Thirst: A Novel of the Iran-Iraq War (10 page)

‘Now I step in.’

‘But wait, let me tell you, alas … I wish you were an expert in the Arabic language and with a silver tongue could recount the services rendered by the grand Barmaki family to Commander of the Faithful and the Abbasid dynasty! But this is not in your power, for I know that you are a man of the blade and blood and not a man of words! So go. Tell them you have collected the head of Barmak the vizier and heed what the caliph of the Muslims has to say in response. I will also listen to what he says. And the head of Yahya’s son is ready for harvest, right here.’

‘Soldier! Take us to Ben Khalaf tavern … come on, man, you must have had a chance to take a quick catnap, so don’t look so befuddled! Turn around … use the alleys. We will enter through the tavern’s backdoor. Tonight is
another kind of night! Tell me, Katib, tell me the rest. Did the executioner take the Ajam’s head off?’

‘He has not yet returned. And the yelps and squeals of the women plunging into water stop me from hearing the Commander of the Faithful’s voice. But … I remember that in the same harem a marriage was contracted between Abbasa and Barmak, a curtain hanging between the two all the while. On condition that they were allowed only to speak and never to see each other! But they were in love, Abbasa in particular, who was infatuated with the beauty and accomplishments and intelligence of Barmak the vizier. And Barmak had fallen in love with Abbasa’s voice, who while seated on the other side of the curtain read stories from the book of God to her brother. Barmak the vizier was always in the private company of Commander of the Faithful. Abbasa spoke eloquently and recited well. This pleased the caliph, who asked his sister to request something from him, to ask him for anything. Abbasa said she wanted Barmak the vizier. Very well! But only to speak to! Just to speak to? That was out of the question. Consummation? Yes … Barmak’s mother and father provided the opportunity for a secret consummation. Yahya the key-keeper opened the harem’s doors, and Yahya’s wife, on account of their previous friendship, welcomed Abbasa in her home. And Barmak is naturally allowed to visit his mother’s house, is he not? It was there that the seed of the Barmakids grew in the womb of Abbasids!’

‘And then what happened?’

‘They set off on the Hajj pilgrimage for fear of the caliph’s wrath. The infant was duly born in Mecca and crows
brought the news to the caliph’s ears. On hearing this, the caliph of the Muslims set out for Mecca. Doves informed Abbasa that her brother was on his way, whereupon she put the infant on the water and sent it to Aden. The caliph descended upon Abbasa’s tent and looked into his sister’s eyes. From her eyes, tears of pleasure and consummation and birth flowed upon the lap of fear. The caliph broke off the pilgrimage and returned to Baghdad, where he ordered the executioner to cut off Vizier Barmak’s head and bring it to him.’

‘On a tray, immediately!’

‘This very instant, O Commander of the Faithful?’

‘Did I hear correctly, O Emir? I am to bring you the head of Barmak the vizier this very instant? Right now?’

‘You heard me correctly. This very instant, bring me that head, which is so full of ideas and wit, in this tub!’

‘Did you hear, Vizier?’

‘Yes. This, my head. Congratulations to my father and my mother, and my condolences to your wife and family, O Mirharis. Tonight we both become headless, since you will not live to see the light of morning either. So I have no messages for you to deliver! Dove … that dove will carry my message to people’s hearts. In this city I observed the ancient Iranian ceremony of Norouz.’

‘And that child, what was the fate of that child, Katib?’

‘I am that child, Major!’

‘You’re the child?’

‘I told you, Major. I told you a while ago, that there is a child inside people like me. What I write is what that child narrates. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, I do! So you’re that very same Barmakid child, are you?’

‘No, no, by “child” I don’t mean a particular child. The child within me cannot do or say anything that is wrong … or write anything … how can I explain it? It cannot shoot a captive, that one who was shot and thrown out of the trench, that was out of the control of my inner child.’

‘What captive? What shooting? What trench? Tonight is the night of forgetting … so let’s drink again and walk in the dark until morning … and while we’re walking, we’ll talk in such a way that maybe we will begin to understand one another. To be honest, I haven’t understood a single word of what you’ve said so far. I just assume you’ve been telling me a story that I have not the slightest recollection of. Not that I’m saying I’ve been robbed of my senses under the influence of alcohol and revelry. Not at all! But nothing else sticks in my mind, because it’s focused on one subject, and one subject alone. And while this single subject remains unresolved, the only thing I can think of is that you have Ajam blood in your veins, namely that our katib is a descendant of Barmak, and so has Ajam sympathies. And so our katib’s pro-Ajam prejudice is stopping him from writing and compiling a true account which agrees with our records! Did you pay attention to what I just said? Do you realize that wine does not have any effect on my brain? I wanted to speak with you in the most deserted alleyways of this old city so that you’d have no more opportunities to obfuscate or change the subject. If you don’t imagine that I’m saying this while I’m fully conscious and alert, well then, let me recite the key dates from your
dossier from memory, starting from when you were fifteen years old right up to today. You weren’t even fifteen years old at the time of the Abd al-Karim coup d’état against the Faisal clan, isn’t this right? And you – your entire family – were living in Alemare at the time. And you, a Barmakid teenager, became an ardent follower of Abd al-Karim!’

‘Where are you taking me … this child? In which part of the city are we, you and I? In which alleyway or avenue?’

‘We’re in an empty street. You’re utterly dishevelled and clutching a half-full bottle, and I’m gripping you under your arms so you won’t fall headfirst into the gutter and hit your head against the pavement. I don’t want you to get hurt, Katib. I must take you back home in good health. The soldier has been dismissed, he’ll go off and sleep for an hour or so and come and pick us up early in the morning, when we’ll all drive together to my base at the detention centre. I wish we could conclude our business tomorrow, Katib. I’ve been entrusted with this responsibility and I have taken it upon myself to discharge it to the best of my ability. Now it’s you who must choose between me and our foe, between our homeland and our enemy. Maybe you’d like to read an Arabic translation of some Ajam sonnets to me until daybreak; or you might see fit to quiz me on the topic that you’ve been detailed to record and write about. Or why not try asking me about any details that you’re still unclear on. As you can see, I’m wide awake and in a good mood and in the magazine of my pistol – I say this just so that you know – I only have one bullet whose time and place of discharge is in my complete control! And now we’re in a familiar part of town, the katib alley. And the
door of your house is still half closed. We must appreciate the value of security and authority. You will not deny a guest entry, will you? There isn’t much time left and I can climb the stairs quietly, and with your permission I will lie down for an hour on this bench next to your bookshelf. Watch your step, let me bring this bottle for you. Thank you!’

‘But … but … I intended to use a white flag … I mean a shirt tied to the top of a stick, and so solve the problem of thirst for both sides. The same trench … the same lonely captive … I was planning to persuade the corporal to stop being so stubborn … to take seriously the threat of dying beneath tomorrow’s infernal sun and … realize that the forces to our rear – what’s the proper term for them? That’s it, back-up forces – have been annihilated and gone up in smoke … that the enemy has exacted vengeance and these, these two arid hills are only occupied by two advance scouting parties from each side, and there is no way out for either of them. In any event, until a new military strategy is devised there is no way out. For them, a dead-end has presented itself and they have to think of a solution … find a way to reach the water tank, before it is destroyed by a wayward shell. Why can’t you understand? Either someone must come to their aid, or they must think of a plan to save themselves or else … they will perish! So what becomes of individual wisdom and resourcefulness in combat? What would you have done, Major? What would you do when your communication lines are cut, when behind you everything is in ruins and it’s been seventy-two hours since any water has entered the soldiers’ bodies? When one after
another they succumb to dizziness and fainting and death? Why won’t your obstinate corporal do something? Why has he pinned his hopes on the chance that his bullet will find its target if the enemy goes mad from thirst and charges out of the trench in the direction of the water tank? He’s insane, isn’t he? Why don’t you desist from this madness? The enemy has lost five men for the sake of water. No commander, whoever he is, would allow the sixth person to be sacrificed trying and failing to reach the water tank. No doubt he will look for another solution and seek another strategy and … killing that sole captive will not provide an answer to the corporal’s problem! The idea that I have, my scheme, is that the remaining captive should take off his shirt and tie it to the top of a stick. He then advances towards the water tank, with the flasks wrapped around his neck like a collar. What do you think, Major? Huh? That way, maybe the other side would respond in kind and send out one of their prisoners to do the same. A white shirt on a stick, what do you reckon? They’d live … all those still remaining would survive. This one-off action in such a dire emergency can’t be against the rules, Major, can it? Well? Has sleep taken hold of you, then? Right! So who have I been talking to all this time? Myself, it seems! You might have thought about leaving me in peace in the first place so I could have got on with my writing! It’s gone now, though, my urge to put pen to paper! Why don’t you leave me be, oh … curses upon everything that has distracted me! I was on a totally different plane of thought before you came along … No, I mustn’t even think such thoughts! Even if I had that pistol of yours with its single bullet in
my hands, even if this wasn’t my house, and I was sure that this portly figure snoring on my bench was my enemy, even then I couldn’t bring myself to shoot. Not a chance. Even the knowledge that the bullet is waiting there in the magazine for me cannot make me commit murder! I fully understand his undisguised threats, but even so I prefer not to let the thought of murder enter my head. I’ll just take that bottle out of his hands now; I’m sure he won’t wake up. Easy does it … yes, that’s it. I could draw the pistol out of its holster just as easily and he wouldn’t feel a thing! But I shudder at the thought of my hand grasping the butt of the gun, I really do! It is a vexing and irksome thought and I can’t put it from my mind whenever I feel as though he has put his hand on mine, and is squeezing the pen between my fingers and compelling me to write about a subject whose truth is utterly remote from my imagination. The perverse story that he has concocted inspires nothing in me. They … they came up with this plan themselves, I’m well aware, and arranged the whole thing. But they still want to publish it under my name and signature. Isn’t that right, Major? Isn’t that what you want?’

‘Water … water … I want some water … I’m thirsty, Katib. A sip of water!’

‘Water, water here too!’

‘And my pistol … pistol!’

‘Pistol … pistol … pistol!’

A PISTOL, YES
! A pistol.

On this side of the border, on the lower slopes of the Alborz Mountains, the man who was smitten by words
^*
had grasped the meaning of ‘pistol’ for the first time in the form of a slap, a pistol-whipping across his face. This was the first time he really came to comprehend the concept of
pistol
. A short time later, however, the meaning changed for him; when he read somewhere or heard it mentioned that
pistol
can mean a revolver, as well as an automatic handgun. The small and compact kind of gun was the one he’d seen in the hands of cinematic conquerors; whereas the larger, heavier and longer sort, strapped to the waist, directly above the right or sometimes above the left thigh, was the type used by Western conquerors in former times. A muzzle-loading rifle, a Hassan Musa rifle,
^†
a Brno … other names of this kind then came flooding into his empty mind. And after processing this information, it gradually dawned on him that, ever since the invention of lead bullets along with a device from which they could be fired in order to kill people, human beings have become nothing but statistics and can hardly be called ‘people’ anymore. And
consequently, honour, kindness and humanity are now redundant concepts. For this new invention can be aimed and fired at anonymous individuals known as ‘targets’.