Fariba Hachtroudi - The Man Who Snapped His Fingers

“Don’t try to reach me,” he insists at the end of the tape. “I’ll get in touch with you.” His last words follow, unsteadily. He says, “In keeping with the wishes of the love of my life, my soul has been restored to me, thanks to her namesake. Vima, a blessed name which I venerate, for everything in it that is now holy.” He also says, “455, I am not asking you for forgiveness. You must not give it to me. Under any pretext. I want my wife to forgive me. But not you. In that way both of you will render justice. And in this way, other reluctant murderers will be unmasked.” I don’t follow his logic or what he hopes to gain. But to hear him call me 455 makes me tremble. The boundary between the two Vimas is perfectly clear.

It is late at night. I’m exhausted. But I listen to the Colonel, over and over, ad nauseam. And one question is preying on my mind. Did Del ever love me the way this man loves his Vima?

Before going back to the detention center I make a long detour. I stop at all the bars in the port. I drink three more shots of vodka, one after the other. They don’t do much to get me warm. Make me feel a bit lighter. I was hoping for calm but in fact I’m exhausted. She will do what it takes. I’m sure of it. She will find you, and fill you in, my Vima. You will know what you need to know, if I were to disappear… I know I’ll be risking a lot if I turn down their scheme. In Intelligence there is no going back. No more here than back there. It’s an international law. I wasn’t naïve and I didn’t trust them. I tried my luck, I didn’t really have any choice. You say we always have a choice. And no doubt you are right. The proof is that I won’t accept their mission. They think they’ve got me. They say, This guy will do anything to be reunited with his wife and children. Yes, I would accept my own damnation to be reunited with you. But those idiots don’t know you. They don’t know that I would never be reunited with you if I went back to working as an assassin. Fuck their mission, as Yuri would say. You can rest assured, I won’t lift a finger. Deep down I still have some hope, in spite of my fears. Maybe they’ll leave me alone. I’ll put it in writing, everything I couldn’t tell your namesake. My testament as a free man, if you like. Beginning with my incestuous relations with the Western intelligence agencies. I know what I have to do for my letter to reach the appropriate quarters. That doesn’t worry me. I wasn’t born yesterday. Once it’s all in writing, I’ll go and find them. And I’ll say nyet, like Yuri. I’m staying indoors. My field of operation is this office, these computer screens, and boxes of archives. It was in our contract. As soon as I say that, I’ll be good for quarantine. They’ll take away the few rights they had granted me up to now. I’ll be under house arrest and transferred to the center for undesirable asylum-seekers. No more freedom of movement until further notice. No more right to communicate however I see fit. Yuri and all the other inmates at the detention center will be interrogated and briefed. A cop with a dejected expression will inform them that their former co-detainee has infiltrated the services of an enemy government. A spy. A filthy snitch who rats on the nationals of his country of origin. They’ll ignore me, they’ll let me stew for a while. Will they give me a second chance? Will they come back to see me? Only if they think I’m worth it. I’m the first to have my doubts. Serious doubts. A man with an Achilles’ heel is prone to sudden U-turns. Weakness is fatal in this profession. Once you’ve let someone down, it’s a slippery slope. A first screw-up leads to a second, and then to a third. No, I’ve become worthless. There will be reprisals. All that remains is to find out when, how, and in what order. Enough. Let’s move on to something else. I’ll take you out this evening, my Vima. We’ll celebrate. Just the two of us, gorgeous. I’ve been thinking about you so much. You will be here, more than ever. I bought myself a fine suit. I chose one that’s just your taste. Yuri couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the pictures of me in a suit, superb! You look like 007, you dumbass. Is she the one who dressed you up like Bond? Indeed, Yuri, I was the only high-ranking officer in the Commander’s army who wore tailor-made suits. Ah, you are as elegant as a queen, my Vima. You have the wisdom of a goddess. I would need Yuri’s gift of the gab to describe you the way you deserve to be described. The honor of being your man is no small matter. You may have noticed how I often walk behind you. It’s normal. One must behave humbly in the presence of the goddess of heavenly knowledge, who knows all the secrets of all that is infinitely on high. You object. You don’t want to hear me talking like those assholes who drive us to distraction with their fucking phantasmagorical sky. All right. Let me amend that: you know that you know nothing. Just an infinitesimal part of the mysteries of the universe. Satisfied? Good. Yes, we will celebrate tonight. Together. We’ll drink to your health. Your health. I’ve been saving. My pockets are full of cash. More than enough to spend an unforgettable evening at whatever passes for a swanky restaurant in this town. I am ready, my Vima.

The letters have been signed and dated. I am dressed to the nines. And you are pretty as a picture. Your dress, the color of the setting sun, looks ravishing on you. You are magnificent. The sparkle of your honeyed eyes makes me melt. I’m sick with longing for you. Why not invite Yuri? Ah, Vima, you have always known how to change the subject when my emotions run away with me. Of course. I will ask the poète maudit to accompany us. Yes, that’s an excellent idea. But he’ll have to dress up, too. No way is he wearing his grunge jeans and his vindictive proletarian plaid shirt. He has to be an honor to you. To deserve you. The time it takes him to change, I’ll put the letters somewhere safe. In their cenotaph. We’ll go and dine all three of us at the Imperial, the grandest restaurant in town. On television they call it a hangout for jet-setters and princesses! Then we’ll go on a bar crawl. You’ve never drunk a drop of alcohol in your life, but you’ll be a match for Yuri. For sure. Down the hatch, my Vima. Down the hatch. Don’t forget, I love you.

N o news from the Colonel. Two weeks have gone by since our meeting. I check my answering machine every day. From wherever I am. I keep an eye on my inbox. Morning and evening. Nothing. Complete silence. I’ve just finished transcribing the cassette. I cleaned it up. The way he asked me to. I would like to tell him about my project. To thank him for having restored my pleasure in writing. I thought I would be incapable of stringing two words together. Now all I can think about is this book. The book of intersecting promises. The Colonel’s promise to his wife. My promise to Del. Or rather, the book of the intersecting pledges; my pledge to Del. The person I love without knowing why. The book of scarred loves. Dedicated to the person who destroyed the soul of Number 455. A message tossed into the wind. Del, why did you forsake me?

I have spent a week drawing up an outline for the book. And another week looking for titles. I’ve chosen three from out of a dozen. The Lovesick Murderer. The Man Who Snapped his Fingers. The Colonel and Bait 455. I have formatted the titles and the synopsis, and I’ve called a young fashionable editor, Lars Gunar. The friend of a friend. The only thing he has read of mine is one short story in translation, which appeared in a literary journal not long after I arrived here. He’s interested in my life. All I have to do is get started. He’ll take care of the rest. He’s definitely interested. Lars is not surprised to hear from me. He was expecting my call, or so he says. What would he say to a love story? A wild, intense, improbable love. After a few moments’ hesitation he replies, Your love story, without the political dimension — I interrupt him. I put him right, it’s not my story. But the passion of a former colonel in the Theological Republic for a high-flying scientist. The man was involved in crimes committed by the regime. And the lover… I break off. I’ll send him a synopsis. Before hanging up Lars asks, Why are you starting with someone else’s story and not your own? What I feel like saying is, Mine has been aborted, left hanging. I mumble something about a promise, a tribute to a free woman who has refused to bow down. A mirror effect? he asks. I suddenly fall silent. I am overwhelmed by Del, my heartbreaker. And I hang up.