This is the first of a couple compilations of older threads with @mazenderan from the original sideblog. I have gathered it together here into one post because I find that it is essential both to understanding the relationship between Nadir and Mirela and to understanding the entirety of Mira’s character.
buscarparamivida:
It is not often, since fairly well settling in Paris, that she diverts from her usual haunts––the home she shares with her two brothers, the cobbler shop that she helps them to operate, the routes she must travel for the maintenance of their house.
Yet today she has done just so and, for once in the longest time, she simply allows her truant feet to direct her as they will.
Before she even realizes it she finds herself walking along the Seine, very near the Jardin des Tuileries…
It seems as though it is within the Jardin that most must be, for the pathway is mostly empty aside from a few that seem to have decided upon wandering, as she has.
One in particular catches her eyes, an odd fellow that does not quite seem to fit with the fussy and fashionable Parisians out for their walks.
Curiosity perhaps, at the moment, beginning to trump her wariness––though ever she is aware of the unsettling but necessary weight of the blade hidden beneath the scarf tied ‘round her waist––she casually directs her step closer, wanting to observe more about the strange man. Her gaze she keeps carefully fixed upon the river until at last she halts, not far from where he stands, discreetly scrutinizing him from the corner of her eye while seeming still to watch the river.
Yet this careful observance does not quite satisfy her curiosity as it answers very few of the questions that she now ponders of who this stranger might be and from where he might have originated…
She debates with herself only a few moments more before at last she looks to him, as though having only just seen him, and addresses him in her slightly faltering French, affected by and intermingled with her native tongue.
“Es a day very beautiful, non, monsieur?”
mazenderan:
Nadir felt watched. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but he did. It wasn’t an unfamiliar or even particularly frightening sensation anymore. Nadir was a people watcher by nature and he seldom had malicious intents with his gaze; those who watched him were often just curious. There goes that foreigner again, people would whisper. I do wonder what he’s up to!
All Nadir was up to today was sketching. He’d brought along one of his little, black notebooks and he sketched in it intricate designs, geometric patterns that soothed his weary soul. It had not been an easy month. Erik’s antics at the Opera were, naturally, a cause for concern. The anniversary of his son’s death had come and gone without closure once more. Darius still came home from the market irate and murmuring in Persian about how unfair everything was. Nadir still caused the ballet rats to titter with gossip about the Persian’s evil eye and he was weary of young women crossing themselves every time he passed by.
It was a life. A half-life in many ways, but Nadir found moments of solace. In reading, in his faith, in the notes he compulsively took about the people around him. And in beautiful, public gardens such as this where he could almost pretend he was home.
Almost. The flowers smelled different.
But what did he care if the flowers were different or if people watched him and stared? He was as at peace as he could be, given the circumstances. And his sketching, repetitive and mindless, only reinforced that false sense of tranquility.
And then he heard a voice, as heavily accented as his own, but extremely different. He twisted on the bench to look, tearing his eyes away from his drawing, to see a young woman. She was beautiful. Young. Nadir wondered if she was a tourist - she carried herself somewhat differently than the Parisians he knew, with their haughty airs - or else an immigrant, like he was. Habit made Nadir rise to his feet, as if she were some grand lady of the court. For all he knew, she could be.
“It is,” he said. Perhaps his French was not as heavily accented as hers; years upon years of practice, even in jail cell where the guards thought him quite mad to speak in “tongues”. He’d never lost his French once he learned it all those years ago in a garden, such as this, taught painstakingly by the only man who made him laugh after his wife had died… “But every day in this city is beautiful. Every day is, wherever you are, I suppose, if you have the right perspective. But surely you did not approach an old man for philosophizing.”
buscarparamivida:
The words he speaks sound amazingly similar to the sentiments of her own people. Even still from his accent––though she cannot quite place it––he does not sound like one of her people, widespread as they may be.
Yet, as he reaches his conclusion she can’t help the small laugh that escapes her, distracting her from the curious overlap of ‘philosophies.’
“Pues… I could tell you ‘oui,’ monsieur, pero never had I much skill with lies.”
After all, the Roma do not lie in their own language, and so she has never seen reason to take up the practice.
“Entonces, I must say that I have been…” she briefly searches for the word she needs. “… caught…?”
Her brow furrows, clearly not entirely certain of the word in this use. For some time she has lived in France, yet seldom has she required much more of their language than what was necessary to take orders at the shop or to purchase what was needed at the house.
And then seeming to shrug the matter of the language off entirely, her dark eyes focus once more upon him. Again a brief internal argument ensues before at last she smiles again, though this time almost shyly.
“If I am to be honest, ah, from my walk,” she vaguely gestures to the path she had travelled, “I saw you an’ I was curious. Mis hermanos––ah, my brothers––say that it is a… fault of mine. ”
There she pauses, hoping that she has not been so extremely rude, that perhaps he will understand she does not mean this in insult.
With each other the Roma are always very open, and she often seems to have difficulty discerning what non-Roma find rude or prying, including how forthright one should or should not be.
mazenderan:
Nadir smiled. He’d encouraged curiosity in his son and made a living from it. Even now, curiosity was the only thing keeping him alive. If he wasn’t a naturally curious man, bent on exploring, on learning, on observing, he would have died from boredom already.
“I see no fault,” he said. “Curiosity is as much a virtue as it is a vice. It’s what your intent is – and what you do with it all – that makes all the difference.”
He didn’t know yet what he was doing with his own curiosity, besides recording observations. He recorded the activities in the opera, in the jardin… He sketched people although he knew it was haram. He looked at this young woman and thought for a moment how pleasing she would be to sketch, with her wild hair, generous mouth, shapely cheekbones…
“What is your name, mademoiselle?” Nadir said. He had never had anyone take curiosity in him before, except to ward off the evil eye or to gawk rudely. Even in Persia, he had not been remarkable enough to get anyone’s attention after his wife died. Erik had called him “boring” enough times for Nadir to believe it true. But just because no one cared what his name was, didn’t mean Nadir didn’t relish learning the names of others, their stories… “They call me The Persian.”
It wasn’t his name – his name, is unrecognizable, alien name. He hardly knew to answer to “Nadir” any more. Darius called him “Master”. The Opera Garnier’s denizens called him only “The Persian”. Even Erik – the only one who did call him by name – usually called him “Daroga”. He was almost anything but Nadir Khan these days, even though he still secretly thought of himself as such. How vain, to believe he had an identity other than that ascribed to him by others!
buscarparamivida:
At his words, she seems to brighten, her smile turning warmer and more sincere.
“Oui. I ‘ave told them the same, pero they say tha’ of course I would think tha’.”
And then he asks for her name, something to which she is almost equally unaccustomed to being asked.
Those who venture into the shop care little for the woman’s name, and those at the markets only wish for payment, not pleasantries. And if she even dares venture into the cathedral, she is fortunate to escape without sneers, let alone someone deigning to ask her name.
“…I am called Mirela,” she offers at last, then rethinks the answer, waving her hand. “Pues, by my brothers an’ my uncle I am called Mira. Es más senci––Ahhm, more… simple.”
Yet how he has introduced himself does little to curb her curiosity, her thoughts escaping before she can even quite catch them.
“Tha’ es a name very… estrange. Es more like a… a title, ¿sí? Of course, now I must wonder at who ‘they’ are who call you this?”
Honestly, she is not surprised by someone being identified by the land or by the peoples from whence they originate. After all, many times has she been referred to by others in much the same manner. She has been called gypsy or gitana, by those who are ignorant, or hateful, or both. Roma, by those who are at least a little more kind.
What does surprise her, however, is that he uses the words of whoever they are… to introduce himself.
mazenderan:
Mirela. Mira! What a beautiful name! It brought to mind mirrors and the ocean – smooth, glasslike surfaces, shining in the sun. Nadir considered telling her how charming a name he thought it to be, but remembered himself. He was a stranger and a man. He didn’t dare frighten the young woman who had only ben curious about him by making comments that could be taken easily as unwelcome advances. So instead of speaking, Nadir listened. But, to his surprise, Mirela had a question for him.
Who was it that called him “The Persian”?
Certainly not friends or family. He had none, excluding Erik. No, no one dear to him called him “The Persian”. Only the strangers with whom he spent every day: the denizens of the Opera Garnier. Nadir had no friends among them and he doubted that he had any admirers. Merely people who regarded him with a vague sense of alarmed curiosity. But they were his people. He thought of himself as their protector from the true wrath of the Opera Ghost. Nadir was the only thing, or so he thought, that kept Erik from wringing the necks of the management and orchestrating “accidents” that maimed, tortured, and killed performers and crew he did not approve of. As much as he cared for Erik, Nadir knew he was a force to be reckoned with and that, as keeper of his conscience, Nadir was the only one fit to reckon with him.
But that still didn’t explain who had dubbed him “The Persian”. It didn’t explain why, instead of a name, Nadir gave the moniker others bestowed upon him. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Everyone calls me that,” he said. “Well, most people call me that. It has to be almost a year since I last heard my given name.”
Erik seemed stubborn in his resolve to call Nadir “Daroga” and hold him at arms’ length. Nadir missed the sound of his name. He’d never confess to it, but at night, after his prayers were said and he laid in his bed, he whispered it to himself so that he might not forget who he was – or who he had been. Every time Erik called him “Daroga”, Nadir recalled a man built like a barrel – all muscle, no neck beneath his thick beard – with a whip in his hand, cracking it against Nadir’s bared back. “Are you comfortable, Daroga?” the man would spit. Pride had clamped Nadir’s mouth shut. His last years in Persia had made mockery of a title he’d once taken pride in.
And there was, of course, Darius, who hadn’t called him anything but “Master” since they were boys of fourteen. They’d once been playmates, companions. But class and fate cemented their roles at birth and now that they were settling into middle age, there was no prying up the stones and rebuilding their boyhood friendship. Nadir was forever “Master”, even though time and choice had weathered away his right to being anyone’s master.
He couldn’t recall how word had gotten out that he was Persian – or if it was an assumption made from his dark skin, his manner of dress, his unshakable accent. It didn’t matter anymore anyways. He was Monsieur le Persian. The Daroga existed only for Erik; Master only for Darius. He was not Father or Papa or Joon or Jeegar-am. He was only Nadir for a few, quiet moments when removed from the rest of the world, taken away from reality.
“It’s true enough, I suppose,” he said. “I am Persian, after all.”
And inside, I am so much more. Or I was. Now, I’m not so sure.
buscarparamivida:
She carefully watches him as he answers, taking in the hesitations and the body language.
There’s a tenseness––centered mostly at his shoulders, his neck, his jaw––and she wonders what exactly of his thoughts has caused this reaction. Is the topic of his name so bad for him? Of course, this she does know better than to ask. She understands all too well what darkened depths into which the mind can fall if given reason.
And then the tenseness ebbs, his shoulders seeming to fall if only a little.
Is it sadness? Melancholy? Resignation? She cannot quite tell, not knowing the man well enough to read him as precisely as she would like. Whatever it is, however, something about his answer seems to have brought about this demeanor.
Rather than possibly jumping to conclusions, she glances around before drawing closer to him.
“… I will tell you a secret, ¿eh? Roma––my people––they will ‘ave several names, even from their birth. The name tha’ they share with those who are no’ Roma, the name tha’ they share with all Roma, an’ the name tha’ only their family knows. You see, en my culture, we believe tha’ names are… are…”
She pauses, looking down as a frown appears, her entire point wavering on this elusive word.
“¡ay! ¡Maldito!” she hisses in her frustration, before continuing to herself. “¿Cómo se dice––” And then she finds it, expression turning triumphant, her smile reappearing like the sun suddenly emerging from clouds. “Ah! Keys! Tha’ es wha’ I mean. Keys.”
Looking to him in seriousness once more, she continues, now with the word she requires to make her point.
“Names are like keys to who we are, an’ so we only give our names to those we trust an’ love. Es like this for you or… ?”
She trails off, waiting––and watching––for his answer…
mazenderan:
Nadir listened to Mira and found her sentiment beautiful. Names as keys to the soul! In Nadir’s case, perhaps his names were keys to different levels of his soul – or to different souls altogether, contained within him over the years. A ghostly smile danced upon his lips and he nodded.
“That’s lovely,” he said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. But I suppose it makes sense. We do not reveal all of ourselves to everyone, after all.”
Or even to one person. Rookheeya had never known the man called ‘Monsieur le Persian’. Reza had never known 'The Daroga of Mazenderan’. He had been different things – different men – to different people over the years, but at his core, he was Nadir Khan. And who alive today knew him as that? Only Erik and it was a Pandora’s box the masked man didn’t dare open. Nadir Khan was nowhere near as impressive as the Daroga or as mysterious as the Persian, but flawed, quiet, broken. Nothing special. No one wanted to unlock that box, lest they destroy their own perceptions of him. He wondered, then, what a stranger like Mira might think of Nadir Khan if she met him. Would she, like Erik, see only broken trust and misery? Would she think he was still worth her while? Did it matter what she thought? Did it matter what anyone thought? It would just be good to hear his name on someone’s lips for a change.
“My name is Nadir,” he said. “Almost no one here knows that. Almost no one here cares.”
But you seem different. Even if it’s just a little. And that’s a good thing.
buscarparamivida:
In telling the traditions of her people and asking her question of him, she had hardly expected anything more in return. But he had not only seemed to enjoy the concept with which she presented him, he had then revealed his name to her.
She is surprised, but pleasantly so.
“Nadir?” she repeats, the name not as affected by her accent as many are. In fact, it almost sounds natural. "Pues, creo que it es a name very beautiful. An’, if you woul’ like, I will call you by it.“ Whether anyone else cares to or not.
Perhaps they had met only by chance––or curiosity rather––but she has always believed that even 'chance’ plays to a greater purpose, and absently she finds herself hoping that it will not be the only time she has the opportunity to speak the man’s name to him, if only for his sake.
Yet, even with that thought, she hesitates for a moment, pondering.
He had trusted her with his name…
She regards him with a soft smile, reaching her decision.
"Here… I will tell you one secret more, but you mus'n’ tell it to anyone else."
Gathering her skirts to the side with one hand, she steps to him––careful that her skirts do not touch him, as is dictated by the Romani Code––and whispers her own name to him before stepping back once more.
"Now we are… equal, ¿sí?"
mazenderan:
Aishe. Nadir could place the name easily. It was Arabic in origin, just as his own name was. Ayesha. It was the name of the Prophet’s favorite wife - a spirited young woman, fiery and unconventional. It meant 'survivor’ or 'she who lives’.
It was also the name of Erik’s prized Siamese cat.
If Mira - Aishe - did not treat names with such reverence, if she was not so serious about this, if it was not a sacred key to her, Nadir might have laughed at Allah’s always-strange sense of humor. Instead, his green eyes brightened with joy. Truly, he was touched that this woman, who might understand him at least a little, trusted him after so short a time. A smile graced his lips.
“It is a beautiful name,” he said. "In my culture… It is a sacred name… The name of the Prophet Muhammad - peace be upon him - the Prophet Muhammad’s favorite wife. We call her 'Mother of Believers’ and she was an amazing woman - gentle and loving, but also a real fighter. Spirited. Thank you for sharing your sacred name with me. I shall not tell another living soul your secret.“
buscarparamivida:
She watches with some interest as his expression shifts––particularly at how his odd green eyes seem almost to dance––from the slightest traces of the smile that had lingered just before to the full smile that he presents now. Honestly, she can do little but smile in return, pleased to have seemingly facilitated this turn of events.
As he begins to relay what he knows of her name origin, she listens, as usual, with curiosity and genuine intrigue. She recognizes some of what he says, places what his religion must be, and though not herself a Muslim––no, she had taken on the Catholic upbringing of her beloved aunt and uncle––still she is fascinated by it…
“Gracias…” she replies at his reassurance about the safety of her own name within his possession, and, though she has never told any outside of her family prior to now,she finds that the notion of him having it doesn’t make her nearly so uncertain as it perhaps should. After all, she had told her name to a stranger… ––
Of course, her thoughts are briefly interrupted by realizing she had drifted back to Spanish again, wherein she quickly translates.
“I mean tha’… I thank you, Nadir,” she says, smile remaining, though it has shifted to a softer nature than the previous bright beam.
––And yet… something about him doesn’t exactly seem…… strange? Maybe it is the topics they have discussed, maybe it is some of what she has seen from him, what she thinks that she has understood… but there is an inexplicable sort of… connection that she feels on some level… Something that had made the normally cautious woman feel fairly comfortable approaching him, speaking to him, assuring him, telling him her name… But what?
mazenderan:
Nadir studied Mira – Aishe – curiously. Surely she was thanking him for the compliment, but it somehow felt deeper. They were trusting one another; something people simply didn’t dowith strangers. Perhaps he was projecting, but that was what he was thankful for: this woman’s trust and willingness to share her story with him. Nadir cocked his head to the side and nodded.
“How long have you been in Paris?” he asked. “I’ve been here a few years myself – I lose track of just how long. Sometimes I think too long and other times… not long enough. It is a beautiful, but strange city.”
He wondered how strange it was to his new friend. Every now and then, she lapsed into another language besides French. It sounded vaguely Italian, but Nadir had seen enough operas to know that that was not quite right. Perhaps it was Spanish. Perhaps she was Spanish. It could account for the Arabic name. He thought of the Arab conquers who overtook the Iberian Peninsula centuries ago. It would account for the secrecy, too. If she was Arab and living in Europe… But she was fair enough to pass for European. Nadir’s mind whirred with too many thoughts at once as he tried to deduce more about Mira. Assumption was never as good as learning fact, but it often led to discovery. To Nadir, Mira – like all people he met – was a discovery to be made, a treasure to uncover. Some people hoarded jewels; Nadir hoarded names and life stories. If Mira could see the shelves of little black notebooks filled with information on the people he met…! She might think him a snoop, but somehow, Nadir got the feeling she would understand such insatiable curiosity about others. Especially about those who would just as soon bar you from conversation altogether as disregard you. Nadir sought understanding of the strange Parisians he encountered every day, even if they did not seek to understand him.
But Mira… She was different. Nadir could tell. He could feel it. She was like him.
buscarparamivida:
Some might be unsettled by such a focus being placed upon them, but in a way, she finds comfort in it.
Nadir’s curious and scrutinizing gaze is not the leering look of one of the guard, or the suspicious stares of the merchants, or the condemning glares of those within the cathedral walls whenever she would dare to go there.
It is simply that of someone seeing her––actually seeing her––something which she is not often afforded here, or anywhere except among her own people.
And so, as he asks his question, and how nice it is not to be the only one to ask questions, she considers his words and her answer.
“Sí. Es a city very… ‘unique’? For me, I ‘ave travelled for much of my life, pero in Paris I ‘ave lived for some time…”
She attempts to recall exactly how many years––how long has it been since last her restless feet had truly wandered?––but gives up, shrugging.
“Pues, for long enough tha’ I should espeak the language much better than I do. Both of mis––ah, my brothers––espeak French very well, pero…” she shrugs, a light laugh escaping her.
“I do no’ know. I think tha’ I mus’ no’ ‘ave an ear for it?”
mazenderan:
“It’s a difficult language,” Nadir assured her. “You speak beautifully. If you’re after some really mangled French, you should read my French writing… So many unnecessary letters this language has! And writing left-to-right…!”
He laughed good naturedly at his own inability to master the written word. Erik was forever critical of it, which was why, whenever he could, Nadir wrote in his native Persian. His notebooks on all the members of the opera house were filled with Western styled drawings and Persian script. They’d be utterly incomprehensible to most. In fact, the only person he was sure would be able to understand his work was the last person he’d ever show the notebooks to. Nadir shook his head.
“But, you really do speak beautifully,” he said. “You have such a lovely accent. Is it too invasive to ask where you are from?”
buscarparamivida:
At his compliment, she smiles though it falters slightly at his nonchalant invitation to read his writing.
She hardly thinks that he means it, but there’s also the thought that he might… And if he does, what would she do were the opportunity given? Stare at the pages and… what? Clearly he had been well-educated. She can hear it in the way that he speaks. What would he think of her if he were to know?
She’s grateful that he continues on, returning to his original statement and then asking something else of her.
“You do no’ ask too much,” she assures with a renewed smile. “I ‘ave travelled for many years since last I was in my native land, pero I am of eSpain.”
That had been before she and her family had been forced to flee, just as their people had so many times over the centuries. They had travelled throughout Europe, each time having to move on again because they were as unwelcome in one city as they were in any other before it.
Yet, before she can be lost to her own dark remembrances, she returns her attention to Nadir once more, curiosity evident in her eyes.
“An’ you? If you do no’ mind tha’ I ask? Es tha’, your… accent es very beautiful yet, for all my travels, never ‘ave I ‘eard anything qui’e like it…”
mazenderan:
Nadir smiled. He had thought it so obvious when he told her he was called “The Persian”, but he supposed it was not so obvious. It was the sort of name one could acquire for any number of reasons, chief among them geographical ignorance. Everything West of Greece was the Orient… It was a wonder the Parisians had nailed his country of origin down.
“I am Persian,” Nadir said. “But if you would like specifics, my home was near the Caspian Sea in a place called Mazenderan. It was a very beautiful place… Forests of cypress trees, snow capped mountains… and the sea! Such clear water; the likes of which I have not seen since.”
There was a soft ache in Nadir’s voice; a longing for a home that was no more. He could never return to Persia, not even his beloved Mazenderan to visit the graves of his wife and child. Such was the price of treason. But Mirela needn’t know that. Would she believe him, anyways? Would anyone believe him if he said he was a banished prince, whose crime had been aiding a masked murder in escape from execution? He wasn’t sure he would believe it if he hadn’t lived it.
“But I have seen Spain. In my travel to Paris, I was sure to visit the old mosques from a bygone era. I never did master the language though. I wanted to, but…”
He hadn’t found a willing tutor. He had been forced to rely on his French to survive. It seemed Spain was distrustful of foreigners - as distrustful as any nation, but doubly suspicious of a Muslim man who asked too many questions. His detour had been pleasant, but Nadir and Darius resumed course for Paris quicker than Nadir would have liked… Maybe someday, he would venture back… Maybe…
His life was full of unfulfilled maybes.
buscarparamivida:
Ah, so ‘Persian’ did in fact refer to a place, though even with the other names that he contributed, she cannot quite picture where exactly it is.
But then, she hardly even gives that small matter a second thought once he begins describing this foreign land. She quietly listens to his words, to the way his voice seems to reflect that same almost pained note that her own musing on Spain had often taken. She knows that feeling well for, though a wanderer by nature, always there has remained the desire to see Spain once more, even if only for a short time, the land in which she was born. The land that had expelled her and all of those like her simply for being who they are, the land that had threatened them with beating, imprisonment, torture, death.
How one could wish to return to such a home has baffled her for some time…
But maybe it was the call of the land itself. The ground that her feet had wandered as a child. The forests that had hidden herself and her people for so many years. The mountains behind which the sun sank each day…
Of course, her straying thoughts are snapped back when her newfound friend says that he has been to her native land.
“You ‘ave been to eSpain?” Even for it’s tone, it is spoken less a question and simply out of some need to say the words herself, to process them.
The words are almost breathed, something not entirely distinguishable, caught betwixt disbelief and excitement and wonder. Seldom has she spoken to someone who has been there, as much for how few Parisians venture to the land as for how few would speak to her even if they had been there.
Before she can allow herself to be swept up in that––or worse, to begin questioning him as to when he had been, what it was like then, et cetera––she composes herself once more and focuses on the other point he had mentioned.
“ ‘But’? Wha’ es this ‘but’, hm?”
If he had wanted to learn the language, she cannot imagine a reason that he couldn’t have done so. After all, he seems to have learned French exceedingly well from… whatever language it is that Persians speak… Surely Spanish could not have been so difficult, yes?
