‘That must be someone else,’ I said. ‘I don’t have anything to do with writing. I’m a translator in the immigration department. It’s true I wrote some poems in my youth, but I’ve never written anything else.’
‘Perhaps… perhaps you’ll write something later,’ he said.
He folded his newspaper and added, ‘I was born in the Year of the Mouse.’ He started telling me about the Chinese Zodiac, and said that people born in the Year of the Mouse like to talk about themselves and the way they live. They are very kind but they are also very ambitious, and it’s hard for them to get on with people born in other years. They love debate and their biggest problem is their selfishness. I gathered he had chosen the Year of the Mouse for himself because he was so interested in mice, and not because of his real date of birth. He described the mouse as a gentle and fascinating creature, and we started chatting about mice and their qualities, as the man had extensive experience in all things mouse-related. The conversation led me to expound on my own life and on what had happened with Adel Salim and the Afghan. I started to humour his passion for mice and I told him what I could remember: in my childhood we lived in an area called Air Force Square, close to a military airfield. It was a dirty area teeming with mice, cockroaches and flies. Everyone tried to get rid of the mice, but in vain. My elder sister, like the rest of the women, would set small wooden traps in the kitchen. When a mouse went into the trap it would end up scalded. My sister would boil some water and pour it on top of the mouse — a special form of extermination. It was a horrible death. The smell of boiled mouse hung in the courtyard for more than a day. My grandfather had his own method. He had a long stick at the end of which he had hammered in some nails, and with a quick flick he would hit the mouse, which would start bleeding and make a horrible squealing noise. My sister never accepted this method, because the floor would get spattered with blood and, like the other women in the neighbourhood, she preferred boiled mice to bleeding mice.
‘Permit me to tell you that you’re lying. These are not memories. Doesn’t what you say come from a story called ‘My Wife’s Bottom’?’
‘If you say so, Mr Saro,’ I said, shifting in my seat.
The man looked at me calmly and said, ‘Listen, young man. Can you tell me, for example, who wrote ‘The Killers and the Compass’? It’s the one about the Pakistani kid who finds a sacred compass, and tells how he carried it from Pakistan to Iran, and the rape incident. Your friend Adel Salim killed the Afghan to obtain the compass. It sounds like a riddle or a silly detective story. I’m sure you’ll clear the matter up in another story. Why don’t you write a novel, instead of talking about all these characters — Arabs, Kurds, Pakistanis, Sudanese, Bangladeshis and Africans? They would make for mysterious, traditional stories. Why do you cram all these names into one short story? Let the truth come to light in all its simplicity. Why not enjoy your life?’
‘Mr Saro, I don’t understand what you’re saying. Besides, you’re talking about truth and for a start I hate anyone who utters that word as if he’s a prophet or a god. Maybe you’ve heard of Jalal ad-Din Rumi, the Sufi Muslim who died in 1273. Rumi says, “The truth was once a mirror in the hands of God. Then it fell and broke into a thousand pieces. Everybody has a very small piece of it, but each one believes he has the whole truth.”’
Saro said, ‘I know your friend Rumi but I’ve never heard of him saying that. Listen, mice are colour blind, but they can distinguish shading, from black through to white, and that’s enough to get a grip on some reality.’
Then Saro stopped talking and left me to myself. He took a lump of cheese out of his bag and started to break it up into small pieces, which he threw at the mouse in the cage.
‘Mr Saro, you seem to be a foreigner like me.’ I said.
‘It’s true. I’m from Turkey,’ he said, looking at his mouse.
‘It’s a beautiful country.’
‘Really?’ said Saro.
‘Definitely.’
‘You cursed your time there. You ate shit in Istanbul, as you put it. You worked like a donkey in restaurants and factories for a pittance,’ said Saro.
I examined his face in the hope of uncovering his personality.
‘We didn’t meet in the way you imagine. Everything exists in stories,’ said Saro.
‘We’re going back to the subject of writing again.’
‘Why not? It’s an impressive human activity,’ said Saro.
‘Let me ask you, Mr Saro. Are you interested in literature? Do you write?’
‘No, I’m only interested in the lives of mice.’
The train stopped again. Mr Saro put on his coat, picked up his mouse and left.
Then he came back and stuck his head through the compartment door. ‘Why didn’t you mention your real name in this story?’ he asked. ‘Your friend Rumi said, “There is no imagination in the world without truth.”’
‘Rumi also says, “You saw the image but you missed the meaning,”’ I answered. I wanted to ask him not to leave me on my own.
‘But I hate rats,’ came Saro’s reply.
The train moved. My tooth was hurting. I took an aspirin and tried to relax. I browsed through the newspaper without interest. On the back page there was a story about a poisoning incident:
A Belgian woman set sail on a boating expedition last week, accompanied by only her dog and a few cans of her favourite drink, Coca Cola. Once out in clear water, the woman stowed her cans in the boat’s refrigerator and then, according to police reports, began to play with the dog by vigorously rubbing its penis. The next day the woman was taken to hospital and put in intensive care. She died three days later. After a post-mortem examination, and prior to the dog being handed over to a shelter for stray pets, it was established that rat urine on the Coca Cola cans was the cause of the illness, having infected the woman with a deadly spirochaetic-related pathogen. As part of the investigation police and public health officials have now visited the supermarket where the woman purchased the cans. The rat is still being sought.
Sarsara’s Tree
Sitting on top of the hill under a tree… Typing my remarks about the River Nabi on a laptop… A giant sun roasts the village. Ants carry away the remains of a dead hornet. Other strange insects nibble at each other. My stomach hurts! The doctor says it’s an inflammation of the colon. My stomach swelled up three weeks ago as if I were pregnant. I’m writing a study for a local NGO that intends to rip off a foreign NGO that issues grants. My task is to exaggerate the truth. To spread panic about drought. To paint a bleak picture of the many villages that lie scattered along the banks of the River Nabi, which runs between my country and that of our hostile neighbours. We’ve been fighting ruinous wars with these neighbours since the dawn of history. The fragile peace we now have with them is just a dormant volcano. I’m currently contributing to a narrative that concludes with the volcano erupting once again. Without water blood will flow. Thirst will arouse that brutal, hostile memory. And it won’t be just humans that will perish, but also rare birds and insects and the flocks of animals that provide the local people with their sustenance, not to mention the rhythm of their lives.
This year I’ve toured six villages and recorded my dramatic observations on each one. Sarsara’s village, which faces the River Nabi, was my last fact-finding destination. This is the great river of whose banks poets have sung countless praises. Each, in his own language, offered to its sweet waters love, reverence, rituals, fabulous stories and reports of floods and drownings. What does our NGO want to prove? If the river runs dry it will be filled with the blood of those who love it. Water is love. The spectre of the future takes the form of a terrifying desert. We won’t go back to the jungle to fight. This time we’ll go to the desert and slaughter each other. Our new ice age will be a thirsty desert.