A Curse on Dostoevsky by Atiq Rahimi Read Free Book Online Page A

hands.
    But who would believe that you can smash a window while dreaming?
    The man stares at the hands Rassoul holds out to him. He says, sorrowfully, “We’re trying to create order in this neighborhood. But it isn’t easy, and disarming the population is not enough. You take their guns, and they start using knives and axes … Someone was killed with an ax just yesterday, in broad daylight.” That’s it, they have discovered Nana Alia’s body. And here am I, the murderer, talking with the head of security for the whole city!
    Rassoul goes pale. He collapses on the sofa.
    “What’s the matter,
watandar
?”
    Shaken, Rassoul stares at the man with trembling lips. “You look tired. Take your books and go home. You can chat with me another day.” He winks at Rassoul, picks up his gun and walks over to wake Jano and theother guard. “Right boys, take this young man back home!” Then to Rassoul, “What is your name?”
    Rassoul writes it down.
    “Rassoul, we need educated people like you, to serve the nation and Islam. Come and sign up tomorrow, help us to make this neighborhood safe. You come from here. You know everyone’s business, everyone’s past. You know who lives in each house, and what goes on inside it …” He smiles with disarming courtesy as he heads toward the door, then turns back to Rassoul: “Come in and ask for Parwaiz; that’s my name.” And he is gone. The sly fox! He must know everything. But what does he want from me?
    “Come on, Rassoulovski, let’s go!” orders a sleepy Jano. Rassoul doesn’t move. “Don’t you want to go home?”

 
    B EFORE ENTERING the courtyard of his house, Rassoul wishes for just two things: first, that there won’t be any blood under the tree (he’s still nervous about his nightmare); second, that he won’t see Yarmohamad—he doesn’t want to dirty his hands with the festering blood of the man he hates, death would be a blessing to someone like that. He must insinuate his way into his life, haunt his soul, enter his dreams, become his fate.
    So in he walks, carrying his books. In the moonlit night, he approaches the tree and runs his hand over its trunk. He bends down to check the ground beneath it. No trace of blood. He straightens and looks up at his bedroom window. The glass really is smashed. Then he turns toward Yarmohamad’s window. After a brief hesitation, he walks over and shouts that he is back, safe and sound. His cry sticks in his throat. So he raps on the window. Yarmohamad’s shaved head looms up out of the darkness. His face is crumpled with sleep and he tells Rassoul to quiet down so as not to wake his wife and children. A waste of time—Rassoul keeps banging on the window. Then he waves his books, andgives Yarmohamad the finger. After that, he turns away and heads to his room. Relieved, and triumphant.
    Go on, Yarmohamad, sleep now if you can, the nightmares will come for you this time! I will haunt your dreams.
    Once in his room, he feels like shouting. Shouting with joy. Or horror. He exhales forcefully, hoping to summon a noise from his throat. But nothing comes out. Just breath—which burns, but expresses neither joy nor horror.
    Cold sweat runs down his back. He throws the books on the ground and lights a candle. The broken window is the thing that interests him most; he still can’t understand how he managed to smash it in his sleep.
    Have I gone mad? Don’t they say that the first sign of madness is when nightmares start breaking out of your sleep to penetrate waking life and take up residence there?
    Despairing, he removes his shoes and lies down. He is afraid to close his eyes. Afraid of nightmares. Yes, it is these bed devils, these shadowy figures of the night that are stealing my voice and driving me mad. I will sleep no more!
    But his exhaustion is greater than his will. It closes his eyes and pushes him into the depths of darkness. Only the nearby explosion of a rocket rescues him. He starts, and sits up