Between the lines

He asks me whether I was born in France or in Iran. “Iran”, I reply dreading what is coming afterwards. Then, he adds: “In Tehran?”. I confirm. He smiles, proud to have guessed correctly, not knowing that he had  a chance of 1 in 7 to be correct. I wonder what kind of a city he pictures when he thinks about Tehran.

He is my banker. I look at him while he is typing stuff on his computer. He is barely 25, dressed formally with a tie and a suit. Well groomed with a bizarre moustache, ugly but carefully trimmed. He has probably grown this moustache to make him look more mature. I am not a big fan of facial hair, on guys, with some exceptions. I am not a big fan of facial (or non-facial) hair on women, with no exceptions.

Once he finishes printing out about 30 pages for me to sign, and once I sign them while complaining about the number of pages, he tells me to cover myself up well “not to get cold” before leaving. It’s nice that my banker thinks about my health.  We shake hands very formally, telling to each other “how nice” it was to have known each other, without really meaning it,  and then I leave.

In the street, the smell of the roasted chickens from my butcher has filled the whole neighborhood. Automatically I think of my mom, she loves these chickens. I can understand her, the smell of the melting fat is irresistible. The view of rotating chickens appetizing, of course if you decide to ignore about how these chickens have ended up in that oven.

I forget about the chickens and run to catch the bus to work. I say hello to the bus driver, who has become a familiar face after all these years. I am extremely late. I pull out my ipod and shut myself off of  everything around me. Another work day is to begin and I can already feel my headache bothering me. I will take a pill when I get to work.

Once at destination, I speed up to get to our weekly seminar. On my way to the talk, I start to ask myself what is the point of going to these talks if in few months I am gonna leave everything? Then as I have been training myself lately, I try to shut down discouraging voices in my head and keep walking. I arrive late, even according to French standards. I open the door and find everyone carefully listening, or pretending to listen to the speaker. He is quite badly dressed, as physicists do, thinking that they are cool that way. He gives me a sharp look as to say “who are you and why are you late?!”. I don’t care. In that room, strangely I feel at home among those mostly borderline autistic scientists. No one with a tie, no one with a suit. Some plain dirty, scratching their head constantly.

At lunch in our cafeteria, I witness snapshots of a scientist’s life. A masters student who dreams of doing a thesis. The smile on her face when she tells me about her research plans is so innocent and naive that I envy her. Then there is the PhD student who worries about her future choices and her thesis. Postdocs like me, trying to be encouraging of more junior fellows, but well knowing that they are there to struggle for a while. Some will be more successful than others, as is the rule of life. Then there are more senior members of our “household”. Some who are well grounded and have found their place. Watching them is a real pleasure. And then there are those who have turned bitter and make others lives bitter. I wonder how does this happen. As I often wonder, how does an innocent child turn to be a mean person? I guess you can never prevent that from happening. People do make wrong choices that affect them and others. You just need to be quick enough to fix the damage as early as possible.

The day comes to its end as any other day. I pack my bags and leave the institute. It is late, it  is raining outside. Awkwardly I am in love with the fine drizzles. I walk for a while and replay my music. It’s too late to get a roasted chicken. I go home and file the 30 pages that my moustached banker gave me. One more folder to take care of.

 

Filed under: Life