Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Thirst

‘Where are you taking me … this child? In which part of the city are we, you and I? In which alleyway or avenue?’

‘We’re in an empty street. You’re utterly dishevelled and clutching a half-full bottle, and I’m gripping you under your arms so you won’t fall headfirst into the gutter and hit your head against the pavement. I don’t want you to get hurt, Katib. I must take you back home in good health. The soldier has been dismissed, he’ll go off and sleep for an hour or so and come and pick us up early in the morning, when we’ll all drive together to my base at the detention centre. I wish we could conclude our business tomorrow, Katib. I’ve been entrusted with this responsibility and I have taken it upon myself to discharge it to the best of my ability. Now it’s you who must choose between me and our foe, between our homeland and our enemy. Maybe you’d like to read an Arabic translation of some Ajam sonnets to me until daybreak; or you might see fit to quiz me on the topic that you’ve been detailed to record and write about. Or why not try asking me about any details that you’re still unclear on. As you can see, I’m wide awake and in a good mood and in the magazine of my pistol — I say this just so that you know — I only have one bullet whose time and place of discharge is in my complete control! And now we’re in a familiar part of town, the katib alley. And the door of your house is still half closed. We must appreciate the value of security and authority. You will not deny a guest entry, will you? There isn’t much time left and I can climb the stairs quietly, and with your permission I will lie down for an hour on this bench next to your bookshelf. Watch your step, let me bring this bottle for you. Thank you!’

‘But … but … I intended to use a white flag … I mean a shirt tied to the top of a stick, and so solve the problem of thirst for both sides. The same trench … the same lonely captive … I was planning to persuade the corporal to stop being so stubborn … to take seriously the threat of dying beneath tomorrow’s infernal sun and … realize that the forces to our rear — what’s the proper term for them? That’s it, back-up forces — have been annihilated and gone up in smoke … that the enemy has exacted vengeance and these, these two arid hills are only occupied by two advance scouting parties from each side, and there is no way out for either of them. In any event, until a new military strategy is devised there is no way out. For them, a dead-end has presented itself and they have to think of a solution … find a way to reach the water tank, before it is destroyed by a wayward shell. Why can’t you understand? Either someone must come to their aid, or they must think of a plan to save themselves or else … they will perish! So what becomes of individual wisdom and resourcefulness in combat? What would you have done, Major? What would you do when your communication lines are cut, when behind you everything is in ruins and it’s been seventy-two hours since any water has entered the soldiers’ bodies? When one after another they succumb to dizziness and fainting and death? Why won’t your obstinate corporal do something? Why has he pinned his hopes on the chance that his bullet will find its target if the enemy goes mad from thirst and charges out of the trench in the direction of the water tank? He’s insane, isn’t he? Why don’t you desist from this madness? The enemy has lost five men for the sake of water. No commander, whoever he is, would allow the sixth person to be sacrificed trying and failing to reach the water tank. No doubt he will look for another solution and seek another strategy and … killing that sole captive will not provide an answer to the corporal’s problem! The idea that I have, my scheme, is that the remaining captive should take off his shirt and tie it to the top of a stick. He then advances towards the water tank, with the flasks wrapped around his neck like a collar. What do you think, Major? Huh? That way, maybe the other side would respond in kind and send out one of their prisoners to do the same. A white shirt on a stick, what do you reckon? They’d live … all those still remaining would survive. This one-off action in such a dire emergency can’t be against the rules, Major, can it? Well? Has sleep taken hold of you, then? Right! So who have I been talking to all this time? Myself, it seems! You might have thought about leaving me in peace in the first place so I could have got on with my writing! It’s gone now, though, my urge to put pen to paper! Why don’t you leave me be, oh … curses upon everything that has distracted me! I was on a totally different plane of thought before you came along … No, I mustn’t even think such thoughts! Even if I had that pistol of yours with its single bullet in my hands, even if this wasn’t my house, and I was sure that this portly figure snoring on my bench was my enemy, even then I couldn’t bring myself to shoot. Not a chance. Even the knowledge that the bullet is waiting there in the magazine for me cannot make me commit murder! I fully understand his undisguised threats, but even so I prefer not to let the thought of murder enter my head. I’ll just take that bottle out of his hands now; I’m sure he won’t wake up. Easy does it … yes, that’s it. I could draw the pistol out of its holster just as easily and he wouldn’t feel a thing! But I shudder at the thought of my hand grasping the butt of the gun, I really do! It is a vexing and irksome thought and I can’t put it from my mind whenever I feel as though he has put his hand on mine, and is squeezing the pen between my fingers and compelling me to write about a subject whose truth is utterly remote from my imagination. The perverse story that he has concocted inspires nothing in me. They … they came up with this plan themselves, I’m well aware, and arranged the whole thing. But they still want to publish it under my name and signature. Isn’t that right, Major? Isn’t that what you want?’

‘Water … water … I want some water … I’m thirsty, Katib. A sip of water!’

‘Water, water here too!’

‘And my pistol … pistol!’

‘Pistol … pistol … pistol!’

* Reference to a line from a poem by the 14th-century Persian poet Hafez: ‘My master said there were no errors in the act of creation / Praise be to his pure fault-concealing regard’. This is a philosopher’s response to his master’s optimistic view of the world and its creation.

† The Barmakids were an influential family from Balkh in Bactria who attained positions of great power under the Abbasid caliphs of Baghdad. Barmak’s son Khalid became vizier to the first Abbasid caliph, while Khalid’s son Yahya was a key confederate of Harun al-Rashid, the fifth caliph. In turn, Yahya’s son Fazl was made governor of the province of Khorasan (in modern Iran) and showed great benevolence in dealing with the people there. Yahya’s other son, Ja’far, was appointed head of the caliphal bodyguard and manager of the postal service, the mints, and the textile factory. Later Harun al-Rashid’s relationship with the Barmakids deteriorated due to unknown reasons and he had most of them arrested or killed. According to one legend Harun al-Rashid’s anger was caused by Ja’far’s secret marriage to the caliph’s sister, Abbasa (Encyclopaedia Iranica).

‡ Arabic, meaning ‘guard’. Mirharis means ‘head guard’.

A PISTOL, YES! A pistol.

On this side of the border, on the lower slopes of the Alborz Mountains, the man who was smitten by words *had grasped the meaning of ‘pistol’ for the first time in the form of a slap, a pistol-whipping across his face. This was the first time he really came to comprehend the concept of pistol . A short time later, however, the meaning changed for him; when he read somewhere or heard it mentioned that pistol can mean a revolver, as well as an automatic handgun. The small and compact kind of gun was the one he’d seen in the hands of cinematic conquerors; whereas the larger, heavier and longer sort, strapped to the waist, directly above the right or sometimes above the left thigh, was the type used by Western conquerors in former times. A muzzle-loading rifle, a Hassan Musa rifle, †a Brno … other names of this kind then came flooding into his empty mind. And after processing this information, it gradually dawned on him that, ever since the invention of lead bullets along with a device from which they could be fired in order to kill people, human beings have become nothing but statistics and can hardly be called ‘people’ anymore. And consequently, honour, kindness and humanity are now redundant concepts. For this new invention can be aimed and fired at anonymous individuals known as ‘targets’.