The lieutenant-colonel wraps his arms around my waist again. It is as if his embrace is pressing on my rage to squirt it up to the stars. I lean on him for support, put my hands around my mouth like a megaphone and hurl my cries further than an artillery shell.
‘Curses be upon you, Saddam Hussein! Why did you let yourself be taken alive and executed on the first day of Eid? You could have put a bullet in your brain and robbed the Crusaders of the pleasure of their ghoulish revenge. Because of you, the prophet Muhammad and his people do not dare raise their eyes to God any longer … But I shall stand straight before the Lord. I shall look him in the eye till He turns away. Because He wouldn’t trouble himself to unleash the Ababil on these infidels who heap calumnies and defecate without restraint upon a Muslim land.’10
My shouts pour out into space like a raging torrent of the elements; the sky and earth intermingle, then the abyss …
10 In the Koran the Ababil were a race of birds that saved Mecca from the Yemeni army by dropping clay bricks on its elephants as they approached.
12
I am cold.
In the cavern in which I find myself it is as black as if no light had shone there since the beginning of time. I grope my way, fear clawing at my stomach; I have no idea where I am going, but I know that I am not alone. An intangible presence is hovering around me. I hear the sound of footsteps. When I stop, the sound stops too.
‘Who is there?’
Silence.
‘Who is there? I am not deaf. Play hide-and-seek as much as you like, I can hear you.’
‘All you can hear is the echo of your own fear, Muammar.’
I turn towards the Voice; it rings through the cavern, ricocheting off the stone, washing over me and dying away in a yawning sigh.
‘I am not afraid.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘Who should I be afraid of? I am the dauntless Guide, and I walk with my head held so high that the very stars draw back from me.’
‘In that case, why do you retreat in the darkness?’
‘Perhaps I am dead.’
‘Having skipped your punishment? Too easy, don’t you think?’
‘Who are you? Angel or devil?’
‘Both. I was even God, once.’
‘Then show yourself, if you are brave enough.’
Something moves in the depth of the cavern and comes closer. I can just make out a human form. It is a wretch dressed in rags, with a shaggy tangled beard and an endless rope tied around his neck that he drags with him, among his chains.
‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t you recognise me? No more than a minute ago you were heaping curses on me.’
‘Saddam Hussein?’
‘Or what is left of him: a poor devil wandering in the darkness.’
‘Then I am dead.’
‘Not yet. For your soul to rest, it must first make sure it undergoes the suffering of your flesh.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘To look you in the face and read the terror that’s written there now. You’ve insulted me, cursed me and spat on me. Let me remind you that I was hanged by America and its allies, but you will be lynched by your own people.’
‘Your people betrayed you too.’
‘It’s not the same, Muammar. Under my reign Iraq was a great nation. Harun al-Rashid was no greater a ruler than I was. My universities produced geniuses. Every night Baghdad made merry, every seed I sowed sprouted before it touched the ground. But you, Muammar, what did you turn your people into? A starving mob who’ll devour you whole.’
‘I can’t know your fate, Hussein. But my destiny is in my hands. And God’s too.’
‘God is with no one. Didn’t He let His own son die on the cross? He won’t come to your aid. He’ll watch you die like a dog under a hail of stones. And when your soul departs your body He won’t even be there to meet it. You’ll wander in the darkness, as I do, until you become no more than a shadow among the shadows.’
‘Perhaps, but I am not dead yet. I have the strength to fight and to turn the situation to my advantage. I shall not end up like you. My throne is summoning me back, and in less than a week people will be celebrating my victory and no one will ever raise their voice against me again.’
‘No one celebrates the wind. Wherever it shows itself, all it does is pass by. What it takes with it is of little importance, and what it leaves behind will be erased by time.’
‘I am not the wind. I am Muammar Gaddafi!’
My shout awakens me. The ceiling spins in slow motion; my senses slowly return. I am lying stretched out on the couch in my bedroom, feeling woozy, exhausted, my throat raw. A small table has been placed next to me with a tray on which there is a cold meaclass="underline" an egg sandwich, a chocolate bar, some jam and a carafe of water.
‘You must get your strength back, Rais,’ Abu-Bakr tells me. ‘The doctor has diagnosed mild hypoglycaemia. You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday lunchtime.’
‘What happened to me?’
‘A mild attack of exhaustion. Nothing serious. Eat, please. It will do you good.’
Around me, in addition to the minister of defence, sit Mansour and Lieutenant-Colonel Trid. They watch me closely.
‘I am not hungry.’
‘You’re dehydrated, Brotherly Guide, and undernourished. You won’t last long like that.’
‘I made the sandwich myself,’ Trid says, as if to prove that the food is not poisoned. ‘I brought a bit of food back with me.’
I push the tray away.
‘I am not hungry.’
‘Rais—’
‘I am not hungry, dammit! What are you going to do, hold my nose and force-feed me?’
‘The doctor—’
‘I do not give a damn about the doctor. He is not going to teach me how to run my life … What is the time?’
‘Nearly 4.30, sir.’
‘Should we not have left by now?’
‘Colonel Mutassim has not come back yet, sir.’
‘We cannot let that stand in our way. It will soon be daylight. How are we going to get out of the city?’
‘At present we only have thirty vehicles, sir,’ the general argues. ‘It won’t be enough to break the siege.’
I clap my hands in exasperation.
‘The things I have to listen to! I am surrounded by cripples. You are my chief of staff, General, my minister of defence. It is up to you to find the solution. That is your job. Do you want me to do it for you? What have you been doing for the last twenty-four hours? Are you waiting for Gabriel to come and fan you with his wings? Is that it?’
‘Gabriel died at Hira, and I’ve got a canteen to cool me down.’
It is the first time General Abu-Bakr has uttered a profanity in my presence: his piety is beyond belief. It is also the first time he has ever answered me in anything like a critical way. His retort is hardly audible, but somehow it calms me. I understand that my men are under too much stress to deal with my sudden changes of mood, and that the situation demands from me a modicum of wisdom and consideration for my closest collaborators.
The general goes on staring at the floor. He regrets having spoken to me in an inappropriate tone. He knows that I am hypersensitive and that if I sometimes forgive a moment’s rudeness, I never forget it.
Mansour starts scratching his head, embarrassed.
As for the lieutenant-colonel, he goes on watching me, a smile playing on his lips.
I study each of them, one at a time, let out a sigh, and ask if there is any news of my son Mutassim.
‘No, sir,’ the general informs me, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘The bombardment has been severe. The colonel has had to stay put.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘We don’t know, sir.’
‘What are you waiting for? Send someone to his position immediately.’