Fariba Hachtroudi - The Man Who Snapped His Fingers

What can he possibly know, that representative of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, about the contradictions in the twisted minds of the Inquisition? Without me — nothing.

The floor gives way beneath me. I stop on the threshold of the tiny room and gasp. My usual translator is not there. The lady professor of Asian languages from the University, the genteel pensioner, is not there. The little woman with her singsong, peaceable accent, her salt and pepper hair, her kindly smile. She is empathetic. She understands fugitives. Feels for them. Doesn’t judge them. All she does is translate their pain. I used to find her odd, even suspect. In her book, survivors are always victims. Without distinction, she explained one day, with the same kindly smile and tender gaze which I no longer found suspect. She thinks the way you do, my dear Vima. She thinks I’m a victim. She is a balm for my aching soul. The woman who is now sitting in her place—455—cannot, will not take me for a victim. I look at her and try not to falter. Not to keel over. Not to faint. It was 455 I just ran into outside the building. But I didn’t recognize her then. Which is not surprising. She was in disguise. Her hat pulled down over her eyebrows, a scarf over her mouth. Dark glasses. In a way she has always been in disguise. Who could fail to believe in the Almighty’s bad jokes now? You used to say, with a laugh, that God plays his best tricks without warning, to punish us. You who never believed in the God of other people any more than you believed in mine. Nowadays I believe in your God. It is your God, the god of numbers and probabilities, who is making fun of me. Yes, there is nothing surprising about the fact that I am now face to face with this woman. The woman sitting next to the official, strung as tight as a bow, is none other than 455. The legend of section 209 at Ravine. She is replacing my kind translator, the professor of Asian languages. Can you believe it? She was the pasionaria of Ravine, as wild about her husband as I am about you. The innocent woman. A martyr of the resistance who was never sanctified. She should have died. It is to you that she owes her life. Yes, she always wore a good disguise. For me, at any rate. Like all the female prisoners. Her face hidden beneath a hood or a burlap bag. But I also saw 455 without her hood, blindfolded, in the torture chamber. A human wreck, flat on her face after the beating. Her torturers were relentless. She seems to be in fine shape now. Sitting only a few feet away from me, motionless. I’m freezing, but my guts are on fire. A desire to throw up, my guts burning with acid. Do your god’s sarcastic remarks make any sense to you, dear Vima? You keep up with what goes on in the skies — can you figure out this message from the Creator? Whether it’s my Creator or yours?

Here in this room, Prisoner 455 from Ravine is no longer in disguise. I’m the one who is, with my face plain to see. I can overcome my confusion, elude my memories, defuse the shock. I step forward, confidently. I was properly raised. I know how to control myself. And I have one advantage over her. She doesn’t know me.

She is sitting to the right of the head interviewer. A little ways behind them. I am facing them. As usual. In the dock, in a way. The head man looks me up and down. The translator pays me no attention. Her eyelids are lowered, her sidelong gaze is aimed at my legs, or the floor. I can sense her hatred. The way my superior could smell the fear rising off of me.

The head man’s pale eyes drill into my pupils. He has placed his broad hands, as white as a corpse, flat on my file — a big binder with several cardboard volumes, the red ones on the top of the pile — and he says, you understand our language fairly well, but you don’t speak it. Isn’t that right? I don’t reply. I nod. He continues, We are going to begin, if you have no objection. Again I nod. We are going to go through your statements point by point. I hold his gaze. Is he capable of reading my thoughts? Do I have any choice, Mr. Fucking Stupid Human Rights? If only I could spit in his face. He smiles, and says, My colleague will motion to you with her hand when you have to stop. I stare at him. Without blinking. Something that makes people uneasy. I know from experience. He remains unruffled. Not the least bit impressed. I don’t like the looks of this guy. Maybe he’s new. In any case I’ve never seen him before. Maybe he’s a cop. Probably, surely. Yes, without a doubt. There’s nothing of the petty civil servant about him. Unthinkable. We live in a democracy, Colonel, and not a tyrannical regime, my lawyer would say. He can be incredibly extravagant, that gentleman lawyer of mine. I don’t know if he’s pretending or if he really believes the fairy tales he tells me. Someday I’ll tell him as much. For me it’s definite. That guy reeks of the fuzz. I have a nose for these things. Years of experience. The head man presses his point, indicates a pause is necessary so she’ll have time to translate my declarations as we go along.

I’m tense. My back is stiff. My neck is aching. Temples pounding. I’m sweating. A tension that reminds me of Ravine. And my worst memories. I feel trapped. Caught in a snare. The director is going to realize. I’m going to lose my grip and my job along with it. Why the devil did I agree to fill in on this assignment? Stop. Get on with it. Think. I’m garbling my words. Repeating them over and over. I hang on, ingurgitate, steep myself in words, syllable after syllable, until they become meaningless. I’m shooting up on onomatopoeic phrases, about to overdose. Have to go on. Have to hold up. Finish the job. Right to the end. Don’t look at him. Above all. Control your voice. Don’t betray yourself. The mental training of a former jailbird. It works every time. I feel calm again. I tell myself he doesn’t know we’re from the same wretched country. And he won’t suspect it if I avoid looking at him. People think I’m Mediterranean — Italian, Greek, Spanish. They often tell me that. And the accent from my native region, at the edge of the country, confuses my compatriots. They take me for a foreigner who has a marvelous mastery of their beloved language. I’ll stick it out. Whatever the cost. That son of a bitch won’t unnerve me. He might even contribute to my healing. If healing is not just an illusion. I have to put the past behind me. My shrink tells me as much, at length, at every session. No, he doesn’t say put it behind me but rather deal with it, confront it. Yes, he tells me I have to confront my past. Well there you are, dear shrink, my past is staring me in the face. Calmly. As if it were nothing at all. There it is, my past. I’m about to start chatting with one of those men who destroyed my life. One of those bastards who killed the child I was carrying. He’s there before me. We’ll see if I have the nerves to deal with my past. I’m listening, says the director.

He’s listening to me. The cop is listening to me. No doubt about it, he’s a specialized agent. I don’t take my eyes off him. The woman translates. Her eyes down. Maybe she can’t look people in the eye. She’ll be wearing the blindfold of the political prisoner for the rest of her life. It’s depressing. I feel defeated, exasperated. So it will never end. The past will adhere to me. I have no right to a future. This woman’s presence is the best proof of that. There’s no such thing as coincidence. It doesn’t exist. I ask the guy, Where should I begin? Tell me, rather, what you want to hear, that would be easier.

The Colonel is starting to get annoyed. Already with the first questions. His voice is trembling. He’s already told his story a hundred times. His work. The reasons for his escape. The itinerary of his escape. How he spent his time the week before his escape. His — The boss interrupts him. He says he may have already told them all that but he has to start over. From the beginning. He is there to verify the contents of his deposition. It’s procedure. He has to repeat one more time what he has already said a hundred times. He speaks calmly, slowly, distinctly. I translate.