and under his chin. A fly starts buzzing around the cuts. He waves it away. It comes back and tastes the blood. He slaps it away harshly, making the razor slip on his cheek. Another cut. He doesn’t give a damn. He keeps shaving, more and more frantic, as if trying to scrape off his skin.
His movements are slowed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Someone knocks at the door. After a moment of stillness and silence he opens without bothering to wipe his bloodstained face. It is a woman in a sky-blue chador. When she sees Rassoul she gives a muffled cry and steps back slightly. Then she unveils herself. Sophia. Her innocent eyes are wide with horror. “What happened, Rassoul?” He runs his hand over his face, moving his lips to indicate that it’s just the bluntblade … but she doesn’t understand. “What’s the matter?” Nothing, gestures Rassoul, despairingly. “We waited up late for you last night. Why didn’t you come? My mother was so worried. She didn’t sleep all night.” Should I explain to her that I’ve lost my voice? Yes, why not. Who else can you confide in?
Rassoul takes a step backward into the room, so Sophia can enter. Then he starts looking for a pen and paper. But Sophia notices Yarmohamad’s children watching and decides to remain at the door. “I don’t want to bother you. I just came to find you to go …” She doesn’t finish her sentence, perturbed by Rassoul rummaging anxiously through his books. After a moment of silence and hesitation, she pulls the chador back down over her face and departs, leaving Rassoul to search for something on which to write his voiceless words, leaving him in that dream where he’s pursuing her through the streets of Saint Petersburg. And what if that woman in the sky-blue chador really was her? A stupid question that forces him into action. He rushes down to the courtyard. Sophia is already out on the street. He washes his face at the courtyard tap, returns to his room to change, and sets off after her.
What an absurd thought! If it had been Sophia, you would have recognized her voice.
Her voice?
He stops.
Don’t tell me you don’t know her voice!
Of course I know it, but I can’t remember how itsounds when she shouts. Actually, I’ve never heard her shout, or raise her voice at all. Well, what about her walk? The way she runs?
Sophia moves as if in water. Her shoulders move back and forth like fins. Yes, but that particular way of walking was a long time ago, without a chador. All women walk the same in the chador, don’t they?
They do.
Uncertainty and doubt make Rassoul limp even faster on his way to Sophia’s house. He is so bizarrely overexcited that he cannot convince himself such a shy and innocent girl would never get up to something as dangerous as that.
It was her, he feels like yelling at the top of his voice. Her! She did it, not only out of love for me and her family, but also from hate for Nana Alia! Yes! She did it!
As he weaves through the crowded streets, engulfed in the black smoke that has descended on the city, a man grabs him by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
“Rassoulovski?”
It is Jano’s cheerful voice. Jano notices the cuts on Rassoul’s face. “Did we do that to you?” No, he mimes, a razor. The blade of destiny, he would have said if he still had his voice. “You lucky devil! At least you know you have a destiny,” Jano would probably have replied. A destiny. Rassoul would rather not have one at all.
“And your voice?”
Still nothing.
After a few steps in silence, Jano asks: “So, are you going to join Commandant Parwaiz? He’ll give you a good Kalashnikov! Do you know how to shoot?” No. “You’ll learn it all in a day. In any case …” he leans in close, whispers, “the bullet finds its own target,” and he laughs. A brief, smug laugh followed by a wink at the Kalashnikov he keeps hidden beneath his
patou
.
Another few steps in silence. They are both
His movements are slowed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Someone knocks at the door. After a moment of stillness and silence he opens without bothering to wipe his bloodstained face. It is a woman in a sky-blue chador. When she sees Rassoul she gives a muffled cry and steps back slightly. Then she unveils herself. Sophia. Her innocent eyes are wide with horror. “What happened, Rassoul?” He runs his hand over his face, moving his lips to indicate that it’s just the bluntblade … but she doesn’t understand. “What’s the matter?” Nothing, gestures Rassoul, despairingly. “We waited up late for you last night. Why didn’t you come? My mother was so worried. She didn’t sleep all night.” Should I explain to her that I’ve lost my voice? Yes, why not. Who else can you confide in?
Rassoul takes a step backward into the room, so Sophia can enter. Then he starts looking for a pen and paper. But Sophia notices Yarmohamad’s children watching and decides to remain at the door. “I don’t want to bother you. I just came to find you to go …” She doesn’t finish her sentence, perturbed by Rassoul rummaging anxiously through his books. After a moment of silence and hesitation, she pulls the chador back down over her face and departs, leaving Rassoul to search for something on which to write his voiceless words, leaving him in that dream where he’s pursuing her through the streets of Saint Petersburg. And what if that woman in the sky-blue chador really was her? A stupid question that forces him into action. He rushes down to the courtyard. Sophia is already out on the street. He washes his face at the courtyard tap, returns to his room to change, and sets off after her.
What an absurd thought! If it had been Sophia, you would have recognized her voice.
Her voice?
He stops.
Don’t tell me you don’t know her voice!
Of course I know it, but I can’t remember how itsounds when she shouts. Actually, I’ve never heard her shout, or raise her voice at all. Well, what about her walk? The way she runs?
Sophia moves as if in water. Her shoulders move back and forth like fins. Yes, but that particular way of walking was a long time ago, without a chador. All women walk the same in the chador, don’t they?
They do.
Uncertainty and doubt make Rassoul limp even faster on his way to Sophia’s house. He is so bizarrely overexcited that he cannot convince himself such a shy and innocent girl would never get up to something as dangerous as that.
It was her, he feels like yelling at the top of his voice. Her! She did it, not only out of love for me and her family, but also from hate for Nana Alia! Yes! She did it!
As he weaves through the crowded streets, engulfed in the black smoke that has descended on the city, a man grabs him by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
“Rassoulovski?”
It is Jano’s cheerful voice. Jano notices the cuts on Rassoul’s face. “Did we do that to you?” No, he mimes, a razor. The blade of destiny, he would have said if he still had his voice. “You lucky devil! At least you know you have a destiny,” Jano would probably have replied. A destiny. Rassoul would rather not have one at all.
“And your voice?”
Still nothing.
After a few steps in silence, Jano asks: “So, are you going to join Commandant Parwaiz? He’ll give you a good Kalashnikov! Do you know how to shoot?” No. “You’ll learn it all in a day. In any case …” he leans in close, whispers, “the bullet finds its own target,” and he laughs. A brief, smug laugh followed by a wink at the Kalashnikov he keeps hidden beneath his
patou
.
Another few steps in silence. They are both
Similar Books
