description: Backyard(Hayat Khalvat) is Farhad Hassanzadeh`s first novel with Qoqnoos. His previous publisher, Hoze Honari, refused the book for its explicit and critical comments on the war and the treatment of its veterans. Backyard was well received in Iranian literary circles, and was nominated for the Yalda, Ghalam Zarin and Golshiri literary awards in 2004.SynopsisIn the aftermath of the Iran-Iraq war, veteran Ashour Mashali is crippled, shell shocked, and struggling to deal with his parent’s deaths. His beloved sister, Sharifeh, a nurse, cares for other veterans during the day and looks after Ashour at nights.Together, they live on the grounds of the school they attended as children. When the landowner decides to tear down the school, Ashour decides to fight to preserve the place where his parents, as well as his childhood innocence, were both destroyed by war. Sharifeh, desperate to help him come to terms with the present, hits upon the idea of running a missing person ad for Ashour with the purpose of finding and reuniting their childhood circle of friends. Soon they are brought back together, rekindling old loves and sparking a new feeling of possibility in life. But time has changed them all, and Ashour is not the only one who has suffered.Ashour was asleep when Sharifeh arrived. He was lying on his back on the metal bed, snoring through his half-open mouth. A bit of cotton clung to his unkempt beard, and it fluttered with every warm waft of his breath. Sharifeh bent over to remove the thread, and then she stepped back and looked at him. He looked like a man who'd been having nightmares. His bed sheet coiled around his waist, shoulders and limbs like a snake; his forehead and the dark curve of his cheeks were dotted with big beads of sweat. She turned the ceiling fan off. 'I hope he won’t catch cold,' she murmurs. She takes her headscarf off, runs her slim fingers through her hair, saying: 'Ah, God, I'm dying of the heat in here.' Her hair hung down to her waist. 'I should get it cut short; otherwise I'll stew in summer.' She puts her hair up in a loose bun on top of her head, hoping a breeze of wind touches the nape of her neck.The fan blades slowed with small, interrupted chirps. Sharifeh went into the other room and took off her gown. She put on her flower Indian skirt and came back. Again, her glance stole to the metal bed and its new occupant. With his snake coiled around him, Ashour rolled a bit towards the wall. Above, the ceiling fan gave up the last of its momentum and stops. She takes a newspaper out of her olive green purse, and riffles through the pages with delicate haste. Just as she had at the kiosk earlier, she searches in it for the missing person's page. She'd had no chance to look through it on the minibus. The wind had crackled in one ear, while a talkative Mrs. Garmsiri took advantage of the other. Now she was afraid of waking Ashour, but was not in the mood to go to the other room or out into the garden. She started skimming the page again and found the entry she was looking for. Ashour’s picture was clear and sweet. Under the picture was the word 'Missing'; shouting for attention with its bold, black font. She read the attached text slowly: (the subject of the pictures, Eshour Mashali….)Seeing the ad again, she felt a second wash of pity for the typist's illiteracy and blamed herself for not emphasizing Ashour’s name, for she had not said that Ashour is spelled with an ' A'; not an ' E'. She returned to the caption, ' … who has brain damage …'The rigid springs of the bed squeaked, then Ashour’s voice called her away from the ad.'When did you get back?' She folded the newspaper and stuffed it back in her purse; 'A few minutes ago.'They exchanged greetings when their eyes met. Ashour pulled himself into a sitting position with his right hand. With the left, he took his chafieh scarf from the bed frame and wiped the sweat off his face and neck.'Damn, the power's gone out. I'm roasting in here from the heat,' he said.'There is no outage. You were drenched in sweat, so I turned the fan off.' Sharifeh said.'What about you? Aren’t you hot?' Ashour spoke with a low, hoarse voice.Sharifeh said; ‘Not at all. Get up and have a shower to cool off.’Sharifeh said, 'Get up then, before the water cuts off again.'She knew very well that the shower, cooling off and the water cutting out were just excuses. She could not bear the weight of his eyes. He was there, while his missing person ads were everywhere. Her only choice was to control her mounting anxiety, so she left her purse by the wall. The room was in a mess. The cloth where she ate breakfast was still spread on the floor. She put the tea-steamer cups on the tray, collected the dried pieces of bread, and wiped the cloth with a sponge. Then, with a few brisk moves, she picked up the clothes that were scattered all over the room. But through it all she could feel the presence of Ashour, clinging to the metal bed and staring at her. 'Do not look into his eyes,' she thought, 'like a fortuneteller, he can read every thing from your eyes. 'She busied herself collecting shahed’s books and toys. A page in one of his notebooks caught her attention. He had drawn a dove, a white dove shining in a sky of red. She said, 'Look what my boy has drawn. It’s very nice, isn’t it? 'Ashour did not look. Maybe he had seen it before. Maybe he was more concerned with Sharifeh, with her manner, with her clear discomfort.'What’s up? It seems like you are stressed out over something.'Sharifeh looked at him in the full-length mirror on the closet door. This way was better, and in direct line, reflect gaze. 'I’m fine, just tired. I was very busy today.'‘You are always busy, aren’t you?’‘That’s why. When tiredness gradually builds up, all of a sudden it becomes too much.’‘Today you seem more tired than ever. Have you had an argument or something with anybody?’‘No, dear. I’m just tired. I need a week off.’‘A week off? For what?’‘For a break; for breathing in fresh air that doesn’t smell of alcohol and medicine, or bed sheets without disinfectant.’Quickly she changed the subject.‘You would like to have some lunch, wouldn’t you?’‘I’m still stuffed from this morning’s meal. Only I feel so thirsty.’‘Would you like me to bring some water for you?’‘I’m bloated from drinking too much water. Make some tea, sister.’Sharifeh plugged in the samovar, opened the lid and looked at the sediment inside. It was half full. She wished Ashour would get up and leave the room, so that she could read the missing person ad thoroughly and then hide the newspaper.She knew if he did not peel himself off the black metal bed, he would sit there for hours and repeat the same bored, sarcastic words. Words she was not in the mood to hear. She took her fake pearl necklace off her slim neck and put it in the side cabinet. ‘I’ll get lunch ready and prepare the tea while you take a shower.’‘You go ahead and eat; I have no appetite for lunch, Sharifeh.’‘Then whet your appetite, Ashour. We have dhal for lunch. I’ll warm some up for you.’‘Don’t worry about it.’‘How can I not worry? Even the patients at our hospital look better than you do. You don’t eat right. Do you want to add an ulcer to your collection of sufferings?’She stood up, got his crutches ready for him, and said, ‘Come on, give me a “Ya Ali!” ‘Ashour looked up at her. ‘Now you’re giving orders?’Sharifeh`s face filled with a soft smile. ‘This is not an order, sir! This is an imperative, a mandate for your continued existence. Hurry up! Otherwise, I will have you punished; sixty set-ups.’Ashour said, ‘Not “set-ups”, idiot! Sit-ups.’‘What’s the difference? Set-up sounds better. Say “Ya Ali!” ‘She reached out to him. Ashour took her hand and slid himself forward. ‘You’ve become too cheeky. You might as well just get it over with; give me a good, clean finishing blow!’ He took hold of one of the crutches.Her next breath was filled with Ashour’s scent. ‘A dead person does not need to be finished off, does he?’ she said. ‘And as long as you are lounging on this bed, you are dead.’ She held his arms. ‘Come on, get a move on. I’m starving.’She loved Ashour’s smile. She would never give up on that smile. He took the other crutch and started walking before he asked, ‘Have you bought a newspaper?’Sharifeh stood up, holding the tray. Her legs were shaking. The cups on the tray rattled. She went to the next room where both the kitchen and closet were. ‘No. did you want me to?’‘You should have bought one.’‘I’ll go out for one in the afternoon. Or maybe I’ll ask Shahed to. Now go take a shower before the water pressure cuts out.’‘Okay, fine. I give in. it seems I’m stuck in hospital Number Two around here!’The sound of his crutches striking the ground in her garden echoed through the house. She held her breathe and returned to the bedroom, where she turned on the fan. Grabbing her purse, she pulled out the newspaper. Quickly, she found the missing persons page with her shaking hands, and tore it free. Then she stuffed the remaining pages into her purse and put the purse under the bed. She went back to the next room with the page. Reading his caption, she once again felt sorry for the writer’s illiteracy. Ashour`s picture cried out for her praise. ‘How innocent you are, baby Ashour!’ her big eyes filled with tears, ‘with this face of yours which isn’t smiling, weeping, talking or silent.’She pulled up the corner of the mattress and said, ‘Hide under there for now, until I can see what to do.’ She concealed the page under the bedcover, with its design of petunias and daisies. She folded her bare, sticky arms across her chest and grasped her elbows. Standing by the window, she stared at the schoolyard through a gap in the blue curtain. The sound of rain wet her ears. But it was not raining outside at all. It was dry. There was neither rain nor even the smallest cloud. There was just the blue sky, the sunshine, and a gentle northern breeze that set the flag dancing atop its mast. Below, Ashour was standing on his one leg, his lips murmuring something. The sparrows, which fled his clattering steps, flitted back to perch on the windowsill, right before Sharifeh’s eyes. She dropped the curtain. The sparrows flew from the window, seeking refuge in the heart of the weeping willow.
title: hayat khalvat
titlecomplete: hayat khalvat 
ratings_count: 43