In a Tehran café a fellow came up and asked if I would join his friends. They were college students and mixing English and French everyone joined in, breaking off into Farsi in between. They were waiting for their slot in a nearby rehearsal space to come free, and for a friend with the approved script of their play. Also, they were waiting for Mr Ahkbi (sic), who seemed to be a key figure. I had tons of questions that I didn't want to bluntly ask, and maybe they were likewise, but we made some headway. A fortnight travelling through Iran was up, and apart from Revolutionary Guards pulling up in a village and going through everything on me, it had been kindness after kindness. Tehran was a little edgier though.
Mr. Ahkbi arrived, a Carlos the Jackal type, in his thirties and wearing a green trenchcoat. The seats were altered to reflect his status. He spoke only Farsi, and appeared to be receiving a summary of me from the others.
Eventually a question was translated. 'In your country, are you positioned within the avant-garde?' 'Ehm... I don't really exist.' This was given consideration. 'What is the status in Ireland of Beckett, the Jew?' To put this in context, the previous week a conference in Tehran amounted to a denial of the Holocaust, supported by Ahmadinejad the president. Now, the students I'd been admiring, plus smiling inside at their earnest conversation, looked to be anti-Semites, as well as mistaken. I've blocked out how I replied; it doesn't seem to matter now.
In a Tehran café a fellow came up and asked if I would join his friends. They were college students and mixing English and French everyone joined in, breaking off into Farsi in between. They were waiting for their slot in a nearby rehearsal space to come free, and for a friend with the approved script of their play. Also, they were waiting for Mr Ahkbi (sic), who seemed to be a key figure. I had t…
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