Parwaneh is gone. She has left me. She thinks I’m asleep. She has no idea the djinn have possessed me.
It’s not that long till morning prayers. And then after prayers my mother will come and sit by my bed. Gently and quietly. As always, under her breath, she will whisper a prayer by my side. Tenderly. She will protect me with her prayers. Gentler than the breeze, the djinn will melt away. My eyes will open. And instead of grumbling, I will smile at my mother. I will kiss her hands. I will prostrate myself before her. Around my neck I will wear the talisman my grandfather got from Da Mullah Saed Mustafa. I will believe in heaven and in the heavenly host of angels, I will think continuously of my soul. Every night, before I go to sleep, I will wash and then I will pray. I will not masturbate in bed. I will cross my clean hands over my heart and I will repeat the name of God a hundred and one times, Al-Ba’ith, Al-Ba’ith, Al-Ba’ith …
“The commander’s going to fuck your fucking mother.”
The officer swore at me then told the two soldiers to dump me in the jeep. I was rammed in between them. The jeep pulled off. It lurched about so much I felt sick. I reached forward and gently tapped the officer on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Commander …” I asked obsequiously.
The officer jerked round in fury screaming, “The commander’s going to fuck your fucking sister, you scum.”
I can feel cool water trickling over my face, gently cleansing the metallic taste of my blood from my lips and my nose and my eyes, cleaning away the powerful stench of shit, the heavy blackness of this long dark night. I feel movement coming back to my body, as though the djinn have fled and my soul has finally returned. I must try to open my eyes … but the excruciating pain in my temple is too much. I can feel my eyeballs moving behind my eyelids. Can I move my hands? I can. Am I awake? Perhaps.
In washing away these impurities, Parwaneh has scared off the djinn. My soul has survived the blows of those two jackbooted men, it has arisen from the filth. Now, slowly but surely, it is finding its way back to my body. My sore, wounded body. This is what they call the union of the body and soul. But now my body can feel the blows my soul has taken …
“Brother, are you feeling any better?”
“Parwaneh?”
But my broken voice is trapped in my throat.
“Can you get up?”
No, that doesn’t sound like Parwaneh.
“Who are you?”
“What?”
She can’t hear me. I must take a deep breath. Scorching air burns my battered lungs. My throat is raw with pain. I must open my eyes. In agony, I force my eyelids open.
Nothing but darkness. Am I still dreaming? Al-Ba’ith … how many? Dream within dream! Al-Ba’ith … Nightmare within nightmare! Al-Ba’ith … Blackness within blackness! Al-Ba’ith …
“Get up, Father!”
The child’s voice is coming closer. I can see his small head looming toward me. He smiles, then he turns to someone behind him.
“Mother, did you see? I made Father wake up!”
Is it me he’s calling “Father”? I try to lift my head. But my right cheek is stuck in blood and filth.
The smell of blood merges with the stench of shit, the child’s face merges with the darkness. And the darkness wins.
A child called me “Father.” What a beautiful ending to a nightmare. I wish my grandfather were alive. I would go and sit beside his prayer mat, which was always spread beneath him, and I’d tell him about my nightmare. Then, from under his embroidered cushion, he’d take out the book on the interpretation of dreams that was passed on to him by Da Mullah Saed Mustafa before he died. He’d undo the rubber band wrapped round the worn cover of the book, get out his magnifying glass, and recite a verse from the Koran. Next, he’d read to himself the sections related to my dream and, having compared them with each other, offer his interpretation:
“In a dream, a child represents an enemy. An unknown child is an enemy not yet encountered. Mud and filth indicate how terrified you are of this enemy … and cold water is a sign of the weakness of your faith.”
Then he’d take off the silver ring he always wore — engraved with one of the sacred names of Allah, “Al-Jabbar”—and he’d slip it onto one of my small fingers. He’d tell me that Da Mullah Saed Mustafa had once said that, if in the space of a single day, between sunrise and sunset, you recite this particular name of God two-thousand-two-hundred and sixty times, you’ll always be protected against the wrath and mischief of your enemies and oppressors … Al-Jabbar, one. Al-Jabbar, two. Al-Jabbar, three …
“Father’s saying something.”
Al-Jabbar … what number? This strange child, this unknown enemy, won’t let me recite. In fact this creature is not a child at all. It’s a djinn. It’s trying to stop me from counting the number of times I say Allah’s name. It despises the holy name of God. Al-Jabbar, Al-Jabbar, Al-Jabbar … Didn’t my grandfather used to say that the djinn are small, like children? Al-Jabbar …
“Yahya, come inside!”
Al-Jabbar. I can just make out the small djinn’s body as it moves around in the dark. Al-Jabbar. It’s going away. Al-Jabbar. It’s going further away. Al-Jabbar. Now it’s stopping. Al-Jabbar. I can see exactly where it’s standing. It’s standing by a door. A woman’s face appears in front of my eyes. Al-Jabbar.
“Brother …”
Is this woman a djinn as well? Al-Jabbar. Perhaps it’s a different kind of djinn. Al-Jabbar. I must lift up my head.
My head is exploding with pain. I think I’m beginning to see things a little more clearly, though I still can’t move a muscle. Every single one of my bones feels as though it’s broken, my veins have been severed, my brain turned to pulp, my muscles torn out … No, I’m not trapped in a nightmare. I’ve not been possessed by the djinn: I am dead.
“Name?”
“Can’t you read? It’s on my identity card!” I said to myself.
“Farhad,” I said to the officer.
He scrutinized my face, then compared it with my ID-card photo.
“Father’s name?”
“Mirdad.”
“Age?”
“I was born in 1337 [1958].”
“I’m not blind. That’s what it says here. I asked you how old you are.”
“Let me see, I’ll have to work it out because I get older every year …”
Silently the officer waited for me to finish my sums. Why did I start this stupid game? I have no idea. Childish arrogance. He blew cigarette smoke in my face. The sneer in his voice echoed all the way down the dark street:
“And what brings you here in the middle of the night when there’s a curfew on?”
I brought my heels together sharply like a well-trained soldier, raised my right hand to my forehead in salute, and said:
“Sir, Commander, I’m not going anywhere, sir, I’m just on my way home to my mother.”
“The commander’s going to fuck your mother.”
I am dead. This unbelievably foul smell tells me that I’m dead. After all, is it not said that, “God made man out of dirt before He breathed life into him”?
I’m dead. I’ve turned back into dirt. Maybe I was shot to pieces. The fact is, I’m neither dreaming nor possessed. I’ve died, and now I’m going through all those experiences in Imam Ghazali’s Book of the Dead.
My grandfather used to say that Da Mullah Saed Mustafa told him that — according to Imam Ghazali — at the time of death, before leaving the body, the soul flies into the heart. At this precise moment, the heavy burden of the soul crushes the chest, stifling speech and paralyzing the tongue. Like when you’ve been thumped hard in the chest and can’t speak.