Eshgham

iv

The biggest landlocked body of water is nestled in the palms of the Caucasus Mountains and holds around 40 to 44 percent of all the lake water in the world. Both the Persian and Turkic people who share its border with the Russians call it the Khazar Sea after the ancient nomads. We know it better here as the Caspian Sea.

I've always lived near the water. Everywhere I go, it's followed me.

Fact: most Azeris live outside of Azerbaijan. In fact, 15 to 20 million live in neighbouring Iran. The southern part of the Caspian Sea, divided between the two countries, is known for its subtropical climate; made perfect for rice cultivation.

Discrepancy: Yashar tells me about Yazd, about Zoroastrian fire temples and the desert. He tells me about Shirazi poets and their graves and pilgrims in white. It all leaves me a bit parched. He never mentions the constant rain, the caviar, or the snow-capped Alborz Mountains.

This is what I'm reduced to, facts and discrepancies and a fistful of moulding breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Not even with five open Wikipedia tabs and a lexicon.

He once told me his grandmother was infamous. In what way, I asked. The bad way, he answered. Once when left in her care, he came down with a fever, and she—part medicine woman, part oracle—cured him with fire. His father's face is burnt and he plays the ney as if the angels themselves had lent him their lips. At night, curled under the sheets, I ask him why those tattoos and he replies: to rotate the sun and the moon when I dance. He burns wild rue to ward off the evil eye and covers his mirrors before he goes to bed. His family is not normal. I don't need the internet to confirm that to me. I need him to tell me what exactly about them makes it so we can't coexist in the same sentence.

What are you afraid of? Unless, of course, he isn't. Maybe he knows I've stolen his mother's perfume and is waiting for me to fumble it and shatter the glasshouse. Maybe he wants out of this relationship. Maybe—

"...matter?" I don't notice I've been staring at him without seeing him until his voice zooms in and his features come into focus.

"You've zoned out, hard. What's the matter?"

"No, nothing...just a bit tired. You?" It's a stupid question, and it only hits me when I realise he isn't nearly as close as I initially thought he was. He's technically still in the kitchen, albeit leaning against the opening; a damp kitchen towel draped over his shoulder.

He holds my gaze, unconvinced. "Weren't you supposed to fetch the bunnies from the neighbours?"

"Erm," I stall. Slam my laptop shut. The phone I'm looking for is nowhere to be found on the living room settee. "A bit late, isn't it?" 

He cranes his neck and reads the clock on the wall above the door frame. "Ten past nine."

"I'll get them in the morning."

"Afraid you might knock while they're having sex?" He turns around to the kitchen sink where he's been scrolling Instagram under the guise of 'doing the dishes for the better part of an hour.

"Yashar, stop." He's begun to lean over the counter, and I just know what's coming.

"Afraid you might give Gertrude," he says, drawing out his words in mock-seduction while he squats, "a heart attack while she's getting her geriatric freaky on—"

"Jesus Christ. He's the fucking vicar—Yashar!" I burst out laughing in horror as he squats deeper and starts contorting his upper body.

"What, don't think religious people can get freaky? I bet they have a stash of sex toys as moist as their fruitcake."