‘Well, it’s because …’
‘I know, I know … it’s a fact of life, but no less distressing for that, that if you don’t take him captive, he will kill you! Forgive me, Major, for everyone has a child inside himself, and I’m no exception. You pour this time, Major, pour us another glass!’
‘Are you alright, Katib?
‘I’m fine, yes … couldn’t be better. These flies … these flies are driving me mad! Can you see them? You can’t? Down there, they were on the kitchen table, didn’t you see them? All night long, dancing in front of my eyes … ah … my pen and fingers are both stiff and I stare at them, for hours and hours, staring, and I can’t find a way towards salvation. I can’t find a way. They perish from heat and thirst! Why don’t you exterminate the city’s insects, Major? Isn’t everything under the army’s command now? So why don’t you turn your attention to public sanitation in the city? Pour … please do. Here’s to joy! To revelry, Arab-style! But … what was I saying? Mankind … yes, human beings! I’ve come to the conclusion that God has turned his back on us humans. Turned his face away. Everything … we see everything as ugly and vile. We regard it all as destructive, ruinous, annihilating. Everyone is inflicted with the madness of annihilation. God has turned his back on mankind. The fact that God has turned his face away from human beings is the pet theory of this katib, Major. Mark my words. This is the theory of a Mesopotamian katib, a counter-theory to the famous dictum by that philosopher from the banks of Rhine, who wrote “God is dead”. No, I maintain that God has turned away and humans have slipped their reins and are now on the rampage, destroying everything. Not only other forms of life, but their own kind as well … They perish in the desert, I can’t do anything. They are thirsty … On the shores of the Bosphorus, the fringes of the central plateau, at the foot of Mount Dena … in spite of all the water in the Karkheh River, they are still thirsty. They perish. Sir … why haven’t you touched your coffee? Will you allow me to drink your cup? Forgive me, Major, I’m drinking again … let’s drink together. To joy!’
‘To the joy of conquest! They have assured us we will drink wine once again in Nahavand. Once again! To the joy of conquest! We have conquered and we will conquer again, Katib, and in conquest it is only victory that matters and nothing else. I live or die for conquest and conquest alone. The blood of the Banu Quda’a tribe courses through my veins. The blood of centuries and epochs of bloody wars … We rode upon them and … you say the rest. Yes, you! Aren’t you an Arab too?’
‘Sword, sword, sword and blood. Severed heads … gaping chests … thirst and the dove. Why have I had the image of a dove in my mind for some time now … A dove flying across the sky of history and never finding a single wall or tower to sit upon? Isn’t this Noah’s dove, which is still flapping its wings in search of dry land? Flight … the flight of a dove … a breathless dove … conquest … shroud … word … words … forgetfulness … mind … habit … flies … why don’t you smoke a cigarette, Major? At least use the lighter for me … or this match … or look, look … the desert is on fire. Have you seen the desert on fire before, the earth aflame … fire upon fire … look … look … I’m not a poet … I’m a moderate drinker … pour … one more, Major … I wish this darkness … I wish there was no darkness. A tavern … a coffee-house … why won’t a missile blow up my house? Major?’
‘Conquest … conquest … conquest, Katib! We conquer … I’m a moderate drinker too. I will build you a tavern … I’ll have it built. I’ll break down the doors! I’ll command them to open the tavern’s doors! I have a regiment at my command, no, a battalion! I am of the Banu Quda’a tribe and this Colt … this Colt is my tongue and my blade, Katib. I speak through the mouth of this thing that you see before you … tell me the address of your favourite tavern and get up! Now … let’s go and drink …’
‘Words … word … sentence … what pleasure there is in plunging into a pool of wine, Major? What pleasure! Caliph … caliph … caliphs of Baghdad and … Bring his head for me! That vizier’s head, that Barmakid and his son!† That is, the head of his sister’s legal husband. The head of Yahya’s son … the vizier’s head … the one whose father, Yahya, was the most trusted key-keeper of the caliph’s harem. Bring his head to me this very night!’
‘The caliph has demanded your head, O Grand Vizier!’
‘I have guests and … see for yourself, Haris,‡ it is a special occasion!’
‘I can see … All eminent Arabs and distinguished personages from the countries under our control … but the Commander of the Faithful has ordered it thus!’
‘Any documentation … or a signet … or seal? An order must be in written form!’
‘But he is in a nocturnal feast … there were no scribes. You do understand … the order came on a night of revelry!’
‘What would you do if you were in my place, Haris? I have with me sword-wielders who are ready to serve. If you were in my place, would you surrender your head to the blade?’
‘What can I do? I’m just carrying out an order. You are a vizier and a wise man, you think of something. I’m devastated too. I have this job and earn my living thanks to you. I’m grateful to you. But what am I to do?’
‘We’ll think of something on the way!’
‘What should I do afterwards?’
‘We’ll see. The order was issued in a moment of rage. Before we reach the palace … maybe his wrath will abate. We will go together and stand outside the harem’s curtains … I will remain there behind the curtains, standing back, and you will step inside. You will say you have severed Barmak’s head from his body and ask for permission to present the head. On hearing this news, the caliph will react in one of two ways: either he will be angry at you for acting so precipitately, in which case he will call for your head, but before any blades can be unsheathed, I will enter and kiss the Commander of the Faithful’s feet to prevent him from exercising retribution upon you, and this will be the best outcome of this accursed order. For my death would result in his issuing the order for your death as well, since the caliph of Muslims could not leave alive the murderer of Yahya’s son. But if his anger doesn’t abate and he insists on killing Barmak the vizier, he will ask you to bring the head to him! In which case I will be standing here ready for your blade. Beheading can happen in the blink of an eye. You’ll come and fetch my head and put it on a tray and take it to him!’
‘Now I step in.’
‘But wait, let me tell you, alas … I wish you were an expert in the Arabic language and with a silver tongue could recount the services rendered by the grand Barmaki family to Commander of the Faithful and the Abbasid dynasty! But this is not in your power, for I know that you are a man of the blade and blood and not a man of words! So go. Tell them you have collected the head of Barmak the vizier and heed what the caliph of the Muslims has to say in response. I will also listen to what he says. And the head of Yahya’s son is ready for harvest, right here.’