The Request for Transfer

The Request for Transfer 

By Pedram Lalbakhsh

It was not yet nine in the morning, and the city, still basking in the languor of the second Saturday in the second month of spring, had yet to bid farewell to its morning calm. The fresh spring air and the lively song of the swift mountain larks, who seemed to burst with the colors and scents of the blooming flowers and the delightful newness of nature, were abruptly silenced by the spread of strange and mysterious news. The elderly headman of the village, whose age had only touched his snow-white hair and deeply lined face, but left his body strong and his senses sharp, personally delivered the news to the chief of the gendarmerie. The chief, in turn, sent a soldier with a letter, written, signed, and stamped on the official gendarmerie letterhead, to the governor’s office, both to inform and to seek guidance. The sergeant, a man seasoned by years of service, had learned over twenty-five years never to act impulsively.

Years of service in the gendarmerie, dealing with various types of criminals, petty thieves, superiors, and all sorts of characters, had taught him to always be cautious and never make himself the focal point of attention. He had learned that in the administrative system, which he knew inside out, there always had to be someone he could coordinate with. This way, if anything went wrong, he could always say, "Mr. So-and-so ordered this" or "Such-and-such person recommended that," and so on.

Moreover, the incident in question involved several other departments, and he did not want to be left alone with a bunch of questions when things settled down and the claimants and heirs appeared. He handed the letter to a lanky soldier known for his sluggishness and obedience, confident that he wouldn’t dare to open the envelope and peek inside. He instructed him to deliver it to the governor's office as quickly as possible, wait for a response, and bring back any letter or order from the governor to the gendarmerie.

Usually, in such situations, he would handle things personally, not trusting the soldiers and junior officers under him. He knew that the monotony of regular military duties in that remote village, combined with the inherent nosiness of soldiers, would make them do whatever it took to poke their noses into official correspondences. But given the current circumstances, he had no other choice. For the past couple of days, the gendarmerie's Jeep had been stubbornly refusing to start, lying idle like a rebellious soldier doing everything to shirk work, refusing to budge its bulky, multicolored frame.

Fortunately, in this corner of the vast country, which harbored a hundred different tribes, clans, religions, and sects, and was potentially a hotbed for bigotry, rebellions, and egotism, people generally did not interfere in each other’s business. There was no news of brawls, collective fights, or any disgraceful acts. It was a quiet place where the inhabitants were usually preoccupied with their own affairs and avoided actions that would lead them to the sergeant's office or the narrow, dark, and damp cell that served as the gendarmerie jail.

Still, whenever something happened that disrupted the ordinary lives of the villagers, the headman would put on his clogs, grab his long, heavy walnut walking stick, and personally go to the gendarmerie to report it, thereby absolving himself of any suspicion of negligence or cover-up. Like the sergeant, he did not want to align himself with anyone and create enemies for himself. Thus, whenever something of significance occurred that hinted at official questioning and military interrogation, he immediately headed to the gendarmerie to inform the sergeant about the situation. However, he always stopped at this point and never offered his opinion on what should be done or what actions were necessary.

Years of experience living and working among the people, with occasional interactions with officials and uniformed officers, had taught him to resolve matters swiftly and peacefully without speaking more than necessary or overstepping his bounds. The headman was illiterate, but he was sharp-eyed and foresighted. He was always careful with his words and never spoke without thoroughly considering all aspects of the matter he wanted to address. He had learned to have two eyes, two ears, two hands, and two feet, but only one tongue, which he preferred to use sparingly.

As a result, he never narrated events in a way that would take sides or unnecessarily involve himself, avoiding any situation where he would later be summoned and interrogated like a criminal, having to provide answers.

The gendarmerie post wasn’t far from the village, but the road was rough and rocky. Noor Mohammad, the scrawny soldier, had to make this half-hour journey on the sergeant’s bicycle, which was at least three or four sizes too big for him. It took him forty-five minutes of strenuous pedaling to reach the governor’s office, located right at the entrance of the city in a building with high walls and a red cement façade.

Given his frail body and short, thin bones, it was unclear why he had been recruited into the military service or what purpose he served that his mandatory service period wasn’t shortened. Noor Mohammad was the tenth child of a poor Baloch family with twelve children of varying ages and a two-humped camel that local smugglers occasionally rented to transport their goods. One could guess his southern roots from his dark complexion, black eyes, and hooked nose, and imagine how his childhood and adolescence had been spent under the scorching sun of the southern plains.

His four brothers were agile and vigorous men known in their village, working as camel herders. However, for whatever reason, Noor Mohammad hadn’t inherited their robust physique. Yet fate had dealt him a hard blow, sending him two thousand kilometers away to serve his mandatory period, guarding the borders and maintaining order and security. Ironically, he had become the sergeant’s most reliable and trustworthy soldier.

His short legs and arms barely reached the pedals and handlebars of the bicycle, and when he sat on the seat, he looked like a small mouse perched atop a camel’s hump. It was difficult; he couldn’t control the bicycle well, and each time he pressed down on the pedal, it felt as if he was pushing a heavy millstone into the ground. The front wheel of the bicycle would hit the rogue rocks—big and small—that jutted out of the uneven dirt road, causing the handlebars to slip from his grasp. He had to exert extra effort to keep the handlebars steady and prevent this heavy iron steed, which had neither the camel’s gentle strength nor the Jeep’s commanding presence, from bucking him off.

After less than an hour, he reached the governor’s office and, after a series of questions and answers, managed to deliver the letter to the governor’s chamberlain. It took less than half an hour for him to be told to return to the post and inform the sergeant not to take any action and to wait for further instructions.

Upon reading the sergeant’s letter, the governor furrowed his brows, realizing that his plans for the day were ruined. He immediately informed the head of the Department of Culture, the district chief, and the city clinic doctor. They decided to set off for the village within half an hour to see what had happened for themselves and to prepare a proper, legally sound report to resolve the issue.

None of them were pleased with this decision, but this was not something that could be postponed or left to be forgotten. Some matters must be dealt with before they escalate and everyone becomes aware of them. Bureaucrats, regardless of their rank, typically handle cases in one of three ways: they either have a straightforward case that they can pass on to a colleague, one that needs to be quickly filed away to be rid of, or one that can be delayed indefinitely, hoping to derive some benefit from its completion.

Before eleven, the convoy set off, heading towards the gendarmerie. The governor and the district chief were in one car, while the head of culture and the educational guide of the Department of Culture were in another. Following them, an ambulance with a young doctor and the health clinic driver escorted the convoy. When they arrived at the gendarmerie, the sergeant and two gendarmerie soldiers joined them, and they set off for the village.

It was a two-hour walk from the gendarmerie to the village, and the path was not accessible by car. So, the headman, who had been waiting at the gendarmerie since morning, led the way, and the others followed. The path to the village was not particularly difficult to traverse, but it had a considerable slope. With the sun showing its strength and the heat intensifying, after half an hour of walking, everyone was sweating profusely.

Despite his age, the headman walked with the agility of a nimble deer, effortlessly outpacing the others. The two young soldiers, whose youthful energy defied fatigue and the aches in their backs, groins, and calves, followed him step by step. Perhaps they were trying to showcase their strength to their elderly leader, who, with each confident stride, kept the delicate yellow desert flowers and their green stems safe from his dusty half-worn clogs. They mimicked the old man’s light steps so precisely that a tracker might have mistaken their footprints for those of a single person instead of three.

Behind the trio, the sergeant stomped along as if tasked with flattening the path. Each step crushed the flower stems and petals that had survived under the treads of his boots, sending puffs of dust into the air. The others, accustomed to desk jobs, whose limbs were far less practiced than their ears, eyes, and mouths, struggled to keep up, sweating and panting as they trailed behind. They silently cursed the cause of this unwanted midday march.

After two hours, they reached the school building. It was a structure made of mud bricks with a straw-clay façade, consisting of three rooms and a hallway. Each of the three rooms opened into this hallway. The room on the right was where the village teacher lived, who also served as the school’s janitor and principal. The room on the left was the classroom, which had its own story. The students, from first to fifth grade, all shared this classroom and its rough wooden benches. The poor teacher had to constantly switch roles, teaching each grade separately. It was a demanding task, requiring nerves of steel, a strong sense of duty, and perhaps an inability to find a better job or connections.

In addition to this multilevel teaching, the teacher had other responsibilities. For instance, some of the first and second graders from the neighboring village, who were smaller or weaker, couldn’t cross the river between the villages alone during the winter and spring when the water levels rose. Sometimes, someone would accompany them to help them across, but often, the teacher had to take on this duty himself. Despite these five-star services, the teachers received neither substantial pay nor praise. It was as if all these intertwined roles were a fate that had been imposed upon them by destiny or a lack of many things.

Finally, the last room at the end of the hallway was the school office, which contained only a rickety, rusted metal desk and a crooked metal filing cabinet. The entire school, including two small mud huts at the back that served as the school’s toilets, was just that and nothing more.

The classroom was empty, and no students were to be seen. It should have been filled with children of varying heights, all sitting there, attentively listening to the teacher and competing to get their voices and questions heard. But there was no one, and a heavy, mysterious silence enveloped all three rooms. That day, none of the villagers had sent their children to school. Villagers have sharp senses and can detect the scent of danger or unusual events, quickly coming up with a plan to address it. The time it takes a villager to sense danger and find a solution is a fraction of what it takes a government employee.

Villagers rely on their instincts and the wisdom nature has passed down through generations, in stark contrast to the bureaucrat who first needs to see, then find instructions, then report, then wait for approval, and so on. The villager sees, hears, feels, and acts on inner guidance, while the bureaucrat sees, reports, and waits for instructions on what to do next.

The door to the school office was closed, secured with an old, discolored lock. The teacher’s room, however, was apparently bolted from the inside. The large window of the room didn't offer any view inside; one of those thick, gray military blankets served as a curtain, effectively blocking any sight. These blankets were the steadfast companions of the educational corps teachers, serving as both their bedding and a shield from the curious eyes of their students.

The sergeant wrestled with the door, trying to push it open. He was unsuccessful. He then pressed his shoulder against the door, using his weight to force it open, but it still wouldn't budge. Reluctantly, he glanced at his two soldiers, then turned to the governor, not wanting to take sole responsibility for breaking in. The governor, his curiosity piqued and eager to resolve the situation quickly, nodded his approval.

The soldiers set to work, and in a matter of moments, they had the door off its hinges and stood aside, as if they had sensed something dreadful and didn’t want to be the first to encounter it. As the soldiers stepped aside, the sergeant, followed by the governor and the district chief, entered the room. The doctor and finally the educational guide squeezed in behind them.

In the center of the room, which smelled overwhelmingly of dampness, kerosene, and the smoke from an old, sooty Aladdin lamp, hung a tall, broad-shouldered man. His thumbs barely brushed the thick military blanket on the floor, which he had used as his curtain. The coarse rope had held his weight, suspending him from the wooden beam in the middle of the room. Both pockets of the uniform trousers he wore were oddly torn open, indicating that the poor man had shoved his hands deep into them, perhaps to prevent himself from having second thoughts and saving himself at the last moment.

Scattered under his feet were several books, as if someone had kicked them around in a fit of rage. The teacher had stacked these unread books to create his makeshift platform for his execution. Despite his depression and the bitterness he had confided to the educational guide a few times, he had shaved, oiled his hair, and donned his well-tailored uniform before hanging himself, wanting to die clean, tidy, and dignified, as befit his status.

At the sergeant's signal, the soldiers reluctantly entered the room and, obeying orders despite their reservations, gently lifted the body. After cutting the rope, they carefully laid it on the blanket on the floor and stepped aside so the doctor could perform his duty and examine the corpse. While the doctor examined the body and hastily scribbled notes in his pocket notebook for his later report, the sergeant reached out and pulled out a folded envelope that was sticking out from the right pocket of the uniform. He opened the envelope and took out the folded paper inside. Then he went to the window and drew back the military blanket to read the letter, written in beautiful handwriting, in the midday sunlight of a spring day.

The village teacher had written that he had no complaints against anyone; he was simply tired of life and saw no need to continue living in a world he could not understand and with people he could not comprehend. He had also expressed his gratitude to the educational guide for understanding him and granting him seven or eight days off each month over the past two years instead of the usual two, so the workload and teaching pressure in that remote village wouldn’t worsen his already troubled mind.

In the end, he had requested that his body be sent to one of the villages in Gorgan, where his family lived, to be buried in their village cemetery, so it wouldn’t be a burden on his parents later. That was all.

They wrapped the body in two blankets, securing the ends with the same rope the teacher had used to hang himself. The burden of carrying the body back to the gendarmerie was placed on the headman's donkey. This poor animal, which had carried the young but melancholic and disturbed teacher, along with his bundle of books and small suitcase of clothes, from the gendarmerie to the village three years earlier, now had the duty of transporting the teacher’s corpse, though without the suitcase and books this time. The teacher’s fate was to leave behind his possessions and return to his village with nothing.

The descent back to the gendarmerie was made as quickly as possible. Everyone was hungry and exhausted, eager to reach their destination, quell their grumbling stomachs, and attend to their own affairs and responsibilities. Among them, the educational guide stood out with his furrowed brows and sorrowful expression. It was hard to tell what he was thinking or what memories he was replaying in his mind, but it was evident that he alone was deeply affected and saddened by the death of the young teacher.

He was the only one who had occasionally visited the young teacher over the past three years, witnessing his condition up close, attempting to engage him in conversation, share a cigarette, and drink a cup of tea together. The guide’s visible grief distinguished him from the rest of the convoy, marking the profound impact of the loss on him.

The headman had never been fond of school, education, or teachers, and he preferred to avoid interacting with them. It wasn’t that he had anything against the young teacher personally; in short, school was a source of trouble and anxiety for him. First, his two sons, who should have been his right-hand men, helping on the land and tending the sheep, had to spend a significant part of their day at school. Secondly, he didn’t want his daughter, who was quite attractive, to learn city ways and indecency from schooling and spending time with books and notebooks. He was concerned she might mingle too much with the boys in the village, who were inevitably her classmates, and become too aware of the world. In essence, he wasn’t particularly unhappy about the school being closed; he only felt sorry for the unfortunate teacher’s parents, who would now be deprived of grandchildren and had lost their tall, strapping son.

The sergeant also didn’t like these polished, delicate types in uniforms. He believed that by setting up schools and offices in villages, the government was undermining itself and allowing these budding communists to destroy the country’s foundations. The head of culture and the governor viewed the teacher’s death as an administrative issue. They were annoyed that his death had forced them to take this rough journey, disrupting their routines, and now they would have to deal with the hassle of finding a replacement teacher for this remote village.

When they reached the gendarmerie, the head of culture, the governor, the doctor, and the sergeant sat down to draft and sign a report. It neutrally and impartially described the events for their superiors. As a precaution, they took the headman’s fingerprint on the document as well, then dismissed him and his donkey, sending them back to their lives.

Next, they attached the teacher’s will and a hastily written, barely legible death certificate from the doctor to the report, so it could be processed legally and sent to the central office after being registered. They handed all of these documents to the ambulance driver, instructing him to quickly transport the body and the paperwork to the center, hoping to bring the matter to a swift close.

However, there was one person who did not consider this matter settled. For him, it was just beginning. Since they had returned to the gendarmerie and reviewed the teacher’s will and signed the report, something had sparked in his mind and was slowly turning into a burning fire, consuming him with its heat. When they read the will for the second time, the head of culture's ears perked up at the part where the teacher thanked the educational guide. A suspicion began to form in his mind. He wondered if this guide, with his small face, closely set eyes, and fox-like snout, had been granting the poor teacher those extra leaves out of the goodness of his heart, or if he had been extorting him, giving him additional leave without reporting it to the office.

The more he looked at the man, the more suspicious he became, especially recalling the guide’s habit of exaggerating his limp whenever he was in the head’s line of sight. This heightened his suspicion that the guide had been exploiting the unfortunate teacher, bleeding him dry while pretending to mourn his death now that his source of illicit gain had dried up. As he thought more deeply, he remembered the teacher’s repeated requests for a transfer, sent every six or seven months, only to end up buried beneath other papers on his desk. This realization made his entire body burn with anger.

However, years of dealing with such individuals had taught him valuable lessons. He decided to handle the matter calmly and privately in his own office, rather than confronting the guide in front of the others. He knew that if he confronted the guide publicly, the man might play the victim, appeal to the sergeant, the governor, and even the provincial governor, stirring their sympathy and finding support. This would force the head of culture to back down and the guide would escape unscathed.

So, he resolved to deal with the situation quietly and appropriately, ensuring that justice was served without giving the guide a chance to manipulate the outcome.

That night, the head of culture couldn’t get a proper sleep. He was so tensely angry that even if a knife were driven between each of his ribs, no blood would flow, and he wouldn’t feel any pain. Despite his wife’s attempts to calm him down and soothe him with all her affection and sweet words, she failed. Her efforts were in vain.

Early the next morning, he sent an office boy to summon the educational guide from his home. Within an hour, there was a knock on the door, and the guide's head appeared in the doorway. With a delicate finesse, accentuating his limp, he entered the room like a fox circling a chicken coop. At the door, he stood with his hands clasped in front of his stomach, like someone mourning his father, his eyes fixed on the freshly cleaned mosaic tiles of the floor, standing at attention in respect for the head of culture.

The head of culture angrily threw his half-smoked cigarette on the floor, crushing it under his shiny, pointed leather shoe, grinding it into the ground with several forceful twists. Suddenly, he shouted at the guide, "You rotten scoundrel! Now you're extorting the village teacher and playing the innocent? Do you think the Department of Culture has no authority? That the country has no order? No laws? That this is a free-for-all? Do you think I’m a fool who doesn't see what a fox like you is up to in this region? Today, I’m issuing your dismissal and reporting you to the central office so you understand the consequences of your actions and who you're dealing with here." The guide stood there, visibly shaken, as the head of culture’s furious words echoed through the room.

The head of culture's assault was so unexpected, forceful, and devastating that the unfortunate guide was struck dumb, unable to respond. He didn't know what to say or how to react. Even if he had known, he couldn't open his mouth to say anything. By nature, he was a shy and reserved man, and even ordinary conversation was challenging for him, let alone trying to clear such a disgrace from his name. When his wife occasionally lost her temper and berated him, he could never respond and simply remained silent. At that moment, it felt as if the Angel of Death had grabbed him by the collar, and past, present, and future flashed before his eyes like a tragic play. He couldn’t believe his life and career were slipping away so easily.

He didn’t know what to say or how to save himself from this disaster and disgrace. He couldn’t even stand up to his wife, let alone the head of culture, who, without the recommendation of a senator or high-ranking official, wouldn’t have given him even the most menial tasks. He felt utterly powerless to confront his superior. "Dismissal and permanent separation from government service" was practically written on his forehead. He had seen this phrase many times in the dismissal notices of newspapers that the local greengrocer wrapped produce in, but it had never crossed his mind that he would ever see it associated with his own name.

The hell with the job—how was he going to pay for his wife's hospital and childbirth expenses? For seven years, he had taken her to various doctors, hoping to find a cure so they could have a child. Now, just when their prayers and vows had been answered and his wife was finally expecting, ready to give birth any day, it felt like the sky was collapsing on him.

The barrage of insults from the head of culture continued unabated. The torrent of curses seemed endless, his shouts so loud that they echoed through every room in the office, freezing all the employees in their places. The guide needed to say something quickly, to do something, anything, to try to calm his superior or at least lower his voice. His limbs were frozen, his head heavy and numb, and his tongue so thick that it wouldn't move in his mouth. Worst of all, he knew that everyone in the office was now listening and watching, eager to know what was happening inside the room and why the head of culture was roaring like an enraged bull, stomping the ground.

The head of culture continued to roar: "You think you can extort the village teacher and get away with it? You think there are no consequences? That this place is lawless? Today, I’ll make sure you’re dismissed, and I’ll report you to the central office. You’ll learn just how serious this is and who you’re dealing with!" He was demanding an answer:

"Why are you silent, you wretch? Answer me! How much did you take? If you don't tell the truth, I'll make you regret it. Today, I'll make sure you're..."

The educational guide, not wanting to hear the rest and have the situation escalate further with other employees getting involved, interrupted the head of culture.

"Sir, I swear to your honorable..."

"To hell with your honorable! Don't you dare swear falsely."

"But sir..."

"You miserable fool, you've brought disgrace to the Department of Culture and you still have the nerve to speak?"

"I swear by God and the Prophet, I and the deceased..."

"The deceased reported your misdeeds several times before. I thought you might reform, but you didn't. Now..."

As he spoke, the head of culture pulled an envelope from his desk drawer and held it up. The guide suddenly remembered the sealed envelopes the village teacher had given him to deliver to the head of culture. The teacher had said they were his transfer requests, explaining that he was in such poor health that he couldn’t endure the isolation and silence of the village any longer and feared he might harm himself. The guide had delivered those letters, but now... How could it be? Why? Why would the deceased write such things to the head of culture? It was true that those leaves were unauthorized and indefensible, but why would someone who benefited from those leaves write such letters and expose him?

Something was off, just like his own lame leg and his crooked fate, but his mind couldn’t grasp the situation or fill in the gaps.

"Speak up! Do you recognize these letters?" The head of culture's voice cut through his thoughts. The guide stared at the envelope, his heart sinking as he began to realize the implications. The teacher, despite benefiting from the unauthorized leaves, had indeed written to the head of culture, possibly out of desperation or a sense of guilt. But the guide couldn't understand why.

"Sir, I... I don’t know why he would..."

"You don’t know? Or you don’t want to admit it?" The head of culture's tone was ice cold, and the guide could see there was no escaping the consequences. He felt cornered, unable to piece together the puzzle that was his downfall.

Suddenly, he remembered the day when Qasem the shepherd’s son had stolen a neighbor's rooster to roast and satisfy his hunger. The neighbor had spotted the boy from a distance and hurled a stone at him, hitting him squarely on the forehead between his shifty eyes, covering his face in blood. The boy’s mother had raised such a storm that the neighbor had been forced to apologize, and with the headman’s mediation, the mother had even managed to extract some money from the neighbor to stop her from causing further trouble. The headman had told the resistant neighbor, “Throw your stew meat to the rabid dog so it doesn’t sink its teeth into your bone.”

Panicking amidst the head of culture's curses and threats, the guide blurted out, "Sir, please! I’ll explain everything! Just give me a moment."

The head of culture paused, glaring at him. "Speak then, quickly! And it better be the truth."

Swallowing hard, the guide continued, "I swear, I never meant any harm. The extra leaves... yes, they were unofficial, but the teacher begged me. He was desperate. Those letters... I didn’t know he wrote those things to you. I only delivered what he gave me. I thought... I thought I was helping him."

The head of culture's eyes narrowed. "Helping him? Or helping yourself?"

The guide shook his head vigorously. "No, sir! Please believe me. I have a family, a wife who’s about to give birth. I didn’t take any money from him. I swear on everything I hold dear. I only gave him the leaves because he seemed like he was on the verge of breaking. If I did wrong, it wasn’t out of greed or malice."

The head of culture looked at him with a mixture of contempt and consideration. The room was silent, the weight of the guide's words hanging in the air as the head of culture contemplated his next move.

"Sir, whatever you say. Your word is my command. I kiss your feet, I kiss your hands. I will be your servant. Whatever you say, I'll obey. Just don’t ruin my reputation. Don’t take my job from me. I’ll be ruined. My life will be over. I have a family; my wife is about to give birth. I’ll be doomed. I beg you, for God’s sake, for your own sake..."

He said all this so quickly that he shocked himself. But it was too late to take it back. His hands and feet trembled like willow leaves caught in an autumn storm. His palms were sweaty, and his tongue felt stuck to the back of his throat, blocking his breath. His eyes were fixed on the head of culture's blue, swollen lips and pencil-thin mustache, waiting to see how his fate would be determined by the movement of those lips.

Such is the plight of the unfortunate; their fate and destiny hang on the words and gestures of others, as fragile as a hair. Just one hair!

The head of culture stared at him for a long moment, clearly enjoying the display of desperation. Finally, he spoke, his voice cold and calculated. "Alright. Here’s what you’ll do. You will write a full confession of what you did, including the unauthorized leaves and any other misconduct. You will then hand it over to me. I’ll decide what to do with it. You will also repay the department for any undue leaves you granted. And one more thing—if I ever hear of you stepping out of line again, you won’t just lose your job. Do you understand?"

The guide nodded frantically, relief washing over him despite the grim task ahead. "Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir. Thank you."

The head of culture turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. The guide, still shaking, backed out of the room, grateful to have escaped with his job and reputation, however tenuous it might now be.

The head of culture, seemingly drained of all his energy and no longer able to shout, stared at the guide with a self-righteous expression. He observed him for several long seconds, like a snake that studies its prey in complete stillness and calm before striking. The weight of his heavy gaze bore down on the guide’s crumpled form, rendering him immobile.

The guide couldn’t bear the intensity and venom of the head’s stare. His vision blurred, and he lowered his head, fixing his eyes on the mosaic tiles beneath his feet. He searched the small and large specks in the tiles for a glimmer of hope. He could only pray that the headman’s advice had taken effect and that the head would not unleash another torrent of abuse and curses. He had never been so humiliated in his life, not even by his own wife. Yet now, the pervasive silence was driving a dagger deep into his soul. He couldn’t endure this silence either. It felt like he was a prisoner who had spent years in a dark dungeon, waiting for the executioner to ask if he had any final wishes before performing his duty and ending the ordeal. In the depths of this endless silence, he awaited his sentence.

Finally, the head of culture spoke, his voice cold and unwavering, "Do you understand the gravity of your actions now? This isn’t a free-for-all where you can do as you please. There are rules and consequences."

The guide nodded, still unable to speak, his heart pounding in his chest.

The head continued, "You’ll write that confession and repay the department. This is your last chance. Step out of line again, and you won’t just lose your job; you’ll lose everything."

With that, the head of culture turned away, signaling that the conversation was over. The guide, still trembling, managed to back out of the room, relieved to have escaped with his job, even if his future remained uncertain and precarious.

The head’s secretary, who had been eagerly eavesdropping on every word from behind the door, ready to later spread the gossip and entertain her audience, missed out on hearing the guide's punishment. The head was too savvy to let such valuable information slip into the secretary’s hands. He knew his employees well enough to guess that everyone in the office, including his potbellied secretary, had their ears pressed to his door, desperate to learn the outcome. In his opinion, his subordinates only needed to know the beginning and middle of the drama, but the final act was not within their purview.

A few minutes passed. The secretary knew something was still happening inside, but she couldn’t make out anything substantial. It was as if the rest of the head’s words had been suddenly stamped with one of those bold, red "Confidential" seals.

Finally, the educational guide emerged from the room, head bowed, limping more pronouncedly than before. He left the office straightaway, heading back to his "shithole," as the head had put it, to resume his duties. The employees, bewildered and disappointed by their inability to grasp the full events of that tumultuous morning, returned to their work to get through the day like any other. None of them knew that the head had given the guide until the end of the week to "put the meat in the envelope" and personally deliver it to him, ensuring that the matter would be resolved quietly.

Toronto, March 2021