Yes … somewhere, at some spot here on planet Earth, a shell is propelled out of the muzzle of a heavy weapon. A leaden shell, heavy and destructive. We don’t know the exact circumstances, and perhaps the person who orders a firing button to be pressed doesn’t know either. Maybe a switch is flicked up or down instead. How can we know? All we are interested in is what happened afterwards and who was responsible for causing these clouds of smoke and fire to rise up above a pass, a ravine, a chasm — in any event, a target that did not appear to be an ammunition dump. What was this disaster that was unfolding before the eyes of a young man who had forgotten his own name, and his birthplace as well — who had just a random name, a meaningless word on his tongue, but who otherwise was completely mute, or rather dumb? Dumb and afflicted with instant loss of memory. Now his body felt racked with fatigue and aches, and his eyelids were heavy, weighed down by a thick layer of something whose colour he did not recognize, but which he imagined must be that of tar or — less dark — of smoke. He had been hurled into the depths of the trench, and each explosion had reverberated against an earthen wall whose surface was studded with stones and pebbles. He understands nothing now except that the world has been engulfed in such a ghastly silence that when he reflects upon it for a while, it appears to him more dreadful than the hell that went before. How much time had elapsed since it happened? Thousands of years or just a fleeting moment?
He lifted his head with difficulty, and with his handkerchief, now as black as tar, tried to wipe the thick layer of dirt off his eyelids; eventually he succeeded to the extent that he was able to open his eyes and look at the sky. Yes … it was completely blue — but strange! For no noise was coming from it. Beforehand he could hear the noise of the air, before this, some sounds could be picked up, the sound of the breeze or even the sound of silence, but now there was no sound at all. He tried to stand up. Bracing himself against the wall with his hands, he straightened his body. Once upright, he gazed around. There was silence and nothing else. He put his foot on the step of the trench, and the sun came into view, the wide dome of the sky and the earth. He climbed out. Not a single soul was visible, nothing! He walked towards the top of the hill. They were missing, the bodies were missing. He looked into the chasm. It was black like the belly of a furnace, silent and dark, and there was no sign of anyone or anything. The machine gun whose tripod he himself had secured in the ground was gone too. Everything had vanished! He looked at the sun. It had passed its peak and was declining towards sunset. He remembered that the fangs of the sun had sprouted when the lieutenant and the other two had climbed up and laid the bodies on a piece of ground and swiftly gone back down again. Yes, earlier on he had been able to make out someone’s arms and shoulders, naked and bruised, and recalled that he had chucked two flasks full of water behind the machine gun, shouting: ‘Catch!’ Yes … he had heard a voice. He had heard the sound of a command from his own superior. He remembered that he had picked up the flasks, drunk half the water from one of them, and given the remainder to that handcuffed young man … a prisoner? But … where was he now? Before this all happened, he recalled that the prisoner had been lying on his front behind a pile of earth next to the trench. He walked over to where he had been lying, but there was no sign of him! The flask was gone too. What had happened? He climbed back down into the trench; the radio telephone was buried. Why was he bothering to dig it out? It wasn’t working anyhow. Or maybe it was working and he couldn’t hear anything! He tried to operate it. He couldn’t hear the sound of his fingers working. He picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear. Not a sound! When he replaced the receiver he saw it was soaked with blood … what had happened? What had happened to the head that remained attached to his body? … Fear gripped him. He put his hand on the trench step and stood stock still. Petrified. A dove? Yes … there stood a dove on the lip of the trench, perched on a clod of earth, looking at him and shifting around on its feet in a semi-circular motion. A second appeared, and then a third and a fourth, then a fifth — and in the same order they flapped their wings and soared upwards. And what about those drops of blood? How to explain them? In that darkness the doves were hard to see, but gradually more doves joined them, and forming a circle they flew, up and up against the background of a blue sky that stretched far, far away to the sea, that ancient gulf; the same place where the sea and the sky became one. All one single, smooth surface, the colour of Neishabur turquoise.
He couldn’t hear the sound of the flapping of the doves’ wings, that inexperienced young man, who, in thrall to his mind’s imaginings, found himself enraptured by the sky and the soaring flight of the doves. The entire sky, which earlier that same morning had been obscured by rumbling black clouds and the infernal rain, was now decked out with the white of their wings. The lieutenant sir had told Jamoo another story, too. The story of the lioness who roamed the desert with milk-filled breasts. ‘A lioness who does not discriminate between friend and foe, who seeks out the thirsty and the thirsty seek her.’ So Jamoo must start moving, and begin to descend the hill, which was now draped in indigo as if in mourning for itself. It was during his descent that the shell-shocked young man caught sight of his prisoner at the bottom of a ditch, in a hole with his hands still tied behind his back. He didn’t look in any better shape than Jamoo. For an instant, the prejudice of youth made him consider killing the captive. He did not have a firearm, just a knife as a defensive weapon. He drew the knife and approached the enemy solider. Killing him would not be difficult. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet were lashed together at the ankles, and the explosion had blown him from his original location, bowled him down the slope of the hill until he had fallen into a ditch, thus saving his remaining half-a-life. Knife in hand, Jamoo stood on the rim of the crater in front of the man and commanded him harshly to get up and walk! But the man in the hole could not get his body to move. All he managed was to half-open his eyes, just enough to cast a glance at his would-be killer; half a glance … and then his eyelids closed again, as though he had no desire to look at anyone or anything. His posture in the ditch caused his head to tilt to one side, exposing his neck and making it seem as though he yearned for a hand holding a blade to cut the arteries and veins in his throat and end his life. It wouldn’t make any difference; there was hardly any life left in him, anyway. So he did not react when he was suddenly confronted by a sinister and bloodied figure with a blackened face and bloodshot eyes, holding an unsheathed knife and standing close to his shoulder. He pictured the figure planting a foot on his chest, leaning over, grasping his hair with his claw-like hands, holding his head up and in a sawing motion severing his head from his body, leaving him for the vultures and hyenas that were so common hereabouts. But killing another person requires special circumstances and a special disposition. Maybe if the young man standing at the edge of the crater had had a firearm, his task would have been easier. A firearm and some distance were what was required. An instantaneous act. And even in those circumstances, the enemy shouldn’t be lying prone and lifeless on the ground, or at least not be so close to death. The standing young man chewed his lips, unable to determine what taste it was that was leaching from his lower lip and pervading his tongue and taste buds. Fuel oil, gunpowder, metal, ash, dirt or a mixture of all those combined with the taste of blood and burnt human bodies? The hand clutching the hilt of the dagger was still trembling, as were his lips. He looked at the sky, but not a single dove was visible, even in the far distance. It felt as though he was saying ‘Oh God!’ as he stamped his foot on the ground, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Raising his voice, perhaps, he shouted: ‘Oh God! What should I do? What must I do?’ Again, he could not hear his own voice. He pressed his hands to his ears and bellowed the same words, with exactly the same result. He took his hands away and looked at his palms. His hands were partially covered with lumps of black and clotted blood … he screamed and screamed and screamed, and in the silence of his screaming he did not realize he was running in the desert, until … again he was standing by the head of that young man, his captive, whose life, in all probability, was slowly ebbing away from him. He stamped his feet on the ground to make the prisoner listen to him: can you hear my voice? I know you’re in a bad way, but tell me that you can hear my voice. Well, can you? You … sound … voice … hear? Or has my voice flown up to the sky with those doves? Blood … check that no blood is dripping from my throat … Or from my ears? Open your eyes. He told me that some doves, when they come to roost on the roof of their home loft, shed a drop of blood from their throat. That calms them, apparently, so that they can then fly on right through the night until daybreak. I haven’t been besmeled to become like that. Get up and talk to me! In whatever language you know. Just talk! I want to hear your voice. And tell me that you can hear mine! Can’t you? Get up, otherwise what’s to become of us in this endless desert? Look, I’ll cut the strap binding your legs, there! Now you can get up. You didn’t have any less water than me and your fate isn’t any more dreadful than mine. I’m being tested, but you … you wretched man … maybe you didn’t get to see your companions slain in front of your eyes, but I did. I saw each and every one of them perish before my eyes and now that I’ve gone insane you needn’t fear me anymore! It’s passed now, the moment I thought about killing you like a dog! I won’t kill you, but you must stand up. We’re the same, the two of us, like an apple cut in two halves. Now climb out of your grave and tell me if you can hear my voice. You can, can’t you? Bring your ear close to my mouth, I am going to scream. What the hell is your name anyway? Zayd! I will scream your name, if you can hear it nod your head, like this. If you didn’t hear me, shake it. Now I’m screaming: ‘Zayd! Zayd! Zayd! Zayd!’ No? You didn’t hear me? My voice, you didn’t hear my voice? No? Oh God … God … God … you said yourself that Khezr the prophet helps the lost and the miserable in the desert. So, O Khezr, hear my prayer! But if my voice is gone, how can it reach Khezr’s ears? O prophet Khezr, you understand my intention, not for my own sake, but for the sake of this captive … make him talk! Zayd … now it’s your turn to speak, say something, shout it! Here’s my ear. Go on, shout into my ear! Shout louder, louder! Tell me something … please say something! You shouldn’t have gone mute, and I shouldn’t … shouldn’t be deaf and dumb! It’s not fair! All the time that honourable man was speaking to me and trying to encourage me, I was dumb, couldn’t utter a single word. And now that my speech has returned to me — or at least I think it has — I can’t hear any voices. Or any sounds. I couldn’t hear his voice either. No doubt, he came to say farewell to me and said: ‘Look, do you see now with your own eyes what I told you weren’t just stories!’ From within the maelstrom of darkness and explosions and fuel oil and gasoline and gunpowder that blackened the world, a white dove emerged, followed by other doves, with their brilliant white wings. Yes … he came, he spoke and I didn’t hear him, because I can’t. So move along there, Zayd! Don’t make me mad! From the moment this dagger was entrusted to me, it hasn’t cut anyone’s throat. Don’t make me cut you down because you’re trying to escape. The smell of your blood will attract vultures; first of all they’ll dig out your eyes and then, while you’re still alive, they’ll tear you limb from limb. Now I’ve said my piece. Whether you can hear me or not, that’s not my problem. I’ve declared my intention; my actions from here on in are out of my control. Move on, we’ll walk eastwards with our backs to the sunset. Either we will be killed on the journey, or we will encounter the lioness — either way, we’ll find her or she’ll find us. If she finds us she will show us the way. Just remember, I haven’t done you any harm. First, I unshackled your hand from mine, leaving you to your own devices. Second, I untied your legs so you could walk. Earlier on, I shared a flask of water with you. And now we’re in the same predicament, because there’s no knowing whether we’ll run into your forces or arrive at my base first; that puts us on an equal footing. But for the time being you’re still my prisoner, not vice versa. In time, if we survive, I might yet decide to untie your wrists as well. If there is even an ounce of brain left in our heads, we will realize that my killing you will leave me alone in this desert, and the same applies if you were to kill me. When you’ve come to this conclusion too and I have accepted that you have, then I will untie your hands. Did you understand my words? How can you, though, when you can’t hear them? Oh God … please don’t inflict me with madness! My blood is still hot! I might as well go mad on my own if I come to believe Lieutenant Kehtar does not exist anymore, that he will never return to his previous form. I will entrust myself to you for fear of madness, O God! May my voice be heard, or at least let me hear myself … let me know for sure that I no longer have any voice at all and that all these words are just thoughts — pure imagination. Let me know that I will be taken to that lioness who feeds milk to all who are thirsty, and who shows lost people the way. Amen!