Untitled — “The Tragedy of Uselessness”

Farvardin 1395 · Mar–Apr 2016

Translated from the Persian original.

In the literature of life there is a bitter story called the tragedy of uselessness. The neighbor is hammering a nail into the wall, and that wall is the most important wall in my house; I'll tell you why later. I wasn't asleep, and the neighbor hadn't picked a bad time, so I was patient and tried to ignore the blows. I've always read everywhere that patience pays off and haste is to be condemned. Well, the first thing I learned from grown-ups in order to grow up was silence. Well, I'm sitting here silent and the wall is moving closer to me, as if the one who shares the wall wants to make his house bigger and is pounding away, and the wall is shifting millimeter by millimeter, bit by bit. And that's exactly why this wall matters: it's shared with the house next door. Well, this isn't America, where I'd grab my shotgun and go threaten him, and a hammer doesn't count as a weapon. People can carry hammers in the street. I'm not afraid of the neighbor. I rang his doorbell and asked if there was anything I could help with. He said no. I asked, are you hanging a picture? He said, no, I want to put a pictorial rug up on the wall. I couldn't help laughing and said, you hang pictures on the floor? He said, excuse me, sir, and slammed the door in my face. I felt I had judged a little too quickly. In the end my patience ran out. I got angry, but there was nothing new I could do. I went to my room and tried to sleep. One after another, the blows turned into phantom sounds in my ear, and I listened to them so bravely that they dissolved in my ear, and little by little I could hear what they were saying. They talk in such a hurry that you can't make out at all what they want, just like a huge crowd of people saying something so out of sync that it takes on the sound of static.

I went back, and this time I calmly apologized to the neighbor and asked him to lend me his hammer. He had finished his work, so he did, and I crumpled up a blanket and started hammering the blanket. This time there was no nail and no wall. I threw the blanket over myself and went to sleep. The hammer, thrilled by this crazy streak of mine, slowly got up and made its way over to the wall, and with soft knocks on the wall it began to talk. It asked, do you have to sleep? I said, orders came that I stay home for a while and keep out of sight, and I'd rather sleep. It said, I'll be quiet, but can I sleep next to you? I said, I took you from the neighbor because I have a job for you, but now isn't the time. It said, do you want to hammer something? I said no. It said, there's nothing else I'm good for. I said, why don't we make a deal? I'll tell you some things and explain them to you so you understand them well, and when I want to explain them and repeat them to someone, I'll bang you hard against their skull. I've heard that you can talk, and this way, in a short time, everyone will understand what I'm saying. The hammer asked, what's in it for me? I said, I know you're tired of the cold toolbox and talking to nails and walls. I'll tell the neighbor I lost you and buy him a new hammer instead. At night you can sleep under a warm, soft blanket. The hammer took a breath and said, can I go back to the toolbox and my own home sometimes? I said, do you know how many days it's been since I left the house? It said, I don't see the connection. I said, look, right now you're my hammer, and I'm somebody else's something. They've told me not to go out for now, and it's the same for you: I give you the orders. It said, how did you find out I can talk? I said, you talk fast and loud, with an iron larynx, and all they hear is your knock-knock. I waited. You'll learn to wait for an important order too. I heard you; quietly, quietly and more quietly I listened to you, I accepted you, little by little the sound of talking came, and you were telling that crazy man that a thing whose place is on the floor doesn't get fastened to the wall.

And I realized you're not just an ordinary hammer. You know the difference between carpet fibers and a wall. You deserve things softer than nails and walls, like skin and blankets; that's why I hammered you on the blanket a little. You're a hammer with two or three simple parts, but be patient, everything will get better, you just have to learn a few things. But I have two pieces of bad news too: you can never forget the things you've learned, and you can never tell anyone the things you've seen. And only one question was left: how could it talk? Maybe it had come down to the neighbor from someone as an inheritance, and the tragedy of uselessness, over the years, had made it talk.

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