ground. Panicking, the man reads it out again. “Are you Moharamollah? I don’t know you.” He stands up, and Rassoul follows. The man tries to step past him and continue home. Rassoul is quicker; he blocks the way, and stares into the man’s terrified face.
Is it really him?
No doubt whatsoever. I’m going to help him remember all the times he spent with Moharamollah in the smoking den, and the day a rocket set fire to it. The only way he’ll remember his betrayal is by re-experiencing the threat of death.
Rassoul snatches at the crutch, which the man grips in terror as he begs: “In the name of Allah!” Rassoul pretends not to hear. He secures the crutch and goes to strike the man with it. “Save me from this madman, Allah!” cries the man as he falls to the ground, clutching his bread. Rassoul crouches down and writes in the dirt: “I am a traitor.” The man can barely make out the letters amid the pebbles and footprints. He forces himself to read. He is in such a state that he struggles to understand the meaning of the sentence, asking Rassoul: “You’re a traitor?” No, you! gestures Rassoul as he points to the man’s chest. “Me, a traitor! Why?” he exclaims. Rassoul brandishes the crutch above the horrified manas he stares at him in a fury. The man can barely breathe.
“You stole this from him,” he writes next to the name Moharamollah. “I did not! That crutch is mine. I bought it. I swear to you …” But the crutch bashes his diseased leg, giving rise to a tortured scream. “Help!” Rassoul grabs him by the hair and holds his head to the ground so he will read aloud, “I am a traitor,” but the man doesn’t read, just yells even louder: “Help! Save me! Please help!” This time, the crutch lands on his head, quieting him. In tears, he begs: “My brother, are you not a Muslim? I’ve six children. Allah have mercy! I have no money. I swear to you, I have no money.” Poor man. He doesn’t know that if this was about money, his skull would have been cracked by now.
Let him go, Rassoul! He will never understand what you want from him, or why.
I want him to admit that he’s a traitor. To shout it loud for everyone to hear.
The crutch is raised again and the man cries: “Don’t strike! I give in. Don’t strike!” The crutch is suspended in mid-air. “I betrayed … betrayed! Forgive me! Allah, I beg your forgiveness …” The crutch bashes his head once more; he screams in pain and fear. “Don’t strike! I betrayed.” Now he is shouting again, “I betrayed,” louder, “I betrayed,” louder still. May everyone hear you. Shout! “I am a traitor! A murderer!” No, you are not a murderer. YOU ARE A TRAITOR!
You belong in the Aliabad madhouse, Rassoul. Howcan you expect this poor man to understand your obsessions? They are yours, not his. To him betrayal and murder are the same crime, of equal severity.
No. Of course he can tell them apart. He is from here, from this country where betrayal is worse than murder. You can kill, rape, steal … the important thing is not to betray. Not to betray Allah, your clan, your family, your country, your friend … Which is exactly what he’s done!
No need for a pretext. Nothing justifies your savagery toward this man, nothing, unless you’re trying to commit another murder in order to re-experience the same situation, the same trauma, the same emotion that made you mute. All this just to recover your voice?
Let the man live. Your voice or even the voice of a prophet is not worth a single life.
White as a sheet, Rassoul bashes the crutch against the wall so hard that it shatters. He sits down. The man is weeping.
Once he’s got his breath back, Rassoul lights a cigarette and glances at the limping man, who is groaning as he attempts to stand. He lights another and gives it to him.
And he leaves.
Goes to the
saqi-khana
.
Kaka Sarwar and his crew aren’t there but the den is packed. Everyone is staring at a madman
Is it really him?
No doubt whatsoever. I’m going to help him remember all the times he spent with Moharamollah in the smoking den, and the day a rocket set fire to it. The only way he’ll remember his betrayal is by re-experiencing the threat of death.
Rassoul snatches at the crutch, which the man grips in terror as he begs: “In the name of Allah!” Rassoul pretends not to hear. He secures the crutch and goes to strike the man with it. “Save me from this madman, Allah!” cries the man as he falls to the ground, clutching his bread. Rassoul crouches down and writes in the dirt: “I am a traitor.” The man can barely make out the letters amid the pebbles and footprints. He forces himself to read. He is in such a state that he struggles to understand the meaning of the sentence, asking Rassoul: “You’re a traitor?” No, you! gestures Rassoul as he points to the man’s chest. “Me, a traitor! Why?” he exclaims. Rassoul brandishes the crutch above the horrified manas he stares at him in a fury. The man can barely breathe.
“You stole this from him,” he writes next to the name Moharamollah. “I did not! That crutch is mine. I bought it. I swear to you …” But the crutch bashes his diseased leg, giving rise to a tortured scream. “Help!” Rassoul grabs him by the hair and holds his head to the ground so he will read aloud, “I am a traitor,” but the man doesn’t read, just yells even louder: “Help! Save me! Please help!” This time, the crutch lands on his head, quieting him. In tears, he begs: “My brother, are you not a Muslim? I’ve six children. Allah have mercy! I have no money. I swear to you, I have no money.” Poor man. He doesn’t know that if this was about money, his skull would have been cracked by now.
Let him go, Rassoul! He will never understand what you want from him, or why.
I want him to admit that he’s a traitor. To shout it loud for everyone to hear.
The crutch is raised again and the man cries: “Don’t strike! I give in. Don’t strike!” The crutch is suspended in mid-air. “I betrayed … betrayed! Forgive me! Allah, I beg your forgiveness …” The crutch bashes his head once more; he screams in pain and fear. “Don’t strike! I betrayed.” Now he is shouting again, “I betrayed,” louder, “I betrayed,” louder still. May everyone hear you. Shout! “I am a traitor! A murderer!” No, you are not a murderer. YOU ARE A TRAITOR!
You belong in the Aliabad madhouse, Rassoul. Howcan you expect this poor man to understand your obsessions? They are yours, not his. To him betrayal and murder are the same crime, of equal severity.
No. Of course he can tell them apart. He is from here, from this country where betrayal is worse than murder. You can kill, rape, steal … the important thing is not to betray. Not to betray Allah, your clan, your family, your country, your friend … Which is exactly what he’s done!
No need for a pretext. Nothing justifies your savagery toward this man, nothing, unless you’re trying to commit another murder in order to re-experience the same situation, the same trauma, the same emotion that made you mute. All this just to recover your voice?
Let the man live. Your voice or even the voice of a prophet is not worth a single life.
White as a sheet, Rassoul bashes the crutch against the wall so hard that it shatters. He sits down. The man is weeping.
Once he’s got his breath back, Rassoul lights a cigarette and glances at the limping man, who is groaning as he attempts to stand. He lights another and gives it to him.
And he leaves.
Goes to the
saqi-khana
.
Kaka Sarwar and his crew aren’t there but the den is packed. Everyone is staring at a madman
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