The Abbasid Cellar

Description

She felt a sudden melancholy. “The place itself isn’t important,” she said. He asked, discovering the exquisite beauty of her features, “What do you mean?” “Nothing,” she replied, “but it’s not important that I live in a luxurious house and feel imprisoned.” His voice softening, he asked, “Does it really imprison you?” “Sometimes,” she answered. “We’re all imprisoned,” he said, his brain cells adoring her features and voice.

Imprisoned by what? Within us are a hundred… prisons. Their eyes met in a radiant, warm gaze under the red light, and they exchanged a laugh. “What if you saw the Abbasid Cellar?” he said, laughing. “I’ve seen it,” she surprised him. “Really?” he said, astonished. “And I went into your room and saw your library,” she replied playfully. “Oh,” he seemed pleased. “My wretched room.” “Its wretchedness is beautiful,” she said, feeling a ticklish delight. “Is there such a thing as beautiful wretchedness?” he asked. Yes, do you know how I described your room? It’s the philosophy of living in touch with the earth: the mattress on the floor, the tape recorder, the many books, the cassettes, the cigarette case, the candle—oh, what else? Their conversation was background music, almost like a song. It’s the raw, primal pleasure of attraction, the spark that ignited the hearts of Adam and Eve.