Spy

Translated from the Persian original.

Spy

Honestly, I've worked since I was a kid. Every summer I'd go somewhere to learn a trade. I know repairs, for instance, everything from radios and car stereos to TVs.

My father thought that otherwise I'd end up running with the street kids. Later I changed jobs two or three times, and counting music I got to my fourth line of work. For a while now I've been staying at home, and I think, well, music doesn't really count as a job, and I always did it on the side. For a moment I said, well, if my work is done, I might as well slit my wrists and save myself from uselessness. I don't smoke, I'm not into drinking or drugs, and I can't be bothered with going out, partying and so on. I said, let me die for a cause, become a spy, say, or sign up to fight ISIS. It was a good idea, but for either of them I'd have to go somewhere, and these days all the heads of the intelligence offices are either on assignment or on their way home or, in short, not at their desks, and besides, even if they were, I have no idea where that place is. I said I'll ask around, from friends and people in the know you can find things out eventually. That much I found out, and it took two or three hours before I finally found the place. I went to introduce myself in person and explain the whole story, when suddenly the gentleman said, well, well, Mr. Pakzad, just these last few days we were meaning to come and get you. I swallowed and said, believe me, I haven't done anything. He said they'd heard I had recently taken up the pen and started writing. I said, of course, you're right, but I know my limits, and since I have no political leanings either, God willing I won't be a nuisance. He said, well, tell me why you're here. I said, honestly, I want my blood to be shed for a worthy cause, say in the war against ISIS or some jihad like that. I said I'd make you an educated recruit, and I've got a bit of a voice sometimes too, and besides, sooner or later you have to make room for the younger ones and back them. He said, son, if that's what you came for, drop by the officers' academy and ask about the procedure, and know this: such a thing happens by God's own choosing. We said goodbye and I left. Head to toe in despair and without an umbrella, I started back home and began thinking about getting the supplies for suicide. Suddenly an elderly gentleman with an umbrella, which he shared with me, came up to me and said, you want to kill yourself? Surprised, I asked, but I only made that decision a little while ago? He gestured behind him and said, I know, but you know very well it isn't that simple to become a spy, right? And then, at your age it's too late for you to go through all its hard stages and courses, it could take years of ideological and physical and other training. I said yes. He said, but before anything else, for your spying you need an identity. I said, yes, naturally. We had nearly reached my house and he came in with me. He said he needed my birth certificate, passport and other ID cards, and I handed them over at once and asked excitedly, are all of these going to be changed, are you giving me a new identity? He said no. Suppose you had killed yourself tomorrow and donated your organs, that would have given your life meaning after death and also saved you from this monotony. Now we take your identity and give it to someone who can make a good spy, and then you can rest easy that tomorrow every last piece of you will have been put to optimal use.

I saw that everything seemed logical except one thing: I had been completely used, and now I was completely useful, but I myself hadn't gotten the feeling or the pleasure of it, just like a newspaper that, before anyone has read it, has been put to good use cleaning a window.

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