A Curse on Dostoevsky

by Atiq Rahimi

  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.

  GET 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.”

  “No, now! Come on!” they all protested. Kaka Sarwar turned toward Hakim: “But I’m hungry.”

  “We’ll buy you a kebab and some tea. Who has money?”

  Nobody moved except Rassoul, who took a high-value note out of his pocket and gave it to Hakim.

  “You will never be bankrupt!” Kaka Sarwar blessed him. “So I will tell the rest of the story to you. But first, the chillum!” They gave it to him; he smoked and passed it to Rassoul. “This woman, the head of the village, was the descendant of a great sage among sages, who lived a long time ago in a faraway kingdom. He was blind, but able to read manuscripts simply by caressing the letters with the tip of his finger. Misfortune hit him one day when people noticed that, as he read, the words were slowly being erased from the book.” He stops and stares at the enthralled faces around him. After a deep breath, he takes the chillum once more. The smoke muffles his voice: “Poets, holy men, judges … all were panicking. They hid their manuscripts for fear that they would be read by this blind sage. And they forced the king to banish him from the kingdom. The sage and his whole family went into exile against their will. He settled in the valley I was telling you about. He built a city where everyone learned everything by heart. They didn’t have a single book, nothing was written down. Because they knew it all. Books are made for idiots!” He bursts out laughing, then smokes, coughs, and continues: “They invented a new language, one impossible to forget. From then on storytellers, poets, and holy men flocked to this valley from all over the world so that the people would translate their work, bring it to life in their voices, and immortalize it in their memories. It is said that in this place even stories that had been forgotten—true and false, known and unknown—came back to people’s minds, took shape once more, reconnected to the voices of the storytellers … And this was, of course, threatening to the history distorters, the tale forgers, the falsifiers of secrets, the science imposters, the shady politicians … One day, they all descended upon the village. Invaded and destroyed it. They destroyed everything! They deafened the children and cut out the adults’ tongues. But …” a pause, a long drag on the chillum, “but what they didn’t realize was that in this valley there were not only human beings. The houses, the trees, the rocks, the water, the wind, the air, the birds, the snakes … everything in this valley could remember the people, its history, its wisdom, and also the barbarism of the tyrants!” His voice gathers pace, trembles. “Yes, everything can be destroyed, but never memory, or memories. Never!” He falls silent and withdraws from the circle to lean against the wall.

  “What happened then?” asks Mustapha, seemingly bewitched.

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “To you?”

  “To me? Oh, yes!” exclaims Kaka Sarwar, moving away from the wall. Serene once more, he continues: “My guide finished the story about his leader just as we entered the neighboring village. He left me at a hidden shrine where I could spend the night. As I gave him back his storm lamp, as I shook his hand and thanked him, I noticed that he was blind!”

  “You’re kidding!” cries Mustapha, astounded. Another young man objects: “Kaka Sarwar, you invented this story. It never happened. It isn’t true!”

  “But now it is—as a holy man among holy men from the land of the setting sun used to say—because I have told it to you,” retorts Kaka Sarwar with a mischievous smile.

  “Where do you get all these stories, Kaka Sarwar?”

  “From the Valley of Lost Words, my son.”

  “So it really does exist, then!” exclaims Mustapha.

  Another few drags: the dry tongue, the hacking cough setting fire to the chest, the blood freezing in the veins, the heart beating slowly, and the whole body flying.

  * * *

  At that point Rassoul stands up, steadies himself against the wall and leaves the smoking den.

  Outside, the city is a furnace. Everything is rippling in the heat: the mountain, the houses, the stones, the trees, the sun … Everything is quaking with fear. Except Rassoul. He is light, soothed. He walks the streets like the last man on earth, unable to catch a single eye, caress a single soul, or hear a single word. He feels like crying out that he is the last man, that the others are all dead, dead to him; and then to start running, and laughing … all the way to the Larzanak bridge.

  The bridge shakes with the explosion of a rocket not far away. But Rassoul doesn’t move. He does not drop to the floor. He just stands there, as if daring the gunmen to launch their rockets at him. Go on, fire! I am here. And I’ll remain here, in front of you. You—so deaf, so blind, so mute!

  Dust envelops the river, the bridge, the body, the gaze, the voice …

  He continues on his way, passing in front of the Hotel Metropole. It is chaos in there, too. Foreign journalists, hotel employees, and armed bearded men are all running around in a frenzy. Perhaps Razmodin is back. Rassoul enters the lobby.

  A young employee—the one who came to find Rassoul in the saqi-khana—is busy transporting a wounded foreign journalist. When he sees Rassoul he stops and removes the couple of dollars clenched between his teeth: “Razmodin is not here. He has disappeared. He left yesterday, we haven’t seen him since. Everyone is getting out. There’s going to be …” A violent explosion just opposite rocks the building. The wounded journalist is crying. He gives another dollar to the young man, who quickly carries him down to the basement.

  Outside, everyone is shooting, without knowing at whom or what for.

  Shooting.

  Shooting …

  The bullet will find its target.

  RASSOUL DRAGS himself outside, with no particular destination in mind and indifferent to the chaos of the city. He has no desire to return to Sophia’s house, or to visit his aunt in search of Razmodin—who must be in Mazar anyway, with Donia. He walks toward the Ministry of Information and Culture. From behind a barricade someone shouts: “Watch out, khar-koss!”

  Rassoul heads for the voice. A man grabs him and pulls him to safety, scolding: “You fucking idiot! If you’ve had enough of this life, go and die somewhere else; we don’t have time to dispose of your body. Where the hell are you going?” It is Jano’s friend, the one who beat him up in his room. “If you’re looking for Commandant Parwaiz, he’s not here. He’s gone to look for Jano, who’s disappeared.”
<
br />   Jano disappeared? He must have fled. He must have had enough of the war.

  Rassoul stands up and moves away from the barricade. He wanders through the shouting, the shooting, the tanks … and nothing hits him. He makes it to Zarnegar Park. Smoke hangs amid the trees. He stretches out on the grass in a corner of the park. He smokes, nonchalantly adding his cigarette smoke to that of the gunfire. He closes his eyes and lies there for a good long while. Gradually the noise fades into a prolonged and profound silence.

  Suddenly, there is the sound of footsteps approaching, skimming his head, gently penetrating his lifeless state. He opens his eyes. A woman draped in a sky-blue chador is passing right by him. At the sight of her he sits up.

  Sophia.

  He gets to his feet and begins hesitantly to follow her.

  When the woman notices she is being shadowed she slows down, stops, and turns fearfully toward Rassoul. She moves aside to let him pass. But he stops walking too. Disconcerted, she sets off again.

  Leave her alone, Rassoul. It isn’t Sophia.

  But who is it, then?

  Just a woman, one of so many.

  But what is she doing here? Why has she come to the park, especially now, when everyone is running to safety?

  Like you, she is taking refuge in the park, protecting herself among the trees.

  No, she has come to see me. I’m sure of it.

  The woman reaches the edge of the park and takes the main road toward Malekazghar junction.

  Rassoul speeds up, overtakes her and bars her way.

  She stops, afraid. She looks around wildly but there’s no one in sight. Increasingly terrified, she edges past Rassoul to continue silently on her way. Rassoul follows her. Now that she is close, he tries to see if she’s the same size as Sophia. No. What about Nana Alia’s daughter? Hard to tell. So why are you following her?

  I don’t know. It’s strange that she came here. She must be looking for someone.