The Chair

Translated from the Persian original.

Part one: it's very strange that the more a person has enjoyed anything in life, the more, in exactly that measure, they suffer from its absence. This is one of those wonders that is so common and widespread that no one senses the degree and intensity of its strangeness. It's as if there's an intent behind it that somehow wants to tell you, be careful not to like anything, or I'll punish you. But why?

Part two is a little strange and also complicated: however much you enjoy something, you want more of it, and that pleasure gradually fades away. Now why complicated? Because part one holds for pain too, and pain makes you resistant to more of it, but as for part two, however much pain you suffer, you don't want more of it, and well, that's unfair, because part one and part two are supposed to balance.

I bought an old set of chairs to go around a table, and since I was newly furnishing the place, I sent the chairs to a carpenter to fix them up a little, so the creaking and wobbling that came with their age would go away.

When they sent the chairs back after the repair, right away I noticed one of them was more faded and worn than the rest, and right away I set it apart so that, when I had time, I could make sure it was sturdy and safe. Late at night before bed I made myself a nameless, rootless herbal tea and went and sat on that chair, and I jolted around a bit too, with extra, exaggerated shakes, to see how it was holding up. The chair started creaking. I said to myself, clearly it's not usable. I was about to drink the tea when the chair said, do you want to set me aside, or burn me in the fireplace or on the eve of the last Wednesday of the year? I said, I don't know where you were before or why you're so much more worn out than the other chairs, but I don't intend to break up this set; I'll put you in a corner on the other side of the table where hardly anyone will sit on you. Would that make you happier?

It said, to tell the truth, I was made from a different tree than the other chairs. When I was a tree, my place was near the cabin door, where in summer they would tie a rope to me and I was a swing for the children to play on, and they had built a treehouse on me, and for years I bore more weight. But when we grew old, along with the other trees, someone cut us all down and a truck carried us off and a carpenter bought us. Ever since then I've been used to being around people, and to serving and to hard work. That's why, when our previous owner bought us, on the very first night, while everyone was asleep, I chose a place around the table where I'd be closest to hand, and after a while I became the chair in front of the TV, and our owner would sometimes sleep on me till morning, or sit for hours, so that after a while everyone in the house knew which chair I was. I said, so you like being important. Well, I can put you off in a corner by yourself, under a vase or a lamp or something like that. It said, no, I'm used to people's weight. It said, don't mind this creaking of mine, it's part of my temperament, I can handle people's weight. And if one day I'm going to break, I'll know it beforehand myself and tell you, or I'll move myself out of the way at night. Just please don't set me aside. Astonished by what it was saying, I asked, but can you really tell before you break? It said yes, every living thing in the world feels pain and feels pleasure. Once an old tree told me, the day you no longer feel pain or pleasure, know that you are about to break.

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