A Curse on Dostoevsky

by Atiq Rahimi

  “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!

  Torn between his rage at Rassoul’s incomprehensible silence and his anxiety at the threat posed by Rostam, Razmodin stands dejected for a moment. Then suddenly he leaves, slamming the door. His furious steps can be heard charging down the stairs, hammering through the courtyard, and at last disappearing into the dust of nightfall.

  Exhausted, Rassoul shuts his eyes, but cannot sleep.

  Night falls, dark.

  It invades the room.

  And when the chorus of calls to prayer seizes the city from its sleep, Rassoul painfully opens his eyes. His head is spinning. He sits up and leans against the wall, his legs bent to his chest.

  He is trembling. Trembling with rage, fear, cowardice … with everything.

  Everything joins together in his chest.

  Swells up and bursts out of his throat, silently.

  He weeps.

  HE SLEEPS.

  Suddenly, he is jolted awake by the terrifying sound of an
explosion. Soaked in sweat, he scrambles to a sitting position and looks wildly out of the window. It is still night, still dark. The black smoke forbids the moon from slipping inside, into peoples’ dreams.

  Rassoul lights the candle that Rona has left within his reach. He drags himself to the clay jug. Not a drop of water.

  Returning to bed, he suddenly sees the bundle of notes that Rostam left in Razmodin’s care. A fly has landed on it. The bundle is just like the one Nana Alia grasped so firmly in her stiff, fleshy hand. Or at least it reminds him of that. All cash looks the same.

  Pick it up!

  After a long hesitation he snatches it, as if hoping to capture the fly as well. But it escapes back to its friends on the white napkin draped over the raw cheese and raisins.

  He stares at the money for a long time, before flinging it into a corner of the room. Out of fear, or revulsion.

  He smokes.

  He thinks.

  He thinks that maybe this cash is not as dirty as the stuff that belonged to Nana Alia after all. Or as dangerous. So why such disgust? “Egotism!” Razmodin would say. “You really are eaten up by egotism, Rassoul. An egotism based on nothing, an absurd egotism.”

  Yes, I admit to this baseless egotism. May the world know: I prefer egotism to pride. To be proud is to be proud of something, and therefore to depend on that thing. Whereas egotism is something deep, internal, personal, independent, with no external reference point. Pride relates to honor; egotism to dignity.

  Words again, pretty words. Despite everything you’ve been through and are going through, you still can’t come to terms with the fact that you need this money. That’s nearly fifty thousand afghanis—enough to save your mother, your sister, and your fiancée. Letting your family be destroyed: Now wouldn’t that be an affront to this egotism, this dignity?

  Rassoul, exasperated, takes a long drag on his cigarette, and on the exhale blows out the candle. He lies down and waits in the darkness. Waits for the dawn to rise so he can visit his cousin, and give him back the money.

  No, it is not with this money that I will save my family.

  If you say so. But with what, then?

  He tosses and turns; with his nail he scrapes a chunk of peeling paint from the wall. He did this as a boy, licking the remains of the foul-smelling paint from his fingertips; licking it in order to make himself throw up, and to stop himself from sleeping.

  He does not throw up.

  He falls asleep.

  By dawn he is at the Hotel Metropole. The neighborhood has been cordoned off and is protected by two tanks, a few armed jeeps, and several UN vehicles. Rassoul strides purposefully up to the hotel. He is stopped by two armed men. He moves his lips to form the name Razmodin.

  “What?”

  Suddenly, there is a great commotion. Men pass by carrying the body of a “martyr” and yelling: “Allah-o Akbar! Avenge our shahids!” The two guards abandon Rassoul to join the procession. He walks into the hotel. The lobby is packed with armed men and journalists, all waiting for something to happen. What? No one seems to know. Everyone is on edge. Rassoul heads for the stairs to Razmodin’s office, but is forced to melt into a corner when he sees Commandant Rostam appear at the far end of the corridor flanked by the two men Rassoul met in Parwaiz’s office—the ones who swore lifelong hatred for the commandant from Mazar. They look in good spirits despite the tense atmosphere in the hotel, and seem to be on the same side …

  Rassoul slips into Razmodin’s office. He is not there. He must have gone to Mazar, to fetch Donia. Now there’s a real man. Doing what needs to be done. Good.

  Yes, good, because it lets you off the hook.

  I’ve had enough. Think of me as a coward. A good-for-nothing. I am just a failed son, failed friend, failed enemy, failed student, failed fiancé, failed murderer … and that is all I am. Leave me to inebriate myself, to take a trip into the poetic abyss of hemp.

  And he knocks on the door of the saqi-khana. “Who’s there?” asks Hakim, the owner, as he peers through the gaps in the door. “Rassoul?” Yes. “But which one? The saint or the hash-head?” calls Kaka Sarwar. Hakim opens the door laughing, and pulls Rassoul inside. As always, the curls of smoke make everything look blurred and hazy, as in a dream.

  Hakim shuts the door and shows Rassoul to a place in the circle of smokers, next to a young man in a trancelike state. “Move up, Jalal, make some space.”

  Another young man sitting next to Jalal moves instead, saying: “Don’t spoil his high. Jalal is as high as a kite. If he moves, he’ll come down. Sit here, my friend, next to Mustapha. That’s a good spot for you.” Once Rassoul has sat down, Mustapha hands him the chillum. “Here, for you, the new arrival.” Rassoul first breathes out the sulphurous air of the city, then draws in as much hashish as his lungs will hold.

  “Our friend Jalal was born on opium. He was big, apparently. It was only the opium that allowed his mother to get him out. So he was born high on opium … the lucky thing!” As he breathes out the smoke Rassoul glances at Jalal, who looks up and murmurs: “The war hasn’t started yet, has it?” Mustapha asks in a whisper: “What are they saying outside—another coup d’état?” Rassoul shrugs his shoulders to indicate that he has no idea, and takes another lungful.

  “He doesn’t know either, Kaka Sarwar!” says Mustapha, pointing at Rassoul. “So he can’t be Rassoul the Sacred Messenger.”

  Kaka Sarwar shakes his head. “Not knowing anything about anything is the essence of wisdom. This young man has understood life. He knows everything, but knows nothing about it.”

  Another head looms out of the smoke: “It’s been years now that we’ve known nothing about anything, and the world has known nothing about us. Is that wisdom, then?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Then I no longer understand what you’re saying, Kaka Sarwar.”

  “Listen, when you say that you don’t know anything, that’s the beginning of wisdom. And when you say that you don’t know anything about anything, then you have attained absolute wisdom. Do you know anything about this war?”

  “No.”

  “Very good. You know that you don’t know. That’s a great start! And once you understand the why of this war, you will wish that you didn’t know. Come on, pass me the chillum!” He smokes, then continues: “A holy man among holy men, by the name of Attar, used to say that in the penultimate valley of wisdom—which he called Wadi Hayrat—the traveler would be stupefied, and become lost. He would forget everything, even himself.” He closes his eyes and recites a poem: “If he is asked: ‘Are you, or are you not? Have you or have you not the feeling of existence? Are you in the middle or on the border? Are you mortal or immortal?’ he will reply with certainty: ‘I know nothing, I understand nothing, I am unaware of myself. I am in love, but with whom I do not know. My heart is at the same time both full and empty of love.’ ”

  “So, are we in this valley?” asks Hakim, making the smokers laugh.

  “If, instead of asking stupid questions, you manage to stupefy us with your hashish, then YES!” says Kaka Sarwar, taking a long drag on the chillum and passing it to Jalal, who has come back to life: “So the war hasn’t started.”

  “It’s already finished. Smoke, smoke and chill out!” reassures Mustapha. Then, to Rassoul: “He’s scared of the war, you see. He’s afraid of blood and bullets and rockets. That’s why he’d rather kill himself smoking than die in the war. We’ve been staggering from one saqi-khana to the next for four days now.”

  The chillum has gone out. Jalal looks up, completely wasted: “Is it finished?”

  “The war? Yes.”

  “No, the hash …”

  Hakim moves forward to pass him another pipe. “Do you have the money?”

  “Money … Mustapha, have you …?”

  “No, dear Jalal. Our pockets are as dry as our arses.”

  Rassoul stands up unsteadily, pulls a 500-afghani note from his pocket, and gives it to Jalal. Everyone stares at him in s
hock and admiration. He takes out another 500 and gives it to Hakim to buy everyone a kebab.

  They all thank him loudly. He leaves the smoking den feeling proud and light. Lighter than air. What joy! From now on he’s going to live on Rostam’s money as he could have lived on Nana Alia’s. In dignity and happiness.

  Now I’m going to find Sophia. I’m going to take her in my arms. We’ll be married. I will take her—take both our families—far away, far beyond this realm of terror.

  He runs.

  A rocket shakes the earth under his feet.

  He runs.

  Nothing holds him back. Not gunshot, not traffic, not the pain in his ankle.

  Nothing affects him. Not cries, not tears, not the calls for help.

  He only stops when he reaches Sophia’s house. He pauses a moment to regain his breath, then knocks on the gate.

  After a long silence it opens. Dawoud. Hey, he’s not on the roof! “The pigeons don’t fly at this time of day.” Dawoud closes the gate behind them and follows Rassoul in a state of great excitement. “My pigeon came back. As soon as you left, it came back. I think it flew a long way.” He laughs nervously. “I’ve already swapped it for …” Happy and proud, he heads to the corner of the courtyard, takes something from under the pigeon cage, and brings it to Rassoul. “Look, this is what I swapped it for …” A Colt. “In good condition!” says Dawoud. Rassoul checks the magazine; it is loaded. “I got it for you …” For him? What is he supposed to do with it? “Everybody has one, except you! If you have one, you won’t die. Hide it so that my mother doesn’t see it.” Dawoud takes it from him anxiously, and conceals it under his shirt. “Your cousin came by. He was looking for you. He said he was going to Mazar.” Rassoul walks down the passage and sees a light on in the kitchen. He walks in and greets Sophia’s mother. “How are you, my son? Razmodin came by; he told us about your father. May God rest his soul and may he dwell in Heaven. How are your mother and sister?” She avoids Rassoul’s gaze. “What a journey ahead, for your poor mother!” For mourning, there is silence.