The sacrifice of ZahrA the lovely aryan
Act I of an erotic tale taking place in the Iran of the Ayatollahs

The plane begins its descent on the airport of Teheran. I have a strange beating in my heart. It is always like so, when I return into a country. It unveils a recollection of souvenirs, in a muddled way, with the impression of reviving events and people as they were before. Nevertheless, Iran had changed, as all these other countries I know and which I regret, in a selfish way, the inevitable race towards modernity or the return to the stone age.

I roamed into Teheran, in previous times, in search of picturesque images, it was under the reign of the Schah. I was questioned by the secret police of the Schah, a member of the Savak, whose task was to pursue the demonstrations of political disorders from its citizens. I was questioned, lectured, to have tried to exploit the typical characters of Iran as that of these other countries, the reason why I travel around the world, and how uninteresting they would be if they would only pretend to be, the mirror of Paris.

The plane had left Paris four hours ago. I just finished to read, for a second time, "The widow of the Ayatollah", to let myself impregnated again by this city. My old second-hand "SAS" were and are always my best tourist guides. This exercise of disorientation had another purpose, to make me forget the other Ayatollahs, those who aspire to guide the consciousness of the western world with dogmas not more different, so little edifying, but almost more stinking.

I did not stop scrutinizing these casual bodies chastely veiled, that furnish the banquettes of the plane, in search of the feminine mystery hidden behind them. I recall into myself lubricious tendencies, in the discovery of a lively expression encircled with a skillful furrow of kohl; a mop of somber hair slipping with boldness through the folds of a multicolored hidjab; an aquiline nose stylishly decorated with a diamond inlay, a sparkling mouth of red sensuality, the drawing of a hip with an outrageous curve revealed by the sudden tension of an ample caftan of linen; a leg naked to the thigh, voluntarily extracted from its prudish hiding place; my senses livened me up more than would have never done, the grotesque nudity of the beaches of the Midi of France.

It was for that reason as well, that I left the Western hemisphere, to wake my senses put to sleep by the unbearable Occidental morality, that of those new Ayatollahs parked on the banquettes of the National Assembly and my refusal to live their scheduled agony. But why did I chose the country of the Ayatollahs?

animation

Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes, translated from french, noël 1998) © 1999 Marco Polo
AVIS IMPORTANT: (the author do not want to offend anyone by the subject of this tale, his intention is strickly literary and romantic.)