Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Thirst

‘Lieutenant … there is a note in this file to the effect that you volunteered for military service. You were an only child, which would have given you a reasonable excuse to stay in the reserves. But you insisted in no uncertain terms on going to war. Tell us in your own words … what subject did you study at university?’

‘Pure maths, sir!’

‘Pure maths? What’s the use of pure maths?’

‘It has all sorts of uses — and none!’

‘How so?’

‘Like pure poetry. Pure maths is like pure poetry. Like sheer poetry. It may or may not have a use. To be honest, I wanted to become Khwarizmi, but I turned into Ayn al-Quzat! I was thinking of studying astronomy but it never happened and I … was besmel ed!’

‘Lieutenant, could you tell us your main motive for volunteering to join the army?’

‘The enemy’s presence, the presence of the enemy, the homeland and a sense of duty and …’

‘Could you please describe your family circumstances to this court, fully and frankly? We are all soldiers here, regardless of our varying degrees of responsibility and rank. You had a sister, too, a medical student, didn’t you? Isn’t it true that she disappeared during the troubles?’

‘No, sir. She turned into a dove as well!’

‘A dove? What do you mean? Was her name “Dove”, or are you speaking figuratively …?’

‘No, sir, she became a dove. They took her away and for weeks there was no news of her. Sometime later, one morning when I was getting ready to go to college, as I put my foot up on the edge of the pool to tie my shoelaces, I noticed that Mahi had turned into a dove and was sitting on the roof: “Good morning, Koochik,” §she said. “I’ve become a dove! It was you who told me people can turn into doves!” As I stood there, gazing up at her, she asked me to burn her clothes if they were ever sent home. She told me they were dirty and unhygienic. She’d been a bit of a cleanliness freak since childhood, our Mahi, very obsessive-compulsive. That’s why she was studying psychiatry. Then she flapped her wings and flew off and every morning thereafter I’d hear her voice from the rooftop. But I couldn’t see her anymore. Yes, sir, Mahi became a dove too!’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Then … it didn’t take more than six months for our mother to die of grief.’

‘And after that?’

‘Before he went mad, my father moved to another province to stay with the family of his sister, who had a daughter betrothed to me, called Mahsa. ‖We called her “Dove” too. She was studying architecture. But when they rescued her from the cellar of the ruined house she didn’t have any fingernails left, from clawing at the cellar walls to try and find a way out. Three days had passed since the house was bombed.’

‘Why? Why did that happen? Was she anti-revolutionary too?’

‘No, sir. She studied interior architecture and usually did her homework in the cellar of the house, in the empty, shallow pool. In fact, that old cellar was her study. When one of the enemy missiles hit my aunt’s home, Mahsa was preparing for her thesis exam in the cellar’s empty pool with one of her university friends. After struggling for three nights and days to escape, they were weak and exhausted. And they were terrified too, sir. They found them lying side by side, with their heads on each other’s shoulders. Would you like to see Mahsa’s photograph, sir? But no, I’d better not … it’s a family photo. Her head isn’t covered. I’ll describe her to you instead. She’s got auburn hair, hazel eyes and a pale complexion. It’s a full-length portrait.’

‘So after that you decided to join up and fight?’

‘No, it was long before that, sir. Please don’t belittle me! I was already at the western front when that incident took place. No one had the heart to tell me until I went on a five-day leave.’

‘Did that incident have any effect on your mental state, Lieutenant?’

‘It must have had some effect, I guess. The dovecotes at the house were flattened too.’

‘Lieutenant! I want you to listen carefully to what I’m about to ask you and make sure that your answer is correct and precise!’

‘I’m all ears, sir!’

‘You … Mister Koochik-Kameh, nicknamed Kehtar, ayou caused the martyrdom of five of our brothers while you yourself … How is it that you didn’t feel any remorse and weren’t afflicted by guilt after your subordinates were martyred while you … survived?’

‘One, they were my brothers too. Two, I didn’t achieve that honour because I was going to be besmel ed. Three, I am not the one who has stayed behind and is being interrogated now; my soul is a dove who will fly away into the blue skies over our town after this formality. Four, my conscience is deeply wounded, and henceforth, until the end of the world, every day a drop of blood will fall from the throat of the dove that I am; a drop of blood will fall on the clay roof of this house. Five, I am a besmel ed dove. Six, don’t send me to the lunatic asylum, please don’t!’

‘Lieutenant sir or Captain sir, or fellow soldier! Forgive my asking, but we’re mates now, right? Of course, you are the commander in charge, but … I’m curious since now and then you speak to yourself … for example, this “ besmel ”, you say this word more than any other, and along with that sometimes I hear the word “dove” too … dove … before all this I liked doves as well. But I didn’t like pigeon-fanciers. When I was a kid I heard one of them had sneaked up to the rooftop of his rival at midnight, into the pigeon loft or pen, and he decapitated all of his rival’s pigeons! Because, the day before that, one of his opponent’s racing pigeons had won the homing race. The races were run like this: they’d each take one of their racing pigeons to an unfamiliar town, and the accompanying referee would count from one to ten, and on ten the pair of pigeons were released and flew off. The poor birds had to fly back to their hometown and their nest from that unfamiliar town, covering eighteen or twenty leagues in the process. On the rooftops expert impartial referees were waiting along with the friends of the pigeon-fanciers, seated or standing, in the shadows. As soon as they’d released the pigeons, the owners and the referee would get back into the car and drive fast so that they’d be back in time to see the birds return. If the car didn’t break down on the way, they’d arrive at the same time as the pigeons. The competing pigeons were usually male, as they had a strong instinct to get back to the nest and the female birds. This time, as bad luck would have it, one of the pigeons still hadn’t reached maturity and on reaching the town he became confused and returned to his roof and nest a few minutes later than his winning rival. In situations like that, a bit of skulduggery is quite normal, if you can get away with it. It is a rule that no one else’s pigeons may fly on the afternoon of a race, but even so a crooked competitor may persuade one of his mates to fly his pigeons. So when the competing pigeons reach the town, if one of them isn’t mature and experienced, it’ll get caught up among the rogue pigeons and precious minutes will be lost before it realizes its mistake, detaches itself from the flock, and returns to its own loft. By which time the race will have been lost. The referees even count the seconds; anyway, that’s precisely what happened on this occasion between the two rival pigeon-fanciers. I don’t know exactly what the stake was in this instance … they could bet anything, money or something else … for instance, maybe the prize this time for the winner was his opponent’s best bird, which the loser would have to surrender without demur, as well as paying travel expenses and the referees’ fee. Of course, the defeated rival stood to lose a lot, but most importantly his honour and pride, since he’d no longer been seen as the town’s top pigeon-fancier. So at midnight, the loser had gone up to his rival’s rooftop, into the loft, and … decapitated all the poor birds!’