A Curse on Dostoevsky (14 page)

“Don’t say that! Don’t sin, do not sin …” insists the old lady.

“Well, why do you sit here, sharing my sin?” he says. “You wanted to make your wish, you’ve done it. Your son will come to you. So why are you still here? Go home.”

The woman doesn’t move.

“Wheat fattens them up. And after all, a fat pigeon is better than a thin one. Do you know why?” the old man asks Rassoul; then, after a moment’s pause, to emphasize what he is about to say rather than to wait for a response: “No, you don’t know …” He looks at Rassoul. “Are you from Kabul?” Yes. “You can’t be from here, or you would know why.” He takes another handful of wheat from his pocket and holds out his hand so the pigeons will eat from it. “Come on, come here; come and get fat.” He asks Rassoul: “Do you make this
ziarat
often?” No. “Good on you. I come here every day. But not to pray, or make a wish. Far from it. I don’t look for Allah in tombs. He is here”—he taps his chest—“in my heart!” He moves closer to Rassoul so he can whisper: “You know, the communists spent ten years doing everything they could to turn this nation against Allah, without success. The Muslims, on the other hand, have achieved it in a single year!” and laughs. A silent, mischievous laugh. “You see, all these bearded guys who spend their days praying and moaning over Shah-e do Shamshira Wali’s tomb spend their nights doing what the heathens did to that holy man. Do you know his story?” Another pause, once again to emphasize what he’s about to say: “No, you don’t know it. I’ll tell you: he was related to an uncle of the Prophet. This is his sacred tomb. Leys Ben Gheys, the King with two swords! He died a martyr here in Kabul. He had come to convert our country to Islam, and he was killed. He was fighting the unbelievers and they cut off his head; but this holy
man continued to fight, with a sword in each hand.” The man pauses to observe the effect of his great tale. Shocked by Rassoul’s impassivity, he moves closer, lowering his voice as if to share an impressive secret: “Today, the same men who pray here during the day, by night organize ceremonies they call the ‘dance of the dead.’ Do you know about the ‘dance of the dead’?” He stops, glances at Rassoul, and emphasizes: “No, you don’t know. I will tell you: they cut off someone’s head and splash the wound with boiling oil, making the poor headless body wriggle and hop. They call it the ‘dance of the dead.’ Had you heard of that? No, you hadn’t!” But in fact, old man, Rassoul has heard this story, and others too, worse than that.

The man looks despairingly at the grains of wheat in his trembling hand. From his bloodless lips burst the words: “Do you know … why they do it?” No, Rassoul mimes, looking at the man ironically as if to preempt him: “But you’re going to tell me.” The man searches for the right words, then continues: “Have they no fear of Allah?” They have. And that is why they do it. “Would you be capable of committing an atrocity like that?” Yes. The man is surprised by Rassoul’s nod. “You would? Have you no fear of Allah?” No.

The old man’s hand is waving about. The grains of wheat fall to the ground. “
Lahawolla belahall
 … You have no fear of Allah!” and he recites once more his profession of faith. “Are you a Muslim?” Yes.

The man plunges back into his thoughts, re-emerging a few seconds later in still greater despair: “In fact, given everything I’ve told you, whom should one fear most? Man, or Allah?” And he falls silent.

Surprised by how long Sophia is taking to pray, Rassoul leaves the old man to his doubts and stands up to wander slowly toward the tomb. He stands at the gate and peers inside. A few women are keening as they lean over the rails surrounding the tomb. Others have sat down to pray in silence. Sophia is not among them. He returns to the caretaker and looks for her shoes, but cannot find them.

He glances back inside. No sign of her. Nor outside, either.

What has happened? Why did this heart, which had once again opened, shut back down so quickly? Did she bring him here to distance herself from him, to bid him goodbye, without a word?

G
OODBYE, SOPHIA
!

And he takes a great drag of hash, which he holds in his lungs for as long as possible.

Goodbye, Sophia! You left with the only secret I had.

Goodbye!

Another two or three drags, and he leaves the
saqi-khana
.

I am never coming back. I’m going to shut myself in my room, as gloomy as a grave, with no future and no way out. I will not eat. I will not drink. I will not leave my bed. I will let myself be taken by an endless sleep, free of dreams and of thought. Until I am nothing. A nothingness in the emptiness, a shadow in the abyss, an immortal corpse.

When he reaches the courtyard he finds Dawoud sitting on the steps. “Hello, Rassoul. My mother sent me to fetch you. Sophia is not well. She has shut herself in her bedroom and won’t see anyone.”

It was she who fell into my abyss.

He leaps down the stairs, dashes across the courtyard and runs through the streets. Arriving at Sophia’s house out of breath, he rushes straight to her bedroom door.

“She’s crying. She won’t speak. She’s locked herself in …” says the mother. She bangs on the door. “Sophia! Rassoul-
djan
has come.” A long silence, then the sound of a key turning in the lock. The mother opens the door and lets Rassoul in first.

Sophia returns to her bed and huddles up, her head on her knees. The silence is oppressive; the mother can sense that the couple need to be alone. She leaves, with a final, damning glance at Rassoul. Has Sophia told her everything?

No, she can’t have. She will have kept my secret. Not only to protect me, but to prevent her mother’s suffering. She doesn’t want to share my abyss with anyone else. But she must not sink; she must not suffer in there. I will get her out.

He kneels next to Sophia and, after a brief hesitation, shyly strokes her hand.

Don’t be afraid, Sophia. I’m not your typical murderer. I am …

“They ran me out of the mausoleum!” she says in a hopeless voice. He lets go of her hand, annoyed. “One of Nana Alia’s neighbors was there. When she saw me, she went and spoke to the caretaker, and he threw me out …” Why … The word trembles on Rassoul’s lips; it emerges as a breath, a silent breath, lacking a question mark; a mute cry of despair. From now on, he
mustn’t be surprised when people treat Sophia with contempt, as a prostitute.

She is crying.

Rassoul feels himself falter.

“I left quietly. Without telling you. I didn’t want you to make a scene,” she says, as if Rassoul would have been capable.

No, Sophia, Rassoul has changed. Look at him. He is lost, trapped inside his pitiful rage.

No, he may have sunk to a terrible low, but he still has his dignity.

So move, Rassoul, move!

He stands up suddenly and leaves the room. Sophia’s mother is standing on the patio, by the window. As soon as she sees him she turns her head away to hide her tears.

In the street, there is no shade. The sun streaks through the smoke to beat down on peoples’ heads with its massive midday power.

Rassoul walks with his head hung low. He makes it home without knowing how. The room smells awful; it’s the cheese.

He has no desire to get rid of it. He grabs the pistol that is still lying on the floor, and checks the cartridge. It is still loaded. He puts the pistol in his pocket and leaves the room.

Where is he going?

Nowhere. He’s walking. Going wherever the pistol takes him.

May he no longer think about anything!

He is no longer thinking. He thinks nothing about anything.

He sees only the road,

follows only the shadow crushed under his feet,

sees no face,

hears no sound,

heeds no cry,

receives no laugh.

He walks.

He counts his steps.

Stop right here, in front of the Shah-e do Shamshira Wali mausoleum.

Everything is quiet. The pilgrims and beggars have all left. Rassoul enters the courtyard and approaches the tomb. Rosewater masks the smell of pigeons and the sulphur of war. The caretaker has fallen asleep on a bench in the shade of the Wish Tree. One hand under his chin, the other on his chest. He looks as innocent as a sleeping child. His salt and pepper beard quivers from time to time, like that of a goat before the sacrifice. Rassoul walks toward him, pulls out his pistol, moves even closer and takes aim. His finger tightens on the trigger. His hand shakes. He hesitates.

Killing someone as they sleep; now that is cowardice. What’s more, his death would be very quick. He would not suffer at all. He must not die without knowing what he has done, in the innocence of sleep.

Let him wake, so he can know why I am killing him. So he can suffer!

He will suffer, yes, for a few seconds; but the reason for his death will die with him. No one will say that this caretaker was killed because he chased Sophia from the mausoleum, because he closed the house of Allah to a “public girl” who’d come here to pray, to beg forgiveness for her fiancé … So, Rassoul, you would be committing another pointless murder. Failing, again.

The sun works its way through the branches and leaves of the Wish Tree, dappling the body of the caretaker, as well as Rassoul’s feet, legs and hair, and the Colt that trembles in his hands. Drenched in sweat and crushed by doubt, he crouches in front of the caretaker and, after a few moments of complete inertia, takes out a cigarette. None of the sounds that he makes disturb the old man’s sleep. Is he hard of hearing? Or does Rassoul not exist?

He backs away, but a sudden muffled noise from behind roots him to the spot. He spins around. It’s a cat.

A cat, at the mausoleum? Its presence here is strange, and Rassoul watches it approach, brush his foot with its raised tail, and slip silently into the shadow of the caretaker who slowly awakes. Rassoul starts. He tosses away his cigarette and resumes his aim, blinking. The man’s sleepy gaze shows no fear. He doesn’t even move. Perhaps he thinks he is dreaming. Rassoul moves closer,
gesturing for him to sit up. But the man just reaches calmly under the rug covering the bench to pick up a bowl of money, which he holds out to Rassoul.

This man hasn’t understood anything. I am not a thief. I am here to kill him.

He walks closer, moving his lips to form silent words: “And do you know why I am killing you?”

No, Rassoul, he doesn’t know, and he will never know.

Rassoul’s hand is trembling with rage.

Even now the caretaker doesn’t react. He remains unruffled. He puts the bowl back in its place, smiles and closes his eyes in anticipation of the shot. Rassoul pokes him with the barrel of the gun. The man opens his eyes again, slowly. He is still impassive, even though the pistol is now held at his temple. His gaze, just like that of the donkey in Nayestan, says to Rassoul: What are you waiting for? Shoot! If you don’t kill me, a rocket will. I would prefer to die at your hands, protecting the purity and glory of this sacred place. I will die a
shahid
.

A woman concealed by a sky-blue chador enters the courtyard. She sees Rassoul with his gun held to the caretaker’s head, turns, and flees.

He still doesn’t dare shoot.

No, I don’t want this man to die a martyr.

He throws down the pistol.

And leaves.

G
ET LOST!
There’s nothing here anymore,” grumbles a cavernous voice. But Rassoul keeps banging on the door of the
saqi-khana
, and in the end it fearfully cracks open. “Is that you, Rassoul? You should have said!” exclaims Hakim. “Which Rassoul is it, the holy man or the pothead?” asks Kaka Sarwar as usual, his voice seeping out along with the smell and the smoke.

Rassoul enters and finds a place among the circle of men; the same men, all keeping a solemn silence as they stare at Kaka Sarwar, who is smoking greedily. Rassoul looks around for Jalal. He is no longer there to ask if the war has started yet. It’s Mustapha who asks, breaking the languor of the circle. Others shush him. Silence again, still solemn, still focused on Kaka Sarwar. Everyone is waiting for him to pass on the pipe and continue the tale that Rassoul’s arrival has interrupted.

“Should I start again at the beginning?”

“No, just keep going!” cries everyone at once.

“But this young man wasn’t here!”

“We’ll tell him the beginning later.”

“OK,” he says, and passes the chillum. “Where was I? I’ve lost my thread …”

“You found yourself in a village …”

“That’s right. And what a village! Houses carved out of wood, with no windowpanes, no doors, and no courtyard walls. I could hear voices, but couldn’t see anyone. The houses were empty. Or rather the darkness prevented me from seeing anyone or anything. There were only voices, nothing but voices, orchestral, harmonious, peaceful voices. They were coming from a semi-ruined cave on the edge of the village, at the foot of a rocky, steep, arid hill. All the villagers were there, dancing in a trance. Men and women. Young, old, children. The men wore vine leaves on their heads; the women’s
shushuts
were embroidered with cowries and red pearls. They were handing out drinks to everyone.”

“Were they unbelievers?”

“I’ve no idea. They were all drinking and singing. My presence didn’t disturb them at all; it was as if I didn’t exist. They even served me drinks, without a single question; first a vibrant yellow liquid called ‘stone saw’; then a bright red one called ‘stone file.’ The first was sour; the second bitter.” Kaka Sarwar pauses again to smoke. “I drank a lot that night! And nobody seemed to want to know why I was there. Once I had identified their leader, who was a woman, I went to see her. I had barely said hello when she greeted me and asked: ‘Are you lost, young man?’ I shyly admitted that I was. With a friendly smile, she welcomed me to the ‘Valley of Lost Words.’ She asked
me where I was going, and where I had come from. Once I had told her everything she nodded, offered me a final glass of ‘stone file’ and called over an old man to take me to the neighboring village. He gave me a storm lamp, and off we went. He walked confidently and fast. I rushed to light the path in front of him, but he told me to keep the lamp for myself as he didn’t need it. Panting, I asked him how it was that they had a woman as leader. As we walked, he told me an incredible story that I will tell you all tomorrow.”