Fariba Hachtroudi - The Man Who Snapped His Fingers

I didn’t sleep a wink all night. A sleepless night in a pale, wakeful sleepwalker of a city. The country has been covered in snow for three months. The sun hasn’t gone down in four months. It floods the expanse of crystallized ice. Diamonds for cutting throats. I loathe this mass of ice with its blinding clarity, its unhealthy reverberations.

It is six o’clock in the morning. I leave the center and take the train at six-thirty. A heavy mist smothers the desolate horizon of this rotten suburb. A lunar landscape, fraying as far as the capital. The fog calms me, penetrates me, engulfs my being. I become blurred, I merge with my surroundings. This suits me perfectly. I can no longer stand clarity. Precision frightens me. Definite outlines oppress me. I vacillate, stagger. Even when I’m sitting down. It’s intoxicating.

The central station is deserted. At eight-thirty I arrive outside the closed doors of the Office for Refugees and Stateless Persons. The building is a fifteen-storey skyscraper, a beehive. With hundreds of little offices. The office for asylum seekers and stateless persons is on the sixth floor. The one where I have an appointment is located on the left in a long corridor. I know my way by heart. I could get there with my eyes closed, walking backwards. You go in through a creaking sliding door. There is a Formica table on the right as you come in with three chairs, including the one for the presiding official. The only one with an adjustable back. If I were clever with a pencil, I could draw the dog-eared map that is taped to the wall on one side, the worn-out coat rack, the plastic cups, the half-filled bottle of water, the files — including my own — piled on the table. This office is actually an interrogation room that does not say its name. Prison, cell, cage, solitary, I know all that.

Killing time. Half an hour until the doors open. I’m stamping my feet to keep warm, chanting your name. Vima, Vima, Vima. I miss you, Vima. Yes, more than our little Urania. More than our fine son. Not as little as all that, Urania? A regular young lady, you tell me? Sixteen years old, already. And as pretty as a picture? I don’t doubt that. But not as pretty as you. She will never be as pretty as you. Sixteen years old! I’ve been gone for five years? I can hardly believe it. How have I managed. So far from you. From the warmth of your body. I dream of it day and night. Your breasts. Your hips. The small of your back. What did you say? The boy is a full head taller than you! Already a man. Your little man, since my escape? He had better look after you the way I did, better than I did. Otherwise — watch out. Tell me instead about yourself… About yourself, my joy and my pain. I miss you more than I miss them. Why shouldn’t I say as much? Since it’s the truth. I promised you I would never lie again. You remember, don’t you? You made me swear on the heads of our children. Lying is our calamity, you said. The country is sick with it. You said, Those damned tricksters with their muddled brains have abused us, they’re monsters. And you added, Their deception has turned you into an assassin. Don’t you remember? You were right. An assassin… In spite of myself. I was a murderer, blessed by the Supreme Commander, and saved by you. It’s true. I was like them, for years I lied to you. When you found out that I hadn’t really resigned from the Army. That I wasn’t really a businessman. That everything was hypocrisy and counter-truths, you exploded. You leave them for good or I’ll leave you, you said. You despised me, you were horrified that I was working for the country’s prisons, the most terrifying on earth. I tried to explain to you. That I had no choice. That you don’t question the orders of the Supreme Commander. That you can’t say no to him, ever. It’s a lifelong privilege, where your life is at stake. They tell you as much already on the first day. To belong to the faithful, to be admitted among the holy of holies, is a profession of faith. You no longer belong to yourself. That’s the ultimate, irreversible prerogative. A commitment you make on your own. What did you expect? That I would unveil the secrets of the Circle? And sign your death warrant at the same time? No, I kept my mouth shut the way I should. I told you, The less you know, the better. Your safety depends on it. Yours, and the children’s. And then you looked at that damn CD. And you found out. It changed our life. I begged you to listen to me, in spite of my lies. Or, rather, because of my lies. I begged you to understand me. To give me some time. I told you, I have to make myself scarce if I want to get away from those murderers. I have to go far away. Beyond reach. Otherwise they’ll kill me. All the more reason, get out of here right now, you replied. Do you realize, you were telling me to get out. You were driving me away, without a regret. You gave me that dark look, your lips pursed. I had never seen you like that. I would never have dreamt you could be so determined. Leave. Go away. Flee. To freedom. Cleanse yourself of all this filth. And then I’ll come and join you… Maybe. Otherwise I’ll leave you. I don’t want my children to have a murderer for a father. Dear lord. You were ditching me. When I think about it. You were threatening a Colonel from the Circle. A guy who could cause both the meek and the mighty to shit in their pants! A high-ranking officer from the Army of the Theological Republic — and you had him on his knees. A member of the Supreme Commander’s inner circle.

The Commander with the silver beard, whom I loved like a father, at the beginning of my career. Why did he choose me from among so many others? Why did he take me under his wing? Why did he want me by his side? I’m an ace when it comes to the latest technology and I’m a crack shot. And he is the most despised of men, surrounded by enemies. Tough men, who dream of getting rid of him. He knew this. He could tell. He admitted as much, one week before I ran away. The paranoia of the tyrant? Go figure.

I went to meet him in the little salon where he receives his loyal followers. A great honor. His eyes were shining with a strange fire. His gaze wandered, drifted, and vanished inside him with constant regularity. Never landing anywhere. The gaze of someone who is alienated, a terrible gaze, suddenly gentle in absence. He asked me to come closer, while he combed his beard with an index finger as stiff as a piece of wood. He spoke through his nose, in a scarcely audible whisper, as if he were afraid of indiscreet listeners: As soon as you finish with the prisons I will appoint you head of my personal guard. I was petrified. I would much rather go on slaving away in the country’s prisons. But how to admit it? I protested. Vehemently. I stood up to him. It’s impossible. I can’t accept it, My Lord. I am not worthy of it. I do not have the necessary experience nor the strength of character required by this honor, which I in no way deserve. He smiled. Magnanimous. Asked me if I intended to disobey him. No. Of course not. I stammered, Far be it from me, the thought of such an affront. I begged him not to overestimate me. I preferred to remain one of his humble servants. At a loss for arguments, I began to weep. Sobbing my heart out… I was trembling. I was weeping, to hide my panic. To think I had confronted enemy tanks and bombs without flinching. He placed his fingers, curled like hooks, around my head and whispered, You have my absolute trust, my boy. Your tears are an offering I gladly accept. This madman believed I was weeping tears of love. Indeed, who would dare to weep in his presence for any other reason? His claws, screwing my skull on my neck, unscrewing it, bending my neck. I let myself go on his shoulder and burst into sobs. Tears of helplessness. A raging tide of tears, and His Holiness was upset. Now he began to snivel in turn. The madman was consoling me. Caressing my cheek, whispering in my ear, I no longer trust the people around me. You will be my protector.