Mā ham ye rūz khānevādeh-ye khoshbakhtī būdīm Persiska (Farsi) 2025

The grave was cracked and defaced. It looked as though someone had broken it and no one had bothered to repair it. Wild weeds had grown all around it. Even the name sounded a bit strange. If it were me, I would definitely have changed such a ridiculous surname. I even told Gholoumi so. I said, “Honestly, having the surname ‘Pliers’ would be better than Golshiri. What does Golshiri even mean anyway?”

I said, “Gholoumi, since when is writing stories a real job? Come on, I could spin a hundred stories for you every single day…”

Gholoumi burst out laughing. “The ghost of your aunt,” he said. “With those stories of yours.”

I said, “Now, writing poetry, that’s something else. Like Mr. Shamlu. Poetry is actually useful. A few years ago I memorized three of Shamlu’s poems and with just those three I managed to knock the brains out of ten girls. But if I were to sit down and read a story—especially by someone named Houshang with the surname Golshiri—even a hungry wandering hyena wouldn’t come within a hundred steps of you!”

I raised an eyebrow. Gholoumi roared with laughter, clutching his stomach with his right hand, then said, “I swear by that moon-shaped face of yours!”