A skilled enemy sniper was lurking on the far hill. The sound of an exploding water flask was proof of his good aim. Why hadn’t I tried to dissuade the men? Of course, I couldn’t do that. Thirst had driven them mad … and exhibiting their courage and nobility was the very quest they had come to the desert to fulfil. Water-bearing was an act of heroism firmly etched on their minds. The lure of filling the flasks with water and dragging them back up the hill while at the very limit of their endurance, that was their one great desire; it helped them feel themselves worthy of the ideal they aspired to. What was I supposed to do in these circumstances? They — or at least some of them — were young volunteers and privates. ‘Volunteer by all means!’ I’d told them, but I’d been at pains to stress that it was every man’s personal decision, and warned them of the slim chances of coming back alive … what more could I have done? I suppose I could have ordered them to attempt a surprise attack by working around the flank of the hill and then storming the enemy trenches using all available means, but the enemy had the hills completely covered and within range of troops in the fields below. If the bombing had happened two nights ago and I still had all my men, maybe that might have been the only possible strategy. But the air support was two days and two nights’ late, and a person’s bodily fluids evaporate under this searing sun, which makes even snakes slide underground from thirst! And now, what can I do and what can I say?
‘Do you know what gangrene is, boy?’
‘Gangrene? Never heard of it, sir.’
‘Gangrene means that your bones in your limbs start rotting. Like an arm or a leg. First it’s injured, then the wound reaches the bone, the bone is infected, the infection spreads and if you can’t stop it, eventually it will kill you. That’s why they amputate a gangrenous arm or leg. I severed it. I cut away the gangrene!’
‘Sir?’
‘I mean I amputated the entire twenty-seven years of my life.’
‘I don’t understand, sir!’
‘Forget it; see if you can spot any movement on that damned hill.’
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘In this cul-de-sac, the winner is the one who manages to take the last breath.’
‘What did you say, sir?’
‘I was talking to myself about that lioness. I still don’t think you believe that there really is such a lioness in this desert. I know … yes, I know blood is salty. It will make you even more thirsty … thirstier! But what can I do? Don’t be shy, let me know the moment you think your strength is at an end. And another thing — if we’re captured … no … focus your attention on that accursed hill! They’ve all travelled on the same path. All of my ancestors and yours! Right here, on this very spot. They rested in Ahwaz and raised their standard …’
‘Are you talking to me, sir?’
‘No, son. You just keep your eyes on that hill. And they all came from far-away regions and farther still! What mystery is this?’
‘My heart … my heart … my heart.’ This was the first time my heartbeat had escalated with such rapidity with the writing of each word. No, it wasn’t a result of smoking the cigarette. It was the words that were to blame. Sucking blood, sucking from the gashed wound on a finger of a hand. Yes, it was at that point when my heart began to palpitate faster with every word I wrote. I could feel it happening, moment by moment. It was the first time; prior to this, such a thing had never happened. But I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t wake up any of my family. I had tranquillizers at hand. I put my pen down and stood up. I wasn’t afraid, but at the same time I wasn’t able to continue. The words were bursting my heart. The words must not kill me, the words are not permitted to take away my life. I stood up and reached for a glass of water without thinking. It didn’t occur to me that my body might be dehydrated, and that a lot of blood had drained out of the wound on my finger. I stood up, took a gulp of water and straight away collapsed. I fell on my back and put my hand to my brow, my temple. What had struck me down so quickly and violently? Where was a doctor to explain what had happened to me? To reassure me that words aren’t able to explode the brain of their author?
If this man, this side of the border and at the foothills of the Alborz Mountains, willed himself to take notes day and night, he would write in the same way I have and admit that the name ‘dove’ had calmed him down. Just the word ‘dove’, the writing of it and the way he could complete his sentence with this word have all probably ensured that his brain or heart wouldn’t burst!
Once again a brief telephone call asking why hadn’t I written anything about the war?
‘But I have written something about the war — haven’t you read it?’
‘How? Where?’
‘It’s been published only once, maybe you were a child or a teenager back then.’
He pauses and asks: ‘I mean fiction. A novel …’
‘Rest assured, I won’t be late submitting it! But who am I speaking to, please?’
The person on the other end of the phone hangs up, and the line goes dead.
If this man at the foot of the Alborz wanted to write a diary, he should have kept a log of how many times he has had to answer such calls and what kind of answers he has given, but what can a person do who believes the entire business of existence in these times isn’t worth the effort of detailed scrutiny, night or day?
‘Talie … talie … in ancient times, a soldier in such a forward position would be called talie. The word talie derives ultimately from a word for the dawn, and by extension means ‘vanguard’, ‘standard bearer’, ‘herald’ or ‘rider’. The talie probe the enemy’s defences, right and left, while their own main army waits in the rear. They intercept potential deserters, mounted and with their blades drawn, ready to behead anyone fleeing the front. Oh you cowards! But talie also implies suddenly emerging in front of the enemy, like the night-rovers who penetrated the enemy camps. So here I am now, a talie who must not be seen. My banner is invisible and my flag is the earth into which I have burrowed so as to remain unobserved. But before I die, I must take down that skilful sniper. Show me the way, O dove! Angels materialize in your image. Reveal a path to me so that death makes me forget its petty meaning. But why do I feel as if my shoulders have been bound? In ancient hand-to-hand combat, the illusion of valour and chivalry was nothing but a veil to cover the abomination of slaughter. But now I must summon up strength of purpose, I must recall those acts of courage which this tract of land has no doubt witnessed on many occasions. Here, on this meadow and along these paths. I have no choice in this matter! But why do I feel as though my shoulders have been bound? Just like the shoulders of this unfortunate prisoner?’
‘Well, well first lieutenant on duty, Abu Muslim, Laith Saffari, Babak Khorramdin, Qarmati, Sepid Jam-e, and Nakhshabi! O warrior! You’re in deep! You’ve fallen into a trap that they set for wolves. You’ve been had, O you progenitor of all races and ideals, O wayward child of times present and past! Did you harbour naïve hopes or …’