Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Thirst

‘No! Because in their own opinions, these young men have defended their characters and honour in one way or another, and consequently committed murder. A premeditated murder, carried out with whatever objects they could lay their hands on, at the exact time of the day when they were sure all the other prisoners would be asleep. And even if a person, or persons, happened to be awake, they pretended otherwise to allow the murder to be committed.’

‘Why would they pretend to be asleep?’

‘Because nobody liked the victim.’

‘Why not? How is it possible for a group of people not to like one of their own?’

‘So many questions, Mr Katib; and I’ve no wish to break your heart or, God forbid, disrespect you in any way. The story follows two distinct paths from here on in: what really happened, which you’d be well advised not to enquire about; and what I’ve already explained to you, at least in part, the rest of which I’m going to tell you now. Take a look at this photograph. It’s of the victim. Neat and clean, with a shaven head and a tidy beard. He has been murdered in the prime of his life. I’ve put his turbah §and prayer beads on his chest in this photo. As you can see for yourself! Now, I feel sure you’re going to ask me how a prisoner can be so plump and hearty? I will tell you as much as I can — please don’t press me further — but he was given an officer’s ration. He was chosen as the prefect of his prison wing, so on the night of the murder, like any other night, he knew he didn’t have to shave his beard, dry or …’

‘Or with his face wet with urine from the buckets, in order to shave with one of the two dull razors!’

‘Your attention to detail is beginning to intrigue me. Very well, I will pretend not to have heard what you are implying but merely add that the murdered man had permission from the prison camp to — if required — lead communal prayers and arrange certain ceremonies. Look, I don’t have to tell you this, but I will anyway — you should know, in confidence, that the only way anyone listened to what he had to say was through coercion.’

‘I see!’

‘And what exactly is it that you see?’

‘The truth of the story.’

‘Just hang on a minute … I trusted you and explained a few facts to you in confidence. You know well enough that divulging military secrets in time of war is a serious offence. So, get this into your head: the ‘truth of the story’ is whatever the prison camp office chooses to tell journalists, authors, the Red Cross or any other busybody! And you, my friend, should just listen to the truth I’m impressing on you and take a good look at the face in this photo. Even after suffocation it’s still recognisable. There’s a short pamphlet written in his own hand, as well. I hope you don’t suspect us of having any hand in writing it, or of imposing our view in it — no way! He was trying to pass it off as some sort of religious tract. We have a sample of his handwriting in our archives. We didn’t prevent it from being written and we provided him with pen and paper, a standard procedure under human rights law. Go on — read it for yourself. Have a look at this little pamphlet. You have my permission. Go ahead and read it at your leisure! The president would like the main points of this pamphlet to be mentioned in your article. We attach the utmost importance to it, since it alone will provide damning evidence against our enemy. What do you think of it?’

‘Indeed! You could easily have got yourself a job at homeland television, sir, no problem! I can see you preparing hours and hours of television for viewers to consume every month.’

‘It’s very kind of you to say so, seyedi . ‖After all, we do a bit of thinking too in our profession. It’s rather taken for granted in this job!’

‘Marvellous!’

‘You’re not being facetious, I hope?’

‘Absolutely not … twisting the real motives behind an act of violence which has been carried out through the collective will, then fabricating reasons to turn a disaster into a desired outcome — that’s what I call a truly inventive and artistic piece of work!’

‘Well, I think so too. But what is key is that my version of the story is to the benefit of our country and detrimental to the enemy. By publicizing this story we can demoralize enemy troops. It’s indicative of a servile state of mind, even in prison, with a written text as evidence! I don’t expect promotion for myself, but if this event is well publicized and broadcast by the public media, I’d hope that my — what shall we call it? — “creative input” might be acknowledged in some small way. And, of course, your pen would have the honour of recording all this!’

‘My pen! Yes, of course!’

‘Yes … I’m sure you’re well aware that throughout our history, the pen and the sword have always been close companions.’

Sword, sword, sword … yes, the movements of the two flies begin to look a bit like swords too, as they criss-cross one another in the air — and then suddenly both of them land on the black telephone, and become invisible against its background. Sword and pen. It could be that, up until then, Katib had not paid much heed — or really focused his attention — on the colour of his fountain pen. Now he spent another moment contemplating his fountain pen and turning it between his fingers. Homeland! Homeland, he thought. And suddenly he remembered that he hadn’t given any thought to where exactly the hill in his story was located in his native land. Hill Zero, Hill Zero. And the soldiers who had been ordered to defend the hill with their lives, how many had they been to start with and how many were left now? Seven, maybe, there were originally seven of them, he decided. He reckoned seven or even five men would be enough to defend a small hill, maybe even as few as three; and in this situation, when should he deploy the reinforcements that were waiting in the rear, still all standing and fully equipped? What was their situation right now? He felt lost. ‘I’m confused, confused,’ he muttered to himself. The two flies would not let him concentrate, and … he thought that he ought perhaps to describe a false dawn appearing behind Hill Zero, and in order to move on, finally, from that repetitive sentence that seemed to lose its meaning with every passing moment, a blot on a white surface, it occurred to him that he should fetch the bilingual captive out of the trench. Maybe he’d then be unshackled. Having thought that, the author immediately fell to wondering whether his pen might even be able to prevent the prisoner’s death. And again he wiped the sweat off his brow with his colourful handkerchief and laid the tip of the fountain pen on the paper after the quotation mark and proceeded to write: ‘thirst, hunger, the feeling of being threatened, and the jumpiness of men who for a long while have been digging foxholes into a hillside and repeatedly having to take cover while carrying full or empty flasks …’ He reflected on the fact that it might not be clear from this whether they were still alive or not. What a dead end! And now I’ve completely lost track of my characters!

* During the Iran — Iraq War (1980–88), Saddam Hussein’s Iraq was fond of referring to the conflict as the ‘second Qadissiyah’, a reference to a battle in AD 636, when an Arab army under the Caliph Umar and Saad Ibn Abi Waqqas, a companion of the Prophet Muhammad, defeated the forces of the Persian Sassanid Empire. This decisive engagement led to the Arab conquest of Persia.

† Arabic, meaning ‘author’.

‡ Arabic, meaning ‘Farewell, O Master of Writers!’

§ Turbah is a small clay tablet used by Shia Muslims during the daily prayers.

‖ Arabic, meaning ‘sir’.