Fariba Hachtroudi - The Man Who Snapped His Fingers

Only sticklers for detail, and the most determined, dared to defy the anonymity of Ravine’s torturers. To differentiate if not distinguish a faceless ghost whose body is reduced to a pair of feet — for that is all that is visible, under certain angles and at rare moments — requires unflagging patience. Heroic, flawless vigilance. I spent hours on the trail of those insignificant little details which could identify a person’s walk. The way they took their momentum, then the position of the foot, before, during, and after each kick delivered to my side, or another woman’s. The symmetry or asymmetry of the feet — spread, together, parallel — when the guy began to piss on me or my neighbor… I can recall the pedal identity of some of them. The dragging slide of the least ferocious guard, whom I eventually managed to win over. He brought me paper and a pencil, and I would write down stories about djinns for him, something he couldn’t get enough of. For the best stories I was entitled to a blank sheet of paper. For me alone. They fired him after three months. I swallowed all the sheets with the poems I had written for Del. One day a garden will grow in my belly. With bushes and flowers made of recycled paper, page after page of ragged words of love, words that have been flayed, and I fear they are repugnant, scribbled with tears of blood. I also recall the jerky, careless walk of the three rapists — criminals who were pardoned in return for services rendered — and whom I infuriated with my silence. I could recognize them today by their footsteps alone. I had the time, ample time, to observe the awkwardness of men unused to military boots. Consequently, they were the only ones who walked around barefoot after they’d done their job. To relax. To stretch out their arches, which were numb and needy after all the kicks they’d delivered. Toward the end of my imprisonment, by means of a multitude of painstakingly classified details, I could anticipate their depraved mood, and how they would set about breaking me. Just one glance at the knots in their shoelaces, or the absence of knots, was enough to inform me how the roles had been distributed. Who would beat me, who would rape me or masturbate, with his prick in my face, who would stand back and have a smoke and play the voyeur. I could tell down to the last detail which one would use my body as an ashtray. Whether he would decide to stub out his cigarette on my navel, or whether he would go for the anus.

But the passage of the man who had come into the interrogation room a few hours before my transfer was too brief. His feet only crossed the demarcation line of my visual field for an instant. I noticed, or thought I noticed, the particularity of his walk because his right foot was slightly twisted. This image, the last one granted to me to see in Ravine, remains blurry. A rather vague memory of the feet of a lame duck. But a persistent memory. Shaped, perhaps, by imagination. It’s not impossible.

Sitting astride, hands bound by handcuffs behind my back, the blood pouring from me. From everywhere. From every hole in my benumbed body. My nose. My ears. My mouth. My vagina. There were three of them laying into me. Beating me. Taking turns. I was waiting for whatever was next. One of them might masturbate between my breasts, the other would piss on me, or the other way around. The door creaked open. Someone snapped his fingers. I had blood in my eyes but I could see his boots. Perfectly polished. The laces tied American-style. I saw that he was holding his feet the way an actual soldier would. He snapped his fingers again. My torturers in their grubby slippers disappeared from the few square centimeters that were visible from under the blindfold. The boots of the finger-snapping man reappeared. Planted there before me. I picked myself up, to prepare for the next round of blows. Nothing. No brutality. Just steps creaking behind my back. All four of them were behind me. Moving around. One of them grabbed my hands. The other removed my handcuffs. The sound of metal thrown on the floor was stifled by a roar. The head rapist. The one who opened the ball, announced the news, got the ball rolling. You’re going to be transferred, you filthy whore. Good riddance. You were starting to piss us off. You don’t talk. You refuse to confess. Too bad for you. I felt like shouting in his face, To hell with you! That would be too great an honor. I said nothing. I thought, Better to die than to betray. What did you expect, you little rat? That I would hand my love over to you? I’d rather disappear. They put the hood over me. Then the burlap bag on top of that, stinking of blood, piss, cum. Out you go. They shoved me outside. I could hardly stand. The man with the boots stopped me from falling, helped me out. I thought, The silent woman of Ravine is going to die. They don’t need her anymore. They’ve already killed her love. Del has been executed, that’s all. That’s why there’s all this commotion. From the hell that is Ravine you can only be transferred to the devil. That’s what this is all about.

I collapsed. I would have so liked to believe in the hereafter. That way my death would restore me to my love… Were they taking me directly to the slaughterhouse? A summary execution in the middle of the night? Like thousands of others sent to the devil by the snapping fingers of the Supreme Commander. No one would be any the wiser. That was what I hoped with all my strength. I wanted to get it over with. Someone, down here, or up there, or with the devil, had heard me. They were going to shoot me in the mouth. That was how they executed those who refused to confess to their crimes. Yes, I was going to die. I felt calm. At peace. The thought of my mother scarcely affected me. She would receive a certificate, stamped by a coroner in the pay of the regime. My death would be certified authentic. And I would sleep. At last. For a long time. With or without Del. It hardly mattered now. The lack of sleep had driven me crazy. I wanted to rest. I wanted to know the serenity of oblivion. Silence, I would sleep for all eternity. Peace in my body and in my mind. No more rape. No more cigarettes on my nipples. No more urine and sperm in my face.

I was curled up in a ball on the back seat of a Patrol. I recognized the sound of the engine. We were going incredibly fast. Destination: deliverance. Was it the finger-snapping man who was driving? Had he been assigned to finish me off? Or had he entrusted me to one of his underlings? I couldn’t hear him. It was as if he wasn’t breathing. As discreet as a Sioux, driving like a madman. Fine by me. Let him hurry. Fast. Faster. I can’t remember anything else. I must have passed out.

Tell me how you walk and I will tell you who you are. The Colonel has returned from the toilets. I am trying to concentrate. I’m staring at the ground, following his steps. His left foot, not his right, slightly turned out… No, it’s the right foot. I’m getting muddled. It’s hard to tell. I can’t concentrate. I’m out of practice. My eyes have gone lazy. He sits back down. The boss tells him we have nearly finished. The Colonel doesn’t react. He’s resigned. And I feel calm again. I must have been hallucinating. Yes, that’s it. I should never have agreed to fill in for someone else.

It’s been a rotten day, my Vima. Quite a blow. I wish I could swap my life for a few hours with you. I don’t like the way things are going. That cop from before never opened his mouth, and I have a bad feeling about him. Not a word at the end of the interrogation. Other than the usual bullshit: We’ll keep you informed. When? Will it take long? Can you give me a rough idea? Nothing. The man knows nothing, and won’t decide a thing. A rotten day, my Vima. And then, what am I to think of this incredible coincidence? What to make of it? Why have I found myself face to face with 455 from Ravine? Isn’t it a sign? Of course it is. But it’s not a good sign. I’m not particularly paranoid. No one could suspect me of any connection with this woman. No one. Her, of all people. But I believe in signs. Unlike you. If these human rights gentlemen found out that their translator owes her life to us, I could view this coincidence, which is not a coincidence, as a good omen. A good point for me. But can you see me saying to them, Hey you, do you know where your colleague is from? Do you know how she landed in this country? And even if they do know. Even if they did listen to me, they would never believe that I was her savior. As for her, it would be astonishing if she could envisage such a thing. I’m depressed, Vima. I’m afraid I’ll never see you again. I wish I could turn back the clock. I even envy the murderer I used to be. The happiest of men, when he took you in his arms. I have a fever. The way I always do when I relive the inseparable events of my redemption and my misfortune. Five years already, as if it were yesterday. Five years I’ve been in a coma. Sick with missing you.