Animal Diseases by Peyman Esmaeili

Translated by Neda Mohtashami and George Warner

You’re late! They waited until sunset, but when you still didn’t show up they got in the car and drove back to camp. The new camp it is now, they’ve just finished building it, much better than what we had before. You’ll see when we get there. Well, somebody had to stay behind to pick you up, didn’t they? You’d never have found your way on your own. But I do wish you hadn’t sent away the driver; now we’ll have to walk the whole way. Well, yes, you’re right, it’s not that difficult at night. If this was daytime we’d be frazzled. Laughing, are you? Good you still can, I suppose. At least we’re out of that revolting pair of rusty old caravans, we got lucky there. It was like they’d hired two animals, not two engineers. No bathrooms, not even a kitchen! Right, someone robust, that’s what the company’s after; if you’re robust enough, in a couple of years you can pack up and be done with them. 

Why I’m still here? That’s a long story, don’t ask! Oh, ten years or so now. Lots have packed up and gone since I first arrived. Stuck it out I did, while they’re off enjoying the results. The company, mind you, they know they’d get nowhere if I wasn’t here. Who else would consent to work his ass off in this wilderness? Honestly, I’m a proper desert-dweller now; I like working here. I mean, all the comings and goings did use to get to me at first. No sooner would someone new arrive than they’d be packing their bags to bugger off again. Nothing changes, though, with someone like me – I just mind my own business. At peace in my own company, I am. These days, the only people sent here are the ones who’ve had some dust-up with head office. Somebody pisses them off, he ends up out here in the desert with me. Just like yourself! I guess you’ve cooked up some problem for them at the top? Must have been something to make them send you out here. At this stage – look – at this stage the company doesn’t lose a thing if you want to pack up like the others and vanish into thin air. They’d be shot of you, sure, but you’d still make some money for yourself first. Fine with me if you’ve come here just to pack up and leave again. I mind my own business. I like working here, like I said. No offence meant. I’m trying to answer your question, that’s all.

You see that 230 line? The Japanese put that up. Up until four or five years ago they were doing all the lines above twenty kilovolts. Serious workers, that lot. I mean, there’s our engineers and there’s Japanese engineers! Watch out for the pits, now. Stop wiggling that flashlight about. They’re really deep, they’re about ten feet. They were dug for those four-hundred-kilovolt towers, but the project never got beyond the foundation stage. For ages now these foundation pits have just stayed empty like this. They’re death traps at night, for people and animals; you’ll be falling into one yourself if you don’t keep your wits about you. If you break a bone and there’s nobody else around then that’s the end of you. Oh, don’t be frightened, I’m not saying all this to frighten you. But this is a desert, you’re not in Tehran now. You won’t last out here if you don’t get the hang of this stuff. 

Sometimes you see hyenas in these parts. I’m not entirely sure where they come from. Maybe the smell of food draws them here. Maybe the smell of people. There are these awful famines some years – not much for people to eat, let alone the wildlife. Why are you laughing? You think I don’t know what I’m talking about? I’ve planted electricity towers all over this desert, west to east. I know every bit of the place. Watch out for that pit! I told you, you’ve got to be careful. They’ve told you about that, have they? What did they say, exactly? Oh no, nothing like that. Not at all congenital, I mean. People talk all sorts of rubbish, don’t believe a word of it. No, not about my gloves either; that’s something else, too. I’ll explain on the way to the camp. What’s that? I didn’t hear you. Be careful not to lag behind. No, no, it’s not congenital, like I said. You don’t believe me? Alright, so a few years ago my right hand started to grow bigger. They hadn’t told you this one, had they? There is a reason, though. You’re the third person to hear this, the other two have gone. I haven’t told anybody else since. This is why I wear gloves, see? Makes me feel better about it. Don’t be daft, of course it’s possible. Do you ever take a good look around you? There are dozens and dozens of impossible things going on right now, all over the place, and people just don’t know it’s happening. Take illnesses, say – you think they’ve all been discovered? Loads of people die of weird illnesses. I knew a fellow who had this bulge protruding from his stomach that looked like the sole of a child’s foot. Grew it did, until after three years the foot was so large it had spread over his entire stomach. You could see all the features: toes, the curve of the foot, everything. The skin of his belly started to stretch, too, as if the child was attempting to push its foot out of him. He used to scream from the pain of it, poor fellow! Did you ever hear of such a thing? Don’t believe me? I saw it, I’m telling you. There’s a village, Bustanu, sixty miles east of here. Go there, ask around. You’ll see.

Not that way! There’s quicksand, you’ll get stuck. Well, some things we just don’t understand, do we? The end? The end of what? Oh right, well, his belly was torn open. The skin got so stretched that it began to split. No, he didn’t see a doctor. With something like that you don’t go to a doctor. Human beings need human diseases, they say. No way you take someone to the doctor with a disease like this. They’ll tell you it’s not a human disease. How would I know? That’s what they say. An animal disease, they say. Don’t ask me, I don’t know. I’m only telling you this so you’ll understand; now and then you might see stuff like this going on. This issue with my hand must be a similar sort of thing. Starting to grow bigger of its own accord. Enough of this anyway. Tell me about yourself. Mind not to trip over! What are you doing over there?

Tough going for you in the desert, I suppose? More than the others, even – you’re a Kurd, right? Kurdistan? I know, yes, you mentioned. Out of the mountains and into the desert, that must be tough. Whereabouts are you from? That’s a beautiful place, that is. Yes, I’ve been there. Great big, craggy mountains. Bitter winters though. Which university were you at? Ah, I haven’t been. Never been to that area. Did you ever visit the Quri Qaleh cave? You haven’t? What sort of a Kurd are you? I spent a year out there. Long time ago now. We had to construct a sixty-three line over the mountains. The people there are interesting. The traditions they have, have you heard much about those? No, no, not that kind of thing! No, but they do believe in some weird stuff. Example? Well, for example, that if you eat something that an animal has had a go at first, you’ll get an animal disease; that you’ll start to develop some of that animal’s characteristics. Those sorts of superstitions, anyway. And you definitely are a Kurd, right? Yes quite – superstitions, as you say. Lovely people, though.

Mind the bushes! For all you know there could be another of these pits right behind them. Well you’re not listening, are you? Off in your own world. Who now? Where do you know Osuli from? Odd chap, he was. Studied abroad, in England somewhere or other. Tall, about my age probably; well-built, broad shoulders. He had this voluminous moustache, it used to put the fear of God into people. What do you want to know? How come you’re reminded of Osuli all of a sudden? He went to England before the revolution, so he told us. Stayed there for a few years. They didn’t tell you this? No? Interesting no one’s told you, everybody knew. See this thorn? Its roots are full of water. Tricky to dig out, though; you need a knife. The end of it? The end of what? What have you heard? Oh, I see. Well – I’ve heard the same, that he’s off the grid and stuff like that. Did you know it’s his fault these pits got dug in the wrong place? He diverted the route of the line, gave the go ahead behind the company’s back. Got it into his head that it would be shorter this way. The surveyors kept on arguing with him but he just wouldn’t budge. In the end the company found out and fired him. A total mess it was, and he still wouldn’t admit to a single mistake!

I’m really fed up with it. This hand, I mean. It hurts, hurts all over. And my nails have gone crooked. They’re growing inwards, into the flesh; it’s like knives are carving up my hand. Why are you laughing? I’m serious! Well, he refused to admit it. The company suspended the work to wait for a new head-engineer, and back in Tehran they were all squabbling among themselves. Nobody wanted to take over Osuli’s job. The engineers and workers all went home for a couple of weeks. How would I know? Everybody went somewhere. Only he and I stayed behind. They hadn’t told you this either, had they? Then, one morning, he’s there telling me to get up and come with him to inspect the line. The stubborn oaf still wanted to prove he was right! So, into the car we jumped and we hit the desert. Osuli drove, following the line of pits, but his eyes stayed fixed on the damn odometer; imagine! There was a pit every two hundred meters, the line of them winding across the desert like a snake, with no way to guess exactly where the next one would be – I had no idea, but Osuli did! He just kept driving, pumping the gas, yanking the wheel about this way and that, but eventually smoke started streaming out from under the hood, and soon after the car stopped dead. He fiddled about with the thing for three or four hours, kicked the hell out of it, swore all over the place, and then at last said we should ditch the car and walk back. If we did that, I told him, we’d be caught out by nightfall and likely get lost, but Osuli wouldn’t budge. Stubborn, like I said.

My hand’s getting worse. You don’t have a painkiller or anything, do you? It’s like my hand’s being stabbed with a knife. What now? Well, we set off and it got dark on us. Osuli was gasping and heaving before long, giving up, even. I didn’t think he’d give up so quickly; he seemed strong enough to look at, like I told you. You didn’t know this, did you? There’s a reason for that, actually – the other two who knew aren’t here anymore. Do you want to sit and rest a bit? You seem kind of breathless. All right, hang on in there a little longer and it’ll be over. Next? Next, we both fell down one of these pits and broke our legs. Osuli was in a really bad way, much worse than I was. His kneecap was sticking out.

I don’t remember whose mistake it was, whether Osuli was leading the way or I was; I honestly don’t remember. All I do remember is that we were down in one of the pits and Osuli was screaming in pain. Mind where you’re going there, or the two of us could end up in the same mess. Sometimes I think, you know, about that foot in the man’s belly, what it looked like. Some nights it’s there in my dreams, growing larger and larger, and like it’s in my belly now. Sometimes it even moves its big toe. Absurd, isn’t it? Wiggling its big toe in my stomach. Did you know that when someone catches an animal disease, they start to resemble the animal that infected them? I didn’t hear you, say again? Yes, it’s relevant. It’s relevant to Osuli. You don’t believe in such things; I’m not sure, though. Perhaps they are only superstitions, but I think they’re real. Our situation was bad. Very bad. Osuli moaned so much that in the end he passed out. On until midnight he was moaning constantly, then he just collapsed. When he came round it was nearly dawn. He looked around and asked for water, and I told him we had to wait until tomorrow and just to hope that someone would come and rescue us. So, he lifted his own broken leg with one hand and stood up – he wanted to climb out of the pit! Think about it! Trying to climb out of a ten-foot-deep pit with a broken leg! He was trying to pull himself up, digging his fingers into the walls of the pit, but every time he’d get a little way and then fall back flat on the ground. I hope I’m not boring you; do say if you’d rather I stopped.

Four or five times he tried, I think. I was yelling at him not to, telling him to stop mucking about, but he just kept at it. It was on the fourth or fifth attempt that he cracked his head open. Fell headfirst onto a rock on the floor of the pit. I took off my shirt and bandaged his head with it, but he was out cold. You don’t want to stop and rest a bit? We’re nearly there like I said, but if you want to. 

The next day our situation was desperate. Noon in the desert, the two of us in that pit, and the sun beating straight down on us. Osuli was out for the count, but I carried on yelling as long as I had the breath to. I just thought someone might hear. What else would you do in my situation? Shine that flashlight over here. And watch where you step. You didn’t say – so what would you do? 

I yelled as long as I could, but eventually I collapsed next to Osuli. I unwrapped my shirt from around his head and held it up above us to give us some kind of shade. It was terrifying. You’d have to have gone through it yourself to understand. That fear paralyses you. Osuli’s teeth were rattling, his body shivering in the heat. I don’t know how long I lasted, but I doubt it was more than ten minutes. It might have been the blood loss from my leg. It was night-time when I came round. There was a noise, a kind of moaning coming from Osuli’s throat. The wound in his forehead had swollen up. And I was thirsty. More than thirsty, something completely beyond thirst, as though I’d gone mad. I kept seeing water everywhere: everything, everywhere coated in water. I wasn’t in pain, though. It is strange, but I felt no pain at all. Can you believe it? Just thirst – try to grasp such a thing! Perhaps you’re like me, only literate in sketching electricity lines. Can you understand it – why I felt no pain? You keep your theories to yourself! I hadn’t passed out yet, I told you. They diverted the line after Osuli, did you know that? The surveyors got their way in the end, and these pits were abandoned in the desert. It’s not often anyone comes out this way. Besides, the company balked at the cost of filling them in. They’d lost enough capital on whole the thing already. We’ll be there in a few minutes, I think. It’s dangerous, coming here at night. Brave of you to be here, even. If you hold your flashlight up we might be able to see them; ah no, we’re not there yet.

Three days we were down there. I thought I was dead. Osuli wasn’t making a sound. He’d have these convulsive seizures every few hours, but that was it. His leg was all bruised up. That night, above us, something black appeared, coming to stand at the pit’s edge. It made a sound, drawn-out, serene, like a howl, and began circling round the pit’s edge. More than once it lowered its head, looking at us, and snorted, scraping its muzzle in the dirt. I don’t remember if I screamed. All I remember is that then the dark thing sprang into the pit. It seemed so quick, the way it moved, quick like something weightless. I could see its muzzle as it sniffed at my face. It looked like a hyena, with an elongated head and thin legs. It smelled strange, too; rancid, like spoiled yogurt left outside for a few days. For a minute it crisscrossed the floor near me, sniffing about. Then it went for Osuli. I think he was unconscious by then; he wasn’t moving, anyway. The thing thumped its muzzle a few times beneath Osuli’s chin, then it reached its head forward and bit into his throat. It pressed his chest with its right paw, and it was jerking his neck from side to side. Giant, its paws were, much larger than a hyena’s. I don’t remember the rest. I might have passed out, I’m not sure. I remember coming to and seeing it crouched in a corner of the pit, licking its thin forelegs. Then I noticed Osuli’s throat. He was covered in blood, head to toe. The smell was awful, too, like dirty wet laundry. And the animal was gazing at us, back and forth, sometimes at me, sometimes at Osuli’s torn throat. It started to pace between us. I could see its jaws when it came close, the hair around them matted, wet with blood. Then, gently, it rubbed that soggy muzzle against my face. Can you believe it? Rubbing its muzzle against my face and my lips. Again and again the thing did it, walking over then coming back, and I began to realize what it was getting at. I understood what it wanted. It wanted me to bite Osuli’s throat, too. Maybe it sounds demented, but I know for sure that’s what it wanted. It knew that if I was left thirsting any longer then that would be the end of me. I don’t know, maybe its only plan was to keep me alive for next day’s dinner. One can’t prove things like this, of course, I know that. Can’t be done. I summoned the last of my strength, dragged myself to Osuli’s side, and bit into his throat. His blood was still warm, like tepid water. A soft, lilting noise was coming from his neck, like an animal snoring. After I’d finished, I rested against the wall of the pit. The animal walked over to me and sniffed at my lips. Can you believe it? It was smelling the blood on my lips. It crossed the pit a few times and rubbed its face with its forelegs, then it crouched and leapt out of the pit. Ten feet; ten feet it leapt to get out of there. That’s why I don’t think the thing was a hyena. I told the other two fellows all this, mind, and do you know what they did? Ran away! Ridiculous! They just ran right away from me. The next day Osuli’s throat was all dried up. No matter how hard I sucked at it, nothing came out. Where are you off to now? What are you walking backwards for? You’ll be falling into one of these pits before you know it. Come back!

You want to know the end? Well, the next day they found us. Both of us. Quite surprised, everybody was, wondering why the animal hadn’t torn my throat out as well. They were all concocting some nonsense and spreading it amongst themselves. To avoid causing alarm, the decision was made to announce that Osuli had left of his own accord. That he’s gone off-grid.

What a lot of questions you do ask! I’ve just told you, they ran away. They found them the next day, in another one of these pits. The company told everybody it was the hyenas, and I didn’t say anything either. Nothing to be done. Don’t look at me like that! It’s not my fault. What’s all this wandering off? Come closer, won’t you? You never did say why the company took against you – do tell! What was it landed you marooned in this desert? Watch out for those thorns; could be a pit or something right behind them. Steady now, just here’s good. Next to these bushes. Let’s sit for a spell. Now, tell me something. Tell me about yourself.

Selected short story from a collection originally published in the Persian language as “Barf Va Samphony-e Abri” by Peyman Esmaeili

Copyright © 2008, Nashre-Cheshmeh Publishing House, Tehran, Iran

Peyman Esmaeili (پیمان اسماعیلی 1977 [1356 HS]) is an Iranian author from the western province of Kermanshah, who developed his passion for writing while studying electrical engineering at the University of Science and Technology in Tehran. In the years following his graduation, he occupied editorial posts at various Iranian newspapers including Bahar, Fath, Sharq, Etemad and Hamshahri-e Mah, where he penned critical reviews and conducted interviews with authors such as Kurt Vonnegut, Jhumpa Lahiri, Paul Auster and Michael Cunningham.

Esmaeili published his first collection of short stories, Search your Raincoat Pockets (جیب های بارانی ات را بگرد) in 2005 (1384 HS), and his second, Snow and the Cloud Symphony (برف و سمفونی ابری), which includes Animal Diseases (مرض حیوان), in 2008 (1387 HS). The latter especially received significant critical acclaim, winning six national literary awards, including the Golshiri, Mehregan and Press Critics’ Awards. In 2010, Esmaeili migrated to Australia, and his third collection of short stories Let’s Go Back Tonight (همین امشب برگردیم), published in 2017 (1395 HS), as well as his first novel, the Guard (نگهبان), published in 2014 (1392 HS), were both written outside Iran. His second novel Lacquer (لاک) is due for release soon. Many of his short stories have been translated into English, French and Dutch.

Neda Mohtashami is a researcher in Iranian studies and a translator with a passion for languages and literature. A native speaker of Persian, she has specialised in the ancient and modern languages of the Iranian Plateau for more than a decade, with her current research focussing on the linguistics, philology and hermeneutics of Middle Persian (Pahlavi) literature. She has a PhD in the study of religions (SOAS, University of London), a Masters in the languages and the literature of pre-Islamic Iran (University of Tabriz, Iran), and an undergraduate degree in English language and literature (Urmia University, Iran). She currently lives in Germany, pursuing a postdoc at the Ruhr University Bochum (RUB).

George Warner is a scholar of Islamic Studies, focusing on the history and literature of Shi’ism in Iran and the Arab world. He received his PhD in the Study of Religions from SOAS University of London, and is presently Research Associate for the Study of West Asian Religions at Ruhr-Universität Bochum in Germany. His first book, The Words of the Imams: Al-Shaykh al-Ṣadūq and the Development of Twelver Shīʿī Hadith Literature, was published in 2021 by I. B. Tauris.