The First Story - Section 8: Persian is Sugar

He was there, showing no interest in his surroundings. Occasionally, he would twitch his lips and nibble on one of his two mustaches, which rested like two scorpions near the entrance of his mouth. Sometimes, he would take out his watch and glance at it, as though checking if it was time for his tea and coffee.

Ramazan, burdened by his troubles and needing someone to confide in, had not found any comfort from the Sheikh. He saw only one way out and, like a hungry child seeking food from his stepmother, bravely approached the foreign-looking man. With a soft, trembling voice, he greeted him and said, “Sir, I beg you, forgive me! We, the filthy ones, are of no use. The Sheikh seems to be possessed, and he doesn’t understand our language. You, a man of culture, please, can you tell me why they have thrown us into this death trap of a prison?”

Laughing, the foreigner approached Ramazan and, saying “Brother, brother,” extended his hand to shake hands. Ramazan, not noticing, pulled back slightly, forcing the man to awkwardly bring his hand to his mustache. To keep the interaction from being too awkward, he used his other hand as well, placing both on his chest. He then inserted his thumbs into the sleeves of his vest and began drumming lightly on his chest with his fingers. With a playful tone, he said, “Dear friend and fellow countryman! Why have they put us here? I’ve spent hours thinking about it, but all I get is an absolute nothing, no positive or negative, just nothing. Isn’t it ridiculous that they, a young graduate from the best family, should be treated like a criminal? But then again, considering the centuries of despotism and lawlessness here, it’s no surprise. A country that prides itself on having a constitution should have legal tribunals so no one is subjected to injustice. Don’t you think so, my friend in misfortune?”

Poor Ramazan had no idea how to comprehend these lofty thoughts, nor could he understand the foreign words. For instance, “digging my head” was a French expression meaning “to think hard” or “to ponder,” which in Persian would be more commonly expressed as “no matter how much I try” or “no matter how much I bang my head against the wall.” As for “subject to injustice,” it was another French idiom, meaning to be oppressed. Ramazan, hearing the words “subject to injustice,” mistakenly thought that the foreigner was referring to him as a subject and being oppressed by a master, and responded, “No, sir, I’m not a subject of yours, I’m just a twenty-step-away coffee shop boy from the customs house!”