+++

The next day, Noble prepared herself mentally for an awkward continental [philosophy] breakfast but, surprisingly, Miriam was in a good mood. She didn’t say a word about their argument the night before, just complained about having to work and not being able to show her around Tehran.

‘I’ll be okay,’ said Noble, accepting some weirdly-shaped bread.

‘True, you are metal. And preternaturally strong.’ She sipped coffee, winced at the bitterness, phased it into a nod. ‘Don’t promote it though. Some people might have short circuiting tools.’

‘What are they?’

‘Trouble. They’ll break you down for scrap if they know what you are. Stay small and unconfident, it’s better.’

Noble nodded and ate the bread.

‘You got any money?’

‘Some.’

‘Iranian?’

‘No.’

‘There are some coins in the jar over there. Spare key to the flat too. You can take it, if you’re coming back tonight. Sorry, I really gotta go.’

‘Bye.’

Noble stayed on the Misato beanbag for a while and ate more unorthodox bread. Despite the shape, it was pretty good. Later, she went outside and looked for more. The shops were hard to distinguish, but she managed to isolate a bakery and find the same type. However, the woman inside spoke neither English nor Spanish, so the bread was bought with grunts and muttered fucks.

An hour later, Noble was embarrassed again in a café [failing to understand do you have points, being rescued by a guy behind] and decided, right, time to absorb Farsi.

Switching to ‘reckless’ mode, she approached a couple of local women and asked if they’d be interested in teaching her Farsi in exchange for Spanish.

They looked at their phones, counted the number of people in the café and then said in impeccable English, ‘sure, how much Farsi do you know?’

‘Less than nothing.’

+++

It would’ve been hyper weird to keep two relative strangers trapped in an exchange for more than two hours, so after the first two had left, she went to a different café and latched on to two others, then two hours of ‘I want to/I have to/ I will’ later, she switched to a young guy with manga hair who turned out to be a private teacher full time.

By the time she got back to Miriam’s flat, she was a solid A2 on the European framework, though that all fell off a cliff when she tried to ask Miriam what she’d done all day.

‘You learnt Farsi?’ she replied in English.

‘Not enough clearly.’

‘That’s pretty ridiculous.’

‘I know.’

‘No, your question was okay, not wrong. What else can you say?’

Noble thought hard and eventually settled for, ‘I want to become a Farsi master.’

Miriam laughed.

‘100 years later.’

‘Can’t believe you learnt master.’

Noble smiled, ignoring the sudden jolt of pain in her brain core, either a headache, a pre-programmed limiter, or self-confusion over her subconscious tractor beaming of the word master.

‘Does this mean you’re thinking of staying?’ asked Miriam, placing a hand on Noble’s shoulder.

‘In Tehran?’

‘Hmm. Here, with me.’

Miriam’s hand didn’t go anywhere, not at that moment, but four hours later, it went everywhere, and so did Noble’s.

They did this three or four times for six nights, Noble learning Farsi during the day, Miriam testing her at night, and then both of them giving out rewards.

It was equal

it seemed equal

but in Noble’s mind, equal was not a fixed term.

And when she checked the time breakdown for sucking and fucking, she realised that, although it was close, Miriam had got seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds more pleasure and

with Spinoza in beach shorts, banging a drum on the left side of her head

as soon as this data was comprehended, it was believed, and with belief came fortification and the first brick was master, why master, of all the words in the world, why choose master?

+++

On the seventh night, Noble tried to draw out the Farsi test, but Miriam said she was too tired for that, better to lie on the bed, and when they got on the bed, the tiredness vanished and Miriam’s hand was guiding Noble’s hand down towards her groin.

‘It’s nice like that, do it longer.’

She said that four times, and the Fuck & Suck bias sailed up rapidly to eighteen minutes and twenty one seconds.

+++

On the eighth night, Noble refused sex of all kinds and, instead, looked out the window onto the street below.

The homeless man was still there, wrapped in eroded newspaper.

‘You coming to bed?’

‘Later.’

‘I might be asleep later.’

‘Okay.’

+++

On the ninth night, Noble refused sex again and resumed the window vigil.

It was stormy.

The homeless man hadn’t moved.

All that time she’d been rolling around on bed, inserting and licking things, that man was laid out down there, sleeping on wet concrete.

All those videos she’d watched of Jeff Goldblum being otherworldly, all the cafes she’d sat in, all the Romanian castle pictures she’d wanked over…

That poor fucker.

Was this what middle class guilt truly felt like?

+++

On the tenth night, Miriam didn’t ask if she was coming to bed or not, she just turned her back to the window and slept.

+++

On the eleventh night, she asked what Noble’s plan was.

‘I don’t know,’ Noble replied in broken Farsi.

‘… … … …’ Miriam corrected.

‘Huh?’

‘Your pronunciation was wrong.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘Don’t say sorry, it’s normal.’

Noble nodded.

Miriam went to the kitchen for a while, making some noises that sounded like cups being put down and things being washed, then came back out and sat down next to Noble.

‘It’s my day off tomorrow. Maybe we can go somewhere…’

Noble bit her bottom lip.

‘Or not.’

‘Sorry, I was distracted.’

‘Sorry again?’

Noble paused, trying not to repeat sorry.

‘Look, it’s getting late. Maybe we should go to bed, stop thinking so much.’

‘In a minute.’

Miriam said something in machine gun Farsi, the optimistic translation being in a minute sounds great, got up, hovered a bit then walked off towards the bedroom.

Noble rationalised.

There’s nothing wrong with her bed.

It’s fairly equal.

She doesn’t give orders.

Her smell is nice.

It’s been three nights of distance, and she hasn’t told me to get out.

She’s not Cuban.

She’s trying.

Noble looked out the window again, at the pavement man. It wasn’t raining, but the wind was fierce and the traffic was cacophonous. The man didn’t seem to notice the noise, he was too busy trying to keep the newspaper from blowing out of his hand.

Poor guy.

In the corridor, Miriam’s door slammed shut, making a noise loud enough for Noble to know it was intentional.

I could still go and open it, climb inside her bed, she wouldn’t say no, doors were never permanently closed, okay, flawed metaphor, but either way I could still go in etc.

It’s true

I could do that, Noble told the window.

I could.

+++

After staring at it for forty minutes straight, the Iranian moon turned out to be the same as every other moon.

Noble stood up and looked down the corridor at the closed door.

It was warm and theoretically erotic beyond that door, but the door was closed and if it’s closed then it can be empty too.

Noble wrote a quick note [Eight eleven good days, thank you] and put it on the table. Then, patting the Misato beanbag one last time, she left the apartment quietly and rode the elevator down to the first floor. Ducking into the stairwell, which was beautifully curved for some reason, she exited through the backdoor, hopefully avoiding the security guard at the front desk. Though he hadn’t really given a shit the other times she’d come down.

The streets were quieter now. The homeless man was still there, though the newspaper had either been taken or blown off his head.

‘Hey, wake up,’ Noble whispered in Farsi, shaking him slightly.

‘Abraaaaa…’

Noble tried to think of her next sentence, but the words weren’t there so she switched to English. ‘I’m taking you to a hotel…somewhere warm. Wake up.’

The man opened one eye, narrowed it when he saw Noble staring back at him and mumbled some more in Farsi.

‘Sorry, my Farsi is too basic.’

‘… … … …’

‘But it’s okay. We don’t need to understand each other, just let me carry you, get you to a hotel.’

‘… … … … …’

‘Hotel,’ she repeated in Farsi.

‘… … … …’

Noble tried to grab the man’s arm, but he struggled so she tightened her grip and pulled him onto his feet. The man was too shocked to speak, so Noble took advantage of the silence and dragged him into a nearby café, which was empty except for three delivery workers eating at separate tables.

‘… … … … …’ said the guy behind the counter, but Noble ignored him and seated herself and her new project at a table near the window.

When the counter guy came over and shouted at her, Noble glared at him with red eyes and pointed at two pictures of food on the menu.

‘… … … … …’

‘Please. … … … … please.’

The surly waiter went back to the counter, picked up a towel, came back and hit the table with it. Satisfied, he returned once more to his vegetation spot and shouted something into the kitchen.

‘I think he’s making it,’ said Noble to the homeless man, who was taking sachets of sugar and putting them in his jacket pocket.

When he’d reached his quota, he straightened up and stared at Noble, up and down.

Noble stared back, also up and down. She tried to conjure up some insightful Farsi, or even platitude Farsi, but for some reason her mind was blank, so she leaned back in her seat and continued staring.

Seven minutes passed and then the food came.

The sugar hoarder ate his portion quickly and, as Noble didn’t need to eat, she slid her own plate of rice and stuff over to him. He managed half of it then pushed the remainder away, saying, ‘… … … … …’

‘You’re full already?’

The man stood up and, without ceremony or thanks, walked out of the café. Noble waited to see if he’d stop, but he didn’t, if anything he sped up, so she mumbled something brutal in Spanish, got up and headed over to the counter.

‘How much?’

Maintaining his hate the world face, the waiter pushed some buttons on a calculator and turned it to her.

‘Err…okay.’ Noble worked out the value of the numbers but, when she reached in her pocket for her wallet, she suddenly remembered something.

I ran out of cash yesterday. And Miriam didn’t give me any.

Shit.

‘Okay…I need to get some more-…sorry, is there a bank nearby?’

‘… … … … …’

‘Bank.’

‘… … … …’

‘No, I have money, just the wrong money. I need to go to the bank, get more Iranian money.’

The waiter reached under the counter and brought out a chopper. Ah, Hong Kong style.

Noble took out some pounds and put them on the counter.

‘… … … …’ shouted the man.

‘You can change them, it’s-…’

‘… … …’

‘Tomorrow at the bank, you can change them. These notes. I don’t know how much the bill is, but there’s a lot here. Probably more than the actual amount.’

The waiter grabbed Noble’s hand and swung the chopper downwards, hitting her on the wrist.

There was a clinking sound

and then a feral cry as

the man’s wrist twisted from the impact.

‘That was your fault,’ said Noble, backing out of the café, keeping an eye on the delivery workers to the side, though there was nothing to worry about there as all three were enjoying the show too much to get involved.

‘… … … … …’ shouted the waiter, walking round the side of the counter and picking up the chopper with his uninjured hand, but it was too late, Noble was already up in the sky and halfway out of Tehran.