A Curse on Dostoevsky

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“RASSOUL?”

He returns to his senses and turns, panic-stricken, toward the voice. Sophia and Nazigol are standing in the doorway, looking at him in shock. “What’s happening to you, Rassoul?” asks Sophia, taking a step toward him. He paces the room, distraught, peering anxiously into every nook and cranny. No trace of his crime.

“Have you been in this room before?” asks Nazigol curiously. “My mother always used to lock it. No one apart from me and her were ever allowed to set foot in here.” She turns toward Sophia. “When did you last clean this room?”

“Never. She always cleaned it herself.”

Rassoul looks at the window he used to escape. It is closed. He is so shaken that he almost faints. Water! He turns toward Sophia, miming drink. “Yes, wait!” she says, murmuring to Nazigol as she runs out the door, “he’s very unwell just now.”

Rassoul stares at Nana Alia’s daughter as she rummages through the cupboards. More and more curious, she wonders aloud: “Could she have taken all her jewelry with her?” Then she leaves the room to look next door. Sophia comes back with a glass of water and gives it to Rassoul. He drinks. Slowly, not so much for the refreshment as to give himself time to think before Nazigol returns.

How to explain or justify entering the room?

If you could, you’d say that a long time ago, when Nazigol’s father was still alive—for this must have been his room—you’d brought him documents from the National Archives belonging to Sophia’s father, etc.

Come back, blasted voice!

“Surely she didn’t take all her money with her?” wonders Nazigol, looking suspiciously at Rassoul and Sophia. After a moment’s heavy silence, Rassoul rushes into the corridor, followed by Sophia. “What’s the matter, Rassoul?” Nothing… nothing! He waves his hands about as he runs down the stairs. “What’s happening to you? Are you OK? You seem so strange,” she insists. He stops dead, thinking how to make her understand that he has no voice to tell her what’s going on. But Nazigol is following them, she’s there, behind Sophia, asking them: “What should I do? Where should I go? I don’t know if my mother will come back this evening or not.”

“Come on, we’ll go to my house.”

“No chance, Mother will curse me if she comes back and finds the house deserted. But where on earth has she gone? I’d better go to my uncle’s place, and find out if he knows anything…” She suddenly looks at Rassoul. “Can you stay here till I get back?”

“OK. Go on, then…” replies Sophia, sending Rassoul into a panic. There’s no way he can stay here, no way! His eyes say no, confirmed by his hands. But Nazigol begs, and Sophia decides, saying “Go on, go!” and then to Rassoul, “Let her go, that’s not nice.”

And why are you resisting, Rassoul? Let her go. It will give you time to rummage through the house, and find a clue to help you solve the mystery.

It is Nazigol who is the mystery. She is no innocent in all this. I’m sure of it.

Let her go, then!

Nazigol leaves.

Sophia gazes at Rassoul lovingly, but his mind is elsewhere. He waits for Nazigol’s footsteps to fade away down the street. “Where are you going?” cries Sophia, following Rassoul back into the room. “What on earth are you doing?” Rassoul is searching the room. “Don’t rummage through their house. That’s not nice. If they come back…” He gestures at her to go downstairs. More and more upset, she remains at the door. “No, Rassoul, you’ve no right to do this. Tell me what you’re looking for!”

You must respond, Rassoul. You can’t get out of this so easily. You’ve got to tell her everything.

But how? This isn’t the time.

She’s finding you more and more weird, abstruse…

So much the better!

What if it that woman in the sky-blue chador really was her?

He stops scouring the room and glares suspiciously at Sophia for a long time, almost aggressively.

“What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that? Why won’t you tell me anything?”

Silence. Staring. Suspicions…

She leaves the room, exasperated. He goes back to his rummaging—inside the cupboards, under the table, in the drawers, beneath the sofa… No trace of the things he left behind yesterday: no jewelry box, no money, no ax, no patou. Nothing. He sits on the rug and runs his hand over the spot where the corpse lay. It is clean and dry. Is this the same rug? Who could have arranged such quick, efficient cleaning? It all seems the work of a professional, not two young girls like Nazigol and Sophia!

Disconcerted, he stands up and is about to leave the room when his gaze falls on a box on top of the wardrobe. He opens it, but finds only six packs of Marlboro cigarettes. He takes one and returns the box. But what about the other five, who is he leaving them for? He takes the lot.

As he passes the half-open door to the kitchen, he spots a plate of food on the table. He walks in, starving, picks up a big handful of sticky rice, and stuffs it into his mouth. It isn’t good. He spits it out on the plate. Then he carefully inspects the room. He still doesn’t find anything to give him any kind of clue as to what has happened. He grabs the matches that are on the table and leaves. He lights a cigarette, and takes a long drag. Outside, he finds Sophia sitting on the terrace steps, staring at the front gate. Still frightened and furious, she asks: “What’s going on? Why won’t you say anything?” Rassoul, waving at the air with his hands, tries to express how weary he is of the question. “Lost your tongue, have you?” Yes, he nods, knowing Sophia won’t take him seriously. “What were you looking for up there?” He exhales smoke in her direction. “Cigarettes?” He looks at her and sits down, preoccupied. A thousand questions run through his mind. What time did she come here, yesterday? Did she see anyone? It couldn’t have been before the murder; otherwise, Nana Alia would have told him she’d come.

No, she can’t be the woman in the blue chador. If she was, she would never have agreed to stay in the house.

But she didn’t stay to protect the house, or for your sake. She wanted to be alone with you. You’ve never had that opportunity—a lovers’ tête-à-tête! She has a thousand things to tell you. A thousand things she’d like to hear from you…

Sophia’s loving gaze rests on Rassoul’s lips, obscured by a curl of smoke. “You said you didn’t want to smoke anymore.” He drags harder on his cigarette and blows the smoke into her hair. They laugh.

Sophia’s laugh; what a joy! He adores that crystal-clear laugh, innocent and so fragile it falters under the slightest glance, the smallest of movements, but still it lights up her eyes.

The faraway sound of bullets and rockets doesn’t disturb the peaceful silence that has settled between them.

Sophia shyly puts her hand on Rassoul’s knee, in the hope that he might take it in his, stroke it, that they might delight in this loving moment. But his hands do not move. They are trembling, dripping with sweat.

“Have you decided to stop speaking?” asks Sophia desperately, staring at Rassoul’s unmoving lips.

After a short hesitation he jumps to his feet to go into the house, find a pen and paper, and write it all down for her. But he is stopped by a noise at the gate. Someone wants to come in. Is it Nazigol, back already? Rassoul throws down his cigarette and rushes to hide in the darkness of the corridor. Sophia goes to the gate. “Who’s there?”

“Nana Alia?” asks a deep, male voice. Sophia, panicking, replies: “No, she isn’t here.”

“What time will she be back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who are you? Nazzi?”

“No, Nazigol isn’t here either. I’m their maid.”

“No! Sophia…?”

“No…”

“Of course it is! Be a sweetie and open up! It’s me, Commandant Amer Salam.” He pushes hard on the gate, which Sophia struggles to keep closed with her fragile, trembling hands as she cries: “No… No, I’m not Sophia… they told me not to let anyone in.”

“And I’m anyone? Come on, open up!” He starts pushing again. Hopeless—Sophia quickly attaches the security chain. Amer Salam shakes the gate even harder.

Rassoul surges out of the darkness to rush at the gate and yank it open. Taken aback, Amer Salam asks loudly: “Isn’t Nana Alia in?” No, gestures Rassoul furiously. The commandant peers over his shoulder for Sophia, and says: “Then tell her that Amer Salam will be coming tonight with some guests. There will be seven of us, seven!” And with that he leaves.

Sophia collapses weakly to the ground from her hiding place behind the gate. Rassoul closes it and watches helplessly through the gaps in the wall as Amer Salam wanders back to his car, parked a little way off. Then he moves away, nervously lights a cigarette and goes to sit on one of the terrace steps. Sophia stands up and walks over to him. He stares at her as if to ask And who is Amer Salam?

Come on, Rassoul, you love asking questions to which you already know the answer. He must be one of Nana Alia’s regular clients, who comes here to watch young dancing girls. Leave Sophia alone.

She puts her head on her knees and weeps, silently. Rassoul, confused, doesn’t know whether to comfort her or drive her away.

Why drive her away? She deserves to be comforted, loved, honored.

Tenderly, hesitantly, he puts his hand on her shoulder. She is soothed, as if not expecting this moment of grace. She huddles into his arms and starts sobbing in earnest. Rassoul strokes her back. If he could speak, she would hear him say: “It’s all over, Sophia. That dirty whore is gone. I killed her. Calm down!”

She is still crying. She doesn’t want to stop. She doesn’t stop. She will never stop, not while Rassoul is stroking her. May this moment last forever—these tears, and this stroking!

But sadly, it does end. Rassoul is on edge, not so much because of Sophia as from his strange experience of being in the house. He feels as if someone is watching them from the corridor. He stands and peers angrily behind him. Then he gestures to Sophia to leave right now. “When Nazigol comes back.” No, this house is cursed! He runs to the door. “But if they come back and we aren’t here, Nana Alia will kick us out of our house.”

Nana Alia can go to hell! I’ve killed her.

He throws his cigarette into the courtyard, opens the gate and runs out into the lane. Sophia, horrified, chases after him. “Rassoul! Do you know what’s happened to Nana Alia?” Don’t try and find out what he’s done to her, Sophia! You will lose him. “What’s the matter? I’ve a right to know.” He stops and stares at her, both oppressed and oppressive. How to tell her that she’ll find out soon enough, that he himself will explain. “Damn! My chador! Hang on, I’ll go back and get it.” She goes. Rassoul continues on his way. After a few steps he stops. The pain in his ankle. He rubs it.

Far away, somewhere in the city, there is a volley of gunshots. He looks up at the Asmai Heights. A group of armed men are climbing to the summit.

He, on the other hand, is going down, toward the saqi-khana where…