tehran

The Simorgh is one of Tehran’s finer hotels. Its friendly staff contrasts conspicuously against the gloom that most Tehranians seem to carry. A restless first night, anywhere, is never a surprise; some might even say it is a prerequisite: one has to accustom oneself to the folds of the chosen pillow and observe its fluffy vagaries, not to mention the nervous acquianting between body and mattress . The novelty of the room – how it descends to darkness, how early light infiltrates the drapes to defeat the guardians of night – is another factor in determining how Sleep will conduct itself.

That the first night was disturbed by dreams of a bout between two twisted partners came as a mild jolt; that the second and third nights continued with this torrent of nightmarish images of loves betrayed and lovers destroyed questioned my psyche. This was not a welcoming sign. As if this Persian verse was meant for me:

Mayhmaan gar che aziz ast walayken cho nafas
Khaffa maysaazad agar aayado waapas narawad

A guest is very dear but like our precious breath, it will suffocate us
if he comes and does not go back to where he came from.

Does this bed carry the conjugal history of unhappy loves? Or is this antagonistic Sleep a corollary of daily screenings on television each evening: one which reminisces the overthrow of the Shah through a series of montages interspersed around old news footage; the other lauding the sacrificial deaths of young men during the Arab-Persian War.

Perhaps the bed had to share its memories; a catharsis to shed itself of its heavy weight. Perhaps it was Michael Clanchy’s Abelard: a medieval life, on the bedside table, motioning toward the denouement between Abelard and Heloise. Perhaps it is time to find another room.