with long hair and an unkempt beard. Each person gives him something: a glass of tea, a five hundred afghani note,a bullet. The madman takes the money first, then the bullet, which he puts into his mouth and swallows, and finally the glass of tea, which he gulps down in one. The man who gave the money turns to the others, stunned. “That’s five bullets! Did you see? That’s the fifth bullet he has swallowed.”
The madman pays no mind to the general astonishment; he stands up, and with a hoarse cry—“Ya-
hoo
”—leaves the smoking den, a few men in his wake.
Rassoul exchanges two Marlboro for a long drag of hashish, and holds it in his lungs. He shuts his eyes. The world disappears, like the bullets into the man’s mouth.
In the early hours he hears Kaka Sarwar’s voice upstairs, in the
chai-khana
. He joins the crew, who offer to share their breakfast with him. Then he accompanies them back down to the
saqi-khana
.
By the time he leaves the smoking den he is high as a kite.
He is afraid to return home. He feels as if the ghosts from his nightmares have invaded his room: the woman in the sky-blue chador, Yarmohamad brandishing a knife, Razmodin and his moral lectures, and even Dostoevsky with his
Crime and Punishment
…
His unsteady feet take him toward Sophia’s house.
What are you looking for from her?
I need her, and no one else. I need her to take meinto the purity of her tears, the candor of her smile, the space between her breaths … until I die in her innocence.
In other words you hope to absolve yourself with her naivety, her fragility. That’s what it is! Leave her in peace. Don’t drag her into your abyss.
He stops.
I will write it all down in her notebook, and give it to her. I will give her back her life.
He hurries. Limping. Stoned.
H E STRUGGLES to climb the stairs, make it to the door, and slip into his room. When he finally does, he is surprised to find his home tidy and clean. His clothes have been folded, his books piled up in one corner, and there is no broken glass on the floor.
Who has taken all this trouble? Yarmohamad’s wife Rona, of course, as she used to before.
He walks to the window and glances at Yarmohamad’s house. The courtyard is empty. No shadows behind the windows. An inner ecstasy takes hold of him, overcoming both his astonishment at his orderly room, and his tormented desire to write everything down for Sophia.
But what has made him so happy? His victory over Yarmohamad, who hasn’t been able to prevent his wife from cleaning up after him?
What arrogance!
This vile, infantile joy shatters as his gaze falls on the infamous notebook, placed carefully on the window ledge. He falls on it. Did Rona open it, did she read his intimate poems and thoughts about Sophia? What about the final sentence,
“Today, I killed Nana Alia”?
The notebook trembles in his hands. He opens it at the final page and reads,
“Today, I killed Nana Alia.”
He sits down on the mattress. Then, after great deliberation, he takes his pen and adds
“I killed her for you, Sophia.”
For her? Why?
I will tell her, in writing. But first I want to write about her, her fragile innocence, all that I never knew how to describe in straightforward, precise words.
“Sophia, I have never kissed you. Do you know why?”
The words in his pen are suspended by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Someone knocks at the door. A soft, feminine voice whispers: “Rassoul-
djan
, it’s Rona.” He leaps up to open the door. “Hello,” she says shyly. She is carrying a tray, covered with a white napkin. He steps back to let her in and looks at her furtively, trying to gauge how she will react to the notebook in his hand. “Rassoul-
djan
, I have come to beg forgiveness for Yarmohamad. He is not in his right mind these days. He’s a bundle of nerves. He’s afraid … You know him. And what’s more, he has no work. He is just worried …” She holds out the tray: “Look,
The madman pays no mind to the general astonishment; he stands up, and with a hoarse cry—“Ya-
hoo
”—leaves the smoking den, a few men in his wake.
Rassoul exchanges two Marlboro for a long drag of hashish, and holds it in his lungs. He shuts his eyes. The world disappears, like the bullets into the man’s mouth.
In the early hours he hears Kaka Sarwar’s voice upstairs, in the
chai-khana
. He joins the crew, who offer to share their breakfast with him. Then he accompanies them back down to the
saqi-khana
.
By the time he leaves the smoking den he is high as a kite.
He is afraid to return home. He feels as if the ghosts from his nightmares have invaded his room: the woman in the sky-blue chador, Yarmohamad brandishing a knife, Razmodin and his moral lectures, and even Dostoevsky with his
Crime and Punishment
…
His unsteady feet take him toward Sophia’s house.
What are you looking for from her?
I need her, and no one else. I need her to take meinto the purity of her tears, the candor of her smile, the space between her breaths … until I die in her innocence.
In other words you hope to absolve yourself with her naivety, her fragility. That’s what it is! Leave her in peace. Don’t drag her into your abyss.
He stops.
I will write it all down in her notebook, and give it to her. I will give her back her life.
He hurries. Limping. Stoned.
H E STRUGGLES to climb the stairs, make it to the door, and slip into his room. When he finally does, he is surprised to find his home tidy and clean. His clothes have been folded, his books piled up in one corner, and there is no broken glass on the floor.
Who has taken all this trouble? Yarmohamad’s wife Rona, of course, as she used to before.
He walks to the window and glances at Yarmohamad’s house. The courtyard is empty. No shadows behind the windows. An inner ecstasy takes hold of him, overcoming both his astonishment at his orderly room, and his tormented desire to write everything down for Sophia.
But what has made him so happy? His victory over Yarmohamad, who hasn’t been able to prevent his wife from cleaning up after him?
What arrogance!
This vile, infantile joy shatters as his gaze falls on the infamous notebook, placed carefully on the window ledge. He falls on it. Did Rona open it, did she read his intimate poems and thoughts about Sophia? What about the final sentence,
“Today, I killed Nana Alia”?
The notebook trembles in his hands. He opens it at the final page and reads,
“Today, I killed Nana Alia.”
He sits down on the mattress. Then, after great deliberation, he takes his pen and adds
“I killed her for you, Sophia.”
For her? Why?
I will tell her, in writing. But first I want to write about her, her fragile innocence, all that I never knew how to describe in straightforward, precise words.
“Sophia, I have never kissed you. Do you know why?”
The words in his pen are suspended by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Someone knocks at the door. A soft, feminine voice whispers: “Rassoul-
djan
, it’s Rona.” He leaps up to open the door. “Hello,” she says shyly. She is carrying a tray, covered with a white napkin. He steps back to let her in and looks at her furtively, trying to gauge how she will react to the notebook in his hand. “Rassoul-
djan
, I have come to beg forgiveness for Yarmohamad. He is not in his right mind these days. He’s a bundle of nerves. He’s afraid … You know him. And what’s more, he has no work. He is just worried …” She holds out the tray: “Look,
Similar Books
