Atiq Rahimi - A Thousand Rooms of Dream and Fear

“The commander’s going to fuck your fucking mother.”

The officer swore at me then told the two soldiers to dump me in the jeep. I was rammed in between them. The jeep pulled off. It lurched about so much I felt sick. I reached forward and gently tapped the officer on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, Commander …” I asked obsequiously.

The officer jerked round in fury screaming, “The commander’s going to fuck your fucking sister, you scum.”

I can feel cool water trickling over my face, gently cleansing the metallic taste of my blood from my lips and my nose and my eyes, cleaning away the powerful stench of shit, the heavy blackness of this long dark night. I feel movement coming back to my body, as though the djinn have fled and my soul has finally returned. I must try to open my eyes … but the excruciating pain in my temple is too much. I can feel my eyeballs moving behind my eyelids. Can I move my hands? I can. Am I awake? Perhaps.

In washing away these impurities, Parwaneh has scared off the djinn. My soul has survived the blows of those two jackbooted men, it has arisen from the filth. Now, slowly but surely, it is finding its way back to my body. My sore, wounded body. This is what they call the union of the body and soul. But now my body can feel the blows my soul has taken …

“Brother, are you feeling any better?”

“Parwaneh?”

But my broken voice is trapped in my throat.

“Can you get up?”

No, that doesn’t sound like Parwaneh.

“Who are you?”

“What?”

She can’t hear me. I must take a deep breath. Scorching air burns my battered lungs. My throat is raw with pain. I must open my eyes. In agony, I force my eyelids open.

Nothing but darkness. Am I still dreaming? Al-Ba’ith … how many? Dream within dream! Al-Ba’ith … Nightmare within nightmare! Al-Ba’ith … Blackness within blackness! Al-Ba’ith …

“Get up, Father!”

The child’s voice is coming closer. I can see his small head looming toward me. He smiles, then he turns to someone behind him.

“Mother, did you see? I made Father wake up!”

Is it me he’s calling “Father”? I try to lift my head. But my right cheek is stuck in blood and filth.

The smell of blood merges with the stench of shit, the child’s face merges with the darkness. And the darkness wins.

A child called me “Father.” What a beautiful ending to a nightmare. I wish my grandfather were alive. I would go and sit beside his prayer mat, which was always spread beneath him, and I’d tell him about my nightmare. Then, from under his embroidered cushion, he’d take out the book on the interpretation of dreams that was passed on to him by Da Mullah Saed Mustafa before he died. He’d undo the rubber band wrapped round the worn cover of the book, get out his magnifying glass, and recite a verse from the Koran. Next, he’d read to himself the sections related to my dream and, having compared them with each other, offer his interpretation:

“In a dream, a child represents an enemy. An unknown child is an enemy not yet encountered. Mud and filth indicate how terrified you are of this enemy … and cold water is a sign of the weakness of your faith.”

Then he’d take off the silver ring he always wore — engraved with one of the sacred names of Allah, “Al-Jabbar”—and he’d slip it onto one of my small fingers. He’d tell me that Da Mullah Saed Mustafa had once said that, if in the space of a single day, between sunrise and sunset, you recite this particular name of God two-thousand-two-hundred and sixty times, you’ll always be protected against the wrath and mischief of your enemies and oppressors … Al-Jabbar, one. Al-Jabbar, two. Al-Jabbar, three …

“Father’s saying something.”

Al-Jabbar … what number? This strange child, this unknown enemy, won’t let me recite. In fact this creature is not a child at all. It’s a djinn. It’s trying to stop me from counting the number of times I say Allah’s name. It despises the holy name of God. Al-Jabbar, Al-Jabbar, Al-Jabbar … Didn’t my grandfather used to say that the djinn are small, like children? Al-Jabbar …

“Yahya, come inside!”

Al-Jabbar. I can just make out the small djinn’s body as it moves around in the dark. Al-Jabbar. It’s going away. Al-Jabbar. It’s going further away. Al-Jabbar. Now it’s stopping. Al-Jabbar. I can see exactly where it’s standing. It’s standing by a door. A woman’s face appears in front of my eyes. Al-Jabbar.

“Brother …”

Is this woman a djinn as well? Al-Jabbar. Perhaps it’s a different kind of djinn. Al-Jabbar. I must lift up my head.

My head is exploding with pain. I think I’m beginning to see things a little more clearly, though I still can’t move a muscle. Every single one of my bones feels as though it’s broken, my veins have been severed, my brain turned to pulp, my muscles torn out … No, I’m not trapped in a nightmare. I’ve not been possessed by the djinn: I am dead.

“Name?”

“Can’t you read? It’s on my identity card!” I said to myself.

“Farhad,” I said to the officer.

He scrutinized my face, then compared it with my ID-card photo.

“Father’s name?”

“Mirdad.”

“Age?”

“I was born in 1337 [1958].”

“I’m not blind. That’s what it says here. I asked you how old you are.”

“Let me see, I’ll have to work it out because I get older every year …”

Silently the officer waited for me to finish my sums. Why did I start this stupid game? I have no idea. Childish arrogance. He blew cigarette smoke in my face. The sneer in his voice echoed all the way down the dark street:

“And what brings you here in the middle of the night when there’s a curfew on?”

I brought my heels together sharply like a well-trained soldier, raised my right hand to my forehead in salute, and said:

“Sir, Commander, I’m not going anywhere, sir, I’m just on my way home to my mother.”

“The commander’s going to fuck your mother.”

I am dead. This unbelievably foul smell tells me that I’m dead. After all, is it not said that, “God made man out of dirt before He breathed life into him”?

I’m dead. I’ve turned back into dirt. Maybe I was shot to pieces. The fact is, I’m neither dreaming nor possessed. I’ve died, and now I’m going through all those experiences in Imam Ghazali’s Book of the Dead.

My grandfather used to say that Da Mullah Saed Mustafa told him that — according to Imam Ghazali — at the time of death, before leaving the body, the soul flies into the heart. At this precise moment, the heavy burden of the soul crushes the chest, stifling speech and paralyzing the tongue. Like when you’ve been thumped hard in the chest and can’t speak.

Yes, I have died and I’ve been buried too. I’ve been buried in the family vault. Perhaps, who knows, I’ve been buried next to my grandfather. Or perhaps next to a child and his mother. Da Mullah Saed Mustafa used to say to my grandfather that when the deceased is interred in the grave, he first meets those people buried next to him, then the relatives who died shortly before him. Who knows? Maybe my grandfather will come to see me. He will come. He’s bound to come and say, “So now you believe everything Da Mullah Saed Mustafa said! Didn’t I warn you about the terrifying black-faced angels Da Mullah Saed Mustafa said descend upon the depraved alcoholic when he dies? And the words of the angel of death who commands the deceased: ‘You cursed soul, leave this body and flee to your wrathful God!’? This angel then pierces the soul with a spear that, since the beginning of time, has been tempered in fire and brimstone, making the soul skitter about like a drop of mercury. But nothing can escape the angel of death. The other angels arrive to haul the soul up to heaven. God orders them to write the sinner’s name in the list of the damned. Then He sends the soul back down to earth to rejoin its corpse. After that, the two interrogating angels, Nakir and Munkar, visit the grave to question the sinner’s soul: ‘Tell us the name of your God? What is your religion? Who is Mohammed?’ The corrupt soul replies ‘I do not know’ to each of these questions. So God tells his angels: ‘My creature lies. Light the flames of hellfire beneath him, and prop the gates of hell wide open so that the fearsome heat will burn him!’ And then the gravestone he lies beneath begins to press down on his chest so his ribs are all crushed together …”