Like a Catcher in the Rye. [Fyedka.]

[Nadar Hassallen]

Whenever the night's were like this, Nadar huddled himself in the tiny corner of his room, right where he could squeeze between the wall and a large table that contained nothing more than several stacks of paper, several ink cartridges, and an old-fashioned type-writer. It was an antique that he had come across after sailing over-seas to America, made, a mere guess, sometime during the early nineteen-hundreds. The thing cost him most of the money that he had-- but rather than looking for food or clothing, Nada decided upon something that, in the long run, would cost more energy from him than almost any other belonging he could have gotten for the small fund that he had. Not only did he have to carry it until he found a job, but he had to keep it well oiled and watched after so that no harm came to it. In a sense, he had taken care of it as a mother might have taken care of her child.. and for what? A piece of steel that so many others would have considered out-dated and simple junk. It was, however, on nights as this, that Nadar sat in his corner and stared at the thing for hours on end. In truth, it made him think of the things that he dare not think about when others were around, and despite how often he was alone, he even tried to keep his thinking light, if not blank, to hide such things from escaping the back of his mind. However, it was the exact purpose for which he had gotten the contraption in the first place. All his life, he would remember the events that led him to where he was now, but... what would become of his existence after he passed away? Someone had to know of what had become of him... Somewhere, people had to see that there were others dying all over the world for mediocre causes. If Nadar could transfer such things to paper, then not only he would live on, but the people who had given their lives toward freedom and justice.. They would live on as well. It was the exact reason that, on nights just as this night had been, he remembered just how frightening the quiet could be. From three thousand men in a jail, beaten, torn, turned over and burned with hot irons, stabbed by wooden stakes, lashed with whips, and thrown back into cells where the only light was from whatever source stood out just on the other side, three-hundred thousand were murdered for no reason other than the will to search for something more. With a type-writer, Nadar could do so easily what his parents had been working to have the right to do. His entire childhood was made up of stories from the beginning of his country's time.. He knew all about the switch from Aryans to Iranians. He knew that his country was started by people who simply wanted to have the freedom to be their own, and even more than that, he knew that everything that his people fought for was like a civil war that could never be solved by any sort of government leader. Even the people did not know what they wanted there, and no matter how much influence came from other lands, nothing would change that. Nadar was no longer foolish enough to think that he could have changed the land that he loved, but he would sooner kill himself than let the rest of humanity go by and think that his people were no more than savages. Despite the constant wars, and despite the continuation of self-mutilated government officials who did so much to build their own boundaries that the stepped on the foundation of what a nation is: the people. It was the people of Iran who lost their lives to search for something more... and the rest of the world could not see just how brave and wonderful those people were. On nights like this, Nadar remembered just how wonderful his parents had been. He remembered how talented the actors and actresses had been. He remembered how beautiful the women were that had to cover their faces and hair in veils. He remembered how corrupt the schools had been. He remembered days when he had to take hours to beat his chest in remembrance of the martyrs who died for the sake of his freedom. That was the reason that his type-writer was so important to him. Nadar remembered the world for its lack of justice, yes, but he also remembered the people who lived their lives to bring justice to a land that desperately needed it.

But tonight.. Nadar did not feel like writing about the horrors and beauties of his past life, because now, he was living a new life of his own. America was everything that his mother and father had always said-- and more. Here, there were freedoms that no person in Iran had. When Nadar wrote about something, it was not at risk of being taken and burned, along with the rest of his belongings. When he read a book, he did not have to worry about whether or not he could read it in public without being beaten. When he wanted to purchase music, he was able to get it without going to back alleys to make deals with people who laundered compact discs for a living. Hell, he could even wear sneakers if he truly wanted, even though he never had the urge to wear any sort of covering on his feet. The fact that he was able to do all of these things without having to be fearful of his own government made him ecstatic. Some days, however, he would forget where he was, and it was in moments like that that he was glad to have a room so similar to his old one. That way, when his eyes searched for realization and understanding in his surroundings, he did not fret quite as much. With this tiny space, he only had one thing that differed from his room back in Iran. The type-writer was his symbol of freedom, and no matter how old and tarnished it was, he would always love it and always make new with it. In fact, he had almost completed a transcript of a play that he had been working on since making his new life at Ridgestone. Two-hundred and ninety-two pages long, it was practically the longest non-musical oriented play ever written, rival only to the complete transcript of Eugene O'Neill's "A Long Day's Journey Into Night", which was about three-hundred and ten pages with the full character descriptions and introductions added to the beginning of it. It was something that Nadar only knew because, upon reaching America, he had found the exact copy of that length. It was his only real way of comparing or even knowing what length a show was supposed to be. Of course, Nadar did not expect much of his tale-- it seemed to him that mainly love stories passed for good literature.. and his play was, in no sense of the word, a romantic piece. Despite all of that, it did exactly what it was meant to do; it spoke of the trials and tribulations of a country that was forgot by many, yet lumped in with the same category that many simply called the "Middle-East", a term that he rarely even used when he lived there. Now, it seemed as if he stated every question of where he lived with that simple answer. The middle-east. There were moments when he was frightened that, by simply saying that, he would be thought less of.. but truly, he was no better or worse than any of the people here. Nadar was just another man looking for his place in the world.

To Nadar's right, directly under his desk that was covered in papers, both blank and etched in ink, were several stacks of old and wrinkled books, very cheap in America as the man had discovered during his few months in the country. From those books, he had collected classics and not-so-classic reads that held some sort of value to him. With the time that he made by simply keeping to himself, Nadar had filled his head with the fortunes, misfortunes, tales, and journeys of so many protagonists that he even could not sort through which protagonist met which fate without a few mix-ups in his thought process. Although he had never been much for remembering things down to the last detail (his parents were usually told that they had picture-perfect memories, a trait that Nadar did not share), he often recalled events from certain books that truly held his interest. Those books were in the neatest stack, closest to where he was sitting at that very second. From there, he could pick from his favorites and re-read the things that he wanted to never forget, hoping that his perseverance and continued studying of the pages would get him a step closer to the kind of "picture-perfect" memory that his mother and father had had. Some of the books in his stack of favorites included Plain Speaking, Les Miserables, A Farewell to Arms, "Doubt", and about twelve others that he switched out from time to time.. Tonight, however, Nadar was planning on studying a book that intrigued him from the very moment he looked at the cover. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger was an interesting looking book with the colors red, black, yellow, and white on it (that did not include the blue ink that had been drawn on by someone who, obviously, held little respect for the book). The title was written over the cover in a faded yellow, surrounded by the red that bled into the picture of a saddled horse with a rod going through it, shaded by black, it was the sort of horse one might see while riding a Carousel, although Nadar had never been on a Carousel. In the background of the cover was the tiny outline of large city buildings, surrounded by white, and under the sketch of the city were the words "a novel by J.D. Salinger". Through-out most of the book, Nadar could never actually make a connection as to why the cover had a horse on it. Such things had always bother the man, especially when he was younger, and through his reading, he attempted to think deeper into the words, as if some sort of clue was in the writing that he, somehow, just kept missing. Of course, as he neared the end, the connection was actually quite simple to make, giving him a sort of "Oh" moment, literally, but that was not the only thing that he had found from his reading.

During the course of reading through the book, Nadar had only come across several parts that made him really think about the main character, Holden Caulfield, and, even though the book was in first person, the man tried his best to read it through the eyes of others, not feeling truth in much of anything that the narrator described. Being a teenage boy who simply could not find his place in the world, Holden jumped from one school to another, due to his bad grades and terrible ability to make friends with the people that he should have befriended. The thought of having nowhere to go back to was a familiar one to the older man, but.. it was different for him to read about from the view of someone who did have somewhere to call home. No matter how many times the protagonist spoke of home and his family, however, he seemed to act as if going back was some sort of troublesome thing for him, and it is not until he does return home that he is able to find the help that he needs... Whether in his age or experience, Nadar could not bear to believe that anyone could be so idiotic. If anything, a person should want to return home... to their family. Holden's parents did not beat him or hurt him. From reading the book, it was decently clear that, if anything, his mother and father simply wished for a good life for their son. If nothing else, that was something that Nadar could relate to. In the confinements of a place called "home", a person could release their trouble to those who cared about them more than any other in the world. Nadar wondered why, through all of the troubles that running away had caused Holden, he would not simply go back home to the people who, no matter what, would stand beside him? While picking up and running his hands over the old copy of the novel, Nadar thought that very question, one of his thick brows lifting with the rising thoughts that bubbled up inside of him. As usual, he questioned his own situation in the matter... and a mere three months prior to that day, he would have thought that, unlike Holden, he had no home to go back to... no family to accept him and take him in and love him no matter what, but now, he was not even certain of that.

After a long moment of browsing through pages that he had looked over several times before, Nadar moved onto his feet, taking a second to wiggle his toes before releasing the book back on its stack and stepping toward the door. Although he hesitated, noting that it was nearly two in the morning, the man's mind willed him to tun the door's knob and slowly press it open, not wanting to make a creak in fear that he might wake someone. With short, silent steps, he walk outside and continued down the hallway, his shoe-less feet making his walking much softer than those of any other person may have been, something that he had learned from years of training. Luckily for Nadar, he did not have to worry much on the sound that he made, for he was not going very far in the first place. He was merely down the hall from his destination, and as he grew closer, his footsteps became more and more shallow, not wanting to possibly wake the person who inhabited the room in which he wanted to be. With a quiet intake of air (He often had to remind himself to breathe.), Nadar found himself staring at a darkened door. For a moment, he debated on whether or not he should actually knock, but easily decided against it, terrified that he might wake the person inside and bother him. Once that was decided, he took a seat against the wall, right by the door, and pulled his knees against his chest, leaning lightly against them as his ears pressed against the wall to listen, though not for anything in particular. Despite being outside, Nadar felt closer to home than he had felt in his own room. Here, there was something more than a type-writer and stacks of books, and even though he loved the freedom to read and write, he was nothing with freedom if he did not have someone to share his freedom and love with. There was something here in the silent solitude of a sound-less night that Nadar had discovered what had made Iran so special to him in the first place. His hometown was special because that was where his family had always been. The military was special because that was where Kaved had always been. The thought was a sad one, but true... all of his reasons for caring and loving Iran were buried and gone. There was nothing else left for him there. Even better than that, though, was the knowledge that his everything was always going to be just down the hallway. Like a catcher in the rye, Nadar had been caught. He never wanted to be let go.