Atiq Rahimi - A Curse on Dostoevsky

THE MOMENT Rassoul lifts the ax to bring it down on the old womans head, the thought of Crime and Punishment flashes into his mind. It strikes him to the very core. His arms shake; his legs tremble. And the ax slips from his hands. It splits open the old womans head, and sinks into her skull. She collapses without a sound on the red and black rug. Her apple-blossom-patterned headscarf floats in the air, before landing on her large, flabby body. She convulses. Another breath; perhaps two. Her staring eyes fix on Rassoul standing in the middle of the room, not breathing, whiter than a corpse. His patou falls from his bony shoulders. His terrified gaze is lost in the pool of blood, blood that streams from the old womans skull, merges with the red of the rug, obscuring its black pattern, then trickles toward the womans fleshy hand, which still grips a wad of notes. The money will be bloodstained.

Move, Rassoul, move!

Total inertia.

Rassoul?

Whats the matter with him? What is he thinking about?

Crime and Punishment. Thats rightRaskolnikov, and what became of him.

But didnt he think of that before, when he was planning the crime?

Apparently not.

Or perhaps that story, buried deep within, incited him to the murder.

Or perhaps

Or perhaps what? Is this really the time to ruminate? Now that hes killed the old woman, he must take her money and jewels, and run.

Run!

He doesnt move. Just stands there. Rooted to the spot, like a tree. A dead tree, planted in the flagstones of the house. Still staring at the trickle of blood that has almost reached the womans hand. Forget the money! Leave this house, right now, before the womans sister arrives!

Sister? This woman doesnt have a sister. She has a daughter.

Who cares? What difference if its a sister or a daughter? Right now Rassoul will be forced to kill anyone who enters the house.

The blood veers off just before it reaches the womans hand. It flows toward a worn, darned part of the rug and pools not far from a small wooden box overflowing with chains, necklaces, gold bracelets, watches

Whats the point of all these details? Just take the box and the money!

He crouches. His fingers move hesitantly toward the womans hand, to grab the cash. Her grip is hard and firm, as if she were still alive and keeping a tight hold on the wad of notes. He pulls. In vain. He looks anxiously at the womans lifeless eyes and sees his face reflected in them. The bulging eyes remind him that a victims last sight of her assassin remains fixed in her pupils. He is flooded with fear. He steps back. His reflection in the old womans eyes slowly disappears behind her eyelids.

Nana Alia? calls a womans voice. Its happening, shes here, the one who wasnt meant to come. Youre done for now, Rassoul!

Nana Alia? Who is it? Her daughter. No, it isnt a young voice. Never mind. No one must enter this room. Nana Alia! The voice approaches, Nana Alia?, climbs the stairs.

Leave, Rassoul!

He takes off like a wisp of straw, flying to the window, opening it and leaping onto the roof of the house next door, abandoning his patou, the money, the jewels, the ax all of it.

Reaching the edge of the roof, he hesitates to jump down into the lane. But an alarming cry from Nana Alias room makes everything shakehis legs, the roof, the mountainsso he jumps, and lands hard. A sharp pain shoots through his ankle. It doesnt matter. He must stand. The lane is empty. He has to get out of here.

He runs.

Runs not knowing where hes going.

He only stops at a dead end, beside a pile of rubbish, the stink burning his nostrils. But he is no longer aware of anything. Or doesnt care. He stays. Standing, leaning against a wall. He can still hear the womans piercing cry; he doesnt know whether she is actually screaming or he is being haunted by her cry. He holds his breath. All at once the lane, or his mind, empties of the sound. He pushes himself off the wall to move on, but the pain in his ankle stops him dead. He grimaces in pain, leans back against the wall, squats down to massage his foot. But something inside him starts rising. Suddenly nauseous, he bends over to vomit yellowish liquid. The filthy dead end spins around him. He puts his head in his hands and sinks to the ground, back to the wall.

He is still for a long moment, eyes closed, not breathing, as if listening for a cry or a moan from Nana Alias house. Nothing but the beating of his own blood in his temples.

Perhaps the woman fainted when she saw the corpse.

He hopes not.

Who was that woman, the blasted creature who messed it all up?

Was it really her or Dostoevsky?

Dostoevsky, yes, it was him! He floored me, destroyed me with his Crime and Punishment. Stopped me from following in the steps of his hero, Raskolnikov: killing a second woman, this one innocent; taking the money and the jewels that would remind me of my crime; becoming prey to my remorse, sinking into an abyss of guilt, ending up sentenced to hard labor

And? At least that would be better than running off like an idiot, a pathetic excuse for a murderer. Blood on my hands, but nothing in my pockets.

What madness!

A curse on Dostoevsky!

His febrile hands close around his face, lose themselves in his frizzy hair, then clasp together again behind his sweat-soaked neck. He is seized by a terrible thought: What if the woman wasnt Nana Alias daughter? She might take everything and leave as quietly as she came. But what about me? My mother, my sister Donia, my fiance Sophiawhat will become of them? I committed this murder for them. That woman has no right to the loot. I have to go back there. Screw my ankle!

He stands up.

Goes back the way he came.

RETURN TO the scene of the crime? What a trap! Everyone knows its a fatal error. An error that has ruined many a competent criminal. Havent you heard that wise old saying: Money is like water: once it flows away, it never comes back? Its all over. Never forget that a thief only has one chance at a job; if you mess it up, youre fucked; any attempt to sort things out is bound to end in disaster.

He stops, glancing around. Everything is calm and quiet.

He rubs his ankle and sets off again. Unconvinced by the wise old saying. He walks fast, decisively, until he comes to a fork in the road. There he stops for a moment, just to catch his breath before taking the street leading to the scene of the crime.

Lets hope the woman really did faint next to the old ladys corpse.

Here he is, in the victims street. He slows down, surprised by the silence around the house. A dog is dozing in the shade of a wall. It sees him and stands up heavily to emit a lazy growl. Rassoul freezes. Wavers. Lets a little time pass in the reluctant hope that it will convince him of the folly of his curiosity. Hes about to leave when he hears footsteps hurrying through Nana Alias courtyard. Panicking, he flattens himself against the wall. A woman shrouded in a sky-blue chador exits the house and rushes away, leaving the gate open behind her. Is this the same woman? It must be. She has taken the money and the jewels, and is making her escape.

Thats too much! Where do you think youre going, you infidel? Youve no right to that money, or those jewels. They belong to Rassoul. Stop right there!

The woman speeds up and disappears down a lane. Rassoul ignores the pain in his ankle to rush after her. He catches up with her by an unlit entrance to a building, where he is suddenly stopped in his tracks by running footsteps and the cries of teenagers. Again, he tries to hide by flattening himself against the wall. Despite her haste, the woman also stands aside to let them pass. Rassouls eyes meet hers through the gauze of her chador as he bends to rub his sore ankle. Then she is off again, in the teenagers wake, even more hurried and distressed than before.