This was the impression that man had of what goes by the name of a sidearm, revolver or pistol. But the firing of a bullet had not as yet been etched on his mind. Despite the fact that once, a long time ago, he’d been in a barber’s shop when a man came in straight after carrying out a death sentence. Standing in front of the mirror by the sink, washing his hands and his face after a haircut and a shave, the man calmly announced to the shop that he’d just shot someone before coming there. He had a large, meaty head and his neck was short and thick, but not to the extent that one could say his head was glued to his shoulders. His shoulders would have appeared to be a normal size if his head had not been so big and his neck so short, and if his legs had not been too short for his torso. But the fact remained that they were. When you looked from behind at the way he walked you could see that his left leg arched in a slight limp; yet none of these characteristics could be regarded as peculiar to those who, throughout history, have traditionally performed the role of executioner. So, bold as brass, he said: ‘I shot some men before coming here,’ and added: ‘One of them soiled himself before the execution, but not Teyeb!’a The man had performed an execution and then come along to the barber’s, had his hair cut and beard shaved, and now he was leaving the shop again to go home. Master Taqi maintained a professional smile on his lips as he responded to his farewell, waiting until he was out on the pavement before saying: ‘He’s a relative of ours, the bastard! Warrant officer, forever a warrant officer!’ and then asking: ‘What day of the month is it?’
Then came the revolution and the sound of gunfire, and the rumour went round that you could get hold of a gun on street corners: a Colt, for 500 Tomans.b Response: I don’t want to see its nasty shape. Or the shape of any weapon. Then there was the war and the newspapers were filled with new names and reports. The television screen was filled with images streaming in the dust rising from marching feet, dust rising from beneath wheels and vehicles, wave after wave, as they advanced towards the south and the west of the country. Once again they had to set up extensive networks of defensive lines at the border, organize themselves, dig trenches, stand and defend their positions — attack — patrol — get torn to pieces and … martyrdom. Green and crimson and black banners. As well as headbands, on which mottos were inscribed, tied round every forehead. Foreheads of various colours, the foreheads of many people, from diverse regions. So diverse that the five men who crawled down Hill Zero to fetch water and who were shot down each came from a different region. The sixth and the seventh also each came from a different region and province. And if this seventh, a lieutenant from the scouts’ combat unit, managed to survive, he would no doubt have recorded the names and addresses and fates of each of his subordinates. Also the manner of their deaths and why they had happened:
It was beyond my control, sir! Utter thirst, pressure and despair drive a person to the brink of madness! Drinking water was there in the tank, no more than a thousand feet away, and the soldiers’ lips had split from thirst. The skin of their faces was cracked and if they had not charged down towards the water they would still have become martyrs. There was even the threat of quarrelling and discord spreading in the trench. But ultimately they endured their plight like men and never showed any sign of weakness. Not even when they were starving — but thirst … it cannot be endured, sir! Water was within reach, but …
And … I am the seventh. I stationed the sixth behind the machine gun with the little strength that was left in him, and I went off to conquer. If only I’d had just two men, two fresh soldiers. Or at least one, so that I could have distracted the enemy sniper and created a diversion, but I didn’t!
‘I didn’t, sir! The back-up forces were depleted too and dispersed all over the place. They had been hit by enemy fire. Don’t make me describe it. The only people left were myself, a teenager who had been struck dumb and in all probability paralyzed, and a prisoner whose existence was nothing but an encumbrance. Time and again I wanted to put him out of his misery, but I couldn’t. The military code of conduct did not permit it and besides, personally I couldn’t, I just couldn’t! Suppose he was perishing from thirst too in that southern heat, where it’s so hot not even a snake pokes its head out above ground. Please let me have a gulp of water … could you ask them to bring a drop of water for me, sir? Afterwards I will be able to recount in detail the temperament, behaviour and even the words that my soldiers spoke throughout the entire mission. Name and surname, enrolment number and the methods of the action and reaction of each have been engraved in my mind. I was fond of them all. They had volunteered for the mission and none of them disobeyed me at any stage. They never came up short. But thirst, sir!’
‘What about you?’
‘It’s not even clear that I’m alive yet!’
‘What if you have survived?’
‘In that case, I just declared that I will describe my unit’s mission in detail.’
‘This is a court martial. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘So answer the question! You … Lieutenant in command, how did you deal with your own thirst?’
‘Me? I can turn into a dove, sir! I told you before.’
‘A dove? I’ve never heard of such a thing!’
‘I turned into my name. I can do it. Doves are besmeled, sir. Haven’t you heard?’
‘Take him away … take him to the lunatic asylum …’
They don’t believe it. But I did it, I will do it. My old man turned into a dove, father, father, father, father, again my father, father, father, when he was released from his blood-drenched body … they don’t believe it. They don’t believe in taking off one’s boots, wrapping one’s feet in sheets, becoming light and flying. Jamoo … Jamoo … Jamoo … I want you to remain behind the shelter of this machine gun, don’t blink, keep your eyes glued to that spot from where bullets were fired through the slit between the sandbags. Five shots were fired, and all five of our men were hit. All those men who went down there, one by one, craving water, and intending to bring some water back for you and me and this captive too. Concentrate on that very spot! Answer me by nodding your head if you understand what I’m saying!’
‘Jamoo!’
Now he will pray for me, I know. I didn’t ask him to, but I know that he will. By force of habit, under his breath. This is an innate habit, a sign of the loneliness of the children of Adam. I become lighter, very light. Lighter than the soul, I fly into the half-light of dawn. I will not advance directly towards the enemy. I will outflank them. I will manoeuvre from Hill Zero and make for the wisps of smoke still rising from the ruins of their gun emplacements. Against a backdrop of heavy and light smoke, I lose colour and I take on colour. I move up the base of the hill. I have transformed myself. For a moment, the noise of a shot petrifies me. Then I recognize the sound as friendly machine-gun fire. Is it Jamoo? Why? I turn into a serpent and hold my head high. A serpent! Yes, I was correct, Jamoo has fired in the direction of the enemy trench. Maybe he saw a movement? That must be the case. Someone’s head has peeked out from behind the trench and Jamoo has opened fire. But why should anyone have raised their head? Water. Yes, of course, water. Now a piece of cloth, off-white in colour, rises up from behind the shelter of the trench. Slowly, a piece of cloth on a stick appears and Jamoo gives no quarter. I hear a voice speaking in my language: ‘Don’t shoot!’ And suddenly I catch sight of the back of a naked torso in the enemy trench. What a low trick! A prisoner from our side has been turned into a human shield against our fire. Blood fills my eyes and I pray to God that the teenager I’ve left behind the machine gun has come to his senses and will recognize one of our own men! But no! His sole focus is on obeying my order to the letter. But as long as our soldier is not pushed out of the trench, this in itself provides me with the ideal opportunity to act. I have to make it over to the trench instantly, which I manage. At this, the enemy soldier who has killed my five men starts spitting and cursing at us. And in that frenzied state, he shoves the muzzle of his gun between the naked shoulder-blades of his captive and announces ‘I’ll count to ten and your mother will mourn you if you don’t step out of the trench immediately and order that machine gun on the opposite hill to cease fire’. But when he comes to saba’a,c he suddenly feels the tip of my bayonet on his spine and the steel muzzle of the sidearm which I have jammed behind his ear. I order the prisoner: ‘Take his gun and obey my commands, soldier!’ He turns around and takes the gun. Neither of us has the strength to fight and grapple in the trench. Nor, in the current circumstances, would it be to the enemy sergeant’s — or is he a corporal? — advantage to challenge my position. My bayonet is already out of its scabbard, while his knife isn’t. There are two of us and one of him. Of course, he is burlier and stronger, but he’s also more tired. Hunger and thirst haven’t treated him any better than us. I have no wish to humiliate him. I withdraw a step. I take the confiscated gun from the enemy soldier, toss a wire at our captive and order him to tie our prisoner’s thumbs together. ‘Tightly, boy, tightly! Now his wrists.’ I think about saying something facetious to the enemy soldier, but I’m in no mood for jesting. I’ve exhausted all my energy in rushing this position and now he — whoever he is — is my captive, our captive. I call out and step out of the trench. Jamoo has seen my signal and recognized it. A mirror reflecting the light. Now the sun has risen in the east.