The Postcard

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7.

Over the first two days in Kashan I made that estate agents as sort of base: partly because I felt welcomed there, partly because they insisted. I was told to arrive at 11am sharp, and so I did.

Haji the trilby-wearing ringleader sat in silence for the most part but occasionally he’d usher in passing friends and point to me saying e-Scotlanda giving me a strangely proud look as he did.

Once more I was plied with tea. As soon as I got to the dregs Haji’s son would grab my glass: çay?- the Farsi for ‘yes’ would always come to my mind before ‘no thank you’, so it was always more tea.

Over the time I sat amongst these guys, a lot of them got to know everything about me- what I was doing in Iran, how old I was, what Scotland was like, what I studied- this was good for me as it meant that every time a new face entered the room Haji simply told them my life story. The new guest would nod along and smile and after a few times even I managed to keep track of the conversation.

To say thank you I dropped by again in the evening to give Haji a postcard with a kilted man on the front. It took pride and place underneath the glass top of his desk (next to the two Polish ones that beat me to it).

And then I was given some soup.