For Mansour Khaksar, the venerable guerrilla
As they emptied the first bottle, the gray-haired man said, “The vodka is all gone.”
“We still have a bottle of whiskey.”
“Great. Let’s open it.”
The younger man walked to the cabinet, took out a bottle of whiskey, filled their glasses, then went back to his chair and sat down.
“Have you heard from Daryoush?”
“Yes. He is in Paris. He came to Berlin to see me.”
“What does he do in Paris?”
“He goes to a language school in the morning and drives a taxi in the evening.”
