A Curse on Dostoevsky Read Online Free PDF Page A

the name of freedom but to avenge themselves. The entire city had gone to ground. It had forgotten life, friendship, love … Yes, that was the city I came back to, looking for you. But you no longer lived in the same house. You had moved, but where to? Nobody knew
.
    Then today, this afternoon, I went to the
chai-khana.
It was thick with tobacco smoke, and full to bursting with bearded men. I sat in a corner and drank my tea. My attention was drawn to aman’s footsteps as he struggled to make it up the wooden staircase. It was your father, Moharamullah, only now he was missing one leg, and had crutches tucked under his arm. I could hardly believe it. My delight soon dissolved. He was followed by two friends, one with no crutches but limping a great deal and in pain, the other missing an eye and his right arm. All three of them were high, from smoking hash in the basement
saqi-khana.
They came over to my corner. I immediately shuffled up to make room for them. Your father sat down next to me. He looked at me sharply, making me smile in spite of myself. The smile annoyed him. In his husky, drawling voice he demanded: “Is it your victory that’s making you smile?” and thrust the stump of his amputated leg toward me. “Well, CONGRATULATIONS on that victory
, bradar!”
I swallowed my smile, leaning forward to tell him that I was neither
dabarish,
bearded, nor
tavarish,
military … not conquered, still less conquering. Smoothing my beard, I reassured him that it was simply a “gift” of the war. He seemed impressed by this clever response. His gaze softened as he asked me gently where I was from. From here, from Dehafghanan. “This is the first time I’ve seen you,” he said, looking at me carefully
.
    I wondered how to tell him that by contrast I knew him very well, that I was in love with his daughter …
    But I stopped myself. In these times of suspicion and doubt, it’s not right to bother people. So I told him that I’d just moved to the neighborhood
.
    “And what do you do?”
    Just as I was inventing myself a respectable profession, one of his friends, the one-armed one, sniggered to the other: “Hey, Osman, look at our tavarish Moharamullah, he’s an investigator now!”
    “Why did Allah O Al-Alim, the All-Knowing, create the cat without wings?” asked the lame one, Osman
.
    “Because otherwise it would have eaten all the birds in the sky!” replied the one-armed man. “Praise be to Allah, the Vigilant for not making Moharamullah a winged mujahideen, or else …”
    They burst into laughter. Your father turned toward them, annoyed: “Just wait till those winged, bearded cats arrive and give it to you hard; you won’t be laughing then.” This warning just made his two companions laugh harder. The one-armed one leaned toward your dad and said: “Chill out! We’re only laughing because we’ve already been fucked up the arse!” His reply cracked up the whole tearoom, including Moharamullah—everyone except the owner who, conscious of the talk, said: “Calm down, or they’ll be here before you know it, and they’ll ban the
chai-khana
and the
saqi-khana.”
    “They will take your
chai-khana!
But ourIslamic
bradars
will make sure this country stays full to the brim with hash, saqi-khanas, and fucked arseholes!” replied the one-armed guy, wiping away his tears
.
    Everyone laughed even harder. The owner had had enough. He walked over to his counter, grabbed a bowl of water and tipped it over the two cackling cripples. Startled, they stopped. “We’ve paid to smoke, and now you’re spoiling our high!” said the one-armed man, standing up and muttering into his beard. The drenched men left the tearoom
.
    Your father sat stiffly in his seat. Then he turned toward me, and saw me beaming at him. He couldn’t, of course, understand the reason for my happiness. He didn’t know that it wasn’t his friends’ jokes but his presence that pleased me, the fact that I was at last meeting someone