The Patience Stone by Atiq Rahimi Page A

the mullah, and tell them everything. So they can drive away this demon lurking inside me! … My father was right. That cat has come to haunt me. It was the catthat made me open the door to the quail’s cage. I am possessed, and have been for years!” She flings herself into the man’s hiding place, sobbing. “This is not me talking! … I am under the demon’s spell … this isn’t me … where is the Koran?” Panicked. “The demon has even stolen the Koran! The demon did it! … And the damned feather … she took that too.”
    She rummages around under the mattresses. Finds the black prayer beads. “Allah, you’re the only one who can banish this demon,
Al-Mu’akhkhir
,
Al-Mu’akhkhir
…” She tells the prayer beads, “
Al-Mu’akhkhir
…,” picks up her veil, “
Al-Mu’akhkhir
…,” leaves the room, “
Al-Mu’akhkhir
…,” leaves the house, “
Al-Mu’akhkhir
…”
    She can no longer be heard.
    She does not return.
    As twilight falls, somebody walks into the courtyard and knocks on the door to the passage. No one replies; no one opens. But, this time, the intruder seems to stay in the garden. The sound of cracking wood, and of stones being bashed together, floods through the walls of the house. He must be taking something. Or destroying. Or building. The woman will find out tomorrow, when she returns along with the first rays ofsunlight shining through the holes in the yellow and blue sky of the curtains.
    Night falls.
    The garden goes dark. The intruder goes off.
    Day breaks. The woman returns.
    Very pale, she opens the door to the room and pauses a moment to check for the slightest sign of a visit. Nothing. Distraught, she walks into the room and up to the green curtain. Pulls it slowly aside. The man is still there. Eyes open. The same rhythm to his breathing. The drip bag is half empty. The drops are falling, as before, to the rhythm of the breath, or of the black prayer beads passing through the woman’s fingers.
    She lets herself fall onto the mattress. “Did somebody repair the door onto the street?” She is asking the walls. In vain. As always.
    She picks herself up, walks out of the room, and, still bewildered, checks the other rooms, and the cellar. She comes back up the stairs. Into the room. Confounded.“But no one has been here!” She collapses onto the mattress, in the grip of a growing weariness.
    No more words.
    No more movement, except the telling of the prayer beads. Three cycles. Two hundred and ninety-seven beads. Two hundred and ninety-seven breaths. No mention of any of the names of God.
    Before embarking on a fourth cycle, she suddenly starts talking. “This morning, my father came to see me again … but this time to accuse me of having stolen the peacock feather he used as a bookmark in his Koran. I was horrified. He was furious. I was scared.” The fear is still visible in her gaze as it seeks shelter in the corners of the room. “But that was a long time ago …” Her body sways. Her voice becomes definite: “It was a long time ago that I stole it.” She stands up suddenly. “I’m raving!” she murmurs to herself, calmly at first, then fast, nervously. “I’m raving. I’ve got to calm down. Got to stop talking.” She can’t stay in one place. Keeps moving around, chewing on her thumb. Her eyes dart around frenetically. “Yes, that fucking business with the feather … that’s what it is. That’s what is driving me crazy. That bloody peacock feather! It was only a dream, to start with. Yes, adream, but such a strange one. That dream haunted me every night when I was pregnant with my first child … I had the same nightmare every night. I saw myself giving birth to a boy, a boy who had teeth and could already speak … He looked just like my grandfather … That dream terrorized me, it tortured me … The child used to tell me that he knew one of my biggest secrets.” She stops moving. “Yes, one of my biggest secrets! And if I didn’t give him