A Curse on Dostoevsky (10 page)

Who has taken all this trouble? Yarmohamad’s wife Rona, of course, as she used to before.

He walks to the window and glances at Yarmohamad’s house. The courtyard is empty. No shadows behind the windows. An inner ecstasy takes hold of him, overcoming both his astonishment at his orderly room, and his tormented desire to write everything down for Sophia.

But what has made him so happy? His victory over Yarmohamad, who hasn’t been able to prevent his wife from cleaning up after him?

What arrogance!

This vile, infantile joy shatters as his gaze falls on the infamous notebook, placed carefully on the window ledge. He falls on it. Did Rona open it, did she read his intimate poems and thoughts about Sophia? What about the final sentence,
“Today, I killed Nana Alia”?

The notebook trembles in his hands. He opens it at the final page and reads,
“Today, I killed Nana Alia.”
He sits down on the mattress. Then, after great deliberation, he takes his pen and adds
“I killed her for you, Sophia.”

For her? Why?

I will tell her, in writing. But first I want to write about her, her fragile innocence, all that I never knew how to describe in straightforward, precise words.
“Sophia, I have never kissed you. Do you know why?”
The words in his pen are suspended by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Someone knocks at the door. A soft, feminine voice whispers: “Rassoul-
djan
, it’s Rona.” He leaps up to open the door. “Hello,” she says shyly. She is carrying a tray, covered with a white napkin. He steps back to let her in and looks at her furtively, trying to gauge how she will react to the notebook in his hand. “Rassoul-
djan
, I have come to beg forgiveness for Yarmohamad. He is not in his right mind these days. He’s a bundle of nerves. He’s afraid … You know him. And what’s more, he has no work. He is just worried …” She holds out the tray: “Look, here is
kishmish-panir
, homemade raw cheese, the kind you like, and raisins.”

Embarrassed, Rassoul takes the tray and thanks her with a vague gesture, as if to say that she mustn’t worry, it’s all over with now. Then, to express his gratitude for the cleaning, he bows low and gestures with the hand holding the notebook at the corner where all his
books are neatly stacked. “I did it like I used to. Back when …”

He is no longer listening. Reassured that there is no suspicion or anxiety in her gaze, he is fascinated, as usual, by her plump shining lips and hazel, almond-shaped eyes. She is aware of her allure—always has been—and she teases him, biting the edge of her veil to hide her lips. That turns him on even more. Rassoul is sure that the real reason Yarmohamad has it in for him is his soft spot for Rona. Surely he suspects the attraction.

“Right, I’m off …” She makes up her mind to leave. Rassoul follows, embarrassed not to have heard what she said from behind her veil. He stands in the doorway, watching her until she disappears into the darkness of her own front door. He looks for Yarmohamad behind the windows. No sign. He must have gone out; that’s why Rona dared to visit.

If Rassoul weren’t so distracted, if he didn’t have so many worries, if Sophia’s notebook weren’t in his hand, he would lie down on his mattress and surrender to his fantasies. His hand would slip into his trousers to stroke himself, and as he did so he would imagine Rona in two or three different scenes. Today, he would go for the one where she’s completely naked, sitting on her daughters’ swing, head tilted slightly back, a sly smile on her lips. She is staring straight into Rassoul’s eyes. Legs spread, swing ropes curled around her arms, hands on her pubis, touching herself … But
this just isn’t the time. He’d have to be really sick—obsessed, an escapee from the Aliabad loony bin—to think of that now!

Put down the tray, close the door, and get back to your writing.

He opens the notebook.

Sophia, I have never kissed you. Do you know why?
What next?
Because I would have needed such strength to kiss your innocence …
What the hell is that? Why can’t your thoughts be clearer, your words more direct? Kiss your innocence! What does that mean? If you write that she’ll tease you, saying: “Smash my innocence! Kiss me! And I’ll give you strength.”

Drained, Rassoul closes the notebook, chucks it on top of the books and flops on his bed. He shuts his eyes to find in the silence and darkness the words that he seeks. But footsteps on the stairs drag him back out of bed. Heavy footsteps, this time. “Rassoul! It’s Razmodin.” He is not alone, someone is whispering. Rassoul doesn’t move. “Rassoul?” repeats Razmodin, knocking at the door. After a short pause, he calls out to Yarmohamad’s daughters. “Hello, girls! Has Rassoul left?”

“No, he’s in his room. Perhaps he’s sleeping,” they reply together. Go to hell! bellows Rassoul to himself. He stands up.

“Rassoul!” calls Razmodin again, rattling the door, which is locked from the inside. He knocks harder. Give me a moment, mutters Rassoul silently. He opens the door.

“Ah, there you are, finally! We’ve been looking for you for two days,” exclaims Razmodin as he enters; behind him is a thin little man, wearing a white turban. “Rassoul, Commandant Rostam has been kind enough to come and visit you and …” The Commandant walks toward Rassoul, “My dear Rassoul,” and embraces him, “how good to meet you at last!” Rassoul steps back, cold and unwelcoming. Rostam remains on the threshold, waiting to be invited in. Razmodin takes the initiative, rushing into the room and gesturing a welcome. Rostam enters and launches into a ceremonious speech: “My dear Rassoul, I have come on behalf of your venerable mother. I don’t know where to begin. I carry two pieces of news from your family. One, sadly, unfavorable and most sad; the other good and full of hope. I must tell you, with great sorrow, that your father, who was a good and pure Muslim, has bravely given up his soul to Allah the Merciful. He died a martyr. I offer you all my condolences. May he dwell in heaven. And I pray to Allah the Merciful to accord the family that survives him much fortitude, and a long and prosperous life …” He lifts his hands to pray,
“Ina-ellahe wa ina-ellaïhe radi′oun.”
After this he is quiet, waiting for Rassoul to speak. Rassoul stares at him impassively. More embarrassed than shocked, Rostam glances discreetly at Razmodin and then, without waiting to be asked, takes off his shoes and sits on the mattress. Razmodin follows suit. The two of them stare at Rassoul, who sits down impassively a little way off.

Silence.

A gloomy silence that Rostam tries to break by offering a cigarette to Rassoul—who refuses—and then to Razmodin; after that he continues with his speech: “Of course, your dear mother told me that she had informed you of these regrettable events by post … but I can see that her letter has not reached you …” The commandant is made even more uncomfortable by Rassoul nodding his head and scrunching his eyebrows to convey that he certainly did receive the letter. Rostam looks on helplessly as Rassoul starts rummaging through his books to find his mother’s letter and wave it under the dazed eyes of his guests; then he returns to his spot and nonchalantly picks up a plastic swatter to chase away the flies swarming around the tray of
kishmish-panir
.

“You did receive it, then?” asks the commandant.

Yes.

“But … your respected mother believes you are not aware of your father’s martyrdom! Ever since she sent you that letter she has been waiting for you to arrive.”

Rassoul stares reproachfully at Razmodin, who keeps his eyes down, fixed on the tips of his nails as he waits fearfully for his cousin to say: “My father had little importance to me, alive or dead.” It seems Razmodin has not discussed it with Rostam. But why not? He should have!

Rassoul brings down the swatter on a fly that had landed on the floor in front of him, and flicks the corpse
toward the door. Rostam gets the message; he is furious, and can barely contain himself: “You know quite well that for a young Afghan Muslim, duty toward one’s parents is the most important of all values. The blood of a father is priceless. We were all expecting you to swear to avenge him.” He is interrupted by the swatter coming down on another fly. He turns toward Razmodin, exasperated: “Do you know how greatly this young man’s mother and sister will suffer if they hear how he is behaving toward them and the late Ibrahim?” Razmodin nods, while imagining what Rassoul must be thinking: “No, they are probably relieved at my father’s death.”

Rostam is more and more frustrated by Rassoul’s silence. He takes a long drag on his cigarette and waits. In vain. He becomes impatient. “Say something, in the name of Allah!” Rassoul lets go of the swatter and stares at him imperiously for a long moment. Razmodin knows exactly what is seething inside Rassoul, but can’t understand why his cousin remains silent. Out of respect? That would be most unlike him. He must be weighing his words—the better to insult, as usual, all those who in the name of tradition, honor, and religion encourage people to kill each other, avenge themselves, and thus feed the ongoing war … “Do you know who killed your father?” Rassoul shrugs; he doesn’t care. “It was a thief, a crook, and he killed him for money … for money!” So it was someone who was hungry. There’s no point taking revenge on a starving individual. As a
communist, my father used to say he fought for justice on behalf of the hungry; he killed the rich to save the poor, didn’t he? His soul must be rejoicing to see a few starving people feeding their bellies on his resources!

Razmodin is terrified by the mere thought of what is churning around in Rassoul’s mind. And yet he’s astonished, no, not astonished, relieved, to see him remaining quiet. Better take advantage. So he turns to Rostam to apologize on Rassoul’s behalf: “My cousin hasn’t been well these past few days …,” but is interrupted by Rassoul suddenly standing up, putting Rostam’s shoes outside the door, and signaling him to leave.

Rostam is beside himself; he leaps to his feet, yelling: “What a
beadab
boy! So ungrateful!” Then he says to Razmodin: “If it weren’t for respect for his mother and sister, I’d have kicked his guts in right there and then!” He spits on the floor at Rassoul’s feet. But before Rassoul can react, Razmodin maneuvers Rostam out of the door.

Rassoul closes it behind them and stands in the middle of his room, listening to his cousin running after the commandant: “Please don’t be angry, and don’t take it to heart. He is sick, I promise. He’s been acting strange ever since his father died. All month people have been complaining about him …” As they disappear down the lane, his voice fades away.

Emptied of his rage, Rassoul sits down with a triumphant smile. He picks up the swatter and looks around
for another victim. No sooner does a fly land on his mattress than it is destroyed and flicked over to the door.

Now that he is calm, he picks up his mother’s letter and reads it from beginning to end. Thank God she doesn’t have fancy handwriting or a way of stretching things out to ten pages like Raskolnikov’s mother! Her letter is short, badly written, and almost illegible.

He rereads the sentences concerning his sister Donia.
There is a rich and powerful man asking for your sister’s hand …
But who? Why does his mother not mention his name?
Rich and powerful
must mean that he is not unknown. It must be someone controversial, with a bad reputation. That’s why his mother doesn’t want him to know who she is talking about.

His eyes stray over the letter, trying to avoid the words he doesn’t want to read. But here they are, more legible than the rest:
“Donia is in agreement. But first she wants your approval. You are now the man of the house …
” He folds the letter.
The man of the house
. The first time he read it, that sentence filled him with pride—
the man of the house
—but now he sees that it conceals another, almost offensive, message. Each word has a new color, a new sound. They are no longer naïve and innocent. They emanate irony, reproach, and hidden meanings.

The man of the house!

No, your mother could never write a letter like that. It is you who has taken it badly. Read it again another
day, and you’ll see that it contains nothing but wisdom and kindness.

He folds the letter to slip it into a book. But not just any book. One of the volumes of
Crime and Punishment
, of course! And worse still: at the very page where Raskolnikov reads his mother’s letter.

This is too much, Rassoul!

He hasn’t yet put the book back in its place when the door bursts open and Razmodin’s voice fills the room: “Are you on a death mission, or what? Do you want to be hit by a stray bullet? What the hell do you want? You really must be sick.” Rassoul looks at him, wondering whether to give him his mother’s letter. “Why did you behave like such an idiot? Do you know that he’s taken my aunt and Donia under his own roof, so as not to leave them alone? He came all this way to reassure you and give you money. Here!” He takes a wad of notes from his pocket and flings it onto the mattress. “Not only did you not thank him, you didn’t even speak to him! Why?” Shaken, Rassoul opens the book, takes out the letter and gives it to Razmodin. Read! And he reads it. Each word drains him, drives his head deeper into his shoulders, makes his hand tremble. Now let him understand what this cash is all about! That’s right, this generosity and kindness aren’t to please Rassoul. Rostam intends to buy Donia with this money. Donia, your cousin. The woman you love and want to marry. “Was that the ‘good news’ the son
of a bitch wanted to tell you, then?” asks Razmodin hopelessly. That’s why Rassoul treated him so rudely—to stop him announcing his news in front of you. “Donia!” exclaims Razmodin. He seizes Rassoul by the shoulders, and asks him dully: “But … but why didn’t you tell me?” Rassoul shakes himself free. “If you had told me, I would have gone to Mazar, and taken you with me …” Well, go there now, and leave Rassoul in peace. “I’m taking you with me.” Rassoul can’t go anywhere anymore. Go, Razmodin, and bring his mother and Donia back to Kabul!

Razmodin springs to his feet, on fire: “We’ll go and get them …” But Rassoul’s despairing gaze crushes his enthusiasm and brings him back to his senses: “No, things are becoming very dangerous, here. We’ll all go to Tajikistan.” Rassoul shakes his head. “You’re right, that’s under their control, too”—he is weary now—“so where? Find a solution, damn it!” Do what you want, but leave Rassoul in peace. In peace!