Fariba Hachtroudi - The Man Who Snapped His Fingers

I order two more coffees. And a double vodka, he says to the waiter, in a weak voice. I let the silence and the vodka take effect. Then I ask him the question I was bound to ask: Am I in his debt? No, he replies. I do not owe him anything, in any case. He adds, In a way I’m the one who is in your debt. Is his wife in danger? He hopes not. He made arrangements before he fled. She has been repudiated. She has had nothing to do with the traitor, the fugitive. She was interrogated. Exonerated. He says, She’s strong, a tough character, like you. And for once the Colonel blesses the power granted to man thanks to the reign of God. I say, All you had to do was snap your fingers and you were divorced! He looks at me, startled. He laughs. I smile. The atmosphere becomes more relaxed. It does us good, both of us. He says, But you know, you can never be sure of anything in the Theological Republic! What does he want from me? He wants me to write. He says it again, intensely, Yes, write. I say nothing. He says, I read you, I had to. I pause to think. Oh, yes, he must have read the draft of my novel. The only personal text I did not burn and which they confiscated along with all the rest when Del was arrested. A few pages of a great love story. Left hanging. Or maybe he read only the little tales about the djinns which I made up for the guard in Ravine. In any case he thinks I owe him this favor! Caught off guard, now it’s my turn to be at a loss for words. His request is so strange. Abrupt. What am I supposed to write? What his wife needs to know. He is afraid. Afraid he may never see her again. Even if the Office decides to grant him his papers at last, she could only join him after a year has gone by. He is sick, he has to have an operation. The doctors… I stop listening. I don’t believe him. He’s lying. It’s pathetic. I know he is. He knows that I know. He’s in fine shape. But he’s afraid. His fear is palpable. Illness is just a pretext. If the Commander’s services find him, they will kill him. For sure. That’s what he’s afraid of. I have to ask him. I hesitate. Think better of it. He won’t answer. No point wasting my breath. But it disturbs me. To know he is hunted, the way I was, the way Del and his friends were — it upsets me. Hunted, that’s what the entire country is. Now the Colonel is one of the hunted. He has been reinstated as a citizen. We have become full-fledged compatriots. But what about the past? Can you just erase it with a swipe of your hand? And that pool of putrefaction he waded into, without blinking an eyelid? The stench of it? The blood spilled before his eyes, the urine and cum the captives were forced to swallow, and he didn’t lift a finger? The deep reason for my empathy is not politically correct. It is the lover in him who has disarmed me, inspired me, impressed me. The feelings which animate him make me think of Del. My beautiful love. He should tell me about him now. But I remain silent. I ask nothing. My lips are sealed. Like in Ravine. I’m afraid of what I might find out.

Anger washes over me. I’m being ridiculous. The Colonel is not Del. They have nothing in common. I hate this man. I must hate him. What would he have done if they had taken his own wife as bait? No, I don’t want to forget who you are. How can a shitface like you lay claim to my understanding? I look at him. His eyes are veiled. His gaze is unbearably gentle. Which only kindles my rage. He is imploring me. Do this for my wife, who saved you. And suddenly the truth explodes before my eyes. I feel the shame burning my cheeks. I feel the implacable sting of jealousy inflame my being right to the roots of my hair. I am jealous of this Vima. Jealous of the love this reformed assassin feels for her. With his gentle eyes. Indeed, Del is not the Colonel. Did he ever love me? The sensitive spouse. The sublime man. The literary friend. Refined. The adored one, who abandoned me. Perhaps it is the same as the tenuous link between love and torture. Torture, like love, destroys, distorts, and transforms. Indubitably. Love, like torture, alters bodies. From precipices of torment. Both love and torture mortify the soul deep in one’s inner chaos. Where the self disintegrates. Driven to such an extreme, a monster is transformed into a man of conscience, and an idealist into a turncoat. Where is Del in this equation? Where am I, actually? Repulsion. Compassion. Toward Del. Toward the Colonel. Toward myself. Feelings that pull me this way and that. Men whom I confuse and who confuse me. I feel my heart leaping from my chest. And the pain is stifling me. In a hoarse voice I say, I don’t write anymore. I don’t want to write anymore. The Colonel seems desperate. His voice grows hard. There are sparks in his gaze. He says, You owe us your life. You can’t abandon us. I feel a vice closing around me. I am propelled back to Ravine. Torturers, rape, blows, spit, insults and then deliverance, the moment the man sitting opposite me snaps his fingers, after so many years of mystery. He is right, I have to agree. Those who have known the suffering that is Ravine can no longer prevaricate. I cannot, must not say no to him. I say, I need some time. I have to think about it. He replies that there is no time. The man believes he is doomed. Now I’m convinced. I say nothing more. I’ve already agreed. I look at him, and blink. All right, I’ll do it.

He takes a little tape recorder from his pocket and puts it on the table in front of me. It’s all here. Above all, don’t lose it. It’s the only copy. He’s embarrassed. He stammers, It’s a bit repetitive, a bit muddled, but it’s clean. There are no lies, only the truth. Clean, a word that addicts use, which goes to show how dependent this man truly is. The Colonel coughs, brings me back to his presence. I’ll let you finalize this for Vima, he says. You’ll do it, won’t you? I blink, but I don’t say I’ll do it. He gets up. He has to go. I say, Wait a minute. He changes his mind. Sits back down. My voice runs away with me. Where is Del? Where and when did he get the note to you, telling me to leave? Where is he? Where is my husband? I repeat my question, stupidly, for fear I might burst into tears. The only answer I need from him is to hear him say, He didn’t betray you. Del isn’t a stool pigeon. I would like him to swear that to me. And then for him to assure me that Del is going to come and be with me. That it’s only a question of time. A few weeks. A few months at the most. I feel my throat swelling. My tears are flowing, drowning me. He says, It was a long time ago, I don’t remember the exact date, then he stops in the middle of his sentence. He’s run out of inspiration. I can hear the temptation to lie in his hesitation, his breathlessness.

I had been waiting for that moment right from the start of our meeting. I had prepared myself for it. A smooth explanation. The standard phrases. And now I feel stupid, at a loss. I don’t know what to reply. A lie that offers relief: is it ever justified? A pathetic dilemma. I give it some thought, then say simply, Everything he did was because he hoped to save you. This answer, which has come from my conscience, is neither a lie nor the truth. Just a possibility. Because no one other than Del himself will ever know whether he sold his comrades. And if he did, did he do it before his wife’s arrest or after? Did he try in vain to obtain a safe-conduct for her? The mystery will remain intact. There have been hundreds of arrests in recent years. There has never been any coordination between different prisons or even between different sections of a same prison. The authorities went berserk whenever anyone escaped, with the ensuing chaos and panic. And their rage was becoming counterproductive. They acted in a compulsive, paranoid manner. It became common practice to kidnap baits and hold them in reserve, just in case, then torture and eliminate them the moment they became a burden. The machine had gotten out of control and was operating in a closed circuit. No one seemed to know how to stop the hemorrhage. Under these conditions, how was anyone supposed to know when or why Del might have betrayed his comrades? I look at her and say again, with conviction, Whatever he did, it was for you. She says nothing. She doesn’t believe me. She is weeping. In silence. Quietly. Not making a scene. Not a single feature on her face has changed. A marble statue, a cascade of tears. No doubt this was how she found relief in Ravine. Beneath her hood stinking of filth and hatred. I say to her, I am convinced of this, and I tell her about my meeting with Del. I dwell on the last few minutes. How he hurried to catch up with me to add their coded word at the end of the letter. To be sure she would leave. So she would be safe. So she — She interrupts me. Runs her hands over her face. Wipes away her tears. Mutters, Safe? Says the word over and over as if she doesn’t understand what it means. Safe? Safe? She is gasping. And where is he? Wasn’t he supposed to join me? He didn’t keep his promise. Why? You must know! How can I tell her that I know nothing? Or that I don’t know enough, or that I know too much to be able to speak about it? That it would be better not to disclose convictions that are not necessarily justified, but which undoubtedly would cause irreparable hurt? How can I tell her that a man who fails to accomplish his dreams will be driven to renounce them? That it is himself he abandons, not others. I could go on about this topic for hours. I know a thing or two about it, after all. But how could I tell her that the worst betrayal is to one’s own self? I don’t have the courage to say, Vima, this burden is too heavy. One has to be alone to bear it. Far from the gazes of others. How can I make her understand that a man who is marked by guilt cannot confront a woman to whom he has caused so much suffering. What right does he have? To hold forth about such things would be as useless as it is indecent. Truth which causes pain loses its truthfulness. And besides, what do I really know? I’m merely trying to compromise as best I can. I’m wasting my breath. She asks me, Is he all right? I think about her husband, how decrepit he had become, old before his time, and I reply, He’s all right, Vima, as well as can be expected. Not a word, obviously, about the little boy I saw in the rearview mirror. The little boy he had with another woman. I go on, He isn’t… he’ll never be the man you knew, ever again. But he will love you all his life. No one can take from you what you had together. Your salvation is his. If you begin to enjoy life again, he too will live a bit better. He will feel it, he’s bound to, instinctively. She looks at me. Takes my hand. The contact of her skin is like a flame, burning me inside. This is the first time a woman has taken my hand in all the time I’ve been in exile. Five years.