Atiq Rahimi - A Thousand Rooms of Dream and Fear

I descend without a moment’s hesitation, without even asking myself — or her — what I’m doing.

I enter a rectangular-shaped hole, closely followed by the ghost, who squeezes in next to me. The woman closes the door above us and we hear the scratching sound of straw being scattered over our heads. Or maybe no one else hears this but me.

Who is this ghost? Her husband? Or just an unknown passerby like me, whom she has sheltered and cared for? Maybe I’ll stay here too, like him and, like his, my hair will also turn white. What can she want from us?

They’re banging on the front door. The ghost’s breath comes faster, heavier. The smell of the shit on my shoes cuts through the dank, underground aroma of the hole. The sound of jackboots echoes faintly from the courtyard. The ghost whimpers quietly to himself, very quietly. Beads of cold sweat break out on my forehead and slide down my nose, one by one. I feel liquid lap around my feet. The ghost whines more urgently. A current of warm, moist air rises from the ground, then the sharp tang of urine. The ghost has pissed himself. His moans get louder.

Quite a cocktail: piss and shit; soft moans and sharp breaths; pain and pitch dark.

Buried alive, here in my grave.

My grandfather used to say that, according to Da Mullah Saed Mustafa, the evil deeds of sinners and infidels turn into blind and starving wolves that come to visit them in the grave. The wolves then ravage them until the day of judgment.

Or they turn into filthy, rancid pigs that rut and torture them …

Yes, I am a sinner. And to torture me now that I’m dead, they’ve sent down an angel who is blind and deaf so he can neither respond to my cries of agony nor witness the pain etched on my face.

Where is the winding-sheet inscribed with my sins?

“Brother?”

If I ever open my eyes again — I open them — there’ll be nothing to see but the usual darkness … and here it is. Alongside the identical stink of shit and piss and sick, the changeless reek of the grave … the familiar moans of the white-haired ancient-young man … the blind ghost, the deaf ghost … and the woman who tells me, “Brother, come on, you can come out of there!”

Again I must move. But I can’t. Again the woman must sprinkle my face with water; my eyes must open; I must raise myself out of the grave of this tight box-shaped earth burrow; I must climb stairs, tread the dark and endless passage, return to the tiny room that isn’t mine, collapse onto the floor … and I must hear the woman tell me:

“Brother, the soldiers have gone …”

And then I must close my eyes, again.

I come around to the sound of pitiful whining. I open my eyes. Nothing to be seen. I put my hand on the floor: no shit, no dirt. The thick pile of a carpet. The moans are more urgent. A door shudders open; yellow light floods into the corridor; a shaft falls into this room. The light moves. Another door scrapes open and the light is gone. The plaintive cries come to a stop. A soft glow bathes the corridor.

I’m very thirsty. My throat is on fire, my head is pounding. The putrid smells of shit and piss and sick and blood and wine still cling to me. I need to drink some water. I get up. The gentle light from a half-open door leads me on, light that has abandoned this room full of pain and instead has banished night from the heart of the corridor. I reach the door. The oil-lamp rests on the threshold. At the other end of the room the mother of the child who called me “Father” is sitting on the floor. She has taken her breast out of her blouse. Her nipple is in the mouth of the white-haired ghost, who is sucking like a baby.

I close my eyes. I take a breath. I open them. No, I’m not dreaming. The ghost is sucking on the woman’s white breast. I want to move. I can’t. My feet are fixed to the floor. The ghost closes his eyes. The woman tenderly lifts his white head from her breast and rests it on a cushion.

She mustn’t see me. I have to go. But I’m transfixed. She tucks her exposed breast back inside her blouse. I’m frozen to the spot. She gets up and walks toward the door. I break out in a cold sweat. Picking up the lamp, she steps out into the corridor. The ordeal of the night sinks onto my shoulders. She stands in front of me. I am paralyzed. She says nothing.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask.

The woman tucks her hair behind her ear. There’s not a hint of nervousness, surprise, or shame about her. Holding the oil-lamp aloft, she leads me to a small open door, goes in to put down the lamp then comes back into the corridor.

“I’ll go and find you some clean clothes and a towel.”

The mirror scares the life out of me. In its reflection I see a ghost whose hair has not yet gone white. Is that really me?

I toss my filthy clothes, covered in blood and vomit, into a corner, take the lamp, leave the bathroom, and go back to the room.

The woman is sitting on the cushion by the door. Neither the sudden light of the oil-lamp nor my return stops her from staring at the carpet. Her head hanging down, her hair, as always, curtaining half her face. She is silent. I leave the lamp close to the door, within her reach, and moving very carefully so as not to disturb her, I go over to the cushion under the windowsill. From the corpse of the old candle, a new light burns. I sit down. My shadow trembles on the opposite wall, over the woman’s body.

I gaze, transfixed, at the black lines on the carpet, haunted by the desire to cast a quick glance at her. Is her breast still uncovered?

We sit in silence. Each of us waiting for the other to speak. Should I say something? But what? Who are you? Why have you mixed me up with somebody else? Why won’t you let me go? All these questions, right on the tip of my tongue, make my heart pound, my stomach churn, my throat seize up.

I’m spellbound by the patterns on the carpet. I must say something.

“Sister, I can’t begin to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But the truth is, I have no idea what on earth has happened to me! Yesterday …”

“My son, Yahya, and I were sitting outside on the terrace when we heard a jeep pull up, and then soldiers cursing and shouting — followed by the sound of someone being kicked and punched. After they’d gone, I went into the street and found you passed out in the sewer.”

My mesmerized gaze, now freed from the patterns on the carpet, falls instead on the flowers printed on the cushion beneath her. But it lacks the courage to travel any further up her body …

“Yes … I was out late. After curfew. I was on my way home … I’ve caused you so much trouble … I really should be going now.”

The woman’s hand is hiding a flower on the cushion.

“You should stay here till morning; we can sort things out tomorrow. You’re safe here — they’ve already searched the place thoroughly so they won’t be coming back. I have a suspicion it was you they were after. They said a burglar had gone to ground around here. They’ve turned the whole area upside down.”

My gaze, stricken with guilt, moves hesitantly upward, away from the woman’s hand covering the flower pattern.

“They were looking for a burglar?”

Her blouse is done up.

“Well, they had to come up with something to convince us to go along with the search.”

One half of her face is hidden by my shadow, the other by her hair.

“I have no idea why they arrested me and beat me up. All I did was forget the password!”

Releasing the crumpled flower on the cushion, her hand lifts her hair from one side of her face, and tucks it behind her ear. And I shift my head away from the candle, lifting my shadow from the other side of her face.