A Curse on Dostoevsky

by Atiq Rahimi

  “Watandar, you know that a trial only makes sense if there is a legal system to ensure that rights are respected. And what has become of the law and the government these days?”

  “Are you, too, looking for vengeance?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Gandhi used to say, ‘An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.’ ”

  “He was right. But vengeance is deeply rooted in us, whatever we do. Everything is vengeance, even a trial.”

  “So the war will never end.”

  “Yes, it will. It will end when one camp decides to accept the sacrifice, and stop demanding vengeance. Which is why it is so important to yield, to come to terms with one’s acts, crimes, and vengeances … until one reconciles oneself with the sacrifice. But who can do that? Nobody. Not even me.”

  Parwaiz understands everything. He is capable of anything. Don’t let him out of your sight. It is your job to shake him up, to return him to his mission. All he needs is a sacrifice, an accomplice. You will be that sacrifice.

  “I want a legal trial. I want to be sacrificed.”

  Silence, again. It is the look on Parwaiz’s face that condemns Rassoul to silence. An admiring, questioning look. Rassoul continues: “This trial will bring an end to my suffering. It will give me the opportunity to expose my soul to all those who, like me, have committed murders …”

  “Stop thinking you are that Dostoevsky character, please. His act only made sense within the context of his society, his religion.”

  “But what woke up the West was a sense of responsibility, deriving from a sense of guilt.”

  “Mash’Allah!” Parwaiz waves his hand around, knocking over his tea. “Bless the Lord for giving them that sense of guilt, or else what would the world be!” He bursts into sarcastic laughter. “You really do want to sacrifice yourself to your fantasies.”

  “I’d prefer to sacrifice myself to my fantasies than to sacrifice others. I want my death to …”

  He is interrupted by a burst of gunfire, not far from the Wellayat. Parwaiz pours more tea as he waits for Rassoul to continue.

  “I want my death to be a sacrifice …”

  “This country doesn’t need any more deaths, any more shahids …”

  “But I’ve no interest in being a shahid!”

  Stop right there, Rassoul! You’ve already taken this too far.

  I still have things to say to him.

  Things you have said a thousand times before!

  Yes, but not to him. He will be able to understand me. He knows that the existence of Allah has no need for witnesses, or martyrs.

  If he knows that, there’s no point telling him. Finish your sermon: “I want my trial and my sentence to bear witness to these times of injustice, lying, and hypocrisy …”

  “In that case, watandar, the whole nation must be tried.”

  “Why not? My trial will be on behalf of all war criminals: communists, warlords, mercenaries …”

  There is a long silence. Parwaiz has stopped drinking his tea. He is elsewhere, his gaze lost in space. A long way away, beyond even the sun that beckons at the window. Suddenly, he stands up. “Go back to your life, watandar, and your family. Get out of here! In Afghanistan this filthy war, like all wars, has its own laws and its own rules.” Rassoul stands up too: “But you are in a position to change those rules.”

  Parwaiz stares at him for a long while, then holds out his hand. “When that happens I’ll let you know. Ba amané Khoda. Now go home!”

  HE DOESN’T dare enter his room, on account of the little shouts and laughs emanating from it. He doesn’t dare smash the joy filling his home. Silently, he inches open the door. Yarmohamad’s daughters and two other children are playing, piling up his books to build houses. Their innocent hands waltz dolls from one story to another: “Khala, Khala, give me a light!”

  “I don’t have one, go upstairs!”

  “Khala, Khala, give me a light!”

  “I don’t have one, go upstairs!”

  “Khala, Khala …”

  Rassoul remains on the threshold, warmed by the children’s gaiety, unwilling to destroy this world where no one has a light. He leaves them to act out their dreams.

  He goes back down the stairs. No sign of Yarmohamad, or Rona. He finds himself back in the street, where there isn’t a soul in sight. The insolent sun penetrates his skin, boils his blood, gives rise to strange emotions, strange feelings of inner desolation.

  All bodies are a burdensome ruin.

  All bodies need ether.

  Need hemp, now and forever.

  There is no one in the saqi-khana except Mustapha, curled up in a corner next to an unlit chillum. Rassoul greets him: “Salam!” Mustapha sits up drowsily, nods his head in response, and asks, as if in homage to his friend Jalal: “Has the war begun?” “No,” says Rassoul. Mustapha invites him to sit down. “Do you have a tali of hashish?”

  “I wouldn’t have come if I did.”

  Mustapha struggles to his feet and staggers over to the far end of the den, saying, “When Kaka Sarwar died, everyone left …”

  “He died?”

  “Yes, they killed him. One day, when he was really flying, he went to the mosque, strode up to the pulpit, seized the loudspeaker, and recited verse 18 from the Koran. You know, the one he was always quoting, the story of Gog and Magog.” Mustapha prizes a loose brick from the wall and continues. “We were here. We could hear him. We heard the shots they fired at him.” He rummages around in the hole and then with a stifled groan pulls out a scorpion by the tail. He drops it into the chillum. “This is all we have left to smoke,” he sniggers sadly. He strikes a match and sets fire to the creature. Eyes closed, he inhales the smoke and holds it in his lungs for a long time. Then he passes the chillum to Rassoul, and curls back up in his corner. Rassoul takes a brief, hesitant drag, then another longer one. It burns as if he had swallowed both the scorpion and its venom. His throat seizes up. His veins pulse like small, injured serpents trying to surge out of his skin. He drops the chillum, leans against the wall, and pushes himself to his feet. The room is spinning. Everything goes black. The door is only two steps away, but it takes forever to reach.

  Outside, the sky continues to beat down on his nerves, hard and sharp. Rassoul starts walking, more and more wasted on the scorpion smoke.

  He needs shade.

  He needs softness.

  He needs Sophia.

  You only ever think of her when you’re high.

  No, in my poetic abyss.

  Or in your monstrous agonies. That’s when you love her.

  He arrives at her house. He wants to knock, but his hand just hangs in mid-air, like his thoughts.

  What do you want from her?

  Nothing.

  Go back.

  I just want to talk to her.

  What more do you have to say? What have you said so far? Nothing. With or without your voice you have nothing to say, nothing to do, except brood on your distorted ideas.

  No, I’m not going to go on about them now, I promise. I’ll take her to the vineyards at Baghebala hill, like I used to, so our love can look out over Kabul. I’ll tell her how beautiful she is. She will blush. I will fall at her feet and finally tell her that I prostrate myself before not only her innocent beauty, but also her suffering. And she will tell me that it is a long time since I’ve spoken to her so tenderly. I will tell her that I’ve had a great deal to say to her, but that the war hasn’t given us time. And I will kiss her. She will reach out and grab my hand. I will ask her to come away with me. Far, far away. To a beautiful valley where no one has yet acquired the power of speech, or else they have never experienced evil. A valley called the Valley of Infans Regained.

  The sound of footsteps in Sophia’s courtyard drives Rassoul from the gate. Two women emerge, cloaked in their chadors; they pay him no mind and disappear down another lane. Who were they?

  Sophia and her mother?

  They didn’t see me. Or else didn’t
recognize me. I don’t exist. I am nothing anymore.

  “Sophia!” His cry does not emerge, lost in his vocal cords like before. He leans on the wall and lets himself crumple to the ground. He hugs his knees and rests his head on them. Shuts his eyes. Remains like that for a few moments, an eternity.

  Here, he will stay.

  Here, he will die.

  Here.

  And it has been years and years, an eternity even, that he has been here, at the foot of the wall.

  It has been years and years, an eternity even, that he has been waiting for Sophia.

  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.

  MY 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, wit
h 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.”