The Warm South By Shapur Qarib Translated by Minoo Southgate, © 1980 Prepared for the internet by Iraj Bashiri, 2002

The doctor lit his cigarette and pushed away his dinner tray. He had no appetite. The driver watched him curiously. "Something is the matter with him, and he doesn't want to show it," he said to himself. The doctor took off his shirt and lay on his cot, naked to the waist. At night, he enjoyed the breeze which rose over the fruitful palms. Lying in bed and smoking the local cigarettes which still tasted unfamiliar, he felt miles away from the South's unbearable heat, and from the filthy, fly-infested cottages of a land burned and dried up by the sun. Yet, opening his eyes, he would feel a deep attachment to the high hills, the black cottages, and the beautiful view, where one's eyes rested on the open umbrellas of palm in every direction. He was in love with Tala, the old man's daughter. The thought of leaving her behind had killed his appetite. He could not speak of this to the driver, who would not keep it secret. The old man eyed his cigarette pack like other nights. Ashamed of his forgetfulness, the doctor pointed to the green pack.

"Take some. You don't have to wait for me to offer them to you."

The driver watched the old man with contempt. He had abandoned his pipe and grown used to smoking free cigarettes. He lit the cigarette with a piece of charcoal and sucked the smoke avidly. The doctor liked the way he prevented any of the smoke from going to waste.

"It was fate, old man," the doctor said, leaning toward him affectionately. "In which cottage would we be staying now, if we hadn't come across you that evening?"

The old man blinked.

"In the cottage of Kadkhoda, the head of the village," said the driver, his mouth full.

His sarcasm annoyed the doctor. The old man knew where the shoe pinched. They could have stayed at Kadkhoda's cottage for free. The doctor closed his eyes to discourage an argument between the two. It pained him that he had failed to make peace between them. The old man pressed another piece of opium on his pipe and sucked the smoke with pleasure. The numbing smell of opium lingered in the air over their heads. The doctor loved the smell. It soothed his nerves and helped him temporarily forget the sad faces of the country people. The driver was still at his dinner tray. He looked glum because the fried eggs had not filled him. He played with the bread and dates, frowning. The doctor worried that eating too many dates would get him into trouble. He was always after women. When they would return to the port after being away on assignment for a few months in villages, the first thing he would look for was a prostitute. Late at night he would come back to the clinic and lie down in a corner, chewing the cud of his memories.

"Are you listening, doc? What a great piece, doc. . ."

The doctor would feign sleep to discourage him. Finding him unattentive, the driver would growl.

"The rotten stink! He neither likes women, nor wants to talk about them. And he thinks he is a man!" Then he would take his tale to the hospital caretaker.

The doctor took a deep breath, inhaling the opium smoke. His head bent, the driver considered his empty gasoline cans and decided to sell them that night. They would make noise and take too much room if he took them to Minab. If he didn't get rid of them that night, he would have to sell them to the old man at his price. He didn't want just to give him the cans. He was fed up with the shrewd old man, who pocketed half of what they gave him for their living expenses, and used his daughter to get around the doctor. The driver had gone to the torrid South to make money and was not about to spend his earnings to pay for the old man's addiction and his household expenses. He blamed himself for having let the old man trick them the evening they arrived at the village.

"You Americans, master?" the old man had asked, taking off his hat.

He wished he had said something nasty to the old man. Instead he had been flattered.

"Yes, we're American, old man. Where does the Kadkhoda live? I want a clean cottage for the doctor," he had said.

The old man had humbly placed his hands on his eyes.

"You can have my cottage, master. Over there, up the hill."

When they reached the top of the hill, Tala, who was sitting in front of the cottage, rose politely. The driver's eyes moved from the spindle in her lap to her round breasts and black eyes.

"Looks rather nice," he had said. "What do you think, doc?"

The doctor turned his glance from the palms at the foot of the hill and shook his head coldly.

"Forget the cottage," the driver whispered. "Look at that piece. She really turns you on."

The doctor put a cigarette to his lips. The driver struck a match, trying to persuade him to stay.

"A paradise, doc," he said. "In the evening, after tea and cigarettes, up here it'll be really nice."

The old man had gone to the jeep happily, trying to end their hesitation by unloading their suitcases.

"Hey! Wait a minute. Who said we were going to stay?" the driver had shouted.

"Leave him alone," the doctor had said quietly. "Let the poor man make some money."

The driver had smiled and turned confidently toward Tala, as if to say, "You owe this to me." The old man had placed the suitcases at their feet, panting.

"You don't have to kill yourself for the Americans," the driver had said.

"It's a servant's duty, master."

"Is that your daughter?"

"She's your slave, master."

"God keep her. She's first rate, like the dates around here."

He had pulled his cap over his eyebrows and mused, "I'll make her tonight." But when he had carried the suitcases to the cottage with the help of the old man and made the cots, he had not found Tala. He had been annoyed with the old man's trickery and his daughter's cleverness. That was why he took every chance to annoy him. He decided to sell the empty cans down the hill for any price he could get. Oblivious to the driver, the old man was carefully drawing lines on the floor, his pointed chin on his knees.

"Is this some witchcraft, old man, or have you become an architect?" asked the driver, staring at the floor.

The old man prepared for more of his gibes.

"What are these lines?" the driver asked again.

"You mean the coffee-house?" the old man raised his head. "Did you say 'coffee-house'?"

"Yes. If I can get it together, I'll be in clover. No question about it." He smiled, hopeful and confident that his wish would materialize, heartened by the money he had saved during their stay.

"No one has ever thought of opening a coffee-house at the chromium mine," he added, his lips dark from opium.

"So this is the plan of your coffee-house, is it?" the driver asked hesitantly.

The old man moved back and pointed at the floor.

"The large cottage is the coffee-house, the one over there is the outhouse. The other cottage is for me and my kids." The driver spat the date stones on the floor and licked his sticky fingers.

"Are you planning to take them along?"

"I couldn't run the place single-handed. Tala is a great help."

The doctor, who had been listening to them, suddenly sat up in his bed.

"Are you serious?" he asked the old man, surprised. The old man raised his head, staring at the doctor's glasses, a hopeful smile on his face. The doctor was convinced that he was just day dreaming and chatting, high on opium.

"You smoke too much and then start making up stories," he said.

"Why should I make up stories, doctor? I've had the idea for two years now."

"Why haven't you built the place then?" the driver asked.

The old man bowed his head, selecting a glowing piece of charcoal to smoke his third piece of opium. The coffee-house with its arched ceiling, samovar and teapot loomed in his mind.

"The truth is, I didn't have the means," he said, breathing calmly. "I had the idea, but where was the money?"

"Don't you have the money?" the doctor asked, frowning.

"Doctor, if I had the money, would I be here?"

The doctor put his head on the pillow. He realized why whenever he had talked about Tala the old man had evaded him. "Tala isn't worthy of you, doctor," he had said. He wondered how he had failed to figure out the old man during the weeks they had lived in his cottage.

The driver lit a cigarette. His failure to win Tala had grown into an obsession. He was ashamed to have been put down by a country girl. He took his eyes from the smoky kettle.

"Well, if you don't have the money, why don't you give up?" the driver asked.

The old man shrugged. The driver turned the bitter smoke in his mouth and blew it at the old man.

"You crafty old man! I bet you invented this cock and bull story to sponge on us," he said contemptuously.

The old man smiled, then sadness invaded his face. The driver was used to these changes.

"Don't get depressed. Carry on with the story. I bet you'll succeed in fooling one of us," he said.

The old man paid no attention to him. He didn't want to spoil the effect of the opium for no reason. He drank up the strong tea in his glass and turned his eyes to his drawing on the floor. The doctor rose. He glanced at the foot of the hill. The cottages were marked by a few dim lights. In the course of the few weeks he had been lodging on the hill, he had grown weaker day by day. He would lose his composure and chain smoke when Tala would come for the trays after supper, but he was careful not to blunder and betray his secret to the driver. The old man filled the glasses with tea. The driver put a sugar cube in his mouth and swallowed his sweetened saliva. He had a tendency to tease the old man when he was high on opium.

"Old man, the day we rented your cottage folks down there told us nasty things about you. They said you were a crafty old buzzard."

"They hate my guts," the old man said.

"For no reason?"

"No. They think I am robbing you up here."

"Well, you probably are. Otherwise they wouldn't say you were."

"No. It's an old grudge, belonging to the time when the government prohibited the planting of opium poppies. They all stopped planting, but I kept at it."

"Even after it was prohibited?"

"I had no choice. How could I make ends meet with just a few date palms, which sometimes didn't bear fruit? The government didn't know what it was like. I had five daughters. If I'd had a boy, that would've been something. Like other families, I could send him to Kuwait and Dubai to smuggle goods. But God hadn't willed it. Anyhow, I planted a piece of land in Tang Goraz and the gendarmes never found out about it.

"Did the people?"

"No. Not exactly. But when the opium smoke didn't stop rising from this cottage, they became suspicious. Then the Kadkhoda caught on to me."

"Did he tell the gendarmes?"

"No. We worked it out, the two of us. He would come over whenever he had the urge and say he had seen the gendarmes around. I could take a hint. I knew I had to leave him alone with my daughter, the older one, in the cottage."

"You were in a jam."

"What a jam! I didn't mind being a pimp, but the son-of-a-bitch played a new tune every day. One day he stood outside the cottage and complained, 'Even a donkey gets tired of eating at the same trough everyday.' That did it. I knew even if I gave him Tala he would still want the others."

"So he told on you?"

"Yes, he informed the gendarmes in the port. When they set me free a year later, all I had was the rag on my back."

"Why didn't you plant again? Were you afraid?"

"No, it wasn't fear. I just didn't have the strength to struggle with the soil and fight the Kadkhoda. Besides, the village wasn't what it used to be. Everybody had left to work in the mine or build roads. I started thinking about building the coffee-house."

The doctor stood uneasily before him. "How much money do you need?" he asked.

"Two or three hundred tomans, doctor."

The old man held his chin up, awaiting the doctor's generosity. With his official jeep and fat wallet he certainly could afford to give him that sum. But the doctor was thinking of Tala. He hoped to reach an agreement with the old man later that night, when the driver wasn't around. He was sure the old man would give up Tala for the coffee-house. The driver looked at the doctor's tea and reminded him that it was getting cold. The doctor shrugged. The driver put another sugar cube in his mouth, waiting for Tala, who generally came up the hill after dinner.

* * *

In the dim lamp-light the doctor had been reading, but he could not follow the story. His mind was occupied with Tala and with the next day's departure. He was going to ask her father for her hand that night. His silence told the driver that he was preoccupied with something. Oblivious to them, the old man was examining the pile of empty gasoline cans like an expert junk-dealer. He shook his head with dissatisfaction to lower the value of the merchandise, watching the driver from the corner of his eye. The driver was not paying him any attention. He was kneeling before his disorderly suitcase, wondering where to put all the contraband merchandise he had bought to sell at a profit. The old man held up a can and examined it carefully.

"Do you see this? They're all like that. They get full of holes," he said nasally, hoping to persuade the driver to sell him the cans. He could make a good profit if he succeeded. But the driver was cross. He enjoyed teasing the old man. He continued packing the cologne bottles at the bottom of his suitcase.

"If you're thinking of selling them down the hill, forget it," the old man said. "They smell of gasoline and date syrup slips right through their seams."

The driver glared at him. "Even if I sold them to you at cost, it wouldn't do you any good. So forget it."

The old man returned the can to the pile, disappointed. The air smelled of night and of ripening dates. He missed the noisy date-picking seasons when the aroma of dates and date syrup filled the air. The young men would climb the palms, the women and children would watch them cut the high heavy bunches of dates. But now the village no longer marked the date-picking season. The mine had made the date-palms worthless. The wages paid by Americans and Italians left no incentive for anyone to stay in the village. The dates remained on the tree, ripened, and went to waste. The old man lighted his pipe, saddened. The sharp smoke reached the driver.

Tala came in to pick up the dinner trays. The driver fixed his eyes on her breasts. His face and chest warmed up as when he drank the date arrack. He looked for an excuse to chat with her. The doctor pulled the sheet over his naked body, bending his head to avoid her eyes. But he knew she was washing the tea glasses in the lukewarm water, her toes covered by her long dress.

Every night, Tala's arrival would stop the conversation. In the silence, the dizzying sound of the crickets agitated the doctor. He would turn silent and motionless. The driver would watch her lustfully.

Her head modestly bent down, Tala began to gather the supper trays. When she stooped to collect the date stones, the driver inhaled the scent of her body hungrily. He had waited every night for her and tried to win her, but she had given him no encouragement. His failure had led him to think that there was something between her and the doctor. When they had arrived, she had looked at the jeep with the joy and curiosity of a child and waited for them to take her for a ride. Why did she avoid him now? They were leaving the next day. He thought of having to leave Tala's untouched body for the rough hands of the village men, and cursed the doctor, whom he considered responsible for his failure. He covered the cologne bottle with local hand woven curtains to protect them from breaking. Tala glanced at the curtains.

"Well, we're finally leaving and you haven't traded your curtains with me. I wonder who will have them," the driver said.

Tala suddenly reeled. The driver jumped to his feet, ready to catch her in his arms. But she pulled herself together. The driver wondered why she had reacted in that manner. "Maybe she has given the curtains to him," he thought, his eyes searching for the doctor's suitcase. If he found the curtains there, he would know what to think. The old man offered him his pipe. The driver wiped it and inhaled deeply.

"Old man, this is the last time I'm smoking your pipe."

The old man smiled, not taking him seriously. He was sure he could talk him into selling the cans after he had smoked. The strong tobacco overcame the driver. He wanted to cry. He admitted to himself that he had failed with the girl, and was tempted to torment the doctor.

"What time are we leaving, doc?" he asked.

The doctor looked up.

"If we don't start early, the sun'll destroy us," the driver continued. The doctor said nothing, his eyes fixed on Tala. The lump in her throat had burst and she was trembling. She left the room with the trays.

"Where are you going tomorrow morning?" the old man asked. The driver bent down his head. He thought he had been tricked and was angry at the doctor. He would start a quarrel if he weren't afraid of the consequences; it could cost him his job. The old man, who was familiar with the driver's ugly mood, turned to the doctor. "Doctor, do you mean to say people here have all been cured and don't need a doctor any more? I'm still sick," the old man said, coughing to win the doctor's sympathy. He sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands. Then he jumped to his feet, hearing a crash, the sound of trays and aluminum plates.

"What was it?" the driver called out, holding up the lamp. The old man joined him and looked down.

"It's that clumsy fool, Tala," he said.

"Are you all right?" the driver called out. This was a good excuse to join Tala down the hill, he thought, but the old man was in the way. He turned down the lamp which was smoking.

"With all my smartness. The doctor got the better of me," he thought. "That very first evening, when I was setting up the cots, I should've realized the sneaky doctor had stolen her heart." He spat on the ground.

"You were kidding when you said you were leaving tomorrow, weren't you?" the old man asked, his face catching the light from the lamp.

The driver walked away without answering. The old man took his hand.

"Say something," he pleaded.

"Leave me alone. Don't be such a pest," the driver shouted impatiently'

Behind the cottage, the old man was left alone in the dark. He was sour. Had he known that his boarders meant to leave so soon, he would have stolen more. The cans rattled, turning his attention to the driver. He was tying the cans in stacks to take them down the hill for sale.

* * * * * *

The doctor sat before a suitcase full of books, lacking the energy to pack and take them to the jeep. He had been travelling in the South for a year. The hot southern sun had darkened his skin. He had lived in many villages and left them with no pangs. But now his heart sank when he thought of leaving the next day. Tala's tearful eyes, the thought of the old man's refusal, and the villagers who made a mountain out of a mole-hill agitated him. He sat with his arms folded around his knees like the old man and lighted a cigarette, trying to stop his thoughts. The old man had followed the driver down the hill. The lamp had run out of kerosene; the doctor rose. He turned the wick down until it fell into the bowl. He approached the bed listlessly. The night air mixed with smoke from distant cottages filled him with pleasure. He dropped into the sunken center of the cot. Alone in the hot South, working and living in dirty fly-infested villages, and feeling sorry for people who lived like animals, yet were satisfied, he was worn out and his nerves were frayed. He inhaled the smoke. Was it for this he had lost sleep and studied hard to become a doctor? In these villages he had forgotten how to practice medicine. Not having the medicine he needed, he had been reduced to a show-man. He went around in his American jeep, putting on a show and lying to diseased and decrepit villagers. He was a shrine devoid of miracles. At night, he would fall on his bed, tired, remembering Tehran, the neon signs of its movies, the lively music of its restaurants. In a few days he could spend a month's vacation in Tehran, stand at the counter of its bars, and forget himself and the South's endless sandy deserts in glasses of ice-cold beer. He wondered if the beer could wash away the memory of Tala. If he stopped seeing the scorched villages and their half-naked inhabitants, he might succeed in making peace with his memories. But the South would remain with him for many years. The people and the memory of Tala would last and fester like an incurable sore.

A sound outside the cottage caught his attention. "Who's there?" he asked, uneasy. The sound, which had stopped, grew louder. His heart sank. He rushed out of the cottage. Tala was sitting on the ground, crying. He put his arms around her, knowing why she wept.

"Get hold of yourself. You knew all along I would leave some day, didn't you?"

Tala was aloof. He blamed the driver's loose tongue. He kissed her long hair. He had grown used to the country smell of her body and it gave him pleasure. She had brought him the curtains she had woven.

"Are they for me?" he asked.

She did not answer. He wiped her eyes.

"I'm going down tonight to ask your father again."

"Don't. He is obstinate."

"But now I know how to handle him."

"You don't know him. If he weren't so obstinate, the Kadkhoda . . ."

"Kadkhoda was after you."

"Did he tell you all that? Did he say what became of my sisters?" she stared at him, surprised.

"No."

"When he grew penniless, he sent them to Shaghu."

"He didn't tell me that. He didn't say he sold his daughters."

"He hasn't told anyone. But people who had been to the port said they had seen my sisters in Shaghu."

The doctor closed his eyes. His nose itched from the smell of salt on Tala's skin. She had bathed in the salt-water stream that afternoon.

"He'll soften when I give him the money tonight."

"No, he will take me along to run the coffee-house," she said.

This upset him. He took her hands.

"My father isn't alone. The driver is with him," she continued.

"How come? They were fighting a minute ago."

"My father got the cans from him. He is in the cottage, smoking opium."

The doctor sat down on the ground.

"What he'll make on the cans won't be enough. I'll talk to him when he comes up."

She put her head on his breast. He smelled of alcohol and the injections he gave the villagers everyday. She had never known anyone as kind as he. She was in love with him.

"Don't cry, girl," he said, kissing her. "I'll take you to Tehran. You'll become my wife and learn to live in the crowded city."

"I'll become your wife here, tonight."

The doctor laughed quietly, caressing her long hair. Her childishness dispersed the clouds on his mind. Tala was begging him, rubbing against his aroused body.

"Get hold of yourself. I want you to be my wife."

"If father learns that I became your wife here, tonight, he will relent."

He tried to free his lips from the warm pressure of her mouth. They rolled over the curtains. Her hard, heavy body filled him with pleasure. He tried to hide his excitement. He laughed, amused by her childishness. She became bolder, trying desperately to break his resistance. Hearing the driver, they both turned motionless.

"They've come after me," she said, afraid.

"Who?"

Tears prevented her from answering. She ran down the hill. He hid Tala's curtains under the pillow, lay down on the bed, and closed his eyes, depressed. He was in no mood for the driver's chatter. As soon as the driver fell asleep, he would go to the old man. This time he knew how to handle him. The driver's suitcase snapped shut. He went down the hill, humming. The doctor sat up, surprised.

"Where to?" he called out.

"To a party, doc. The old man has invited me to a party."

The doctor lay back, powerless. His unlit cigarette slipped from his fingers.

* * * * * *

The driver had one foot on the fender and held the wheel lightly, letting the jeep drive itself. The sustained silence of the desert and the sudden flight of the locusts reminded him of the opium, and Tala's virginal body the night before. The jeep rocked gently. His eyelids grew heavy, his body languid with remembered pleasure. He longed to share his memories with the doctor, but the latter was in bad humor and in no mood to listen to him. The driver decided to postpone his account until they reached the port. He yawned and began to hum a song he had learned from the old man. The doctor fixed his eyes on the dashboard, paying no attention to the driver or the dirt road which disappeared in the sand. The driver was familiar with the doctor's long periods of silence.

He could go on without saying a word until they reached the port. The driver stopped humming.

"I just thought about him," he said. "Thought about whom?"

"The old man."

The doctor said nothing, listening to the monotonous sound of the pebbles hitting the fenders.

"He was hard to figure out," the driver resumed. "Sometimes he would go through the eye of a needle, sometimes the city gate was not big enough for him."

The doctor pulled his hat over his glasses and slouched in his seat. But the driver was not discouraged.

"Where shall we have breakfast?" he asked, lighting cigarettes for himself and the doctor.

The doctor did not answer. Fried eggs and barley bread did not move his appetite. He could not even taste the cigarette. The driver realized that he did not want to talk.

"Why don't we wait and have lunch at Shaghu?" he suggested. "If we stop there, we can look up the old man's daughters." He watched the doctor from the corner of his eye.

"I hope they are as good as Tala," he added.

"Who told you about them?"

"Last night the old man bored my head off, doc."

The doctor did not answer. The driver began to hum again. He was restless and wanted to talk to the doctor at any price. But the doctor continued frowning. He had not slept the night before. At dawn, the driver had returned to the cottage and collapsed on his bed. Early in the morning he had turned the engine on and waited for the doctor, yawning. The doctor had delayed their departure, hoping to see Tala. The driver had watched the red sun rays over the tight knit surface of the palms and urged him to hurry before it grew hot. The villagers had gathered to see them off. As always, the children followed the jeep as far as their legs could take them. The doctor looked through the back window, hoping to see Tala. At the turn of the road, he closed his eyes in despair. Since they had left the village, he had been preoccupied with the old man's disappearance and Tala's absence in the morning. The driver stopped the jeep at the side of a sandy hill. Several trucks passed by. The jeep filled with dust. They both began to cough. The doctor lit a cigarette and waited for the dust to settle. The road gradually loomed through the thinning dust. The driver started the engine, planning to follow the trucks to Shaghu at a distance. Then the doctor spotted the old man.

"It's him! The old man!" he cried joyfully.

The driver stopped the car. The old man looked at them as the doctor ran toward him. He bowed his head and greeted the doctor.

"What are you doing here?" he asked the old man. "Trying to earn a living, doctor."

"In the desert? Have you lost your mind?"

"This isn't the desert. They call this place the Mine Road."

"Where is your daughter? If you give your consent, I'll give you the money for the coffee-house," the doctor whispered, holding the old man by the shoulders.

"I couldn't run the place single-handed. Tala will have to help out."

"But without the money...?"

"I got the money, don't worry."

"But you were complaining last night that . . ."

"That was last night. God sent me the money."

"You mean last night?"

"If I didn't have the money would I be here instead of getting your breakfast ready and seeing you off this morning?"

"Do you want me to take you back to the village?" the doctor asked kindly, wondering whether the old man was in his right mind and hoping to see Tala again.

"Doctor, I started before dawn to get to the mine on one of the trucks on their way back from the port. Now you're telling me to go back?"

The doctor said nothing. The old man took a bit of opium and paused, gathering his saliva to swallow it.

"Was she in the village when you left?" the doctor asked quietly.

"It was better for her not to see you."

"Why? Didn't she believe I wanted to marry her?"

"She believed you all right, but she still does as I say."

The trucks entered the side road. The old man jumped on, grinning happily. In the jeep the driver had taken off his shirt and was fanning himself. The doctor sank in his seat and took the cigarette he offered him. He watched the truck which was taking the old man away.

"Well, he finally got his coffee-house," the driver said, laughing.

"Have you too lost your mind? Where did he get the money all of a sudden?"

"I was his prey, doc."

The doctor sat straight in his seat.

"I was going to tell you when we reached the port," the driver continued.

"Why there?"

"Because there it would be too late to do anything if you got mad. But the old man told you what happened and messed up my plans."

"He didn't say anything. He didn't say he got the money from you."

"Last night, when I came down the hill he followed me, wagging his tail, and when we reached his cottage he said, 'Why do you want to throw your money away in Shaghu?' My mind was on Tala. I said, 'You got a better idea where I should spend it?' He chuckled and talked me into it."

"He made you sell him the cans?"

"No, he got them for nothing, plus a hundred tomans."

"What for?"

"For the girl. The crafty devil, he knew how to get round me.

The doctor sat back in his seat, weakly.

"What about her? Did she go along?" he asked, his voice hollow and sunken.

"No, doc. She resisted. They quarreled outside the cottage and went to the palm orchard. I didn't think he would get anywhere, until he came back exhausted and breathless, and winked at me, rubbing his forefinger and thumb. He wanted his money in advance. When I went up the hill with the money, she was in the cottage with you. She gave you the curtains, didn't she?"

The doctor said nothing. The driver laughed hard.

"I thought you were screwing her. I said to myself, 'I pay the dough, the doctor has the fun.'"

The doctor remembered how she had pleaded with him. The driver had warmed up. He wanted to give all the details, like the times when he returned from his night out with prostitutes. The doctor turned his face, his eyes fixed on the sandy desert that shimmered in the sun.

"You hear me, doc? I'd never spent so much on that, but when I got down to business I saw it was worth it. The old man hadn't lied. She was a virgin!"

1967