reflected. He recalled the religious dramas he had seen as a boy, in which an actor playing the part of the foreigner said to the cruel Yazd, as they stood over the body of the martyred Hassan, “Why did you kill this man?” The foreigner had always put much reproach into the question.
    Jamshid stepped out from the trees and watched the tire-changing over the man’s shoulder.
    â€œSalaam alaikum,” the foreigner said, without turning from his work.
    â€œSalaam alaikum,” Jamshid replied. The man rolled the old wheel around to the front of the car. Jamshid followed. The man looked up and spoke. It was a ludicrous sound, this foreign language. Jamshid wanted to laugh. The fellow was idiot enough to think you could stop your car way out in the middle of a foreign country and expect the first person who came along to speak the same language as you.
    The man spoke again, and this time Jamshid realized that the man was actually speaking Persian. It was the peculiar accent that made it sound like a foreign tongue.“Why are your roads covered all over with nails,” the man said, “when all your houses are made of mud?” He had finished changing the tire. After he screwed on the hubcap, he fumbled in the back seat of the car and came out holding a camera.
    â€œStand over there, will you?” he said pointing to the trees.
    â€œWhat?” said Jamshid
    â€œYes, stand over there, for just a minute. I’d like to take your picture.”
    Why not? Jamshid thought. “Only if you’ll give me a ride to Tehran,” he said, as a kind of joke.
    â€œGood,” the foreigner said. He was squinting and turning knobs on his machine. Yes, it’s true, these foreigners can be kind, thought Jamshid. If rather