A Curse on Dostoevsky

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“IN OUR dear legal system, killing a madam is not murder… So… so something else must be causing you this distress.” The clerk settles into his chair and stares intensely at Rassoul, who looks down and arduously swallows a small piece of bread. All three of them are sitting around the desk, transformed into a tea table. “To summarize: you are worrying, feeling completely distraught, because you can’t understand why your murder is shrouded in such mystery. Is that right?”

“Yes, but…”

“As I was saying, when I first heard your story, I thought you were suffering because you’d made such a mess of it; because you hadn’t taken the money and the jewels, which would have allowed you to save your family. Then you realized that if you did have the money and jewels belonging to Nana… what’s her name? Yes, that’s right, Nana Alia… you would feel even more haunted by remorse and regret. With hindsight, you see that the money and the jewels were just a pretext. Really, you killed that madam to wipe a cockroach off the face of the earth, and most of all to avenge your fiancée. But now you recognize that it didn’t change a thing. The murder didn’t ease your thirst for vengeance. It didn’t comfort you. On the contrary, it created an abyss into which you are plunging deeper every day… So what is tormenting you now is neither the failure of your crime nor the guilt of your conscience; rather, you are suffering from the futility of your act. In short, you are the victim of your own crime. Am I right?”

“Yes, that’s it, I am the victim of my own crime. And the worst thing is that not only was my crime banal and futile, it doesn’t exist. No one is talking about it. The body has mysteriously disappeared. Everyone thinks Nana Alia has just gone to the countryside, taking her money and her jewels with her. Have you ever, in all your legal archives, come across such an absurd case?”

“Oh, young man, I’ve seen crimes far more absurd than yours. And I have also seen that killing a madam doesn’t eradicate evil from the world. Especially these days. As you have said, in this country killing is the most insignificant act there is.”

“That’s why I’ve come to hand myself over to the law. I want to give my crime some meaning.”

“And have you given your life meaning, before you try to give some to your crime?”

“That’s exactly what I was trying to do with this murder.”

“Like all those who kill in the name of Allah so as to forget their sins! That’s nonsense, young man, nonsense! Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Rassoul nods before asking the clerk: “Have you read Dostoevsky?”

“No. Is he Russian?”

“Yes, he’s a Russian author, but not a communist. Anyway, that isn’t the point. He said that if God didn’t exist…”

“Tobah na’ouzobellah! May Allah protect you from this deviance! Drive out that devilish thought!”

“Yes, may Allah forgive me! This Russian said—Tobah na’ouzobellah—that if God didn’t exist… everything would be permitted.” After a thoughtful silence, the clerk says: “He wasn’t wrong!” and murmurs into Rassoul’s ear: “So, how would your precious Russian explain the fact that here, today, in your dear country, everyone believes in Allah the Merciful yet all atrocities are permitted?”

“You’re saying that these people…” interrupts Farzan, bewildered by the turn of the conversation.

“You, boy, go and fetch the water!” instructs the clerk expediently, before continuing: “You know, we say that if sin exists, it is because God exists.”

“Yes, but these days it seems to me that it’s the other way round. May Allah forgive me! If he exists, it is not to prevent sins, but to justify them.”

“Well, yes, sadly. We are always using him, and History, and Conscience, and ideologies to justify our crimes and our betrayals. Rare are those who, like you, commit a crime and then feel remorse.”

“Oh, no! I don’t feel remorse.”

“OK then, not remorse. But you are aware of your crime. Take a look around: Who isn’t killing? And how many criminals have arrived at your level of awareness? Not one.”

“Exactly. It is my awareness that creates my guilt.”

“In that case why do you need a trial or a sentence? Legal proceedings—in an ideal world—are for those who don’t recognize their crime or guilt. And in any case, who could judge you, now? There is no one here, no judge and no public prosecutor. Everyone is at war. Everyone is chasing after power. They have neither the time nor the inclination to come and administer your trial. They are even afraid of trials. The trial of one person can lead to that of others. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Rassoul is confused. The clerk continues: “What do you want? To be imprisoned? Your soul is imprisoned in your body, and your body in this city.”

“So, it makes no difference whether I’m in here or outside.”

“It makes no difference.”

“In that case, I’m staying here.”

The clerk has had enough. He picks up the file and throws it on the floor. “But there’s no one here. I can’t deal with you,” he cries, “there’s no more prison, no more ‘surveillance’ department… nothing. There is nothing here anymore! Not even the law. They are busy altering the penal code. It will all be based on fiqh, on sharia.” He stares furiously at Rassoul for a long time, in oppressive silence. Then, before picking up the file lying at Rassoul’s feet, he holds out his hand: “Delighted to have met you, young man. It’s time for my prayers. Good day!” He puts the file back on the desk, and withdraws into another room.

Rassoul is staggered—wordless, voiceless, more mute than before.

Where am I?

In Nakodja abad, nowhere land!

Farzan returns. “So you’re staying? Good decision. It’s great, here. It’s a safe haven… Mr Clerk Sir lives here with his whole family. It’s nice and cool. His wife is lovely. She’s very pretty, too, and a good cook…”

“The woman who came in just before I did? A woman in a sky-blue chador?”

“Oh, no! She never goes out. She’s afraid of the bombs. She’s afraid of being alone. She’s a bit…”

So she isn’t that wretched woman. In that case, why is the clerk so keen for me to leave?

“Brother!” A deep voice, followed by footsteps finding their way in the dark, interrupts Rassoul’s suspicious thoughts. Farzan dashes into the next-door room, signaling for Rassoul to follow, but he doesn’t. Four armed men appear.

“Isn’t the clerk here?”

“He is praying,” replies Rassoul.

“And you, what are you doing here?” asks one.

“My name is Rassoul, and I have come to hand myself over to the law.”

“What are you doing?” asks the same man. “Are you working here?” continues another. “No, I have come to hand myself over to the law,” repeats Rassoul, dazed by these four men who keep exchanging suspicious glances. One of them says, “We’re not hiring, you know!”

“I haven’t come to work. I’ve come to be tried.” One of the men strokes his beard and stares at Rassoul. “You want to be tried? For what?”

“I’ve killed someone.”

They look at each other again. Uneasy. They don’t know what to say. In the end, one of them walks up to Rassoul and says: “We’ll have to check this out with Qhazi sahib. Come with us!”

As they are leaving the building, the clerk comes up with Farzan in tow. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes, Qhazi sahib wants to know if you have his list of shahids.”

“Not yet!”

“Go back to work, then, and bring it to us as soon as you do!” But the clerk just stands there, aghast at Rassoul’s idiocy.

They enter a partially destroyed building, and then an imposing room furnished with a large desk. The judge is sitting behind it, paying them absolutely no mind and eating a large slice of watermelon. A white cap covers his great shaved head; a long beard lengthens his fleshy face. They wait for him to finish. Finally, he puts the rind down on a tray, takes out a large handkerchief, and wipes his mouth, beard, and hands. With a stomach-settling belch, he motions to an old man to take away the tray. Then he picks up his prayer beads, glances at Rassoul, and asks the others: “What’s the problem?”

“We have brought you a murderer.” The Qhazi’s gaze moves from Rassoul to his men with no expression except for a silent “So?”

“Where did you arrest him?”

“We didn’t arrest him. He turned himself in.” Now the judge is surprised. He looks back at Rassoul. “Who did he kill?” No response. One of the men murmurs in Rassoul’s ear: “Who did you kill?”

“A woman.”

Another family case, and thus of no interest. The judge has a watermelon pip stuck between his teeth, and is trying to dislodge it with the tip of his tongue. No luck. He continues, in a detached voice: “And the motive?” Silence, again. Again, the guard passes the question to Rassoul, who shrugs his shoulders to indicate that he doesn’t know. “Was she his wife?”

“Was she your wife?”

“No,” replies Rassoul at last, weary of these indirect questions and contemptuous stares. The judge pauses, not to think but to focus on the watermelon pip, the blasted pip. A new approach, with the index finger this time. Impossible. He gives up. “Who was it, then?”

“A woman called Nana Alia, from Dehafghanan,” replies Rassoul before the guard can repeat the question.

“To steal from her?” asks the judge.

“No.”

“Rape her?”

“No.”

Again the interrogation pauses while the Qhazi has another go at the pip. He sticks his thumb and index finger into his mouth. There’s no way he’s going to do it. Rassoul would like to help him; his index finger is slim and bony, with a hard, tough nail. He has it down to a fine art: you have to push the pip with the end of your nail and suck it at the same time.

“Where are the witnesses?”

“There are no witnesses.”

More and more enraged by the damned watermelon pip, the judge nervously tears the corner of a piece of paper from one of his files. He folds it and slips it between his teeth. Hopeless. As soon as it’s wet the paper becomes floppy. The judge loses his temper, throws the paper down on the desk and asks, “Doesn’t anyone have a match?” Rassoul immediately hands over his box. The judge takes one, removes the sulphur, sharpens it with his nails, and gets down to picking out the blasted pip. Success at last. Relieved, he stares at this aggravating speck, and then instructs the guards: “Let him go! I don’t have the time to deal with this sort of thing.”

“Come on!” One of the guards grabs Rassoul by the arm. But he remains standing in front of the Qhazi’s desk. He will not move, he won’t! He will rush at the judge, grab him by the beard, and shout: “Look at yourself, in me! I’m a murderer like you! So why don’t you suffer?” He takes a step forward, but the guard’s hold on him prevents further movement. “Qhazi sahib, you must judge me,” he demands suddenly. The judge pensively strokes his own forehead for a moment and then says, spelling out the words to the rhythm of the prayer beads moving between his fingers: “Your case is a matter of qisas. Find the woman’s family, and pay the price of the blood. That’s all. Now, leave my office.”

“That’s all?”

Yes, Rassoul, that’s all. You knew it would be, the clerk told you as much.