I went to visit Grandmother Maryam. She lived alone on the second story of a concrete apartment building, overlooking a small park. The light was weak. Though it was only four o’clock, I brought dinner. I imagined she was too tired to cook. She accepted the carton with a brief display of gratitude, then lit a cigarette. Her eyelids, broad and heavy with veins, began to close.
I asked Maryam if she wanted to watch the trivia show. She said it was all the same to her, I could put on whatever I liked. Her upholstery was rich, full of smoke, unpleasant to recline in, unpleasant to look at. A breeze clacked the blinds about, although the air in the room felt like it hadn’t moved in years.
My first set of trivia questions concerned the origins of algebra. Maryam got asked about world capitals. I have no idea why, she said, I always hated geography. Next I heard about sculpture, while she was quizzed on chewing gum varieties. After that came deep sea creatures and news anchors. Maryam told me how her own grandmother used to speak rapturously about one anchor, the man everyone got their news from. He wore a dark suit. He had a round, gentle face and sad eyes. At seven o’clock, whatever had happened that day, you could be sure that’s what people were watching.
Perhaps Maryam’s questions were about her grandmother’s era. Mine were about the cuisine of Yunnan Province. In my trivia show, the host’s hair was salt-and-pepper. In Maryam’s, it was strawberry blonde. But no, she clarified, there are two hosts. They’re lovers, she said, they’re off on a secret rendezvous, they’re having an affair, their spouses are back in the village but will soon grow suspicious. Her trivia show had become a soap opera. Mine had turned into a food travelogue. I tried to tell Maryam about the exotic locales I was seeing, but her own program was more enthralling to her.
She lit another cigarette. Her eyelids were enormous, like mussel shells. I remember back in university, she said, we had the same argument that every student of philosophy has. We both use the word blue, but is the blue you see the blue that I see? Or do you see what I call green? Or do you see what I call an A minor chord? My friends and I stayed up late into the night talking about it. What a wonderful night. But then, Maryam said with a wink, I met a man and we went to a hotel and had an affair. My boyfriend back in the village began to grow suspicious.
After Maryam had pecked at her dinner, we went to the park. A young man, not much younger than I, with jet black hair and a round, gentle face, sat on a bench by the fountain. Next to him was a sack of dried corn. All the ducks in town had gathered before him. Maryam told me that everyone knew this young man. His name was Milad. He was a fixture here. He came to the park every evening with a bag of corn.
We sat on a bench across from Milad and shared a cigarette. People from the neighborhood, having finished their dinners and digested their own versions of the trivia show, started to trickle out of their buildings. They stood in the park, gazing at the fountain, smiling at Milad, until soon the buildings were empty and the people outnumbered the ducks.