Lunatique By Sadeq Hedayat Translated from the French by Mary K. St. John Edited by Iraj Bashiri Copyright, © Iraj Bashiri, 1984

A torrential rain, one like those that must have fallen during the earth's formation, lashed the defenseless ground. The wind moved a fine spray of water along the asphalt road. Meanwhile the sea, silent and passive, full of profound, mute and distant love, lay plunged in a leaden fog. Everything was humid, sticky, viscous. The humidity gnawed, penetrating the body and aggravating the soul.

A vague shiver of desire went through the creatures, a breath of "folie" or of drunkenness hoping for oblivion, for tiredness. A desire to abandon everything, even existence itself, awoke. In this passionate lewdness flowed the water, the furious water of some angry God. The rain smothered all outside sounds. Suddenly it stopped.

The room, which I had recently rented on the first floor of a building, seemed comfortable but I had not yet been able to get used to the objects in it. The furniture had a bizarre, enigmatic, animate air: there were a short and sturdy commode; a tall and slender, yet hard and mocking, armoire with a practical air and a round stocky table; and a dainty mirror--all of which surveyed me with a menacing vigilance. An acrid, spicy odor typical of Hindu natives was floating in the air.

Half naked, an old Hindu shoemaker in a red turban had taken shelter under the lintel of my window where, in a holy and resigned pose, he contemplated the mingling of the crowd. Wasted almost to the point of emaciation, he had olive skin and black, sunken eyes. His unkempt beard covered most of his face. An old box and some worn shoes were spread out in front of him.

All afternoon I was glued to my phonograph. A Hindi record, bought at random, obsessed me. I played it and replayed it without interruption, while sitting in the armchair watching the rain and the few passersby who ventured outdoors. My window faced the sea, a grey and lazy mass that merged with the horizon.

Suddenly someone knocked on my door. I opened it. I saw a slender woman, pale, her forehead lined with pale veins, of regular features, with big green eyes and straw-colored hair. With a distracted air she said, "For God's sake, stop that record. It makes me nervous; it grates on my nerves."

"I'm so sorry," I replied.

She thanked me and went back into the next room.

I stopped the phonograph, thinking that she must be a foreigner even less familiar with Hindi music. Or perhaps she hated it by prejudice. I lay down on my bed to look through a local magazine.

At eight o'clock, I went up to the dining room on the third floor. The manager, a bronzed half-breed who came from Goa but who said he was Portuguese, introduced me to a half dozen persons of dubious nationality. The soup was being served when the door opened loudly and I saw my neighbor make a triumphant entrance. She was wearing a long blue and yellow flowered crêpe dress, tightly fitted and low cut. She wore it with a natural elegance that heightened her beauty and added a rustic gaiety to her slim silhouette. She acknowledged the guests with a nod of the head and sat down at the last vacant place at our table.

After supper, I asked the manager about the woman. He, with his simian physiognomy and a glint in his eyes, told me, "Her name is Felicia, an adventuress tormented by tropical crises." Then, smiling, he added, "A bit of advice: don't play with fire."

I was very much intrigued by this woman of bizarre allure, she who had so cruelly deprived me of my musical orgy.

On leaving for my evening walk, I saw Felicia in front of my window conversing animatedly with the Hindu shoemaker.

Between stray clouds, the full moon, pale and phosphorescent, like the eye of a dead fish, cast its weak light over "Bombay at Night." The whole sky seemed to have been sprayed with a luminous, milky liquid. The buses and taxis moved with a melancholy clanking noise. I took the road leading to the jetty amidst a throng of people wearing long tunics and enormous multicolored turbans. The women in brilliant saris seemed to float softly. The teaming masses, the strange mix of the lower class, the perverts, the foreigners and Hindus of a million faces, gave me the impression of a costume ball.

On my return along the jetty from Apollo Bunder, I saw Felicia sitting on the breakwater stairs, hands clasped, eyes dilated. She was staring fixedly at the full moon's reflection in the sea. Her diaphanous pallor and the trembling of her lips betrayed her deep emotion.

Lost in her dreams, she paid no attention whatsoever to the passersby.

When I returned to the pension, the heat was overpowering. I turned on the fan and lay down but the dry cough of the old shoemaker kept me from sleep.

The next evening she wasn't present at dinner. Afterward I went to the elevator and pressed the button. A click. The docile apparatus slid along its cables and stopped. I pulled open the door and pushed aside the gate. To my great astonishment, there was Felicia, motionless as a marble statue; a soft and provocative perfume surrounded her. It was she who spoke first, in French, with a strong English accent.

"Are you free this evening?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"Do you want to escort me as far as Green?"

"With pleasure."

She had changed. Her attitude and facial expression were subdued. On our way out she stopped before the Hindu shoemaker.