A Splendid Conspiracy

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seated at the café terrace, Teymour felt as unlucky as a flea on a bald man’s head. His entire bearing expressed idleness, morbid emptiness, and a soul-afflicting desolation at this memorable moment when he was rediscovering his home town after six years spent abroad. His surfeit of bad luck conferred a kind of fatal prestige on him, making him resemble a dethroned monarch, victim of collective treason. He had a wild look about him and seemed paralyzed by pain — a suffocating pain that intensified as his gaze attempted, with extreme reluctance, to take in his dull surroundings. It was as if everything he saw had a gift for reinforcing his suffering. From time to time he closed his eyes, and his face assumed an expression of nostalgic ecstasy, as if he were withdrawing into a world of gracious memories to which he was still bound by almost fleshly ties. Rather than bringing him relief, however, these fleeting journeys into the recent past only increased his suffering in contrast to the implacable reality assailing him as soon as he reopened his eyes. He tried to hold back his stinging tears of helplessness and resentment, for, despite his utter despondency, he realized how odd he must look to the few customers scattered about the terrace, all of whom were beginning to observe him with some alarm. He could certainly expect no consolation from these obtuse minds incapable of appreciating the immeasurable torment of his situation. How could he explain to them that the reason for his despair was neither financial ruin nor the loss of a loved one, but simply the sight of his native city and the terrifying prospect of having to stay there until he perished from boredom?

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