Fariba Hachtroudi - The Man Who Snapped His Fingers

I find him sprawled on his bed. He says, Above all, don’t ask me for news of Achilles. He adds, Fuck Achilles. And fuck Solzhenitsyn. We speak English with Yuri. When he starts his day by saying fuck, relentlessly, whenever the spirit moves him, it means he’s in a bad way. Very bad. It means he’s having a rough time, he can’t take it anymore, and don’t mess with him. I don’t know who Solzhenitsyn is. Yuri waves the book he’s holding in his hand. Mumbles, This guy will really get you down. This guy watched his bones turn rotten in Siberia. And he dishes the rot back out to you. Shoves your nose in the putrefaction that’s invisible to the naked eye. The rot in your soul and in your heart. He flings it all at you in a few words, and it works. You feel like spewing up everything you have inside, from your guts to the air in your lungs, which has turned to sulfur. Yuri has an unfortunate tendency to dwell on his obsessions. When he’s in a filthy mood he always starts with Stalin’s crimes. So I say to him, Fuck Stalin and all the Commanders along with him. Don’t feel like talking about them. Don’t feel like talking at all. Yuri gives me a sharp look. He murmurs, In the beginning there was the word. And you, dumbass Colonel, in a way, you are saying fuck the word. Maybe you’re right. I’ll bet you are right. I wonder if the word is not the source of all mankind’s woes. It’s gotta be true, you dumbass, the word drives you crazy the minute you start making sentences! You’ll go bananas trying to string them together this way and that. Your questions have no valid answers. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis and you end up with fucking hypothesis. Okey-dokey, let’s stick with silence, he says. It’s more restful.

We spent the morning sipping vodka, in silence.

I left my studio at seven o’clock in the morning. I have to run before the appointment. Not the usual five kilometers, but ten. I have to get rid of the tension that has me in its grip. I start running and I wonder if I should let him speak, or set out my conditions from the start. I’ll listen to him. But not before he answers my questions. I will say, It’s my turn to interrogate you. Or I could say, Tell me everything you know about Del. Where is he? Tell me. Otherwise I’ll leave. I’ve already been around the park four times. I still can’t make up my mind. Only two more laps and I’m done. I do four. Almost fifteen kilometers instead of ten. My muscles relax at last. My mind clears. I have to let him talk. That’s obvious. Listening is always preferable to talking. Let the other remove his veil, as my grandmother used to say. Give your response time to ripen.

I reach the waterfront in the port in record time. The sea, lacquered silver, stretches all the way to infinity. Fog sweeps low in whimsical gusts. A pearly web covers the warehouses and the boats. The tallest masts stab at the white monotony of the horizon. I’m early. Through the milky froth of fog rising in waves I can just make out the last café at the end of the pier. The door groans as I push it with my palm. The café is packed. Noisy. Fishermen perch on bar stools and stare at the television screen set up between two beer barrels. A pudgy pink commentator is describing the major offensive of some French troops against African terrorists. His brows are knit, his voice is grave, for the circumstance. The patrons are glued to the screen. They are drinking. Sharing opinions. They get excited. Gulp down one mug of beer after the other, to the health of the Frenchies. They have to crush that horde of savages, hostage-takers. Get rid of them for us, once and for all. Of them and of their intolerant and intolerable God. I stop listening to their conversations. I absorb the background noise. I meditate on the word God. A projection of the male desire for power, equally useful to tyrants and oligarchic democrats. A two-faced deity, one face protecting against the other face, which sows terror. Both sides are armed. Machetes, knives, sabers and machine guns on one side, fighter planes, bombers, and drones on the other. And this side is behind the shareholders and the weapons manufacturers… Why does the television never speak about Africa’s uranium, when that is precisely the reason why the French have gone in there…

And now the television moves on to something else. As do I. They bring me my coffee. It’s cold. I add sugar but don’t drink it. I wait.

I have only two days left. Two days until the mission. Obviously, I won’t accept. My only aim is to persuade this woman. To act as my relay. It’s the only solution. She is my only possible link with you. I don’t care what happens to me. I just want you to know the truth. So the children will hear it from your lips. And so I will receive justice. From you. The only judge whom I respect. The sentence of the Last Judgment will come from your lips. It doesn’t matter when. I will wait for my apocalypse.

I bought Yuri’s tape recorder. I’m going to record everything. It’s safer that way. I’ll give it to the girl. She’s intelligent, your homonym. Tenacious and cautious. She’s well-versed in adversity. She resisted, in Ravine. Which goes to show that if ever they start to mess with her, she’ll make short work of them, whether they’re cops or not. Their bullshit human rights aren’t worth the paper they’re written on, but she’ll know how to make use of them. She knows all about waving signs with fine slogans on them. I’m going to head over there now. I want her to tell you that I’ve never stopped loving you. It’s your love that saved me from the worst. It’s all on the tape recorder. From the first dazzling gaze to the last one, which pierced my heart. I love you, my Vima. More than anything on earth.

I didn’t see him come in. Nor did I sense him there behind my back. A ghost, yes a ghost. He’s lost weight. I only noticed it today. He’s all muscles, made of air. No wonder he slipped past my vigilance. I only sense terrestrial beings. I can sniff them out wherever they are. I perceive them, even behind my back. But when they’re made of air? I am hardly aware of them. They melt into the landscape, they go unnoticed, blend naturally into things. One does not challenge one’s doubles in brotherhood.

The Colonel is taking his time. He observes the beer drinkers one by one, then the barman. It’s time for the news. They’re absorbed in their war again. They’re taking part through the intermediary of the TV screen. The Colonel says good morning, suddenly turns around, and heads toward the door. Over his shoulder he shouts, I’ll be right back. I follow him with my eyes. He leaves the café. Looks all around him. Is he afraid he might have been followed? Is he under surveillance? Or police protection? He comes slowly back to me. With that incomparable walk. The right foot slightly off to one side. He sits down. Orders a vodka and a strong coffee. So he drinks, bright and early. I didn’t think he drank. Did he already drink back at home? In Ravine? With the torturers? In secret? After the gang rapes? What does it matter now. He empties his glass, in one go. He starts talking to me about his wife. With no other introduction.

Her name is Vima. Like me. He’s crazy about her. She’s magnificent. He specifies: physically, but not just that. She’s unique. I reply, somewhat curtly, We are all unique. He replies, No. She’s in a class on her own. Exceptional. Very intelligent. An astrophysicist. Yes indeed. He repeats indeed, twice over. His eyes sparkle when he talks about his wife’s stars and galaxies. I look at him closely and think, a high-ranking scientist has shared her life and her bed with this guy. I must look stunned. Dumbfounded. He says, as if he were reading my thoughts, I’m very proud to be her husband. The heavens hold fewer mysteries for Vima than for the Commander, who claims to represent them. The heavens belong to those who understand them. Don’t you agree? You understand me, don’t you? He presses the point. I don’t know what to say. The Colonel goes on. He can’t stop singing her praises. Piles on the superlatives. As I listen to him I wonder, distractedly, what term would most accurately express what he feels for this spouse he has praised to the skies. Pride, admiration, recognition, deference, veneration? A mixture of all of that. He breaks off to say, You wonder why I’m boring you with my wife, aren’t you? I nod. Intrigued. Because you’re part of an equation, he explains. The formula, or more precisely the word, equation, makes me smile. A distant wink to his wife? I have to know that his life changed dramatically because of me, bait 455. He corrects himself, Not because of, but perhaps thanks to you. He speaks clearly, without stopping to breathe. He pauses, then goes on to recount in great detail that winter evening when his wife Vima discovered the CD containing my interrogation. A torture session. The penultimate one. These facts, which he kept secret, make up the piece of the puzzle that was missing from his declarations to the Office. I have a better understanding now of his absolute discretion regarding his family. The freedom Vima the spouse demanded for Vima in Ravine would cost the former her life if ever They found out. She still lives back there. In the jaws of the lion. Again the Colonel says, I’m worried about my wife. He has instinctively lowered his voice, and he’s sweating profusely. I know it so well, that unreasonable, atavistic fear. We are speaking our language. We do not exist for those morons in the bar. They bellow, they’re getting drunk, not paying the slightest attention to anything around them. And yet. We are spying on them. Both of us. Our furtive gazes meet briefly. The Colonel pauses for a moment. He is at a loss for words, as he evokes the first and last lovers’ quarrel in his life. He would like to forget everything. His wife’s ultimatum. The pain of departure. The dizziness of exile. The years of futile hope. He falls silent. Suddenly. Drained. Exhausted.