The Dictator's Last Night

7

Someone is knocking at the door.

It is Mansour Dhao, come to redeem himself … What is he worth now, at wartime prices? A bullet? Less than that. A pair of pliers, a blunt knife, a hemp rope would be more than generous. The commander of my People’s Guard, the terrible Mansour Dhao, impeccably turned out, attentive to the smallest detail of his martial appearance, and here he is letting himself go completely, unshaven, looking like a tramp, in a shirt with a filthy collar and with his shoelaces undone. A shadow of himself, of which appears to be nothing but a distant memory. His gaze, which once saw further than the horizon, can barely travel past his eyelashes now.

I am sad for him, and for myself: my right hand of steel is limp and useless.

There was a time when nothing escaped his vigilance. He knew everything that went on, down to the moans of the virgins I deflowered between two shots of heroin. Back then Mansour was my sword of Damocles. He kept watch on the fruit and the orchard, and could tell a bad apple before it appeared. He left nothing to chance. His agents were hand-picked. At the slightest suspicion they struck; suspects vanished into thin air faster than a puff of smoke, and I could enjoy my nights in complete peace.

‘Don’t be angry with me, Rais. I haven’t taken my medication for weeks.’

He has hidden from me the fact that he is on medication. And there I was, thinking him unassailable. He looked as if he had never known illness or fatigue. I had even had my best men tail him — his charisma and authority as head of the People’s Guard made him a potential rival. Power is hallucinogenic, so you are never safe from others’ murderous daydreams. It is one short step from the barracks to the presidential palace, and overarching ambition dwarfs the risks … But I had grossly misjudged Mansour: he would have cut his mother’s throat without hesitation if she had ever bothered me.

I gesture to him to sit down.

‘I prefer to stand.’

‘I appreciate the effort you are making,’ I tell him ironically.

‘I’m furious with myself.’

‘You are wrong to upset yourself over a moment’s weakness. I too have a heart beating in here.’

‘Your regard for me is worth more than all the world’s honours.’

‘You deserve it … You are a brave man. You prove it by staying with me.’

‘Only rats desert the sinking ship.’

‘I am merely a ship to you?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

I look hard at him. He swallows, embarrassed. He came to make amends for his attitude earlier and he realises that he is compounding his errors.

‘I wonder if I’d have done better to stay downstairs.’

‘An excellent question.’

The coldness of my tone crushes him. He nods, his head lowered, and shuffles to the door.

‘I did not give you permission to go.’

He hovers with his hand on the door.

‘Come back, you fool.’

He turns round. The trembling of his lips makes his beard quiver.

‘I feel vulgar, wretched and unworthy to stand in front of you.’

‘What has got into you, for pity’s sake? Is it the jackals roaming the streets outside who have made you lose your nerve, or are you just undecided whether to surrender or kill yourself?’

‘I’m too religious to think of suicide, Rais. As for saving my skin, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do it. They offered me a gold-plated exile in return for agreeing to surrender. If I’ve stayed, it is because there is no exile more precious than the shade you cast. You are the finest thing that has happened to me. To die for you is an honour and a duty.’

‘I am happy to see my Mansour again.’

My compliment emboldens him. He comes back towards me, seized with feverish energy.

‘I shall prove to you that I am the same man, that this war is just a smokescreen and soon enlightenment will spread over the whole of Libya. I shall exterminate to the last man the barbarians who jeer at you and I shall make of their skin a red carpet on which you will walk straight back to your throne.’

‘There will be no shipwreck, Mansour. It is not just anyone who is at the tiller. We must hold out a few days longer, that is all. Our people will come back to their senses. They will realise that it is Al-Qaeda which is behind this whole performance. Trust me. It is only a matter of time before we shall string up publicly every one of those vultures who are looting, raping and murdering in the name of God.’

He finally sits down in the chair I offered him, confident that I have forgiven him. He is not smiling yet, but his eyes have regained a modicum of alertness.

I let him recover his spirits before I go on.

‘I have had a dream, Mansour. A premonition.’

‘I remember the one you had before the invasion of Iraq. You foresaw everything.’

‘Well, be reassured. The dream that came to me has given me comfort: we shall have won by the end of October.’

‘I cannot picture Libya without you in command, Rais. It makes no sense.’

His voice is too soft — hardly more than a sigh — for his words to have an impact on me. He is as yet still no more than a solitary rush light; as it lights, it goes out. His previous panache is now wrapped in misery, like an old canvas shroud on a lifeless corpse.

I pick up my Koran, lying on the couch’s armrest, open it at random and start reading. My Guard commander is motionless. He sits on the edge of his chair, looking vacant. I read one verse, then another and another … Mansour cannot make up his mind to leave.

I put the Koran down.

‘Do you wish to tell me something?’

He starts.

‘I … I didn’t hear what you said.’

‘I asked you if you had something to tell me.’

‘No, no …’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes …’

‘In that case, why are you still here?’

‘I feel good when I’m with you.’

I give him a sidelong look. He tries to turn away and does not succeed.

‘No letting yourself go, Mansour. Show some backbone, for pity’s sake! You are very close to losing it completely.’

His head lolls.

He is seriously beginning to worry me.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘About waking up, Brotherly Guide.’

‘You are awake.’

He rummages in his beard, smooths the bridge of his nose and scratches his ear. I have the feeling he may be about to die on me.

‘What do you intend to do when we have dealt with this stupid revolt?’ I ask him, to lighten the atmosphere.

‘Go home,’ he says spontaneously, as though he was just waiting for the opportunity to express a very dear wish he had never revealed to anyone.

‘And then?’

‘Stay there …’

‘At home?’

‘Yes, at home.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

‘You will not command my People’s Guard any more?’

‘You’ll find someone else.’

‘It is you I want, Mansour.’

He shakes his head.

‘The responsibility has become too great for me, Rais. I don’t have the strength to carry any more than the shirt on my back now, Rais. I’m throwing in the towel.’

‘To pick up a dishcloth instead?’

‘Why not? I feel like retiring. I’ll spend my mornings pottering in my garden and my afternoons praying to be forgiven for the bad things I have done.’

‘Have you done bad things, Mansour?’

‘I must have done. No authority is innocent of abuse. There must have been times when, unknown to me, I was unjust and cruel.’

I cannot stand the tone of his voice.

‘Do you think I have been unjust and cruel?’

‘I’m talking about myself, Rais.’

‘Look me in the eye when I ask you a question!’

My shout nearly finishes him off.

‘Have I been unjust and cruel, Mansour?’

His throat tightens. He does not answer.

‘Go on, speak. I order you to tell me the truth. I shall not be angry with you, I promise. I want to know so that in future I shall not find myself with a rebellion on my hands.’

‘Rais …’

‘Have I been at fault where my people are concerned?’ I yell at him.

‘God alone is infallible,’ he blurts out.

Suddenly, it is as though I no longer recognise where I am or where I have come from. I am beside myself, no longer there, outraged, violated, crucified on burning altars. Without knowing what I am doing, I draw myself up in front of my Guard commander, hands like claws, ready to tear him to pieces. An uncontainable fury has sucked all the breath out of me. I am suffocating.

‘You piece of shit!’

‘You promised not to lose your temper, Rais.’

‘Go to the Devil! Yesterday you were stuffing yourself at my banquets, and today you have decided you want to bite the hand that fed you. Suddenly the soldier is full of remorse and begging for absolution. You did your duty, you cretin. There is no such thing as scruples for anyone who defends their country. Collateral damage is part of war. Emotions have no place in affairs of state and mistakes do not count … What do people actually condemn me for? The Lockerbie bombing and UTA 772? It was the Americans who started it. They bombed my palace, killed my adopted daughter. They launched their cowardly Operation El Dorado Canyon against my aerial strike force at Mitiga. Not to mention the embargoes, my being demonised and ostracised on the international stage. Did they think I was going to thank them for that? … What else do they condemn me for? The killings at Abu Salim?6 All I did was rid our nation of some appalling vermin, a bunch of crazed visionaries who had dedicated themselves to terrorism. They were mutineers who threatened the country’s stability. Do people have any idea of the chaos those savages could have caused if they had got out? Look how Algeria descended into horror the very night that thousands of prisoners broke out from Lambaesis. Everyone knows what happened: a decade of terror and massacres. I was determined that my country would not suffer the same fate.’

I thump my fist on the couch’s armrest.

‘Our country was in the firing line, Mansour. Every day. Our enemies were trying to undermine every initiative we took, by every possible means. Including our own officials. Remember the brothers I took under my wing, the brothers I showered with medals and promotions, privileges and honours. They were treated better than kings. My largesse was not enough. They wanted even more, they wanted my head on a silver platter. You think I was wrong to execute them? You think I did the wrong thing? Everything has its price, Mansour. Loyalty as much as betrayal. The crocodile never softens when you wipe its tears. It was them or me, the Crusaders’ interests or Libya’s interests. When I think how my gallant comrades-in-arms, the ones who risked their lives helping me overthrow that good-for-nothing king Idris, let themselves be enticed by the imperialists’ promises and did not hesitate to plot against me, against the Libyan people, against the eternal homeland … when I think about those traitors I tell myself I was not harsh enough, I should have been fiercer, more cruel. It is because my paternal side got the better of my sovereign’s implacability that I have an insurrection on my hands today. I should have liquidated half my people so that the other half could be safe, so that every man could live untroubled wherever he found himself, whatever he was doing.’

I seize him by the collar and lift him up. My saliva spatters his face. He is at arm’s length, trembling, not knowing where to look. He would slip down like a rag doll if I let him go.

‘Look where we are now. The coalition is all over us. Countries that have never had a problem with us are burying us under their bombs. Even Qatar came to the party. And what do the Arab nations do? Where are they? They toast our plight. They make preparations for our funerals.’

‘What were you expecting?’ he suddenly rails, knocking my arms away. ‘That they’d come to your rescue with trumpets and flags?’

I am shocked. Mansour Dhao has dared to raise his voice, and his hand, to me. He has hurt my wrists. I step back, disbelieving. He stares at me with a baleful expression, his face flushed, his nostrils twitching.

‘I don’t give a shit about the Arabs,’ he thunders, his mouth foaming. ‘It’s you yourself who made them behave that way towards us. You scorned them, lambasted them, humiliated them. You called them flea-ridden animals led by fawning curs. It’s completely logical for them to be delighted by our collapse.’

I remain speechless, not knowing any more whether I am dreaming or hallucinating. It is the first time since I was at the Academy that an officer has treated me disrespectfully. I am close to becoming apoplectic.

Mansour does not recover his composure. He is trembling with fury and rancour.

He points at the window.

‘What’s happening out there, Rais? What’s that, that noise? The people serenading you?’

He rushes to the window and jabs his finger at the cloth covering the panes.

‘What can you hear, Rais?’

‘What am I supposed to hear, moron?’

‘Another version of events. A different tune from the toadying of your arse-kissers and the honeyed reports of your staff officers. The fairy tales are over — all the “it’s going swimmingly” and the “tout va très bien, madame la marquise”. Out there is a raging populace …’

‘Out there is Al-Qaeda—’

‘How many Al-Qaeda are there? Five hundred, a thousand, two thousand? So who are the thousands of savages who are ravaging our cities, murdering our old people, disembowelling our pregnant women and smashing in our children’s skulls with their rifle butts? They are Libyans, Rais. Libyans like you and me, who only yesterday were acclaiming you and today are calling for your head.’

He rushes back, like a boomerang.

‘Why, Rais? Why this turnaround? What happened to turn the lambs into hyenas, to make the children eat their father? … Yes, Brotherly Guide, we were at fault. We behaved badly. You were undoubtedly thinking of the good of the nation, but what did you know of the nation itself? There’s no smoke without fire, Brotherly Guide. We haven’t got our backs to the wall by accident. The massacres and destruction going on out there aren’t happening by magic, they’re the direct result of our mistakes.’

I am so shocked by the words of my commander of the People’s Guard that my knees threaten to give way beneath the weight of my indignation. I never believed anyone could talk to me like that. Unused to being contradicted, and even more so to being reprimanded by my subordinates, I feel myself shattering into a thousand pieces. Everyone understands how vulnerable I am, everyone knows I am extremely sensitive to comments which, when they are disobliging, make me so furious that I could drink the blood of him who is ill-mannered enough to make them.

Has Mansour taken leave of his senses?

I turn round and slump on the couch, with my head in my hands. Should I have Mansour shot on the spot? Should I kill him myself? A blast of white-hot emotion surges up in me.

‘I’m not judging you, Rais—’

‘Shut your mouth, you dog.’

He kneels in front of me. His voice suddenly calms down. He says in a conciliatory tone, ‘All the silence on earth will not stop the truth coming out, Rais. I’m not blaming you, I’m telling you. I don’t know if we will be alive tomorrow, Muammar my brother, my friend, my master. I could not care less about what happens to me or my family. I don’t matter, I am completely insignificant. I’m afraid for you, not for anything else. If harm comes to you, Libya will never get over it. This beautiful country, which you have built by yourself against all the odds, will crumble like an old and rotten relic. They’ve already burnt your green flag, and replaced it with a flag of blood and mourning. Soon the national anthem you chose for us will be replaced by some comic-opera tune devoid of meaning. People are toppling your statues, defacing your portraits, looting your palaces. It’s an apocalypse, Brotherly Guide. And I don’t want to be part of it. Without you the boat will founder on unknown shores, its wreckage will be scattered across the waves, and there will be no trace left of what it once was. Without you the tribes will dig out their weapons that have lain dormant through centuries of bitterness, unsatisfied revenge and unpunished betrayals. There will be as many states as there are clans. The people you have joined together will rediscover their divisions, and this land you have constructed will turn into a dumping ground for every renunciation of revenge, a graveyard for every oath and prayer—’

‘No more. Be quiet.’

Mansour weeps.

He grasps me by my wrists and clasps them to him as though he were taking hold of the destiny of all humanity.

‘You must conquer this great misfortune, Rais. For the good of our homeland and for the stability of the region. I am ready to give my life, body and soul, for Libya to be returned to you.’

I push him away gently, carefully.

‘Go, Mansour. Leave me alone now.’

When I look up, Mansour has gone — I think I must have fainted in the meantime.

6 Around 1,270 prisoners were massacred at Abu Salim prison in Tripoli in 1996.