A Curse on Dostoevsky

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GOODBYE, SOPHIA!

And he takes a great drag of hash, which he holds in his lungs for as long as possible.

Goodbye, Sophia! You left with the only secret I had.

Goodbye!

Another two or three drags, and he leaves the saqi-khana.

I am never coming back. I’m going to shut myself in my room, as gloomy as a grave, with no future and no way out. I will not eat. I will not drink. I will not leave my bed. I will let myself be taken by an endless sleep, free of dreams and of thought. Until I am nothing. A nothingness in the emptiness, a shadow in the abyss, an immortal corpse.

When he reaches the courtyard he finds Dawoud sitting on the steps. “Hello, Rassoul. My mother sent me to fetch you. Sophia is not well. She has shut herself in her bedroom and won’t see anyone.”

It was she who fell into my abyss.

He leaps down the stairs, dashes across the courtyard and runs through the streets. Arriving at Sophia’s house out of breath, he rushes straight to her bedroom door.

“She’s crying. She won’t speak. She’s locked herself in…” says the mother. She bangs on the door. “Sophia! Rassoul-djan has come.” A long silence, then the sound of a key turning in the lock. The mother opens the door and lets Rassoul in first.

Sophia returns to her bed and huddles up, her head on her knees. The silence is oppressive; the mother can sense that the couple need to be alone. She leaves, with a final, damning glance at Rassoul. Has Sophia told her everything?

No, she can’t have. She will have kept my secret. Not only to protect me, but to prevent her mother’s suffering. She doesn’t want to share my abyss with anyone else. But she must not sink; she must not suffer in there. I will get her out.

He kneels next to Sophia and, after a brief hesitation, shyly strokes her hand.

Don’t be afraid, Sophia. I’m not your typical murderer. I am…

“They ran me out of the mausoleum!” she says in a hopeless voice. He lets go of her hand, annoyed. “One of Nana Alia’s neighbors was there. When she saw me, she went and spoke to the caretaker, and he threw me out…” Why… The word trembles on Rassoul’s lips; it emerges as a breath, a silent breath, lacking a question mark; a mute cry of despair. From now on, he mustn’t be surprised when people treat Sophia with contempt, as a prostitute.

She is crying.

Rassoul feels himself falter.

“I left quietly. Without telling you. I didn’t want you to make a scene,” she says, as if Rassoul would have been capable.

No, Sophia, Rassoul has changed. Look at him. He is lost, trapped inside his pitiful rage.

No, he may have sunk to a terrible low, but he still has his dignity.

So move, Rassoul, move!

He stands up suddenly and leaves the room. Sophia’s mother is standing on the patio, by the window. As soon as she sees him she turns her head away to hide her tears.

In the street, there is no shade. The sun streaks through the smoke to beat down on peoples’ heads with its massive midday power.

Rassoul walks with his head hung low. He makes it home without knowing how. The room smells awful; it’s the cheese.

He has no desire to get rid of it. He grabs the pistol that is still lying on the floor, and checks the cartridge. It is still loaded. He puts the pistol in his pocket and leaves the room.

Where is he going?

Nowhere. He’s walking. Going wherever the pistol takes him.

May he no longer think about anything!

He is no longer thinking. He thinks nothing about anything.

He sees only the road,

follows only the shadow crushed under his feet,

sees no face,

hears no sound,

heeds no cry,

receives no laugh.

He walks.

He counts his steps.

Stop right here, in front of the Shah-e do Shamshira Wali mausoleum.

Everything is quiet. The pilgrims and beggars have all left. Rassoul enters the courtyard and approaches the tomb. Rosewater masks the smell of pigeons and the sulphur of war. The caretaker has fallen asleep on a bench in the shade of the Wish Tree. One hand under his chin, the other on his chest. He looks as innocent as a sleeping child. His salt and pepper beard quivers from time to time, like that of a goat before the sacrifice. Rassoul walks toward him, pulls out his pistol, moves even closer and takes aim. His finger tightens on the trigger. His hand shakes. He hesitates.

Killing someone as they sleep; now that is cowardice. What’s more, his death would be very quick. He would not suffer at all. He must not die without knowing what he has done, in the innocence of sleep.

Let him wake, so he can know why I am killing him. So he can suffer!

He will suffer, yes, for a few seconds; but the reason for his death will die with him. No one will say that this caretaker was killed because he chased Sophia from the mausoleum, because he closed the house of Allah to a “public girl” who’d come here to pray, to beg forgiveness for her fiancé… So, Rassoul, you would be committing another pointless murder. Failing, again.

The sun works its way through the branches and leaves of the Wish Tree, dappling the body of the caretaker, as well as Rassoul’s feet, legs and hair, and the Colt that trembles in his hands. Drenched in sweat and crushed by doubt, he crouches in front of the caretaker and, after a few moments of complete inertia, takes out a cigarette. None of the sounds that he makes disturb the old man’s sleep. Is he hard of hearing? Or does Rassoul not exist?

He backs away, but a sudden muffled noise from behind roots him to the spot. He spins around. It’s a cat.

A cat, at the mausoleum? Its presence here is strange, and Rassoul watches it approach, brush his foot with its raised tail, and slip silently into the shadow of the caretaker who slowly awakes. Rassoul starts. He tosses away his cigarette and resumes his aim, blinking. The man’s sleepy gaze shows no fear. He doesn’t even move. Perhaps he thinks he is dreaming. Rassoul moves closer, gesturing for him to sit up. But the man just reaches calmly under the rug covering the bench to pick up a bowl of money, which he holds out to Rassoul.

This man hasn’t understood anything. I am not a thief. I am here to kill him.

He walks closer, moving his lips to form silent words: “And do you know why I am killing you?”

No, Rassoul, he doesn’t know, and he will never know.

Rassoul’s hand is trembling with rage.

Even now the caretaker doesn’t react. He remains unruffled. He puts the bowl back in its place, smiles and closes his eyes in anticipation of the shot. Rassoul pokes him with the barrel of the gun. The man opens his eyes again, slowly. He is still impassive, even though the pistol is now held at his temple. His gaze, just like that of the donkey in Nayestan, says to Rassoul: What are you waiting for? Shoot! If you don’t kill me, a rocket will. I would prefer to die at your hands, protecting the purity and glory of this sacred place. I will die a shahid.

A woman concealed by a sky-blue chador enters the courtyard. She sees Rassoul with his gun held to the caretaker’s head, turns, and flees.

He still doesn’t dare shoot.

No, I don’t want this man to die a martyr.

He throws down the pistol.

And leaves.