Yalo did not know what or where or how.
Had he drunk anything?
Had he eaten anything?
Had he said anything?
Had he?
Later on, he wrote that he found himself in a pool of water, leaning against the wall, the water rising to his chest as he struggled to breathe, colors mingling with smells. His body intermingled with the smell of his blood, feces, and urine. He stretched out in water before curling up in it, and began to drown. Yalo vaguely remembered that a voice emerged from his limbs, remembered that he had become a voice, that he felt a mouth howling inside his mouth, and then he remembered nothing.
Yalo wrote that he did not remember.
When they took him back to the interrogation room, when he saw the interrogator’s head by the window, when he saw the sun that had disappeared from the window, Yalo wanted to ask the interrogator where the sun had gone. He wanted to see the reflected light that veiled his vision but brought light. He wanted light, but the interrogator asked him for his opinion.
Why did he ask for his opinion?
“My opinion of what, sir?”
“Your opinion of what’s happened to you,” said the interrogator.
“Why? What has happened to me?” asked Yalo.
“The bathtub. Tell me, did you like the bathtub?”
Yalo understood that the bathtub was the name the interrogator gave to those vague memories filled with blood, water, and fear.
Yalo lowered his head and saw the interrogator’s hand coming toward him. He recoiled instinctively, but the hand approached with the white sheets of paper.
“Take these,” said the interrogator, giving him the sheaf of paper.
“Write the story of your life from beginning to end.”
Yalo wanted to say that he didn’t know how to write.
“I want everything. Don’t forget even the smallest detail.”
“. .”
“I want whoever reads it to know and understand everything. Don’t write me any riddles. Write things as they happened.”
“. .”
“I don’t want you to make anything up. Sit down and remember and write down what you remember. I want the story from start to finish.”
Yalo wanted to say that he did not know the start from the finish, and that he could not write, but the blood prevented him. Blood was dribbling from his nose and the air around him grew thinner. He tried to open his mouth to breathe. He closed his eyes.
Yalo was unable to write a single word. He found himself in the solitary cell and saw the sheets of white paper stained with the black light shining around him. He closed his eyes and decided to sleep.
“Write, you dog!” the man shouted at him.
He took up the pen and saw the circles of shadow pierced by the silver light emanating from the depths of his eyes, but he could not write. He threw the pen onto the small table they had put in his cell and heard the voice shouting at him again. The voice began to ring in his head as if it were stuck in the whorls of his ears, echoes rebounding toward infinity.
Yalo said.
Yalo would say, when he finished writing, that the echoes were his everlasting companions during that long year of ink.
They brought him a fountain pen and a plastic bottle of ink and ordered him to write.
He wrote because he loved life and awaited the end of the long tunnel of torture when he would leave prison and get his revenge.
Yalo felt, in spite of the excruciating pain from the torture sessions, a strange pleasure. His pleasure was his imagination. When he was being beaten or whipped, or suspended by his arms, he imagined himself in the torturer’s place, and imagined his victims: Shirin, Emile, Dr. Said and Madame Randa, the lawyer Michel Salloum, Tony Atiq, and everyone else.
No, he imagined these things after the end of the “party,” as they called his torture sessions. During the party he imagined the cell, and in the cell he held his own party. He was thrown into the cell, utterly exhausted, finding that imagination and role-play were the only means of restoring his body and vitality. He shifted his mind and imagined things as he wanted them to be. This restored some of his strength, and a few glimmers of his old hawk eye kept fear at bay. He tore the pain out of his parts and cast it into other bodies and saw how the pains left his fingers and toes to possess his victims.
At that point he fell asleep.
After the torture parties, Yalo’s sleep was his revenge. He fashioned his slumbers as he pleased. He prepared the instruments of torture in his imagination, and made sure that he had not forgotten anything, then let his eyes close to the rhythm of chains or to the screeches of electrical cords, and saw how his victims fell under his torment, which had become their torment.
Even the final torture, which, when he experienced it, made him feel that his spirit was calling out to death and his body ached for the grave, even that torture was portioned out to others, and he dozed off to the sounds of their guttural groans and cries for mercy.
That was the grand party.
In that party, which he called the grand one, and still later gave several other names to, Yalo was seized with a terror that prevented him from opening his mouth, so he raised his arms in the air in a show of surrender, with tears streaming from his eyes, and began to wail savagely before the officer ordered that the canvas sack be removed from the suspect’s lower body.
Even this torture took Yalo into his imaginary world. He decided to reserve this one for Dr. Said, who had abandoned Shirin in the forest and fled in his car, whose tires screeched loudly as they scattered gravel all around.
At first, Yalo decided to forget the sack, and excised it from his imagination’s memory, but he found himself facing the scene with the sack whenever he closed his tear-moistened eyes. He heard the meowing and saw the bamboo rod and felt the claws tearing at him.
That was the moment of torture that drove Yalo to offer all his confessions.
Why were they now asking him to write his life story? Why did the officer not believe his confessions?
On that day, which entered Yalo’s memory as the Day of the Sack, they dragged him from his cell at dawn and put him in what seemed to be a small room. He was blindfolded and his hands bound, palpating with his bare feet the long passageway he traversed, trying not to fall. When he reached the small room a hand pushed him forward and knocked him to the floor. He heard a voice ordering him to take his pants off. He tried to stand but his feet failed and he rolled on the floor. He heard loud laughter and felt a hand lifting him up. He stood and felt the hand unbuttoning his pants. He reached for the buttons on his pants and a hard slap landed on his neck and reverberated before the hand untied his blindfold. At first all he saw was darkness. A few seconds later a tall, broad-shouldered man in a khaki uniform appeared and ordered him to remove his underwear.
Yalo’s tired eyes looked around and saw, beside the officer, three powerfully muscular men whose sleeveless jerseys showed off the glossy black hair on their chests and arms. He felt certain that he was going to be raped. The world blurred over and he froze in his place.
“Take off your underwear, dog!”
He sought the wall and tried to enter it. He remembered his grandfather’s story about the archbishop who kept retreating and retreating until the wall opened up and swallowed him.
That was a legend of Constantinople. “When Constantinople fell to Muhammad the Conqueror, the archbishop entered the wall, and they are still waiting for him to this day,” said his smiling grandfather. “Those Byzantines weren’t very bright, it was as if they didn’t know that they were the cause of the disaster.”