Thirst: A Novel of the Iran-Iraq War (16 page)

He couldn’t hear the sound of the flapping of the doves’ wings, that inexperienced young man, who, in thrall to his mind’s imaginings, found himself enraptured by the sky and the soaring flight of the doves. The entire sky, which earlier that same morning had been obscured by rumbling black clouds and the infernal rain, was now decked out with the white of their wings. The lieutenant sir had told Jamoo another story, too. The story of the lioness who roamed the desert with milk-filled breasts. ‘A lioness who does not discriminate between friend and foe, who seeks out the thirsty and the thirsty seek her.’ So Jamoo must start moving, and begin to descend the hill, which was now draped in indigo as if in mourning for itself. It was during his descent that the shell-shocked young man caught sight of his prisoner at the bottom of a ditch, in a hole with his hands still tied behind his back. He didn’t look in any better shape than Jamoo. For an instant, the prejudice of youth made him consider killing the captive. He did not have a firearm, just a knife as a defensive weapon. He drew the knife and approached the enemy solider. Killing him would not be difficult. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet were lashed together at the ankles, and the explosion had blown him from his original location, bowled him down the slope of the hill until he had fallen into a ditch, thus saving his remaining half-a-life. Knife in hand, Jamoo stood on the rim of the crater in front of the man and commanded him harshly to get up and walk! But the man in the hole could not get his body to move. All he managed was to half-open his eyes, just enough to cast a glance at his would-be killer; half a glance … and then his
eyelids closed again, as though he had no desire to look at anyone or anything. His posture in the ditch caused his head to tilt to one side, exposing his neck and making it seem as though he yearned for a hand holding a blade to cut the arteries and veins in his throat and end his life. It wouldn’t make any difference; there was hardly any life left in him, anyway. So he did not react when he was suddenly confronted by a sinister and bloodied figure with a blackened face and bloodshot eyes, holding an unsheathed knife and standing close to his shoulder. He pictured the figure planting a foot on his chest, leaning over, grasping his hair with his claw-like hands, holding his head up and in a sawing motion severing his head from his body, leaving him for the vultures and hyenas that were so common hereabouts. But killing another person requires special circumstances and a special disposition. Maybe if the young man standing at the edge of the crater had had a firearm, his task would have been easier. A firearm and some distance were what was required. An instantaneous act. And even in those circumstances, the enemy shouldn’t be lying prone and lifeless on the ground, or at least not be so close to death. The standing young man chewed his lips, unable to determine what taste it was that was leaching from his lower lip and pervading his tongue and taste buds. Fuel oil, gunpowder, metal, ash, dirt or a mixture of all those combined with the taste of blood and burnt human bodies? The hand clutching the hilt of the dagger was still trembling, as were his lips. He looked at the sky, but not a single dove was visible, even in the far distance. It felt as though he was saying ‘Oh God!’ as he stamped his foot on the
ground, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Raising his voice, perhaps, he shouted: ‘Oh God! What should I do? What must I do?’ Again, he could not hear his own voice. He pressed his hands to his ears and bellowed the same words, with exactly the same result. He took his hands away and looked at his palms. His hands were partially covered with lumps of black and clotted blood … he screamed and screamed and screamed, and in the silence of his screaming he did not realize he was running in the desert, until … again he was standing by the head of that young man, his captive, whose life, in all probability, was slowly ebbing away from him. He stamped his feet on the ground to make the prisoner listen to him: can you hear my voice? I know you’re in a bad way, but tell me that you can hear my voice. Well, can you? You … sound … voice … hear? Or has my voice flown up to the sky with those doves? Blood … check that no blood is dripping from my throat … Or from my ears? Open your eyes. He told me that some doves, when they come to roost on the roof of their home loft, shed a drop of blood from their throat. That calms them, apparently, so that they can then fly on right through the night until daybreak. I haven’t been
besmel
ed to become like that. Get up and talk to me! In whatever language you know. Just talk! I want to hear your voice. And tell me that you can hear mine! Can’t you? Get up, otherwise what’s to become of us in this endless desert? Look, I’ll cut the strap binding your legs, there! Now you can get up. You didn’t have any less water than me and your fate isn’t any more dreadful than mine. I’m being tested, but you … you wretched man … maybe you
didn’t get to see your companions slain in front of your eyes, but I did. I saw each and every one of them perish before my eyes and now that I’ve gone insane you needn’t fear me anymore! It’s passed now, the moment I thought about killing you like a dog! I won’t kill you, but you must stand up. We’re the same, the two of us, like an apple cut in two halves. Now climb out of your grave and tell me if you can hear my voice. You can, can’t you? Bring your ear close to my mouth, I am going to scream. What the hell is your name anyway? Zayd! I will scream your name, if you can hear it nod your head, like this. If you didn’t hear me, shake it. Now I’m screaming: ‘Zayd! Zayd! Zayd! Zayd!’ No? You didn’t hear me? My voice, you didn’t hear my voice? No? Oh God … God … God … you said yourself that Khezr the prophet helps the lost and the miserable in the desert. So, O Khezr, hear my prayer! But if my voice is gone, how can it reach Khezr’s ears? O prophet Khezr, you understand my intention, not for my own sake, but for the sake of this captive … make him talk! Zayd … now it’s your turn to speak, say something, shout it! Here’s my ear. Go on, shout into my ear! Shout louder, louder! Tell me something … please say something! You shouldn’t have gone mute, and I shouldn’t … shouldn’t be deaf and dumb! It’s not fair! All the time that honourable man was speaking to me and trying to encourage me, I was dumb, couldn’t utter a single word. And now that my speech has returned to me – or at least I think it has – I can’t hear any voices. Or any sounds. I couldn’t hear his voice either. No doubt, he came to say farewell to me and said: ‘Look, do you see now with your own eyes what I told you weren’t just
stories!’ From within the maelstrom of darkness and explosions and fuel oil and gasoline and gunpowder that blackened the world, a white dove emerged, followed by other doves, with their brilliant white wings. Yes … he came, he spoke and I didn’t hear him, because I can’t. So move along there, Zayd! Don’t make me mad! From the moment this dagger was entrusted to me, it hasn’t cut anyone’s throat. Don’t make me cut you down because you’re trying to escape. The smell of your blood will attract vultures; first of all they’ll dig out your eyes and then, while you’re still alive, they’ll tear you limb from limb. Now I’ve said my piece. Whether you can hear me or not, that’s not my problem. I’ve declared my intention; my actions from here on in are out of my control. Move on, we’ll walk eastwards with our backs to the sunset. Either we will be killed on the journey, or we will encounter the lioness – either way, we’ll find her or she’ll find us. If she finds us she will show us the way. Just remember, I haven’t done you any harm. First, I unshackled your hand from mine, leaving you to your own devices. Second, I untied your legs so you could walk. Earlier on, I shared a flask of water with you. And now we’re in the same predicament, because there’s no knowing whether we’ll run into your forces or arrive at my base first; that puts us on an equal footing. But for the time being you’re still my prisoner, not vice versa. In time, if we survive, I might yet decide to untie your wrists as well. If there is even an ounce of brain left in our heads, we will realize that my killing you will leave me alone in this desert, and the same applies if you were to kill me. When you’ve come to this conclusion too and I have accepted that you have, then
I will untie your hands. Did you understand my words? How can you, though, when you can’t hear them? Oh God … please don’t inflict me with madness! My blood is still hot! I might as well go mad on my own if I come to believe Lieutenant Kehtar does not exist anymore, that he will never return to his previous form. I will entrust myself to you for fear of madness, O God! May my voice be heard, or at least let me hear myself … let me know for sure that I no longer have any voice at all and that all these words are just thoughts – pure imagination. Let me know that I will be taken to that lioness who feeds milk to all who are thirsty, and who shows lost people the way. Amen!

THERE WERE MANY
who were lost in the desert. Once lost, very few managed to escape the wasteland alive. And of those who survived, fewer still were able to explain why a person cannot walk in a straight line in the desert without a guide, without four-legged desert animals who know the way. Travelling at night in the desert is preferable for several reasons, the first being the possibility of navigating by the stars, exploiting the expertise and wisdom of the seasoned caravan leader and the leading camel. The second reason is the coolness of the desert air at night. It’s as cool and breezy at night as it is hot and unbearable during the day. So if a couple of young men – immature and inexperienced, thirsty and desperate to reach safety – should take it upon themselves to travel in the daytime without any equipment, in particular the miraculous dial of a compass, they’d have not the slightest inkling why they were failing to make any progress. A certain amount of time must pass before they collapse, totally exhausted, and suddenly realize that they have been going round and round in a very tight circle. This will only become apparent when others chance upon their trail. How can this be? Well, it’s because human legs and torsos are rarely straight and of exactly equal length. It’s impossible for a person’s legs to walk precisely symmetrically; everything depends upon the height, size, movement and joints of the individual’s body. The same
goes for the hands and shoulders and waist, and the neck and head and eyes as well; they’re not at all as identical as they might appear at first glance. And that’s why one keeps going round and round in the desert. The legs go round, the eyes go round. It’s a constant turning that mirrors the mirage within your head and mind. Fatigue, thirst, helplessness and impending death – all these only multiply the likelihood of errors.

And so it was that the two young men walked round and round in circles, leaving the tell-tale trail behind them as they went. And on their circular trajectory, which would never arrive at any destination, they made every error possible. Dizziness and thirst, dumbness and muteness, illusions, mirage, fatigue and thirst all played their part. Each time they sat down to rest, they cast off what they thought were unnecessary encumbrances, totally discarding them, even their boots. Thick cotton socks may or may not have been able to save the soles of their feet from the heat of rocks and pebbles. But carrying one’s boots is surely more arduous than tolerating the burning heat of the desert floor. Ultimately, all they had on was a single shirt, underwear and socks. Maybe they draped their uniforms over their heads to prevent the rays of light from penetrating the tiny pores in their skin, lest sudden and pure madness descend … and as they went round and round, with each turn the grip of exhaustion upon them became tighter and tighter until, during the final turn, much to their amazement, the soles of their feet suddenly felt wet. This is when they dropped on their bellies on a narrow strip where the ground was damp. Each grabbed a fistful of mud and
squeezed it onto his tongue. Alas, the drops of moisture that fell upon their tongues tasted oily, but they weren’t oil or petroleum. Even so, they felt compelled to stand up and follow the line of seemingly oily dampness. They pursued this path, on and on, until just before the sun went down. Sunset duly came and the mirage took on other forms. Whatever it was, it wasn’t far off, yet it still was not close enough to be in sight. By this stage, their eyesight was growing very dim. Finally … a ghostly image, possibly a mirage, came faintly into view. But it turned out to be no illusion. It really did exist. A black slab of stone – heavenly in appearance – and a lioness sitting on top of it, propped against a pile of belts, boots, articles of clothing, cartridge belts, ancient-looking weapons, helmets covered in dirt and flasks mangled into each other, missile nose-cones and empty shell casings and broken radio sets, piles of old skulls among terracotta pots and pans, and shards of old spearheads now rusty and twisted, a few ancient helmets and mangled breastplates – perhaps from an old warrior’s armour?

They approached the stone slab and stood in front of the supine lioness, who looked at them, the teats of her swollen breasts dripping with milk. She said – without speaking – what are you waiting for? For them to explode? For these breasts to explode? The pain of swollen breasts is no trivial matter. Either milk them or drink straight from them. Drink or milk them, my sons, I am that same mother lioness. Come closer to me and kneel before they explode, these breasts, and their milk is turned into blood. Come and drink, my sons. You are like my own twin cubs, who
in just twelve days have aged twenty years. Drink, drink, drink, my children. Drink before the clouds rise once more to roar and rain black fire from the sky! But …

‘They’re rising. They’re rising again!’