A Curse on Dostoevsky

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THE MOMENT Rassoul lifts the ax to bring it down on the old woman’s head, the thought of Crime and Punishment flashes into his mind. It strikes him to the very core. His arms shake; his legs tremble. And the ax slips from his hands. It splits open the old woman’s head, and sinks into her skull. She collapses without a sound on the red and black rug. Her apple-blossom-patterned headscarf floats in the air, before landing on her large, flabby body. She convulses. Another breath; perhaps two. Her staring eyes fix on Rassoul standing in the middle of the room, not breathing, whiter than a corpse. His patou falls from his bony shoulders. His terrified gaze is lost in the pool of blood, blood that streams from the old woman’s skull, merges with the red of the rug, obscuring its black pattern, then trickles toward the woman’s fleshy hand, which still grips a wad of notes. The money will be bloodstained.

Move, Rassoul, move!

Total inertia.

Rassoul?

What’s the matter with him? What is he thinking about?

Crime and Punishment. That’s right—Raskolnikov, and what became of him.

But didn’t he think of that before, when he was planning the crime?

Apparently not.

Or perhaps that story, buried deep within, incited him to the murder.

Or perhaps…

Or perhaps… what? Is this really the time to ruminate? Now that he’s killed the old woman, he must take her money and jewels, and run.

Run!

He doesn’t move. Just stands there. Rooted to the spot, like a tree. A dead tree, planted in the flagstones of the house. Still staring at the trickle of blood that has almost reached the woman’s hand. Forget the money! Leave this house, right now, before the woman’s sister arrives!

Sister? This woman doesn’t have a sister. She has a daughter.

Who cares? What difference if it’s a sister or a daughter? Right now Rassoul will be forced to kill anyone who enters the house.

The blood veers off just before it reaches the woman’s hand. It flows toward a worn, darned part of the rug and pools not far from a small wooden box overflowing with chains, necklaces, gold bracelets, watches…

What’s the point of all these details? Just take the box and the money!

He crouches. His fingers move hesitantly toward the woman’s hand, to grab the cash. Her grip is hard and firm, as if she were still alive and keeping a tight hold on the wad of notes. He pulls. In vain. He looks anxiously at the woman’s lifeless eyes and sees his face reflected in them. The bulging eyes remind him that a victim’s last sight of her assassin remains fixed in her pupils. He is flooded with fear. He steps back. His reflection in the old woman’s eyes slowly disappears behind her eyelids.

“Nana Alia?” calls a woman’s voice. It’s happening, she’s here, the one who wasn’t meant to come. You’re done for now, Rassoul!

“Nana Alia?” Who is it? Her daughter. No, it isn’t a young voice. Never mind. No one must enter this room. “Nana Alia!” The voice approaches, “Nana Alia?”, climbs the stairs.

Leave, Rassoul!

He takes off like a wisp of straw, flying to the window, opening it and leaping onto the roof of the house next door, abandoning his patou, the money, the jewels, the ax… all of it.

Reaching the edge of the roof, he hesitates to jump down into the lane. But an alarming cry from Nana Alia’s room makes everything shake—his legs, the roof, the mountains—so he jumps, and lands hard. A sharp pain shoots through his ankle. It doesn’t matter. He must stand. The lane is empty. He has to get out of here.

He runs.

Runs not knowing where he’s going.

He only stops at a dead end, beside a pile of rubbish, the stink burning his nostrils. But he is no longer aware of anything. Or doesn’t care. He stays. Standing, leaning against a wall. He can still hear the woman’s piercing cry; he doesn’t know whether she is actually screaming or he is being haunted by her cry. He holds his breath. All at once the lane, or his mind, empties of the sound. He pushes himself off the wall to move on, but the pain in his ankle stops him dead. He grimaces in pain, leans back against the wall, squats down to massage his foot. But something inside him starts rising. Suddenly nauseous, he bends over to vomit yellowish liquid. The filthy dead end spins around him. He puts his head in his hands and sinks to the ground, back to the wall.

He is still for a long moment, eyes closed, not breathing, as if listening for a cry or a moan from Nana Alia’s house. Nothing but the beating of his own blood in his temples.

Perhaps the woman fainted when she saw the corpse.

He hopes not.

Who was that woman, the blasted creature who messed it all up?

Was it really her or… Dostoevsky?

Dostoevsky, yes, it was him! He floored me, destroyed me with his Crime and Punishment. Stopped me from following in the steps of his hero, Raskolnikov: killing a second woman, this one innocent; taking the money and the jewels that would remind me of my crime; becoming prey to my remorse, sinking into an abyss of guilt, ending up sentenced to hard labor…

And? At least that would be better than running off like an idiot, a pathetic excuse for a murderer. Blood on my hands, but nothing in my pockets.

What madness!

A curse on Dostoevsky!

His febrile hands close around his face, lose themselves in his frizzy hair, then clasp together again behind his sweat-soaked neck. He is seized by a terrible thought: What if the woman wasn’t Nana Alia’s daughter? She might take everything and leave as quietly as she came. But what about me? My mother, my sister Donia, my fiancée Sophia—what will become of them? I committed this murder for them. That woman has no right to the loot. I have to go back there. Screw my ankle!

He stands up.

Goes back the way he came.