‘So you’ve come here to browbeat me! I’m very tired, Major!’
‘Surely no more tired than I am?’
‘Yes, mental exhaustion, my brain is tired of absorbing and storing crimes! I intended to raise a white flag and at least in my own mind, call a temporary truce. But you wouldn’t allow it, the enemy acted faster and the corporal of my mind was captured, just at the moment when the idea of peace had occurred to me. So he was taken captive, because utter thirst and fatigue had crushed his soul and forced him to surrender. You wouldn’t let me do my own work!’
‘Actually, that’s not true. Your work is precisely what we want you to do: write, that is! The corporal has been captured, so what? He’ll have to answer for that in person at his court martial. The subject I’ve suggested to you covers imprisonment as well. But you think the enemy is treating our prisoners with kid gloves!’
‘Why do you insist on thinking for me, voicing your own thoughts and then attributing them to me? I didn’t say, nor am I saying now, that the enemy is treating our prisoners leniently. I’m not talking about whether the enemy is kinder than us or not. My concern is the very concepts of kindness and cruelty. I am against the notion of cruelty, Major, and animosity. Please … before you leave put that book back in its proper place on the shelf of antique volumes. It took a lot of work to arrange those shelves!’
‘How fortunate, then, that an Ajam missile hasn’t landed in the vicinity of your house. If it had, you would become one with your precious books. The order in your library in an extension of the order in our republic. Now … before I say my final word, I’d like you to read a chapter of this book to me. I studied maths at school. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of you by reading an old Iranian text! It seems terribly convoluted to me. Even just skimming through it. Am I wrong? Here … read this page. I’ve just found out that Iranians predict the future from books. Among the volumes that we’ve confiscated after overrunning their trenches, aside from the holy book there were also copies of Hafez’s poetry. The book I want you to read for me is not Hafez. But … no doubt any book has something to teach. So teach me something from this book, Katib! Read to me. Read this page, Katib. This writer was a servant of Baghdad too, correct?’
‘Yes, it was written by that same vizier, the servant of Baghdad, and it contains a level and degree of fanaticism and hatred that compares with yours, concerning the enmity that arose among those people, and the hostility towards his sultan, and towards the caliph of his time as well!’
‘Please read! From the beginning, from the part where Abu Muslim is killed!’
‘But you asked me to read this page, Major.’
‘And now I’m asking you to turn the page and read the passage about Abu Ja’far Budavaniq, dear friend!’
‘… And so it was that Khorammeh, daughter to Faezeh, fled Madaen …’
‘Further on! I want to hear about Abu Muslim’s assassination!’
‘… when Abu Ja’far Budavaniq, in Baghdad, assassinated Abu Muslim in the year of one hundred and thirty seven after the Hijra of Muhammad — Peace Be Upon Him — a chief there was in the city of Neishabur, his name Sunpadh, who with Abu Muslim had of old the right to converse and serve, and Abu Muslim had raised him and helped him advance to the level of commandership. After Abu Muslim was murdered, he departed and from Neishabur, with an army, descended upon Rey and stayed in Rey and as his forces became stronger he demanded vengeance for Abu Muslim’s blood and proclaimed thus that he was Abu Muslim’s envoy to the people of Iraq and Khorasan, bearing the message that “Abu Muslim is not dead …” ’
‘That’s the passage! I wanted to show you the sort of people we’re fighting against. These are the real children of the same Zoroastrians who have stolen our clothes and proclaimed themselves Muslims, while all the time trying to depose us!’
‘But this is just a short account of a brief moment of history that has been turned into a story, and even this story clearly departs from the historic aspects of the wider narrative in this text. Imagination, this is pure imagination. The conclusion of this story is even more interesting than what you just heard. Our neighbours are imaginative people, listen! That man of Neishabur starts a rumour that Abu Muslim has not been killed and spreads it among the people. Listen to this!’
‘I have to go, Katib! Didn’t you hear the sound of the jeep’s engine? This folder contains the dossier of those three prisoners. An appalling and tragic accident has taken place in the prison camp I’m commander of, and it’s crying out for you to write a report about it, which will be much more interesting to read than the tales of our storytelling enemy! Write your report on the basis of those documents if you like; if not, feel free to content yourself with the fabrications of our enemies. I am a soldier, Katib. When I put on this uniform, I swore an oath beneath the flag of our Arab homeland to remain steadfast to certain principles.’
‘Coffee, Major? The coffee’s ready! Two cups. Shall we drink together? Will you listen to me as I read the ending?’
‘OK, read away and have done with it!’
‘… he proclaimed vengeance for Abu Muslim’s blood, the same Sunpadh, and let it be known that Abu Muslim had not been killed, [meaning that] when Mansur intended to kill him, Abu Muslim had chanted the great name of God and had turned into a white dove and flown out of his hands. And now he abides within an enclosure of copper, with his wives …’
‘That was delicious. Great coffee. Better brewed than the first cup we had last night. Do you mean to say Abu Muslim turned into a dove in the hands of Caliph Mansur?’
‘That was the very claim that Sunpadh of Neishabur used to assemble a group of followers who swore to follow in the steps of Abu Muslim …’
‘Very well, Katib. In those days they … but let’s not dwell on the question of the flag under which they fought us, my friend. My final word is to ask whether our katib is going to write a documented account or does he wish to turn into a white dove in the hands of Caliph Abu Mansur? Ultimately, that must be your decision, Abu Alaa! I sincerely hope and trust you won’t turn into a dove! God be with you!’
‘Farew — …’
10
I DIDN’T WANT TO HUMILIATE HIM, and I still don’t. Our literature is filled with the humiliation of Arabs, all stemming from the frustration of defeat. So what was important to me in this situation was victory. I had to conquer, conquer the enemy’s trench. I could kill him, right there in his trench. With a bullet, or my bayonet, or this wire loop hanging at my waist that was designed for strangling adversaries. But instead I handed it to that soldier to tie our captive’s wrists together and then ordered him to remove his cartridge belt and tie it around his elbows, to pin them to his chest and back. He made me furious! But I couldn’t just kill him in cold blood. The sun had just risen, but the small of his back was bathed in sweat. Sweat poured from his brow and ran down his neck. Evidently there was still some water left in his body, even though all the flasks in his trench were empty and his hip flask too. His eyes! His eyes tormented me. His gaze, that gaze … it was with those eyes that he had spotted my five men before riddling them with bullets. If I were an executioner I would have plucked those eyes out of their sockets, only I lacked the callousness. It was thanks to my ability to turn into a dove that I had been able to descend the hill light-footed, crawl across the narrow valley between the two hills, and in ascending the far side turn into a serpent … All I did was call him Saad ibn Abi Waqqas! And since I was certain he would never tell me his real name, from that moment onwards, Saad was what I would call him!