Thirst: A Novel of the Iran-Iraq War (5 page)

It has also been said that ‘the basis of the religious sects of Mazdakism and the Khurramites and Batenians are one and the same!’ And that all this began with Abu Muslim, in the year 137 after the Hijra,
^‡
when Abu Ja’far Mansur Aldavaniq had Abu Muslim Khorasani assassinated. There was a man, Sunpadh by name, the overseer of Neishabur and a friend of Abu Muslim, who had elevated him and
bestowed upon him the title of commander-in-chief of the Zoroastrians. After Abu Muslim’s death, this Sunpadh rebelled under the name of Khorramdin, which he inherited from the wife of Mazda Bamdadan. And those deeds, which the vizier Khwaja called ‘sedition’, all stemmed from him and kept happening at various locations under various names. And all these were directed at Baghdad, to debase and smear the name of whoever was the caliph there at the time. And now, isn’t this just another link in the very same chain, which has simply surfaced in a different guise?

‘Did you just say something?’

‘No! Did you?’

‘All I said was jamoo.’
^§

‘Jamoo?’

‘Yes, jamoo!’

‘Why jamoo?’

‘Jamoo, yes, jamoo … but someone was talking to himself. I heard him!’

‘Maybe what you heard was someone saying jamoo … did you get the word jamoo from a book?’

‘No, I can’t even read. But I remember the name of our village as ‘Jamoo’. It’s not its real name. No matter how hard I try I can’t recall its proper name. Just jamoo, jamoo! Only this word comes to my mind and then to my lips. Jamoo … jamoo … jamoo!’

‘Where are you from? The south? The southern regions, right?’

‘I’ll have to think about that, I have to think a lot … please, some water – isn’t there any water? And this enemy soldier, can’t you untie his hand from mine? I can’t breathe. Please, Jamoo … let me untie my hand from his. I can’t take it anymore.’

‘I told you to untie yourself a while ago!’

‘I can’t, I tried, but it won’t budge!’

‘It’s better to be patient, much better, isn’t it? Just try and think of something pleasant!’

‘I can’t remember anything. I just told you so!’

‘A dove, how about a dove? You can picture a dove, right? I’ll help you, think about a dove, a dove that used not to be a dove at first. But that later turned into one!’

‘Jamoo … jamoo … that’s all I’m getting!’

‘Use your brain, man! We’re in a trench, the trench has been dug into the heart of Hill Zero. This hill used to belong to the enemy. It’s been three nights and three days since we took control. We don’t have any water, our flasks are empty; we’ve lost some of our men from this trench and now it’s just me and you and a prisoner, and we’re waiting. If you don’t think for yourself you might lose control over your actions and put yourself in the enemy’s range, Jamoo! Let me tell you this, not everyone turns into a dove. Think how a valiant warrior can turn into a dove; open your mind, be attentive! A false dawn has appeared and the sky is inching towards daylight. Think of a dove, you might have seen a dove once on the roof of your house, in the sky above your village, right?’

‘Jamoo … jamoo … jamoo …’

‘Goddammit! What about a lion, then, a female lion;
think of that lioness who might come to us – anytime now, come and find us. You know they call her the ‘lion of the desert’, roaming the wasteland to offer her milk to the thirsty and the distressed? That lioness; you must recall the lioness? Everyone at the border knows about her, friend and foe alike. No one dares shoot her, because if you do your finger will stick to the trigger and the rifle butt will burst into flames in your hand. The lioness looks at friends and foes in the same way. Blessed be the milk of her breasts, which are like a mother’s breasts; a spring that never dries up. Think of her, think of the breasts of the lioness, bursting with milk. She roams the desert in search of thirsty people; she goes in search of the fallen. You should be able to think of her, surely! You’ve heard stories about her, everybody has. A lioness? Doesn’t it remind you of anything, this image, the picture that’s painted by this description?’

‘Jamoo …’

‘Someone is speaking to me, can you hear it? Isn’t anyone speaking to you? Can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear anything?’

‘Jamoo …’

And you, soldier?
Anta
?
La Asmaa
? Anything?’
^‖

‘Atash … al-atash ya mola!’
^a

‘But I … I … what strange loneliness! And silence … this silence … this silence! Disaster always follows silence. The enemy lies in wait at six o’clock. Advancing, its tanks will be blown up by our land mines; in retreat they can’t
help but drive over the corpses of our men. So I have to focus on the enemy being shattered. I can only pray for destruction from the sky. I mustn’t let my heart think for my brain! I must think like a warrior. Here I am a warrior. A fighter! I have to think of killing and not being killed. Once I’ve convinced myself that I’m a warrior, a fighter, then all I must think of is killing and not getting killed. When I declare myself a warrior, I separate myself from other aspects of my being. I won’t refer to what I’ve read or to any prior knowledge, unless it’s related to history. Just history; for history is the breeding-ground of crime, the blood-spattered arena of crime; and I mustn’t let my heart get the better of my brain. They are killed, we are killed; that’s all there is to it! But … I can’t abandon this young man to the fatal thirst he’s suffering from. My heart won’t let me spare him a bullet and free myself from the weight of his presence on my conscience. It’s heavy, it’s weighing down on my soul, but I can’t! Why can’t I? Who would I have to answer to for it? Who is there to seek permission from? What guarantee is there that I’ll stay alive myself under this hail of gunfire and fear? But if I can’t spare him a bullet, I’m sure I’ll keep suffering from this delusion that a pair of eyes is watching me the whole time. I can hear a voice, and see images … images; I see images in my subconscious. You! What about you, boy? Have you gone mute at the worst possible moment to lose your power of speech? What has happened to you all of a sudden? Maybe his blood has thickened and is not flowing to his brain properly? Maybe … how can I know? Maybe that heavy bombardment that came down behind the hill has unsettled
him and the shock of it … I don’t know! He’s so young, I’m talking to you kid, can you hear me? It’s quiet everywhere, can you hear? Can you see the false dawn? Your eyes can see, can’t they? Have you gone blind too? I told you the lioness was searching for us, I told you the lioness would find us. I told you that she feeds milk to the enemy captive as well. She doesn’t differentiate between you and me and them, so just take care of yourself until she arrives. First she has to attend to the wounded, do you understand? Keep a grip on yourself. This is a battleground, a warzone, and you are a warrior! If you pull yourself together, I’ll tell you how a human being can turn into a dove. A dove. A white dove. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Jamoo … jamoo … jamoo …’

‘Put your hand down! Put your hand down, boy! Okay, then, I promise I’ll personally untie your hand just as soon as I can. I’ll free his hand from yours. But let’s wait until it’s light so I can see what I’m doing! Wait … I might send him to the trenches behind us. But right now I can’t do anything, understand? Nothing! Just put your hand down! The boy’s gone mad from thirst! What should I do with him? Patience, be patient boy!
Itikaf
.
^b
Think you are in the meditative trance of
itikaf
. But stay alert! Give me your weapon. Quick! That’s an order, give it here! I’m giving you an order. Quick! Point the muzzle down towards the ground. Very well, I’ll keep it for you. I’ll keep an eye on your captive too. Though there’s no life left in him either.
Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit? Get some rest! Have a quick catnap! You do understand this order, don’t you? Take a nap while you’re still on your feet then! As in with your eyes open! When it’s time, I’ll call you to attention with a punch! And don’t repeat that word “jamoo” again, or I’ll go crazy, which would be to no one’s advantage. It will be bad! Very bad! Understood? So now lay your head on this clod of earth and lie down. You too,
anta
! Like two brothers. Until I figure out when this false dawn is going to break. My arms and legs are stiff … I must exercise them a bit … but … but … the sound … sound … what’s that sound? I have to think, I must think, think. Someone once told me that you can get yourself out of a dead end by thinking. I mustn’t succumb. I’ll think … about … a woman …’

A woman, a young lady whose face gradually emerges from particles of light. A picture in a rectangular frame with a sky-blue background. She wears a black chador. She’s young, her face tawny-white and beautiful. She has been mourning … she’s still dressed in widow’s weeds. There is no tremor in her voice, but she sounds unhappy all the same. She has no name. There are many widows whose names remain unknown. She speaks plainly, plainly and precisely. Always at night, it always happens in the night. The lady says it was at night that he arrived. He had waited until it was nighttime to return. He didn’t want the neighbours to see him. He was wearing a uniform. His clothes were smeared with mud and dirt and here and there there were stains I could not identify. His clothes were stained
with tar as well. His hair was unkempt. It was only from his brow, cheeks and eyes that I could identify him. When he came to the door, he just stood there. I looked at him enquiringly, why don’t you come in? At this, he looked down, drawing my attention to his boots and the bottoms of his trousers. They were caked with mud and dirt up to his knees. I took his hand and told him I’d wash them for him … I led him into the room – at this point grief forces her to stop her narrative, yet still she remains composed. She swallows her sorrow in a moment of silence to prevent her eyes from welling up with tears. A glass of water is on a tray next to her. She takes a quick gulp, revealing nothing but a hand up to the wrist from under her chador, then she is ready to continue. Now the light particles have dispersed somewhat and the copper tray and the glass of water can be seen clearly, along with the cushion resting against the wall. All eyes remain transfixed and all ears sharpened to hear the simple story that is being recounted. Truth in its purest form is always simple. Now I realized why he had waited until late at night to come. He didn’t want the neighbours to see him in this state. He said pretence is vulgar. He said there may be some people who could have gone to war but didn’t. He said that one should not embarrass them. I sat down to untie the laces of his boots, but he wouldn’t let me. He said he had the knack of untying them. I brought him his own clothes. When he took off his boots, he removed his socks too, picked them up and went to the bathroom and half-closed the door. I asked him to drop them in the laundry basket, I told him I’d wash them for him later. I heard him say, ‘Alright, so you’ll prepare
something for us …’ But he never completed his sentence by saying ‘… to eat’. Instead, he emerged that instant, without having showered, wearing his old civilian clothes, which were too big for him. He put on a pair of slippers and said he would be back soon, then went straight out of the door and I heard him close the courtyard gate halfway; he didn’t close it completely. He knew he shouldn’t speak of dinner. When I asked where he was going, he said he just had to deliver a message quickly. I knew even if he had a message to deliver he would have done so before coming home. I was on the point of saying to him that we could go to my mother’s for dinner, but he was already gone. I don’t know how much time passed before I came to my senses, took a plastic tub, placed it under the shower, poured some washing powder into it and waited for him to return to empty his pockets himself. Then I put the clothes in the tub to soak and started cleaning his boots and scraping away the tar that was stuck fast to their soles. I tossed his socks into the tub. How heavy his boots were from all the mud and tar stuck to them! I had to put a plug in the floor drain so the tar wouldn’t get down the pipes and clog them. As a result, the bathroom floor became awash with black, tarry water. Once I’d scraped off as much muck as I could, I propped the boots against the bathroom wall, and that was when I caught sight of him through the narrow opening of the door, standing in the middle of the room, on the exact same spot where I’d been standing when he left. He seemed to be looking at his newly clean boots. I heard him say ‘Come on, dinner will get cold!’ There was a smell of kebabs and basil; I ran and spread a tablecloth
on the floor. He said he’d been lucky to get there just in time, he had been the last customer and these were the last skewers. I didn’t ask. I knew there was no money in the pockets of his own clothes. He hadn’t touched the pockets of his uniform either, so … He looked at me and I at him and we both sat down to eat. He brought over a jug of water and glasses and I didn’t like to ask why there had been so much tar and mud stuck to the soles and ankles of his boots. And he spoke little. Very little.

There was an explosion … Suddenly there was an explosion!

Dirt and sun and soldiers, the trench and the dirt and the sun and an explosion – the confused chatter of various automatic weapons, the sound of continuous firing from anti-aircraft guns, bodies blown into the air and ripped and torn apart, human frames, annihilation, instant craters. The film seems to be running so fast that it’s impossible to estimate the time. Perhaps the entire duration of the explosion was just a few moments, maybe less than thirty seconds. And then a discourse begins on the heroism of a man, a young man whose wife thought he looked like an innocent child as he stood in the middle of the room holding bread and kebabs wrapped in newspaper. And the screen of imagination shows the face of a man who had a soft and sparse beard and tawny skin, a little too pale, and his gaze is so bland that he seems oblivious to the presence of the camera; he’s about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. This is the same picture as the one that’s propped up in a niche in the room, resting against the wall between two old tulip-shaped lamps. The colour slowly
drains from the man’s face and is replaced by the profile of the young woman, who fell silent at some point and who now resumes: