Indirect Talks
Iran. 850 words, 4 minute read. With Gemini and ChatGPT.
The crystal chandeliers overhead seemed to hum with a strained silence, their light catching the nervous tic in a security man’s jaw near the wall. He stood statue-still, eyes forward, studiously ignoring the nine-year-old at the nearby table who was meticulously constructing a fortress from pilfered breadsticks and pats of rapidly softening butter. Below the chandeliers, the clink of silverware on china sounded unnaturally loud, punctuated by the low, serious murmur of adult voices discussing… well, adult things.
At his own table, separated by an ocean of patterned carpet, eight-year-old Abbas pushed a piece of iridescent fish around his plate with a heavy silver fork. It smelled funny. His father’s stern face flashed in his mind – “This is important, Abbas. More important than…” – but the thought dissolved, replaced by the immediate, pressing issue of Steve. That Steve. Over there. Making his… thing. Abbas sighed. Talking to Steve felt like a dare, the kind Ali and Hossein would push him into and then laugh if he failed. “He cheats!” they’d insisted. “He built a sandcastle on my foot!” But the grown-ups wanted talking.
His gaze landed on the small Omani girl, a tiny figure in pink clutching a fuzzy gazelle. She drifted between tables, seemingly immune to the room’s stiff protocols. Opportunity. Abbas tore a ragged corner from his thick linen napkin, grimacing slightly as fish oil smeared his fingers. He wiped them furtively on the underside of the tablecloth before writing with his stubby pencil.
Your building looks wobbly.
This fish is like old socks.
He waved the girl over, his gesture barely noticeable. She approached, wide-eyed. He pressed the folded napkin and a coin into her palm. "For him," Abbas whispered, nodding towards Steve, who was now attempting complex cantilever techniques with a breadstick levered under a water glass. "The builder."
The girl embarked on her long journey across the room. She hesitated near Steve's chair, the sound of his focused breathing audible. She tapped his arm. Steve jumped, glared, then followed her pointing finger to the note. He snatched it, read it quickly, his brow furrowed in confusion rather than anger. He grabbed a luridly blue crayon from his pocket. Abbas watched him scribble, chew the end of the crayon thoughtfully, then scribble again. Steve thrust the napkin back at the girl and immediately turned back to his construction, fiercely defending it from a potentially hostile olive.
Abbas unfolded the returned message, his heart doing a hopeful little skip that immediately stumbled.
BLUE.
This crayon is BLUE.
It’s the best blue.
Abbas stared at the words. Blue? What did blue have to do with anything? He reread his own note. No mention of colors. He crumpled the napkin slightly in his fist, felt the stiff paper resist, then forced himself to smooth it out again. This was worse than trying to explain the rules of imaginary games. He wrote again, pressing hard.
NOT about crayons.
About TALKING.
Later?
This room smells like floor polish.
The girl took the note, glancing nervously between them now, a tiny, reluctant diplomat. Steve accepted it with an impatient sigh. He read it, his lips moving silently, then wrote a short, sharp reply.
Talking is AIR.
My fort is REAL.
Back again. Abbas felt a flush creep up his neck. He wanted to kick the leg of the table, or maybe just put his head down. It was hopeless. Steve wasn't playing the same game; he wasn't even in the same universe. He slumped in his chair, the untouched fish mocking him. He could just pretend he tried. He could tell his father Steve was impossible… But the memory of the stern look, the feeling of importance he couldn't quite grasp, nudged him. One. More. Time. He took a deep breath.
Park?
Playground.
Saturday?
He didn't watch the girl deliver this one. He focused instead on a drop of condensation sliding down his water glass. He heard the rustle of the napkin being taken, then a long silence. He chanced a look. Steve was still, crayon paused mid-air. He stared at the note, then at his fort, then back at the note. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, more to himself than anyone. He scribbled two words and the date.
The girl returned, placing the napkin carefully in Abbas's outstretched hand. He unfolded it.
OK.
SATURDAY.
APRIL 19.
Abbas let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He folded the napkin precisely, edge to edge, tucking the fragile accord deep into his pocket. It felt both momentous and incredibly flimsy. He looked over at Steve. The Special Envoy was already back in his world, using a stolen teaspoon to apply butter-mortar to a breadstick joint, utterly absorbed. The vast, ornate room, the watchful security, the murmuring adults – none of it seemed to touch him. Only the precarious physics of carbs and dairy mattered now. The agreement, scrawled in crayon, might as well have been written in invisible ink, waiting for Saturday, April 19th, 2025, to prove if it meant anything at all.