A Curse on Dostoevsky by Atiq Rahimi

OK, he gestures. “Yes, I can see that! Tell me what’s going on!” Razmodin’s worried gaze lingers on Rassoul’s shirt. “What is that blood? Did they beat you up?”
    After a moment’s thought, Rassoul stands up to lookout at the courtyard, and sees Yarmohamad watching him. He beckons him to come up. But the landlord goes back inside his own house. “Leave him alone! He came to my office at dawn and told me everything. He was pale and kept telling me it wasn’t him … And that’s the truth. There are patrols everywhere, these days. Especially in this neighborhood … You’ve no idea what’s going on in this country right now. Buried in who-knows-what world, you have no interest …” Stop, Razmodin, please! Look what they’ve done to him.
    Razmodin stops, not to notice the state Rassoul is in, but to hear him explain himself. He waits a moment. Nothing. He can’t believe it. Rassoul rolls up his sleeves to reveal his bruises. “What sons of bitches! But you’re a madman, too. What are you doing with all these Russian books in times like this?” Rassoul’s ankle starts hurting again. He grimaces and sits back down on the bed to rub it. His cousin stares down at him. “Dostoevsky! Dostoevsky! You’re always getting in trouble with your damned Dostoevsky! How do you expect them to know who he is?”
    They aren’t all as ignorant as you, Razmodin! Commandant Parwaiz, whose name I’m sure you know, is very familiar with Dostoevsky. His troops are based just opposite your place, in the Ministry of Culture and Information. But in my current state, I am not able to tell you about it.
    Write it down!
    What’s the point? It’s more peaceful like this, withoutwords, without all these endless conversations. I’ll just leave him to wonder at my mute state.
    “Yarmohamad told me that they took you to Commandant Parwaiz’s office. I know him.” So you were right. “We were imprisoned together during the 1979 protests. That was a stroke of luck, being sent to him. Did you mention my name?” Rassoul shakes his head, then stands up to lurk behind the window once more. Yarmohamad is back in the courtyard. Rassoul beckons again for him to come over. “Forget him, it’s done. I paid him the two months’ rent you owed, he’ll leave you alone now.” Distressed by his cousin’s generosity, Rassoul totters back to his bed and attempts to communicate in sign language that he shouldn’t have done it, that he, Rassoul, would have paid it … The same words he’d used last time, when Razmodin paid three months’ rent on his behalf.
    “And what exactly would you have paid it with?! You’ve let everything drop. Look at the state of you. You look like a beggar, or a madman escaped from an asylum!” Razmodin would have said, again.
    So there is no point in Rassoul going to such lengths to make himself understood. But Razmodin expects to hear it from Rassoul. He can’t understand why he won’t talk to him. He looks on curiously as Rassoul stands up and rummages through a mound of clothing, looking for a clean shirt. They are all dirty and rumpled. Rassoul knows that. He is just pretending, so he doesn’t have to respond to Razmodin. The thing is, he doesn’t wanthim to know that he has lost his voice. They are cousins, and know each other well. They can hear each other’s thoughts, even when they are unspoken. Despite this, Razmodin insists as he always does.
    “Rassoul, you’ve got to do something. How long are you going to live like this? If I could speak the languages you can, I’d have earned buckets of cash by now. These foreign journalists and humanitarian organizations are all crying out for interpreters. Every day, a hundred times a day, people ask me if I know someone who speaks even a little English. But how can I give them your name? You’ve already landed me in the shit. I’ve regretted it a dozen times.” And again, he will forgive him. “If you want, you can put the past behind you