Yasmina Khadra
The Long Night Of A Penitent
Translated from the French by Peter Schulman.
“When peace reigns, the bellicose man makes war with himself.”
– Nietzsche
Abou Seif gingerly touches the blade of his knife as he carves a barely noticeable oval incision within the lines of his finger. Slowly, a minuscule drop of blood hatches, grows, drips down his thumb before trickling down to his palm. Abou Seif licks it luxuriously, then, with demoniacal laughter, throws his head back and advances towards the woman tied to a chair.
“I’m going to rip your guts out.”
Matching action to speech, he lifts her chin with the tip of his knife and, in one swift move, slits her throat from ear to ear. The pain is so intense that the torture victim is thrown brutally into the air. Her eyes are popping out of their sockets. Abou Seif has to move aside to avoid getting splashed by all the blood. All of a sudden, the wall gives way behind him as he tumbles down an abyss.
“Nooooo!”
“Abou Seif… Abou Seif… wake up.”
Abou Seif indeed wakes up. He is sitting in the middle of the bed, his throat on fire. His breathing resonates throughout the room as though it were a subterranean rumble. With a feverish hand, he wipes the sweat from his brow and lets himself fall back onto his pillow. His wife leans over him, takes his hand, and holds him tightly.
“Another one of those damned dreams?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Why do you refuse to see a doctor?”
“I’m not a nut job.”
“I…”
“Shut up, will you!”
Abou Seif’s eyes bulge with rage, then, feeling completely wiped out, he hides behind the palms of his hands.
“I’m sorry,” his wife says.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I’m worried sick about you. You’re wasting away; you’re not eating and you can’t fall asleep for more than a second without waking up and hitting the roof. There’s no shame in seeing a doctor. He can prescribe some sort of treatment and, in a few days, you’ll feel better.”
“Stop talking about doctors, okay?” Abou Sief becomes agitated once again. “I’m not crazy, dammit. Watch what you say…”
Filled with rage, he gets out of bed, hastily puts on some underwear, and, as he gets dressed, grumbles: “Do you think I enjoy this shit?!”
He goes towards the bathroom and turns the light on. The harsh brightness makes him squint. The mirror hurls a disturbing face right back at him. Abou Seif notices that he has in fact lost a lot of weight. His face is but a dried-out mask that a stubbly beard has made even uglier. He slaps himself a few times to fully wake himself up before addressing his reflection:
“You’re not going to let that scum ruin your life, are you, Abou Seif? You really sealed their lips once. Now let them rot in their mass graves… you don’t have to worry about running into them around here. You know the dead are yesterday’s news by now. Once they’re down there in their little holes, they’re out of sight, out of mind. If they come back to wander through your memories, what do you think you should do? You give them a kick in the ass, that’s what. It’s that easy. They don’t deserve another look. They weren’t even worth much when they were alive.”
He pats down his moustache, scowls intently to psych himself up, and then, feeling a bit more cheerful, turns towards the bidet to urinate.
“You weren’t afraid of anybody. And it’s not some rotten stiff who’s gonna stop you from sleeping. You’ve seen a lot worse, my friend. You dealt with so much crap that you don’t even have any more saliva left to go spit on them. So relax, okay? There’s nothing to be gained by bringing them all back. You knocked them off, got it? Dead, gone. They can’t step on your toes anymore; you’ve got to tell yourself that once and for all.”
He goes back towards the wash-basin and turns the faucet on. No water. He bangs on the sink, all put out: “More stinking water rationing. Why don’t those shithead politicians build some desalination factories around here? When those dirty demagogues open their big fat mouths, they’re at their absolute best. When it comes to actually doing something, however, well, that’s too much to ask of them apparently.”
“Go back to bed,” his wife orders.
“Not sleepy.”
“Come on, get back in here…”
“I’m good right where I am.”
“You’re worried that you’re going to have some more nightmares, aren’t you?!”
“Stop provoking me, you bitch.”
“That’s it, you’re scared of your nightmares.”
Abou Seif lets out another curse and stomps into the bedroom: “Are you gonna shut your mouth, you slut?!”
His wife won’t let him affect her. She remains on her knees in the middle of the bedroom. As she holds on to a candleholder, an aggressive look crosses her face.
“You’re not going to touch me with those butcher’s hands anymore.”
“You really want to see me flip out, don’t you? That’s what you want, isn’t it?!”
His wife lowers her arm and wistfully looks at the candleholder. Confused, she ventures: “I’m exhausted. I’m trying to help you, and you, you always take things the wrong way. Does that seem like a life to you? I’m sick of having to walk on eggshells all the time. Everything I say seems to wound you in some way. It’s unbearable. As for myself, I worry about you. And you, you’re ready to pounce on my every word. This can’t go on any longer, Abou Seif. I’ve had it up to here. Either you turn in a more positive direction, or we go our separate ways. I don’t feel like getting my head blown off just for trying to help you.”