Her apartment is a space without time. The books and the plants, the table and the chairs, the bed, the paintings, the sculptures – everything seems to be just right. It’s as if change has never been a possibility, as if there never was a day when she first moved here, presumably from somewhere else.
She makes jewellery for a living. Not from gold, which she doesn’t like because of its soft character, but from silver. She melts it and bends it and twists it and hammers it and pierces it and pinches it until things appear out of it.
Little things that make people happy.
This is what the side room of her timeless apartment is for. There are two rooms: the main one is for living, the other one is for work. It has a desk under a window that goes out to a building front.
I wonder what it would feel like to be sitting there, creating things out of silver.
“Wonderful!” she says. Her work makes her happy.
“Of course it would make me even more happy if the price of silver stayed the same.”
Has it been growing a lot?
“Three years ago 1 gram cost 2 toman. Now it’s 10.”
Five hundred percent. I walk over to the kitchen window. The mountains are out there, and they are covered in snow. Tehran sits right at their feet.
I wonder whether this apartment would still be timeless if times were different. If there were no revolutions and no sanctions.
If Tehran was famous for winter sports.