Forty-Eight Steps

I come home and I don’t let on that I’m late. I come home and like a good mother I prepare dinner, set the table, feed them, wash the dishes, put the children to bed, and sit on the sofa with the man who is my housemate. I look at him. He is my children’s father, with salt-and-pepper hair and a haggard face. I never got to know him, never figured out who he is. I look at his tired hands covered with cuts, at his lips that have turned dark from all the cigarettes he smokes, and at his weary eyes that remain fixed on the television screen.

I want to forget today; every moment of it. I close my eyes. I lean my head back against the wall. I know he is not looking at me. I know he doesn’t care what I am thinking about. We both know this indifference well. I have nothing to say to him. Our conversations have been reduced to hellos and good-byes; except some nights when I hear his whisper close to my ear and that too sounds unfamiliar. Without a word, I get up, pass by him and go to the bedroom. I lie down on the bed. I close my eyes. I want to forget today, but I can’t, not a single moment of it . . .

A fine snow is falling and the air is foggy. Like every weekday, I’ve come to the office, but I don’t have the energy to work. My hands ache. I need to rest. I have no patience for this desk and this workplace. I find an excuse to take the day off and go back home. But instead of home, I arrive at a faraway café. A café whose name I don’t even know. It’s old and empty. There is no one here except the old woman serving coffee. I sit at one of the tables next to the window. I’m cold. I shiver. I wring my hands and order a coffee. Waiting for it to be prepared, I think about how my children have grown. The scent of coffee wafts through the café. I massage my hands. The joints are so swollen! I can no longer take off my wedding ring. I’m getting old; I’m not the way I used to be. I hear the delicate clinking of a coffee cup against a saucer. I look outside. The snowflakes are hurling themselves to the ground more briskly. They seem happy that the earth is turning white. But I’m cold. I’m not wearing warm clothes. I’m dressed in an old worn-out cardigan that will quickly get wet in this snow. The old thickset woman comes toward me. There is no smile on her lips and her disheveled silver hair has escaped her pink headscarf. She puts the cup of coffee in front of me and returns to her place behind the counter. The steam rising from the cup warms me. It’s a pleasant feeling that—

The café door opens. A man walks in. From behind the counter, with a familiar smile, the old woman says hello in Armenian—“Barev.” The man nods. He walks past me and stops a few tables away. I can’t see his face in the dim light. He takes off his coat, shakes off the snow and puts it on the chair next to him. He sits down. Without asking, the old woman gets busy brewing. The scent of coffee wafts through the café. My hands ache. I massage them. The man lights a cigarette. It smells so familiar. I take a sip of coffee. My gaze turns to the street and then to the man who has faded away in cigarette smoke. I rest my forehead on the table. I want to end it all; the ache in my hands, the exhaustion, the loneliness. But there is no end to any of it. I raise my head. The man has finished his coffee. He looks at me. I don’t see his face, just the glint in his eyes. He puts money for the coffee on the table, takes his coat from the chair next to him and puts it on. He slowly walks past me. He opens the café door and steps onto the snow-covered ground. He stops. He turns back. He looks at me. Should I have gotten up? I get up. I put money for the coffee on the table. I don’t care about the old woman’s curious looks. I open the café door. I walk out onto the snowy street and toward the man. He sets off, a few steps ahead of me. I follow him. It’s an empty street with four alleys. He turns onto the second one, a dark narrow alley. He walks toward the building at the far end. He takes a key out of his pocket. The old door opens with a groan. He steps aside. I walk in first.

He says, “Top floor.”

What a strange voice, or perhaps what a familiar one. We climb up forty-eight steps. A door with faded paint that was once blue is in front of me. And now . . . he opens the door. The blue flames of the heater cast the only light in the room. He turns on a lamp. Books are the first things that catch my eyes. On the floor, on the table, even on the bentwood chairs there are stacks of books. There’s an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and a few sheets of ink-stained paper are scattered on the floor.

I look at him. He says nothing. His eyes quiver like a pair of black marbles. He walks over to the only other room in his home. I follow him. Other than a bed and a pink floor lamp, the room is crowded with books, papers, photographs, and magazines. I take off my faded cardigan. He looks at me. I look at him. Have I never seen him before? No, he is not a stranger. It seems he is my man who has come from distant years. He has black hair and a fresh young face, hands that are slender and full of vigor, red lips that tremble, and bright captivating eyes that gaze at my face. I must be young; intense passion, a scorching energy, ripples in me. I want all the ice inside me to melt. I want him to take me in his arms, he does, I grow warm, I no longer shiver . . .

It was past ten o’clock when I left that apartment and walked down those forty-eight steps. The darkness of night led me from that deserted narrow alley toward my home.

I come home and I don’t let on that I’m late. I close my eyes and I try to . . . I try to forget today.

I come home and I don’t let on that I’m late. I come home and like a good mother I prepare dinner, set the table, feed them, wash the dishes, put the children to bed, and sit on the sofa with the man who is my housemate. I look at him. He is my children’s father, with salt-and-pepper hair and a haggard face. I never got to know him, never figured out who he is. I look at his tired hands covered with cuts, at his lips that have turned dark from all the cigarettes he smokes, and at his weary eyes that remain fixed on the television screen.

I want to forget today; every moment of it. I close my eyes. I lean my head back against the wall. I know he is not looking at me. I know he doesn’t care what I am thinking about. We both know this indifference well. I have nothing to say to him. Our conversations have been reduced to hellos and good-byes; except some nights when I hear his whisper close to my ear and that too sounds unfamiliar. Without a word, I get up, pass by him and go to the bedroom. I lie down on the bed. I close my eyes. I want to forget today, but I can’t, not a single moment of it . . .

A fine snow is falling and the air is foggy. Like every weekday, I’ve come to the office, but I don’t have the energy to work. My hands ache. I need to rest. I have no patience for this desk and this workplace. I find an excuse to take the day off and go back home. But instead of home, I arrive at a faraway café. A café whose name I don’t even know. It’s old and empty. There is no one here except the old woman serving coffee. I sit at one of the tables next to the window. I’m cold. I shiver. I wring my hands and order a coffee. Waiting for it to be prepared, I think about how my children have grown. The scent of coffee wafts through the café. I massage my hands. The joints are so swollen! I can no longer take off my wedding ring. I’m getting old; I’m not the way I used to be. I hear the delicate clinking of a coffee cup against a saucer. I look outside. The snowflakes are hurling themselves to the ground more briskly. They seem happy that the earth is turning white. But I’m cold. I’m not wearing warm clothes. I’m dressed in an old worn-out cardigan that will quickly get wet in this snow. The old thickset woman comes toward me. There is no smile on her lips and her disheveled silver hair has escaped her pink headscarf. She puts the cup of coffee in front of me and returns to her place behind the counter. The steam rising from the cup warms me. It’s a pleasant feeling that—

The café door opens. A man walks in. From behind the counter, with a familiar smile, the old woman says hello in Armenian—“Barev.” The man nods. He walks past me and stops a few tables away. I can’t see his face in the dim light. He takes off his coat, shakes off the snow and puts it on the chair next to him. He sits down. Without asking, the old woman gets busy brewing. The scent of coffee wafts through the café. My hands ache. I massage them. The man lights a cigarette. It smells so familiar. I take a sip of coffee. My gaze turns to the street and then to the man who has faded away in cigarette smoke. I rest my forehead on the table. I want to end it all; the ache in my hands, the exhaustion, the loneliness. But there is no end to any of it. I raise my head. The man has finished his coffee. He looks at me. I don’t see his face, just the glint in his eyes. He puts money for the coffee on the table, takes his coat from the chair next to him and puts it on. He slowly walks past me. He opens the café door and steps onto the snow-covered ground. He stops. He turns back. He looks at me. Should I have gotten up? I get up. I put money for the coffee on the table. I don’t care about the old woman’s curious looks. I open the café door. I walk out onto the snowy street and toward the man. He sets off, a few steps ahead of me. I follow him. It’s an empty street with four alleys. He turns onto the second one, a dark narrow alley. He walks toward the building at the far end. He takes a key out of his pocket. The old door opens with a groan. He steps aside. I walk in first.

He says, “Top floor.”

What a strange voice, or perhaps what a familiar one. We climb up forty-eight steps. A door with faded paint that was once blue is in front of me. And now . . . he opens the door. The blue flames of the heater cast the only light in the room. He turns on a lamp. Books are the first things that catch my eyes. On the floor, on the table, even on the bentwood chairs there are stacks of books. There’s an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and a few sheets of ink-stained paper are scattered on the floor.

I look at him. He says nothing. His eyes quiver like a pair of black marbles. He walks over to the only other room in his home. I follow him. Other than a bed and a pink floor lamp, the room is crowded with books, papers, photographs, and magazines. I take off my faded cardigan. He looks at me. I look at him. Have I never seen him before? No, he is not a stranger. It seems he is my man who has come from distant years. He has black hair and a fresh young face, hands that are slender and full of vigor, red lips that tremble, and bright captivating eyes that gaze at my face. I must be young; intense passion, a scorching energy, ripples in me. I want all the ice inside me to melt. I want him to take me in his arms, he does, I grow warm, I no longer shiver . . .

It was past ten o’clock when I left that apartment and walked down those forty-eight steps. The darkness of night led me from that deserted narrow alley toward my home.

I come home and I don’t let on that I’m late. I close my eyes and I try to . . . I try to forget today.

چهل و هشــت پلـــــــه

به خانه ميآيم و مثل يك مادر خوب، غذا درست ميكنم، ميز را ميچينم،‌ با آنها غـــذا ميخورم، ظرفها را ميشويم، بچهها را ميخوابانم و با مردي كه با من همخانه است روي مبل مينشينم. نگاهش ميكنم. پدر بچههايم است، با موهاي جوگندمي و صورتي خسته. هيچ وقت نشناختمش ونفهميدم كيست. به دستهايش نگاه ميكنم كه خسته و پرزخم است. به لبهايي كه از فرط سيگار كشيدن كبود شده و به چشمان بيرمقي كه بر روي صفحه تلويزيون ثابت مانده.

مي خواهم امروز را فراموش كنم؛ تمام لحظاتش را. چشمانم را مي بندم. سرم را به ديوار تكيه ميدهم. ميدانم نگاهم نمي كند. مي دانم برايش اهميتي ندارد كه به چه فكر مي كنم. هردو با اين بي تفاوتي آشنا هستيم. حرفي ندارم تا با او بزنم، حرفهاي ما خلاصه شده بود به سلام و خداحافظي. فقط بعضي از شبها صداي زمزمه اش را كنار گوشم مي شنوم كه باز هم نا آشناست. بي هيچ كلامي بلند مي شوم و از كنارش مي گذرم و به اتاق مي روم. روي تخت دراز مي كشم. چشمانم را مي بنــدم. مي خواهم امروز را فراموش كنم،‌ اما نمي توانم ؛ هيچ كدام از لحظاتش را . . .

برف ريزي مي آيد و هوا مه آلود است. مثل تمام روزهاي هفته به سركار مي روم. اما توانايي كار كردن ندارم. دستانم درد مي كند. بايد استراحت كنم. حوصله اين ميز ودفتر را هم ندارم،‌ بهانهاي ميآورم و مرخصي مي گيرم تا به خانه بروم. اما به جاي خانه به كافه اي دور مي رسم. كافه اي كه حتي نامش را هم نمي دانم. قديمي وخلوت است. جز پيرزن قهوه چي كسي در آن نيست. پشت يكي از ميزها، كنار پنجره مي نشينم. سردم است. مي لرزم. دستانم را دور هم حلقه مي كنم و قهوه اي سفارش مي دهم. تا آماده شدن قهوه به بچه هايم فكر مي كنم كه چقدر بزرگ شده اند. بوي قهوه توي كافه مي پيچد. دستانم را ماساژ مي دهم. چه مفصلهاي متورمي! ديگر حلقه ازدواجم از انگشتم بيرون نمي آيد. دارم پير مي شوم، مثل سابق نيستم. صداي ظريف به هم خوردن فنجان و نعلبكي به گوشم مي خورد. به بيرون نگاه مي كنم. دانه هاي برف تندترخودشان را روي زمين پرت مي كنند. انگار خوشحالند كه زمين سفيد مي شود. من اما سردم است. لباس گرمي ندارم. يك ژاكت كهنه و رنگ و رو رفته به تن دارم كه توي اين برف زود خيس مي شود. پيرزن با آن هيكل درشتش به طرفم مي آيد. لبخندي روي لبش نيست،‌ موهاي ژوليده و نقره اي اش از زير روسري صورتي بيرون زده. فنجان قهوه را جلويم مي گذارد و بر مي گردد سرجايش. بخار قهوه گرمم مي كند. يك احساس خوبي كه . . .

در كافه باز مي شود. مردي تو مي آيد. پيرزن از پشت پيشخوان با لبخندي آشنا «بارِو» مي گويد. مرد سر تكان مي دهد. از كنارم رد مي شود و چند ميز جلوتر مي ايستد. صورتش را در نور كم كافه نمي توانم ببينم. پالتويش را در مي آورد. برفهاي آن را مي تكاند و روي صندلي كناريش مي گذارد. مي نشيند. پيرزن بدون سوالي مشغول درست كردن قهوه است. بوي قهوه توي كافه مي پيچد. دستانم درد مي كنند. ماساژشان مي دهم. مرد سيگاري روشن مي كند. بوي سيگارش چه آشـناست. جرعه اي قهوه مي نوشم. نگاهم به خيابان مي رود و به مرد كه در دود سيگار محو شده. سرم را روي ميز مي گذارم. مي خواهم همه چيز را تمام كنم؛ دست دردها را، خستگي و تنهايي ها را. اما هيچ كدامش تمامي ندارد. سرم را ازروي ميز بلندمي كنم. مرد قهوه اش را خورده. نگاهم مي كند. صورتش را نمي بينم، برق چشمانش را چرا. مرد پول قهوه را روي ميز مي گـذارد. پالتويش را از روي صندلي بر مي دارد و مي پوشد. آرام از كنارم رد مي شود. در كافه را باز مي كند و پا روي زمين پربرف مي گذارد. مي ايستد. به طرف كافه مي چرخد. نگاهم مي كند. بايد بلند مي شدم؟ بلند مي شوم. پول قهوه را روي ميز مي گذارم. نگاه هاي كنجكاو پيرزن برايم اهميتي ندارد. در كافه را باز مي كنم. به خيابان پربرف و به سوي مرد مي روم. راه مي افتد، چند قدم جلوتر،‌ و من به دنبالش. خيابان خلوتي است با چهار كوچه، به كوچه دوم مي رود، كوچه اي تنگ وتاريك. به سمت خانه ته كوچه قدم بر مي دارد. كليدي از جيب پالتويش در مي آورد. در قديمي با ناله اي باز مي شود. مرد كنار مي رود. اول من وارد مي شوم.

مي گويد: «طبقه آخر.»

چه صداي غريبي، يا شايد چه صداي آشنايي. از چهل و هشت پله بالا مي رويم. دري رنگ و رو رفته كه روزي آبي بوده روبرويم است و حالا . . . در را باز مي كند. شعله هاي آبي بخاري تنها نور خانه اند. چراغ را روشن مي كند. كتاب اولين چيزي است كه به چشمم مي آيد. روي زمين، ميز و حتي صندلي هاي لهستاني هم كتاب است و زير سيگاري پر از ته سيگار. چند كاغذ سفيد هم كه جوهر آنان را لك كرده كف اتاق افتاده است.

نگاهش مي كنم. حرفي نمي زند. چشمانش مثل دو تيله سياه مي لرزند. راه مي افتد. به تنها اتاق خانه اش مي رود. به دنبالش مي روم. اتاقي كه غير از تخت و يك آباژور صورتي پايه بلند، پر از كتاب، كاغذ،‌ عكس و مجله است. ژاكت بي رنگ و رويم را در مي آورم. نگاهم مي كند. نگاهش مي كنم. تا به حال نديده بودمش؟ نه، غريبه نيست. انگار مرد من است كه از سالهاي دور آمده. موهايي مشكي دارد با صورتي جوان و تازه،‌ دست هايي پر طراوت و كشيده، لبهاي سرخي كه مي لرزند و چشمان پر برق وگيرايي كه به صورت من نگاه مي كند. جوانم حتما،‌ شوري پر حرارت، نيرويي سوزنده در من موج مي زند. مي خواهم تمامي يخهايم آب شود. مي خواهم مرا در آغوش بگيرد، مي گيرد، گرم مي شوم و ديگر نمي لرزم . . .

ساعت از ده گذشته بود كه از آن خانه، از چهل و هشت پله پايين آمـدم. تاريكي شب مرا از آن كوچة تنگ و خلوت به سوي خانه مي برد. به خانه مي آيم و به روي خود نمي آورم كه دير آمده ام . چشمانم را مي بندم و سعي مي كنم . . . سعي مي كنم امروز را فراموش كنم .