Blanche Laundry
Moujan Ardani
The road was a dance floor to the 1977 Volkswagen van which was gradually swirling on its wheel and moving uphill where the steep downhill section of the way appeared. From that point on, it rolled down faster, as if the brakes lines were cut, seemingly, it was in a rush to find a partner to dance with, but no one showed up. The van was doomed to solitude, so was its owner. Hesam couldn't do without listening to something, even as he was falling asleep. The car radio was not working, so he had no choice but to hum a tune to distract himself. However, he soon got bored. He didn't like being the only one uttering a sound. He even spoke to himself on occasion.
Hesam pulled over to the shoulder of the road. He climbed into the back of the van and turned on the backseat TV mounted on a metal bar. He heard what he longed for, the monotone voice of a TV presenter combined with the electric humming.
The sliding door was easily jammed. He exerted his utmost force to open it. But now, the door was stuck and needed a tune-up. He inspected the vehicle by walking all around it. The body paint gave the van a camo look. Its blue surface looked smooth and straight. It had no scratches but two minor rust spots and the remains of a red hand-painted door lettering: BL AND .
It was Hesam’s handwriting; he had first made a rough sketch with a pencil and filled in the empty shapes with a red brush. The business venture upset the whole family. Hamed, the elder brother flew into an awful rage, as he used to take the van to go on joyrides with his friends. His father was the only one who had liked the idea. He must have assumed that by showcasing their business name, they could draw eyes and earn customers through word of mouth.
The old man had invested his whole life in cleaning, mending, darning and steam-pressing. He had the habit of dictating special discount offers for customers to Hesam and put them in the store window: “Pay for three - Get one free,” “Exchange old clothes with new clothes,” “We make your clothes like new again, the whites whiter, the dark darker.” None of these tricks added up to earnings. The customers were always the same. That might be the reason why the old man got captivated when Hesam came up with the idea of buying a delivery van. He found it the best way to expand their business. He immediately dictated “Free pick-up and delivery at your door!” to Hesam and put it on the wall.
The mileage number was below 20,000 when they bought it. The number would remain more or less the same in years to come. The glossy hand-painted lettering appeared on the sliding door soon after their purchase: Red letters of “Blanche Laundry” which were sharply contrasted with the blue background.
Hesam heard a chatter of the TV when he was back behind the wheel. It was a masculine whisper. In an attempt to imagine his look, he associated the humming noise with a face red with rage. But the actor was showing affection to a woman who had a husky voice and made excuses all the time. Having practiced with clean, ironed ladies-wear hung on the hangers, Hesam felt he mastered the art of expressing love and affection to women. He didn’t like the way the actor conveyed his love. To him, his tone was not tender enough. Staring at their neckline, Hesam would have stroked their hands, which might have been exposed out of their sleeves. He would ask them out for dinner before his sweaty hands revealed his trepidation. Almost all of his ladies-wear interests accepted his dinner invitations, except one. She always rejected him. In her presence, Hesam used to hold the other clothes by a peg to put them in the ceiling-mounted rack where the customer clothes queued up to be delivered.
As far as the eye could see the road was deserted, no other cars and not even a clue of life. A cell phone rang. Hesam thought the ringing was coming from the television because that part of the road was a cellphone dead zone. No one picked up the phone. It was Hesam’s phone ringing. The man on the other side of the line asked some irreverent questions. “How many kilometers are on the odometer? Can I take it for a test drive? It isn't a junk car?” Hesam thought he had dialled the wrong number and hung up the phone. It rang again. “I'm calling regarding your ad, the 1977 blue Volkswagen van,” He was right. Hamed had given him an ultimatum “sell the van or he sells it.” He had sold the shop one month ago, and now the time was right for selling the van. Hesam hung up on her and sped off. Much to his amazement, the woman with the husky voice was still babbling. He floored the gas pedal.
An old man waved his hands from the roadside. Hesam pulled over. The man opened the door and sat on the front seat. He had a long beard with a yellowish cast. His wool coat was covered with grease stains so much so it looked like a shiny leather coat.
“I will get out after rounding the next few bends, I hope I don't disturb you,” he said.
Hesam put the van in gear but hadn’t started moving yet. The old man asked what day of the week it was.
“Monday,” Hesam said after calculating weekdays in his mind.
“Stop the car, it’s not time yet!” he said and opened the door in a flash. He had got off and slammed the door behind him while the van was beginning to move.
What was the significant difference between the weekdays that made him change his mind? He wondered. To his mind, the pick-up and delivery dates distinguished the days; apart from that, all days were the same. All the while, the TV show had finished and Hesam was still wondering whether or not the woman had given a straight answer. After being rejected by his beloved ladies-wear, Hesam had the habit of resentfully putting them in a cover. He then categorized them as outsiders.
A game show came onto the air. The audience’s clapping sound, combined with the humming and howling noises sounded like the chanting of slogans. Four groups of two contestants were to pass a glass-like box through barriers to achieve the target while giving correct answers to some questions. The winner was the group that completed the task first. Hesam became a fan of the second group, answering the questions for them and punching the steering wheel when they answered incorrectly. He couldn't keep pace with them during the obstacle course segment. By the time he had imagined the situation, the next round had begun.
As he curved around a bend in the road, the TV signal was lost. The van was in drive but barely moving. Clouds high in the sky fell towards the earth and fogged up the windshield. He couldn't see a thing. He turned on the headlights to find the route. The Blanche Laundry van passed through the clouds. Driving in thick fog, he felt the heat of steam irons and the smell of the starch spray on the silk. He rolled down the window, the cold sweat sat on his skin. The Laundry had closed down.
Hesam heard a burst of laughter. The TV reception might have improved. Though the sound was smooth, with no humming noise, and the source was getting closer. “Would you stop to pick us up?” two people shouted. Though he had no idea where they were standing, Hesam hit the brakes and turned on the high beams so they could find him. There was a young man and a young woman. Walking up to the driver's window, the man asked where he was going and if they could ride with him.
“To be frank I don't know where I'm going from here but I will go up the road,'' Hesam said, sneaking a look at the woman.
“Cool, come on Setareh,” the guy said without a moment's pause and opened the van door for her and climbed into the front seat. He had long curly hair and a dense beard. The woman seemed to have paid particular attention to her appearance and coordinated the color of her clothes masterfully. Before putting the vehicle in gear, Hesam reached into his pocket, withdrew a piece of paper and held it close to the face of the man.
“I am going there. Am I on the correct route?” Hesam asked.
“I think so. It’s better to keep driving in the same direction, we will get somewhere,” the stranger replied while casting a cursory glance over the address.
“Right on, man! You saved us today” said while sliding the partition aside to the end.
“You know sir, my wife is pregnant and can't walk up the hill,” continued the young man, who gathered himself together.
They burst into laughter suddenly. Hesam was nonchalant on the outside, but the young man felt the need to add, “We are laughing at ourselves, you know, our friends had promised to pick us up but they didn't live up to it. They forgot about their promise to pick up a pregnant woman. Can you believe it?”
They started to laugh again. Pregnant? There was nothing showing.
They had just passed the second bend when Setareh wondered “I can hear a humming noise, don’t you?”
“It’s the TV noise, turn it off,” Hesam said.
“Oh my god, look here,'' she exclaimed. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed what was around till then.
The young man turned back and extended his head out over the partition to see the inside. The cabin was full of clothes. There were two hanging racks bearing at least thirty pieces. Two sets of curtains and a few pairs of shoes were arranged on the cabin mat.
“Are you a theatrical producer?” he said.
“No,” Hesam said laughingly after a long pause.
She flipped through the clothes meticulously and skimmed their color and model one by one. It seemed as if her deep-rooted dream could be realized in that cozy cabin. She removed the hangers from the clothes and held them against her body. He picked up the camera. She posed. Hesam could see a rolling shadow moving from side to side in the rearview mirror.
“Please ask her not to remove the covers,” Hesam said.
“Ugh, hold it! They are just a pile of old used clothes,” she said and grabbed the camera to take a picture of each item.
“Don’t worry. We don’t circulate photos. We take pictures only for our own pleasure. We were taking photos while we were on the road,” the young man said.
The woman gave back the camera and begged Hesam to let her guess his job. He nodded.
“You are a circus owner for sure,” she said and snapped her fingers.
“You are a slackliner most assuredly,” the young man inserted.
“Oh, no! that’s not true! Look at his bald head. Bald on one half, few hairs on the other half, he can’t keep his balance,” she guffawed, “I hope you can forgive me.”
Hesam didn’t answer and they lapsed into silence for a few minutes.
“You are probably a lion tamer, huh? It suits you well” the young man brought his mouth close to Hesam’s ear and groaned. Hesam pushed him back.
“I am an immature lion though,” the man said.
She stretched out her hand to stroke his fur. “Look, for god’s sake, the circus is the only place where those ballet slippers might be matched with the rest,” she said.
A pair of ballet shoes were hung on the handle above the window, the ribbons which wrap spirally around the ankle were carefully wound around the handle.
“Those are called pointe shoes and I’m not a circus owner,” Hesam broke the silence.
“Then you are a dancer who has stolen all this stuff and ran away,” she said and roared with laughter.
Hesam wasn’t a dancer, performing steps while on the tips of his toes with his clumsy feet and huge body, supporting the ballerina by lifting her, holding and steadying her during turns, offering a steady arm or hand for her when she performs balancing feats.
The seated audience stands up while applauding after their extraordinary performance. They leave the stage with elegant steps, walking side by side. No, it was not in the least likely.
He learned “Pointe” from Angine. She was a ballerina and one of their regular customers. They had first written: “Ballet shoes, one pair” on the invoice. When she came up to collect her Laundry, she called for Hesam to come and asked for a pen. She crossed out ‘ballet’ and wrote ‘Point’ instead. Angine was used to having her shoes cleaned once a month. She had her evening gowns, formal suits, leotards and sofa covers cleaned at Blanche Laundry too.
Hesam contorted his face and strained his mind trying to remember the details. The vehicle seemed to have been moving at a very slow pace, as if the strain was transferred to the motor. The road had become so steep that it felt as though the van would roll back as soon as he eased off the gas pedal a bit.
Hesam used to clean her shoes all by himself. He poured sufficiently diluted perc at a low-temperature setting to avoid any damage, steamed the ribbons and sprayed starch on them and waited for her to come until evening. He even washed his hands to put them inside the shoes to imitate the ballet steps clumsily when no one was around.
The road became horizontal. The car moved smoothly. It wasn't foggy anymore. A few feathery snowflakes were scattered widely through the air, falling on the windshield every now and then before fading away.
“Please, don't get offended by her words. Her hormone levels are affected. She doesn't know what she's saying,” the man said while looking at the camera photos.
“My hormones are not imbalanced. I’m curious to know about his job. Am I being rude?” she said, slapped him firmly on the shoulder and turned her face toward Hesam.
“You might be a traveling cloth-salesman. Though nobody would pay for your junk,” she said.
“I own a Laundry shop, or better to say I owned a Laundry shop. These are left from customers who never came up to get their Laundry.” Hesam said.
“Your shop was up on the hill?” the woman said.
“No, I'm going to the address I showed to your husband to deliver a piece of cloth.” Hesam answered.
It was the only postal address he had found. It was typical of the customers who moved to the suburbs, to forget their Laundry. Hesam got their new phone number from their old neighbor. Mr. Naraghi’s wife said he was afflicted. Hesam thought the flannel suit might bring him back to life.
“It is pathetic. It makes no sense to drive the long road to deliver a piece of clothing that the owner didn’t ask for. You’d better return home after taking us up there,” the man said.
“If I had been in your place, I would have turned them into cash or continued working in the circus.” she said and stuck her head out the partition window.
“It sounds like a good idea. You can sell your secondhand clothes anywhere, even here on the roadside,” said the young man.
Hesam was getting fed up. He preferred the humming noise over squabbling with them. At least he didn't have to give explanations or listen to the insane suggestions.
“I will not sell them,” he said. “I might find the owners someday.” the woman roared with laughter. It seemed her mate got embarrassed momentarily. He tried to calm her down but failed.
“Isn’t it ridiculous? After delivering the long forgotten items, they will honor you for long years of exceptional loyalty and stupidity,” the woman said.
“We get off around the next bend, many thanks” the man said while staring out the side window.
Hesam stopped at the next bend. The woman’s belly looked bigger than before. He didn't shake hands with them and pressed the gas pedal to the floor after dropping them off. He arrived at the destination after five or six km, pulled over and parked the car. He removed the suit from the hanger in a ritual-like manner and kept it flat over his forearm and rang the doorbell. A feminine voice asked him to wait. A fair-skinned woman, aged around forty, half-opened the door. Having gazed into her face for a few seconds, Hesam stepped forward nervously and presented the suit.
“I am here to deliver a flannel suit from Blanche Dames Laundry,” he said.
Hesam was the only one who knew the Laundry by that name, but he hadn't said the secret name out loud for such a long time. “Pardon, Blanche Laundry, I guess I talked with your mother on the phone.”
The woman came out the door, What are you talking about? Where the hell is Blanche Laundry?” she said.
“I called the day before yesterday. This flannel suit must belong to your father. It was left at the Laundry for years and we have sold the Laundry shop,” Hesam said, as he kept his hands to himself.
She got irritated and stepped out. Hesam followed her desperately. “I don't get this mockery. The dead ones don't need flannel suits,” she said.
“Your mother told me to bring it.” he said and put the suit on his shoulder.
“Did you come all the way just because of what an old woman said? Anyways, it’s pretty unlikely that my father be the owner,” she said.
Hesam showed her the tag sewn into the inside of the suit. She pulled the label off the suit in a way that the seam of the garment got ripped. Then she came back inside. Hesam stood still and followed her with his eyes. She was fair-skinned and tall. The jade gown was flattering.
“Just a moment please, would you like a jade satin gown? It is inside the van, perfectly cleaned and ironed,” he uttered.
“You do seem to have a lot of time on your hands,” she said, nodding her head.
He removed the cover and wore the suit as soon as she closed the door. The sleeves were too short, but it could keep him warm enough. He thought of giving the suit to the old man on the road for whom the days of the week mattered but he changed his mind right away. The road back home was mostly downhill. He could easily drive all the way without touching the brakes at all.
The snowfall intensified and the windshield wipers couldn't brush aside the accumulation of snow. He began to clear the snow off the windshield with the back of his hand, but he couldn’t keep pace with the snowfall. He pulled over, looked at the cabin from the rear view mirror. He was trying to turn on the television. His eyes fell on the handle above the window. Angine’s shoes were not there. Maybe the wrapping ribbons had come undone and the shoes had fallen on the floor mat. He searched the whole cabin but didn't find them.
He indulged himself in the fantasy of Angine’s face as a very young ballerina. Though her face still looked young to him it had few fine lines around the upper lip or on the neck which wouldn’t appear if she wasn’t so slim. He got embarrassed for proposing the jade gown to Dame Blanche when he recalled the flashback of her dancing with him in that very gown. But he had just thought that the gown suited Dame Blanche because she was a bit taller. Besides, it was to Angine’s benefit. She didn’t have to lift up the gown off the floor with one hand not to stumble while dancing.
Hesam turned on the television. The static noise was heard but there was no TV signal. He changed the channel but nothing changed. He could turn on his cellphone to ask for help. He could sell the Volkswagen to get rid of it. Instead, He sat on the chair beside the hanger and listened to the humming noise.
The 1977 Volkswagen was parked on the roadside. It was buried under the snow. You could hear a slight rustling sound, like when you rub satin and flannel together.
*
Moujan Ardani is an Iranian native writer. She has attended many creative writing workshops due to her desire and love of writing. She worked as a freelance journalist in Iran and her short stories were published in some Iranian magazines.
This story which won the “Bahram Sadeghi” award which is a prestigious literary award in Iran, has been translated from Farsi to English.