The old homes are being taken down everywhere and new buildings are going up. The rose and jasmine bushes in the old demolished homes are so dusty that they wouldn’t even inspire poets. Here and there, new homes appear a little further back than the old ones, with small balconies and latticed iron doors. The neighborhood has become like a gigolo who wears sunglasses and slicks his hair back, but his shoes are always old and torn.

The first week I discovered the park down the street, a park with more people than trees. The elders of the neighborhood sit on the benches, lined up, as if they are handpicked for public display, and placed in a show window with no glass.

When we go to the park, a triangular space at the corner of the street, the kids run to the swings and the slides at the end of the park. The park looks like hell because it is so dusty and crowded.

Amir and I walk around and predict each other’s future. I always choose the best-looking old man. I don’t want to pick an old, bald, ugly man and say this is your future. My old man is not so bent over that he can’t see the treetops. Although his shoulders are frail, you can see sparkles of affection and curiosity through his thick glasses. But Amir picks a woman that looks like a crumpled old envelope and says, “That’s you in twenty years.”

When we get to the main street, the first one after our alley, I think it’s more like India; a land saturated with aromas that fill the space between people. The aromas change with each breath. The smells get mixed, and my nose loses its ability to differentiate them for a few seconds. Passing the dairy store, I call out to Shahin. At the same time, I realize that my nostrils are throbbing from the overload. At that moment, distinguishing between the smell of boiled milk and cooked tripe becomes as important as the difference between a common stomachache and an ulcer.

This place, whether India or China, is full of people, most of them children. There are so many kids! Amir says there are more drug addicts than kids. A little after lunch, the alley becomes crowded. Even the parking lot becomes jam-packed, the staircases too. On a notice on the staircase, the tenants are asked not to send the kids out into the alley during the afternoon nap hours.

The building supervisor says, “Every month we post a new announcement, which is immediately torn off.”

He laughs. He, himself, has three kids.

Chapter 2

2

Our house is fifty square meters. It’s the same size as a flower garden in an average house in the northern part of the city. That’s why Amir says, “Don’t keep saying, ‘My house, my house.’”