July–August 2013 • 33 fiction photo: darren harmon Le Suicide de Monsieur F Farzad Salamifar In front of me I saw a pile of words shaped like a human carcass. Tall and lanky as he was, he resembled a moving, loosely cemented stack of bricks, a walking tower of words. H e was a peculiar type, this Monsieur F. And it was basically through my acquaintance with him that I came to realize what bliss death can constitute for certain people, so dense an amalgam are their lives of suffering, of torment and love, because of the futile attempt that is their very coming into existence. Time has density, and revelation is no miracle. There are rare moments that happen in each of our lives when, in the space of seconds, we gain the insight that an entire lifetime could not bring us. They may occur in the nocturnal silence of an insomnia attack, they may seize us in the crowd of a shopping center, or we may meet them in the face of Misery lying by the sidewalk cuddling his dog. Fleeting. They are fugitive by nature, therefore never caught when sought. That is why they never happen on the wooden benches of a church or in the self-imposed, well-simulated ecstasy of a religious prayer. They come to us as unremarkably as remembrance but awake in us all our latent knowledge, our half-forgotten experiences, accompanied by an exceptional vigilance of the senses—with an optional touch of intuition— and open to our everydayness doors to the cosmic. All of us have at least once lived these dense moments that, unfolded, are as rich as years. Monsieur F’s unexpected departure left me with a heavy burden on my shoulders and a bunch of scattered notes in my hands that lack any sort of connection whatsoever—and yet seem to me to be related by the same single essence, like some random pages torn out of what must have once been a whole book. Scribbles on the backs of torn cigarette packets, hardly decipherable words that he wrote in the margins of my college books, mysteriously unfinished sentences on the backs of Hy-Vee receipts . . . Despite our not very profound friendship—and his many eccentricities that would usually exasperate me—I feel a great responsibility to conjure his presence by sewing up all his pieces of writing and, eventually, the conversations we had. The result will probably resemble a crazy quilt of incongruent discourse, the seams too 34 worldliteraturetoday.org visible and the stitches way too loose. But writing , reporting, is the only way I can rid myself of the debt that weighs in my head, clouding my sight of the day and bleaching the sleep out of my nights. Relate to unburden . . . but also write to stop the bleeding, surtout to stop the bleeding. But how I got to know him . . . I met him at a bar. A stranger is not difficult to distinguish in Iowa City and in the United States in general, where, despite their apparent diversity, there is an unworded solidarity among people, in their appearance, in the way they walk, they speak, they look, that is intended to demarcate those who have not belonged to this society and who probably never will. At first, amid that Friday-night tumult, I didn’t realize that I was the unwanted addressee of his quiet soliloquy: stooping over a glass of drink, with his elbows on the counter, columns supporting a domed back, he seemed to be whispering an ancient prayer in that small, singleperson temple walled by a fragile body: “It all starts with a look, just like cancer with a cell; and then it takes over a whole body, a whole life. Just like a crack in a dam. It starts with a smile, like spring with a blossom; and then it takes over a whole prairie. It all starts with a look, with a word, with a ‘hello,’ and your whole life is taken over by a person.” Casting a gaze all around me, I saw no one in the range of his speech. He was one of those sorts who is...