A Curse on Dostoevsky (20 page)

And Sophia never sees him, never recognizes him …

“Rassoul?” Dawoud’s voice makes him lift his head. The boy is standing right in front of him, a can of petrol in his hand. “Hello, Rassoul.”

“Hey! You’re not on the roof?”

“You think my mother would let me work in peace? Sophia is away a lot these days.”

“Is she working?”

“Yes. At Nana Alia’s still—the old woman has disappeared, and Nazigol is afraid to be alone. Sophia spends most of her time there, even nights. But she comes back to see us every now and then.” He puts down the can of petrol. “It’s heavy … And you, you don’t come and see us anymore?”

“I’m here, you can see that.”

The boy rubs his hands together and then picks up the can. “I have to go, my mother is waiting.” He waits for Rassoul to stand up. “Are you coming?”

“I wanted to see Sophia.”

“She’s at home.”

“No, I think she went out.”

“Maybe. Come in and drink some tea.”

“Another time.”

* * *

Dawoud has barely gone into the house when Rassoul, after another moment’s hesitation, knocks at the gate. Dawoud opens. “Don’t tell either Sophia or your mother that I came.” The boy nods, looking down, as if to let his sadness spill out over his feet and across the ground. He shuts the gate, taking Rassoul’s despair with him.

Rassoul starts walking, but after three paces he stops, pulling the money out of his pocket.

I don’t need this.

He retraces his steps and knocks at the gate a second time. Again, it is Dawoud who opens. Rassoul gives him the whole bundle. “Don’t say anything about this, either. Give it to Sophia. Tell her you made it selling pigeons!” Staggered to again hold such wealth in his hands, the boy remains frozen at the threshold until Rassoul disappears in the dust whirled up by a passing truck.

At home, Rassoul does not see either Yarmohamad or his wife.

As he had hoped.

He goes up to his room. The children have left. Only the flies remain, buzzing around the tray of cheese and raisins. The napkin covering the food is completely black, black with putrefaction. As always, his bed is unmade, indifferent. The indifference has spread to the books scattered all around, their covers stained; to the dirty clothes heaped in a corner; to the empty jug lying on the floor …

Why is everything indifferent to my return?

He picks up a glass.

Everything is ignoring me.

He throws the glass onto his mattress, and stares out the window at the courtyard. It is empty, empty of the cries of children.

Nothing recognizes me now.

An undeterred mouse crosses the room.

How can I live with this indifference on the part of my belongings?

Kicking away his pillow, he stands for a long time in the middle of his room.

Nothing is worse than no longer belonging to your own world.

No object wants to possess me.

No person wants to judge me.

This acquittal may clear everyone else’s conscience, but it deprives me of my crime, my act, my existence.

And it will remain this way for as long as the mystery of my act is unsolved. I need to find Nana Alia’s body.

M
Y DEAR
Rassoul, killing to exist is the principle behind all killings,” says the clerk, tucking his files under his arm. He hurries to the door out of the Archives office. Rassoul follows. “I’m not looking for philosophy now. I just want you to help me solve this mystery.”

The clerk stops suddenly. “Do you take me for some sort of detective? You’re not in a cop film, or an Agatha Christie novel! Go and see your protector, Commandant Parwaiz.”

“I have. But all he can think about is the disappearance of his adopted son. People are saying he’s been murdered, beheaded …”

“The
dance of the dead
!”

They fall silent. As they leave the building, Rassoul stops the clerk. “You are the only person who can help me. You know so much. You must have dealt with so many cases, heard so many stories …”

“Yes, I have! But never one like this! In your case, there is nothing I can do.”

“But there is: you can help me find Nana Alia’s body.”

“Why are you so interested in her damned corpse?”

“Because it will prove that I killed.”

“There’s no need to prove that. Everyone knows you killed. If you’re so keen to trail a corpse around the streets, you’d better get moving! Just this morning three beheaded and decaying bodies were found hidden in a tomb at the Dehafghanan cemetery. Go and tell them you’re the murderer!”

Rassoul says nothing.

When they reach the Wellayat courtyard, one of Qhazi sahib’s guards is waiting. He sees Rassoul and calls out: “What are you doing here?”

“Commandant Parwaiz spoke to Qhazi sahib yesterday; it’s OK, everything is settled,” replies the clerk, before saying to Rassoul, “We’ll discuss your request another time. Now get out of here!”

“Yes, but … I don’t know where to go.”

“Go home, young man!”

The guard interrupts: “No, wait! He is a prisoner here.”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean, not anymore? The judge is looking for him. How could he have been released without the judge’s permission?” He prods Rassoul with his gun. “Come on now, move!”

Stunned, the clerk walks up to Rassoul and mutters quietly: “You must be completely nuts! Your head smells of qhorma! The world would be better off if you’d stayed mute.”

“I did go home, but everything refused to recognize
me, it was all slipping away from me, my books, my bed, my clothes … It was all rejecting me. I went to my fiancée’s house. She no longer recognizes me, either …”

“Don’t worry! Everyone here recognizes you,” says the guard, who is now holding Rassoul firmly by the arm. He drags him over to Qhazi sahib’s office. Their hasty arrival startles a pigeon that had been pecking about on the judge’s desk. It flies around the room in a panic, bashing against the windows and then flapping toward the door. “Shut the door, quick!” the Qhazi shouts. Pointing at the pigeon: “The exhibit must not be allowed to escape!” The guard rushes to shut the door. At last the judge notices Rassoul and in a fury asks the guard and the clerk: “Where had he gone?”

“He had left his cell, Qhazi sahib!” says the guard. This makes the Qhazi even more enraged. “What do you mean, left his cell? Who gave him permission?” The clerk mumbles: “Commandant Parwaiz summoned him, he …”

“Who is the Qhazi here? Him or me? Get this man out of here! Take him back to his cell! Chain him up!”

The two men sitting in front of the judge’s desk turn toward Rassoul. One is the caretaker of the Shah-e do Shamshira Wali mausoleum; the other is the old man who was feeding wheat to the pigeons. Both are startled to see Rassoul. The old man rushes over: “No, Qhazi sahib, no, this young man is my witness. He was at the mausoleum, he saw me …” The judge, surprised, gestures to the guard to keep hold of Rassoul; then,
pointing to the old man now standing next to Rassoul, says to the clerk: “First, create a file for this man.”

“What is the crime?”

“Theft of pigeons from the mausoleum,” replies the judge, and the caretaker concurs: “He came to feed them every day, with wheat,” he turns toward the judge, “with wheat, that is!” then toward the clerk, “giving wheat is a sin. After that, he stole the pigeons. Do you know why?” He turns toward the judge again, “to grill them and eat them. His neighbors told me. They told me they could smell meat cooking at his place every day …”

“I have never eaten grilled pigeons.
Lahawlobellah!
The Shah-e do Shamshira Wali mausoleum pigeons?
Lahawlobellah!
He is lying!” cries the old man, rushing up to the caretaker. “Do you know that slander is one of the greatest sins?”

“So what was that pigeon doing in your pocket?” asks the caretaker, before saying to the Qhazi: “I found it in his pocket myself.” The pigeon flies around the room. The old man walks up to the judge, in great distress: “It was pecking in my pocket. The mausoleum pigeons trust me, they like me. Look!” He whistles, and the pigeon flies over to him and lands on his shoulder. “He trusts me.” He implores the caretaker: “Do not lie, my brother! You, the guardian of the Shah-e do Shamshira Wali mausoleum, are you not ashamed, before Qhazi sahib and before God, of wrongly accusing a Muslim brother?” To Rassoul, he begs: “You saw me, the other day. Tell them what I was doing there …”

“This young man is mixed up in the story as well?” asks the Qhazi. Rassoul takes a step forward to say: “I only saw him once, two or three days ago. My fiancée and I had gone there to pray. And I …”

“Qhazi sahib, you are right,” interrupts the caretaker. “They are in it together. This man arrived to steal the alms money. He had a gun, and wanted to kill me as well …”

“Why are you lying?” cries Rassoul, taking another step forward. The guard grabs him. “Yes, I went there to kill him, but not to steal. Just to avenge myself, but in the end I couldn’t …”

“You get everywhere! Who are you, what are you?” demands the Qhazi, leaning over his desk.

“Qhazi sahib, allow me to tell you,” interrupts the caretaker again, standing up. “He’s a … forgive me, Qhazi sahib—may Allah fill my mouth with dust!—this man is a pimp. Yes, he came to the mausoleum yesterday, with a … forgive me, Qhazi sahib—may Allah fill my mouth with dust!—with a whore. I chased her out; and he, he wanted to steal the mausoleum’s money. They didn’t come to pray, they came to steal!” The pigeon flies in front of him. The judge shouts at Rassoul: “With an impure woman?
Fitna!
You know it was because of an impure woman that the holy man Shah-e do Shamshira Wali, whose sacred tomb lies in that mausoleum, lost his life.” He turns toward the others: “They say that even after he was beheaded by the enemy, the holy man continued to fight valiantly, a sword in each hand. When
he reached Kabul, an impure woman cast him the evil eye and he collapsed and gave up his soul. In the Hadiths, it is said: ‘Never let an impure woman enter a sacred place.’ And this man, he took an impure woman to this sacred place! Where the other one was stealing pigeons! What kind of Muslims are you?” He shouts at the clerk: “Write! Write that the punishment reserved for thieves shall be meted out to him,” he points at the old man, “who is accused of the theft of pigeons from within the sacred mausoleum. May both his hands be cut off.” The old man opens his mouth, horrified, unable to speak. The pigeon leaves his shoulder, flutters around the room and lands on the Qhazi’s desk. The clerk walks up to the judge and whispers in his ear: “Qhazi sahib, may I venture to remind you that according to sharia law, the amputation of an individual who has stolen something that has no owner, from a public place, is not considered a valid punishment.”

“For what reason?”

“Qhazi sahib, we asked Imam Ali if the penalty of amputation was applicable to the theft of animals belonging to nobody, from a public place, and the holy man replied in the negative.”

“Are you trying to give me a lesson in sharia?”

“
Astaghfirullah
! It was just a reminder, most venerable Qhazi sahib.”

“In that case I too will remind you of something: I am the Qhazi here. And I decree that this man’s hands be cut off.” The clerk passes a sheet of paper
and a pen to the judge. “In that case I ask you, Qhazi sahib, to be so good as to write this down in your own hand.”

“You too are disobeying me? And, what is more, treating me without respect?”

“Far be it from me to have the slightest disrespectful thought, most venerable Qhazi sahib. I merely fear that, the day when you are no longer here—may Allah keep you safe and sound in this world—I could possibly be accused of having written a decree that goes against sharia.”

“Goes against sharia? My decree goes against sharia? Get out! Gather your things and get the hell out of here, as quick as a bullet!”

The clerk wishes to speak, but the judge signals the guard to throw him out. The old man takes the opportunity to sink to his knees and beg the Qhazi, who immediately interrupts him: “Shut up, shut up! It is not recommended to make judgments in anger.” Then, to one of the guards: “Put him back in prison, and bring him here tomorrow!”

The guard takes the old man out, and the caretaker follows. Rassoul remains where he is.

“Have you brought the jewels?” asks the judge. Rassoul approaches slowly and says, “No.”

“What do you mean, no! Why did you leave prison, then?”

“Because they told me that there was nothing here for me anymore.”

“Who?” yells the judge, before calling the guard and ordering him to return Rassoul to prison. “Solitary confinement! And tomorrow, send him for amputation, and then hanging!”

B
EHIND THE
bars, daybreak appears, silent and uncertain. As the muezzins call the faithful to prayer, as the guns of vengeance awake, as Sophia lies in bed embracing her innocence, as Razmodin saves the family honor at Mazar-e Sharif … Rassoul forgets the world that has abandoned him. He is sitting in a corner of his cell. Waiting for no one. Nothing. He decides he will be mute again, and also deaf.

Yes. I no longer hear. I no longer speak.

He must write this poem down here, in this cell, on this wall. He searches the floor for a pebble or a scrap of wood. There is nothing. He’ll have to use his
nails, then. He starts scratching the words onto the flaking paint. It is hard. It hurts. He presses down. He bleeds. He keeps writing. He writes until footsteps approach and then stop outside his cell, until keys jangle in the corridor, until the door opens, and a harsh voice shouts: “Out!” At that point he stops writing and stands still, impassive, his eyes glued to the words.

Two armed men enter his cell, grab him by the arms and lift him up. They drag him silently to the courtroom. A great hubbub can be heard from behind the door: “Murderer,” “communist,” “money,” “vengeance” … The same words he has heard a thousand times; words that used to frighten or amuse him, but today simply make him deaf. He no longer hears them.