Atiq Rahimi - A Thousand Rooms of Dream and Fear

“Father, I know where you’ve been!”

He says this like he’s revealing an incredible secret, in a voice that matches the secretive look on his face.

“You do? Where have I been?”

He wriggles his little body closer to mine.

“You’ve been in the city of Pul-e-Charkhi.”

“And what’s it like there?”

He fingers the sunbeam, then traces the flower-pattern on the cushion.

“It’s a very big city with a huge bridge in the middle — and the bridge spins around and around all the time.”

“Can you remember when I went away?”

“No, because I was fast asleep. The lamps had run out of oil. My mother said you’d gone out to get us some oil. Then you got lost and nobody recognized you there. You left your ID card at home so you got stuck and you couldn’t come back. The bridge wouldn’t stop spinning. When I asked Uncle Anwar when you’d be able to get off the bridge and leave Pul-e-Charkhi, he said: ‘In a dream!’ ”

The child stops playing with the sunbeam and the flowers on the cushion.

“My mother cried. She thought you would never come back again. But just like Uncle Anwar said, at night you came back in my dreams, although you’d disappear before we woke up. So I promised my mother that one night when you came into my dream I’d catch you and I wouldn’t let you go away again!”

The child has caught me in his dream. I am a dream-creature. I am an imaginary father, an imaginary husband … So why bother going back to my life?

I leave Yahya in his silent dreams of a city with a huge bridge that spins around and around for ever, and I close my eyes only to find myself in someone else’s dream — in the feverish dreams of my mother.

My mother hasn’t slept a wink. She’s even forgotten her morning prayers. Now that the curfew is over, she ventures outdoors to wait at the end of the street. But I’m nowhere to be seen. She goes back indoors. Where else can she go? Who would know where I might have gone? She goes to Enayat’s house. But I’m not there. Then what? Which department should she go to first — should she go to the Ministry?

“Over there, Mother, wait in the queue!”

She walks past another hundred mothers to find a place at the end of the queue. She smiles at the soldier for me. She calls him “Brother.”

“Dear Brother, Farhad son of Mirdad did not come home last night …”

“Well, he’s not here. He’s gone, he’s fled with the rest of them …”

“Gone. Fled.” She repeats the words over and over between her bracketed lips. “Gone where? Fled where? Why didn’t he say anything?”

How could I possibly leave my mother, Farid, and Parwaneh behind?

My mother has never forgotten how, when my father walked out on her and left her with three children, I cursed him — his cowardice and cruelty — to heaven and earth.

“No, he can’t have left us! But where on earth can he have gone? Has the army got hold of him? Is he in prison?”

She swallows her fear, covering her mouth with both hands to stop herself crying out loud. She decides to wait it out in a corner, under the sympathetic gaze of all the other mothers …

I have to go! I get up. Yahya watches me with his penetrating gaze. I take a few steps toward the corridor.

“Father, Mother’s coming back soon.”

Right. I must leave before Mahnaz gets back. I don’t want the look on her face to deflect my intentions. Where are my shoes? I look in the corridor. They’re nowhere to be seen. Have they hidden them away? I go back to the room. Yahya still sits there in silence, smiling to himself at my feeble attempt to escape.

“Where are my shoes?”

The child gets up calmly. With a tremulous look, full of longing for me to stay put, he walks past me down the corridor onto the terrace. He returns carrying my shoes.

“My mother cleaned them for you.”

He puts my shoes down next to my feet and goes back to the room to sit on the cushion by the door and stare at my hesitant feet. The shoes are still damp. Never mind. My mother is waiting.

I hate having to walk out on Yahya. His plaintive stare is paralyzing. I move purposefully across the courtyard toward the door to the street. The door opens. It is Mahnaz.

“Where are you going?”

She hurriedly shuts the door behind her. The smell of fresh bread fills the courtyard.

“I have to go.”

“Off you go then — go!”

She opens the door a little, just enough for me to see two soldiers lounging in the street. The sight of their jackboots makes my desire to leave vanish instantly. I jerk back. Mahnaz shuts the door. We walk back across the courtyard.

“I was under the impression that I’ve been sheltering an ordinary young man who’s simply dodging the draft. But tell me, who are you?”

“Trust me, Mahnaz, I’m no one at all.”

“So why are they still looking for you?”

“I have no idea! I keep asking myself that, too. All night I’ve been thinking about everything I’ve done in the past couple of days — and nothing can explain it. I’m no rebel; I’ve got no connection to the resistance, to jihad, or to revolution … I was hanging out with a friend who was having to get out of Kabul. After we parted I was simply walking back home. Sure, it was late, well after curfew, and the night patrol caught me. But it was nothing, nothing serious … The only thing I can think of is that I made the mistake of calling an ordinary officer ‘Commander’—and that he thought maybe I was making a fool of him …”

I walk close to Mahnaz. I want to look at her discreetly.

Whether or not she believes my story is hidden under her hair. I keep quiet.

We reach the corridor. Mahnaz and Yahya go to the kitchen. I return to the room I was in. I take off my damp shoes and sit down once more on the cushion under the windowsill.

What am I frightened of? Why do I always give in to this woman? Is her disapproval more important than my mother’s anxiety? No! Then what? What’s stopping me from leaving? I’m out of here.

I get up from the cushion. My heart is pounding.

I am nobody. All I have to do is go to the Party’s district office and give them an explanation of what happened last night. I’ll tell them it’s all a mistake. I had no intention whatsoever of insulting an officer. I’d had a bit too much to drink and I was out of control. If I’ve caused any offense, I’m ready to offer a full apology.

I put my damp shoes on again in the corridor. My heart thumps more than ever.

She steps out of the kitchen into the corridor carrying a plate on a tray that gives off the aroma of breakfast.

“Why don’t you sit down in there?”

With one look into her eyes I am powerless. The decision to leave deflates into my sodden shoes. Why can’t I just tell her I want to go? Why doesn’t she understand that if anyone finds me here I am done for! And what about you? You’re a widowed woman. Your husband was a political prisoner! Are we related? No. So what kind of relationship could I possibly be having with a woman who’s not only a complete stranger but who’s also a widow? If your family finds out I’ve been here, then how on earth will you explain why you’ve given shelter to a young man you know nothing about?

Mahnaz leaves me with a head full of questions and a paralyzed tongue. She has placed the tray beside the cushion under the window and has gone back to the corridor where she disappears into her brother’s room. I return to this room and sit on the cushion. On the tray next to the cup of tea, Mahnaz has left some pills to calm nausea.

Yes, I do feel nauseous.

But not because of what I have eaten. I am sick with fear.