Atiq Rahimi - A Curse on Dostoevsky

“OK, forget his muteness. As the victim is a woman murdered by a man, according to our sacred law the murderer must not be hanged, as the price of the blood of a woman is half that of a man.” Another man stands up to protest: “That is impossible.”

“It is possible to execute the murderer if the victim’s family pay the other half of the price to the family of the accused.”

“Or else the murderer is absolved, if he gives a girl to the victim’s family…”

More people start shouting: “Where are the victim’s relations?”

“She must be avenged!”

“If she is not avenged, the spilled blood will weigh upon us.”

“An eye for an eye!”

“One moment, please!” demands the Qhazi, reciting his prayer beads as he speaks: “There are other, more serious accusations against this man. A few days ago a Muslim, caretaker of the Shah-e do Shamshira Wali mausoleum, revealed in front of the accused and witnesses that this fitna took a prostitute to the sacred site. What is more, he threatened the caretaker with a gun, in order to steal the alms money. The murderer admitted in front of witnesses that he wished to kill this caretaker.”

“The man deserves to be hanged,” cries one of the men. “He threatened an innocent?!” exclaims another. “That is a sin!” confirms the room. “Kill the caretaker of Shah-e do Shamshira Wali? Lahawlobellah!”

“That is a crime!”

“An affront to Allah and the saints!”

Amid all the racket, Rassoul feels nothing. He is impervious. He merely glances briefly at Parwaiz, who is watching the courtroom in silence. The shouts of the judge finally succeed in quieting the room. “There was a reason, at the beginning of this trial, that I told you the murderer was a survivor of the previous regime. This man confessed to me, of his own accord, that he has turned his back on the Holy Religion.”

The shouts become frenetic: “The Devil!”

“Ungodly man!”

“Renegade!”

“He deserves to be hanged!”

The piercing voice of the judge again quiets the room: “Yes, brothers, you see before you a man who, according to the Koran, is fitna , the incarnation of Evil on Earth. This requires the punishment reserved by sharia for thieves guilty of murder and for renegades. Therefore, on Friday morning, after the call to prayers, in public at Zarnegar Park, this man will have his right hand and left foot amputated, with the limbs stuck on pikes for everyone to see. Then, this fitna will be hanged and displayed for three days as a lesson to the people. The prostitute who accompanied him to tarnish the tomb of Shah-e do Shamshira Wali will be stoned. In this way we will eradicate evil from our peaceful city…”

“Allah-o Akbar!” three times.

So this is your trial, Rassoul. Satisfied?

I haven’t heard a word. What are they saying?

Nothing.

Sad and bitter, Parwaiz approaches Rassoul and addresses the courtroom. “Brother Muslims, I do admit that Qhazi sahib’s words are most pertinent and convincing. But I will allow myself a few comments. Neither I nor the forces of order arrested this man. He came of his own accord to hand himself in.”

“Why did he come of his own accord? There must be a reason!” exclaims the Qhazi, arrogantly thrusting out his chest.

“Yes, Qhazi sahib, there is a reason. I will explain it to you,” continues Parwaiz. “I have met this young man several times. The first was when my men brought him to my office. His landlord had denounced him for nonpayment of rent. That evening, he really had lost his voice. It was clear to see. And the last time I saw him was when he had regained his voice, and came to confess that he had killed a woman. He killed a madam to save his fiancée from her filthy clutches. Given the person in question it seemed to me necessary to carry out an investigation; an investigation that revealed no body, no witnesses, and no proof of this murder. No trace of it at all.”

“Like all murderers, this vicious man has destroyed all the proof,” says the Qhazi. Parwaiz walks back toward Rassoul. “If that were what he meant to do, he would never have come here of his own accord, Qhazi sahib! Given all the murders committed in our city these days, even a child could have wiped out the traces of his crime. Have we been able to arrest the killer of our young girls? Have we been able to track down the murderer who has been pitilessly poisoning our wives and children?” He falls silent to give people time to think, and to become aware of the ghastliness in which they live. Are they capable of understanding what Parwaiz is saying?

“Now, let us suppose that there was a victim. It is not for me to tell you that, according to our fiqh , homicide occurs when the victim is ma’sum ad-dam , innocent and protected. In this instance, that was not the case. The victim was a madam, and therefore liable to punishment by stoning.” No protest. “The conduct of this young man, who handed himself over to the law in order to be sentenced within the context of a public trial, seems to me exemplary. It is a dazzling lesson. If we all decided, today, on the example of this young man, to put our own activities on trial, we could conquer the fratricidal chaos that is currently reigning in our country.”

“What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Are you comparing this fitna to the mujahideen?”

“You too, Parwaiz?”

“Who are you? A mujahideen, a liberator, a leader of your people, or a lawyer for this turncoat murderer?”

“Go to hell, Satan!”

“A curse upon you, Parwaiz!”

Parwaiz stands in the middle of the room. “There was no murder. Listen to me: this is an imaginary murder, the illusion of a murder, simply to put our own behavior into question!”

“He’s a madman?”

“No, my dear brothers—not only is he not insane, he is absolutely lucid, and quite aware of his illusions. It is we who are mad, we who have no awareness of the crimes we commit!” Everyone stands up, yelling. “Listen to me! This young man is asking to be tried for an illusion…” The louder Parwaiz shouts, the more excited the men become. In the end they rush at him and surround him. It is chaos.

Rassoul is laughing.

Do not laugh. They will put you in the Aliabad asylum, with the madmen.

And where am I now?

IN HIS cell, the darkness is profound.

A fly lands on his hand. He blows on it; it stirs and flies away.

Filth!

Why such hatred and fury for this tiny creature?

Because it just bursts into this world.

It does not burst into anything. It lives in its world, because it belongs to its world. It is you who come from elsewhere. You who are bursting into a world that is no longer your own. Look at this fly; see how lightly it lives in its world.

Because it is not conscious.

It isn’t conscious because it doesn’t need to be. It just lives its lightness, its death… as simple as that.

And then it lands on his hand again. He tries to shake it off but his arm won’t move. Is it the chain that stops him lifting his hand, or the fly? The fly, for sure. It is paralyzing him. Taking over his world.

He stretches his neck toward the fly so he can blow it away again. Impossible. His body is as stiff and as heavy as stone. They look at each other. It seems to him that the fly wants to tell him something, in its incomprehensible language. Rhythmic words, almost a song: Tat, tat, tat… tvam, tvam… asi… Then it moves, flying off and landing on the wall. And suddenly Rassoul can lift his hand; it has become light. The chains have come undone without a sound. He stands up to catch the fly. On the wall he can see only its image, like a fresco. He touches it. The wall seems liquid, permeable. His hand passes into it. He doesn’t resist. The wall swallows his hand. Now his whole body moves into it. Once inside, Rassoul freezes. An image on the surface, just like the fly whose song slices through the silence of the wall. Tat, tat, tat… tvam, tvam… asi…