On the tenth anniversary of the death of Mexican writer Carlos Fuentes, my greatest obsession is still the wrinkled shirt he wore in his library. I visit him by appointment. The dust of ten years of death has settled completely on his face; it is clear that he is dead. He welcomes me into his library. The muscles of his face have become so fragile that I am afraid he will start talking; they will turn into powder and spread throughout the library. I explain to him very briefly that I have come all the way from Iran and I want to iron his shirt. He has no desire to swallow it. His eyes are completely rotten and only holes remain; but a little of his gray hair is visible; I can clearly see that he wants to grin. But he cannot. In the quietest voice I have ever heard in my life, he gives a brief explanation that he expected me to ask about his novel, as he calls it, Cambio de piel, or Skin Shedding, and the role of sex in his stories; He didn't expect someone to take the trouble of traveling from Tehran to Mexico City and ask him about the wrinkled shirt the famous Mexican writer wore fourteen years ago. He mutters under his breath: Ridículo

There is a long, terrible silence that can only be expected from the dead and the cemetery. You can still see that thin, thin mustache on his pursed lips. Just like the brushstrokes a painter makes with a black pen on the face of a medieval saint in the last seconds of finishing a work. I stare into his eye sockets and ask him to take off his shirt so I can iron it. I have brought all my tools from Tehran with me; even a glass of water to pour into the iron. Under his breath, like the whisper of the wind under the trees of the Parque Basque de Chapultepec in Mexico City, he softly calls me stupid. Estupido

There is silence again. It seems that something has happened. As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness of the Fuentes cemetery, I see many insects moving up and down the head and shoulders of the famous writer. But he's still wearing his wrinkled shirt. I really want to ask him how he took his entire library to the grave, or vice versa, how he escaped from the grave and ran to his beloved library? There's no time to ask. I don't think he knows the right answer. Besides, I'm just here to iron his shirt. That's it.

Carlos's look is very indifferent. I thought he'd be very happy to see me. But it's like I'm nothing more than a nuisance; he can't believe I came all this way just to iron his shirt. I try to read him a poem I wrote in Spanish years ago:

The three sacred colors: green, white, and red

The condor whose eternal war with the vampire snake is endless

Sunrise over the heights of Machu Picchu; The sacred Andes; The bed of blood

He nods to let me know that I'm done talking; I'd better shut up. collate

Finally, I come to the conclusion that Fuentes himself can't take off his shirt. I have to do it myself. I carefully begin to unbutton the shirt. I whisper in his ear that he wore this shirt four years before his death in a photo taken in 2008 and that he is still wearing it. The white shirt is more intact than expected and that makes my job easier.

I can't believe it. I have unwrinkled the shirt and now I am carefully placing the ironing board in the entrance hall of the mausoleum. Carlos Fuentes looks at me with a grin. I guess what for. The standard electricity here is 127 volts 60 Hz. I have thought of everything. Not only have I brought my 127 volts to 230 volts Iranian electricity converter, but I also have a mobile cord in my bag to carry the electricity to the foot of the ironing board. I watch Fuentes under his eyes. I am glad that he couldn't laugh at me. I was afraid that if he laughed, all his bones would fall apart.

Carlos Fuentes stares at my ironing like a real dead man. The steam rising from the iron settles on the dust of his coffin. My work is almost finished. I am ironing the collar of his white shirt with great care. I feel that Fuentes is about to say something. His jaws move slightly. I move my head as close as possible to his mouth, which smells unpleasant. I finally understand what he means. He says, "Why don't you iron your shirt, which you wore from Tehran to Mexico City and is wrinkled?" Incidentally, my shirt is also white. Exactly like Fuentes' shirt. Only it doesn't have pockets. To make a point, I ask my host about his daily swimming routine. What will he do now? I want to warn him that if he jumps into the water, all the bones of his skeleton will be lost in the water. It must be interesting to imagine the dance of all the white bones (big and small) until they reach the bottom of the pool. I am curious to know exactly where his skull will land. I don't know why I'm reminded of Salvador Dali. If he were alive, he would have painted dozens of paintings of this scene.

I would love to spend more time with my beloved writer on the tenth anniversary of his death. I'm excited. I carefully hang Fuentes' ironed shirt on a hanger so I can put it on when I leave. Fuentes is wearing only a pair of stirrups, which are also white. He looks at me, stunned and bewildered.

I take off my shirt and continue ironing. I look Fuentes in the eye. He's humming a song under his breath. I can't understand it at all.

I would really like something bad to happen so that I can stay with Carlos Fuentes longer. For example, the power goes out. But nothing unusual happens. I put his shirt back on with the same care I took off his shirt. He's very cooperative. I carefully lay him down in the coffin; the vault is open; like the first day. The Mexican flag draped over the coffin at the official state funeral still looks new and shiny. I look at it one last time before I close the coffin door. I don't know why I feel like I'm reburying Don Quixote.

I stare into his eyes for a long time, but he doesn't take me in for an emotional farewell. He nods to let me know that he's lost. Perderse!!

I put on my shirt. I have nothing else to do in Mexico City. I come out of the mausoleum and take a taxi straight to the airport. The driver looks at me in the mirror very suspiciously and with surprise. I don't recognize him at all. We arrive at the airport very soon. He pays the fare and enters the departure lounge with my small bag.

I look at the big clock in the lounge. I have a lot of time before my flight. I really like transit and international airports. They are an exhibition of faces and clothes. From babies in swaddling clothes and strollers to fat black and white women. From tall white and blond men to all Asians with almond eyes. From women and men who are so formally and neatly dressed that they look like they're invited to the inauguration of the new term of the House of Lords to those who have just gone to the sea in shorts and flip-flops. The smell of all kinds of drinks and food in the complex.

On the way, I go to the bathroom to wash my hands and face. I still remember Carlos's wrinkled face. I stare at my face in the mirror. I take my comb out of my bag and run it through my hair, then unconsciously put it in my shirt pocket, as is my old habit. I freeze in surprise for a moment. My shirt had no pockets at all. Eva... Eva, I was miserable. I couldn't do a single thing right. I accidentally put my white shirt that I had ironed on Carlos Fuentes's shirt, and I'm wearing the famous writer's shirt. All my threads are cotton. Now I understand why he was always grinning at the last minute. I don't feel like changing tickets and staying overnight in Mexico City to correct a stupidity.........

I go out. I console myself that I now own the shirt of a famous writer who, despite all his abilities, never managed to win the Nobel Prize. I'm so bored. I feel so clumsy. I came a long way from Tehran to here, but I didn't do anything I wanted to do. I really wanted to go to Leon Trotsky's tomb, not because I have political feelings, but to see if I could tell him how he stole Frida Kahlo's earrings and was her boyfriend for a long time. It was time to leave. I impatiently approach the exit gate to check my passport. The officer behind the counter has a mustache exactly like Emiliano Zapata, the famous revolutionary played by Marlon Brando. He looks at me indifferently and says: Este no es tu pasaporte. I don't understand what he means at all. His fat colleague, who looks like Sergeant Garcia but has a very calm face like a Buddhist monk, approaches and in broken English tells me that the photo on the passport is different from mine. He lovingly and calmly hands the passport back to me: Oh my God, my passport has a photo of Carlos Fuentes, who is wearing the same wrinkled shirt. He has a secret smile on his face. He motions for me to go with the two policemen standing behind me.

On the way to the airport police station, I keep hearing the name Carlos Fuentes. The police interrogator is fluent in English. I explain the whole story to him, that my only purpose on this long journey is to iron Carlos Fuentes' wrinkled shirt. I keep talking. I see distrust and disbelief in my words in the interrogator's eyes.

Two men in white with the Red Cross and a snake on their shirt pockets come and take me away. They have all concluded that I am not only a fraud, but that I must have been captured by a gang of smugglers and that they have replaced my real passport with a fake one. The police chief explained to me that my arrival was not registered in any of the airport's computers. They all asked:

What are you doing with Carlos Fuentes' passport? It was stolen from his private museum two years ago. During this time, we have not been able to find any clues. Who are you? How did you get there, what flight and what date did you arrive in Mexico City?

My Spanish is not good at all. I try to explain to them in English that I arrived just yesterday. I flew Iran Air to Tokyo and from there by Cathay Pacific to Mexico City International Airport. They look at me very suspiciously and ask why you came? How much did your trip cost? Why are you carrying this iron, board and a bottle full of water in your suitcase? They often yell and repeat this sentence:

Qué basura querías comer?

They probably meant what the hell did I want to eat or roughly this Persian sentence: What kind of dirt did you want to wear?

... I have been imprisoned in this city for two months now. It is very difficult. The only positive thing about the story is the rapid improvement of my Spanish. When I return to Tehran, I will definitely establish a Spanish language class. No matter how much I tried to convince the officers by showing them photos and documents that the shirt I am wearing really belongs to Carlos Fuentes and has historical value; No one believes me. Everyone thinks I'm going crazy again. Yesterday I heard that I'm going to be sent to a mental institution in the south of Chiapas, near the Guatemalan border. I have a hard time ahead of me. But I'm glad I have Carlos Fuentes's wrinkled shirt with me. I'm worried about the two cats I left in my apartment in Tehran. They must have run out of food and water by now. I didn't think I'd be away from them for this long. They both opposed my coming. Last night, I remember them both saying over and over again, "Carlos Fuentes's father's grave." No one in Mexico will believe you came all this way to iron his shirt. I wish I had listened to their advice.