A Curse on Dostoevsky

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HE FOLLOWS her.

Wrapped in her sky-blue chador, she walks two steps in front of him. They stride down the big road that leads to the Shah-e do Shamshira Wali mosque and mausoleum, on the banks of the Kabul River. The city is still breathing the sulphurous air of war. Gasping.

They enter the mausoleum courtyard, among the many pilgrims. At the entrance to the tomb Sophia removes her shoes and puts them next to the others, watched by a swarthy caretaker. Rassoul remains outside. He looks for shade beneath the “Wish Tree,” whose branches are festooned with countless shreds of colored fabric. An old woman stands up painfully to knot a green ribbon onto the tree. At her feet, an old man sits watching the pigeons ambling around in a pile of grain, making no effort to eat it.

Having managed to tie her ribbon, the old woman sits down triumphantly next to the old man. “My son will come to me, for sure!” The old man isn’t listening, he is preoccupied with the pigeons. “Don’t give them wheat!” says the old woman crossly. The old man exclaims, “They only eat wheat. People don’t understand and bring them millet. Look!” as he throws a handful of wheat to the pigeons, who rush for it. “See?”

“It’s a sin!”

“Why is it a sin?”

“Giving wheat is a sin.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“From the Koran.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was because of wheat that Hazrat Adam and Bibi Hawa were exiled from paradise.”

“Show me the verses.”

“I told you, it’s a sin.”

“My sin or their sin?”

“Your sin, it’s you who is giving the wheat.”

“I don’t give a damn. They don’t have to eat it, then. They too have their own free will.” He is having a good time, and turns toward Rassoul: “Who gives a damn about sin, when you’re hungry! Isn’t that right?” He leans toward him: “Between you and me, would Hazrat Adam and Bibi Hawa have eaten the forbidden fruit if they weren’t hungry? No.”

“Don’t say that! Don’t sin, do not sin…” insists the old lady.

“Well, why do you sit here, sharing my sin?” he says. “You wanted to make your wish, you’ve done it. Your son will come to you. So why are you still here? Go home.”

The woman doesn’t move.

“Wheat fattens them up. And after all, a fat pigeon is better than a thin one. Do you know why?” the old man asks Rassoul; then, after a moment’s pause, to emphasize what he is about to say rather than to wait for a response: “No, you don’t know…” He looks at Rassoul. “Are you from Kabul?” Yes. “You can’t be from here, or you would know why.” He takes another handful of wheat from his pocket and holds out his hand so the pigeons will eat from it. “Come on, come here; come and get fat.” He asks Rassoul: “Do you make this ziarat often?” No. “Good on you. I come here every day. But not to pray, or make a wish. Far from it. I don’t look for Allah in tombs. He is here”—he taps his chest—“in my heart!” He moves closer to Rassoul so he can whisper: “You know, the communists spent ten years doing everything they could to turn this nation against Allah, without success. The Muslims, on the other hand, have achieved it in a single year!” and laughs. A silent, mischievous laugh. “You see, all these bearded guys who spend their days praying and moaning over Shah-e do Shamshira Wali’s tomb spend their nights doing what the heathens did to that holy man. Do you know his story?” Another pause, once again to emphasize what he’s about to say: “No, you don’t know it. I’ll tell you: he was related to an uncle of the Prophet. This is his sacred tomb. Leys Ben Gheys, the King with two swords! He died a martyr here in Kabul. He had come to convert our country to Islam, and he was killed. He was fighting the unbelievers and they cut off his head; but this holy man continued to fight, with a sword in each hand.” The man pauses to observe the effect of his great tale. Shocked by Rassoul’s impassivity, he moves closer, lowering his voice as if to share an impressive secret: “Today, the same men who pray here during the day, by night organize ceremonies they call the ‘dance of the dead.’ Do you know about the ‘dance of the dead’?” He stops, glances at Rassoul, and emphasizes: “No, you don’t know. I will tell you: they cut off someone’s head and splash the wound with boiling oil, making the poor headless body wriggle and hop. They call it the ‘dance of the dead.’ Had you heard of that? No, you hadn’t!” But in fact, old man, Rassoul has heard this story, and others too, worse than that.

The man looks despairingly at the grains of wheat in his trembling hand. From his bloodless lips burst the words: “Do you know… why they do it?” No, Rassoul mimes, looking at the man ironically as if to preempt him: “But you’re going to tell me.” The man searches for the right words, then continues: “Have they no fear of Allah?” They have. And that is why they do it. “Would you be capable of committing an atrocity like that?” Yes. The man is surprised by Rassoul’s nod. “You would? Have you no fear of Allah?” No.

The old man’s hand is waving about. The grains of wheat fall to the ground. “Lahawolla belahall… You have no fear of Allah!” and he recites once more his profession of faith. “Are you a Muslim?” Yes.

The man plunges back into his thoughts, re-emerging a few seconds later in still greater despair: “In fact, given everything I’ve told you, whom should one fear most? Man, or Allah?” And he falls silent.

Surprised by how long Sophia is taking to pray, Rassoul leaves the old man to his doubts and stands up to wander slowly toward the tomb. He stands at the gate and peers inside. A few women are keening as they lean over the rails surrounding the tomb. Others have sat down to pray in silence. Sophia is not among them. He returns to the caretaker and looks for her shoes, but cannot find them.

He glances back inside. No sign of her. Nor outside, either.

What has happened? Why did this heart, which had once again opened, shut back down so quickly? Did she bring him here to distance herself from him, to bid him goodbye, without a word?