I order two more coffees. And a double vodka, he says to the waiter, in a weak voice. I let the silence and the vodka take effect. Then I ask him the question I was bound to ask: Am I in his debt? No, he replies. I do not owe him anything, in any case. He adds, In a way I’m the one who is in your debt. Is his wife in danger? He hopes not. He made arrangements before he fled. She has been repudiated. She has had nothing to do with the traitor, the fugitive. She was interrogated. Exonerated. He says, She’s strong, a tough character, like you. And for once the Colonel blesses the power granted to man thanks to the reign of God. I say, All you had to do was snap your fingers and you were divorced! He looks at me, startled. He laughs. I smile. The atmosphere becomes more relaxed. It does us good, both of us. He says, But you know, you can never be sure of anything in the Theological Republic! What does he want from me? He wants me to write. He says it again, intensely, Yes, write. I say nothing. He says, I read you, I had to. I pause to think. Oh, yes, he must have read the draft of my novel. The only personal text I did not burn and which they confiscated along with all the rest when Del was arrested. A few pages of a great love story. Left hanging. Or maybe he read only the little tales about the djinns which I made up for the guard in Ravine. In any case he thinks I owe him this favor! Caught off guard, now it’s my turn to be at a loss for words. His request is so strange. Abrupt. What am I supposed to write? What his wife needs to know. He is afraid. Afraid he may never see her again. Even if the Office decides to grant him his papers at last, she could only join him after a year has gone by. He is sick, he has to have an operation. The doctors . . . I stop listening. I don’t believe him. He’s lying. It’s pathetic. I know he is. He knows that I know. He’s in fine shape. But he’s afraid. His fear is palpable. Illness is just a pretext. If the Commander’s services find him, they will kill him. For sure. That’s what he’s afraid of. I have to ask him. I hesitate. Think better of it. He won’t answer. No point wasting my breath. But it disturbs me. To know he is hunted, the way I was, the way Del and his friends were—it upsets me. Hunted, that’s what the entire country is. Now the Colonel is one of the hunted. He has been reinstated as a citizen. We have become full-fledged compatriots. But what about the past? Can you just erase it with a swipe of your hand? And that pool of putrefaction he waded into, without blinking an eyelid? The stench of it? The blood spilled before his eyes, the urine and cum the captives were forced to swallow, and he didn’t lift a finger? The deep reason for my empathy is not politically correct. It is the lover in him who has disarmed me, inspired me, impressed me. The feelings which animate him make me think of Del. My beautiful love. He should tell me about him now. But I remain silent. I ask nothing. My lips are sealed. Like in Ravine. I’m afraid of what I might find out.
Anger washes over me. I’m being ridiculous. The Colonel is not Del. They have nothing in common. I hate this man. I must hate him. What would he have done if they had taken his own wife as bait? No, I don’t want to forget who you are. How can a shitface like you lay claim to my understanding? I look at him. His eyes are veiled. His gaze is unbearably gentle. Which only kindles my rage. He is imploring me. Do this for my wife, who saved you. And suddenly the truth explodes before my eyes. I feel the shame burning my cheeks. I feel the implacable sting of jealousy inflame my being right to the roots of my hair. I am jealous of this Vima. Jealous of the love this reformed assassin feels for her. With his gentle eyes. Indeed, Del is not the Colonel. Did he ever love me? The sensitive spouse. The sublime man. The literary friend. Refined. The adored one, who abandoned me. Perhaps it is the same as the tenuous link between love and torture. Torture, like love, destroys, distorts, and transforms. Indubitably. Love, like torture, alters bodies. From precipices of torment. Both love and torture mortify the soul deep in one’s inner chaos. Where the self disintegrates. Driven to such an extreme, a monster is transformed into a man of conscience, and an idealist into a turncoat. Where is Del in this equation? Where am I, actually? Repulsion. Compassion. Toward Del. Toward the Colonel. Toward myself. Feelings that pull me this way and that. Men whom I confuse and who confuse me. I feel my heart leaping from my chest. And the pain is stifling me. In a hoarse voice I say, I don’t write anymore. I don’t want to write anymore. The Colonel seems desperate. His voice grows hard. There are sparks in his gaze. He says, You owe us your life. You can’t abandon us. I feel a vice closing around me. I am propelled back to Ravine. Torturers, rape, blows, spit, insults and then deliverance, the moment the man sitting opposite me snaps his fingers, after so many years of mystery. He is right, I have to agree. Those who have known the suffering that is Ravine can no longer prevaricate. I cannot, must not say no to him. I say, I need some time. I have to think about it. He replies that there is no time. The man believes he is doomed. Now I’m convinced. I say nothing more. I’ve already agreed. I look at him, and blink. All right, I’ll do it.
He takes a little tape recorder from his pocket and puts it on the table in front of me. It’s all here. Above all, don’t lose it. It’s the only copy. He’s embarrassed. He stammers, It’s a bit repetitive, a bit muddled, but it’s clean. There are no lies, only the truth. Clean, a word that addicts use, which goes to show how dependent this man truly is. The Colonel coughs, brings me back to his presence. I’ll let you finalize this for Vima, he says. You’ll do it, won’t you? I blink, but I don’t say I’ll do it. He gets up. He has to go. I say, Wait a minute. He changes his mind. Sits back down. My voice runs away with me. Where is Del? Where and when did he get the note to you, telling me to leave? Where is he? Where is my husband? I repeat my question, stupidly, for fear I might burst into tears. The only answer I need from him is to hear him say, He didn’t betray you. Del isn’t a stool pigeon. I would like him to swear that to me. And then for him to assure me that Del is going to come and be with me. That it’s only a question of time. A few weeks. A few months at the most. I feel my throat swelling. My tears are flowing, drowning me. He says, It was a long time ago, I don’t remember the exact date, then he stops in the middle of his sentence. He’s run out of inspiration. I can hear the temptation to lie in his hesitation, his breathlessness.
I had been waiting for that moment right from the start of our meeting. I had prepared myself for it. A smooth explanation. The standard phrases. And now I feel stupid, at a loss. I don’t know what to reply. A lie that offers relief: is it ever justified? A pathetic dilemma. I give it some thought, then say simply, Everything he did was because he hoped to save you. This answer, which has come from my conscience, is neither a lie nor the truth. Just a possibility. Because no one other than Del himself will ever know whether he sold his comrades. And if he did, did he do it before his wife’s arrest or after? Did he try in vain to obtain a safe-conduct for her? The mystery will remain intact. There have been hundreds of arrests in recent years. There has never been any coordination between different prisons or even between different sections of a same prison. The authorities went berserk whenever anyone escaped, with the ensuing chaos and panic. And their rage was becoming counterproductive. They acted in a compulsive, paranoid manner. It became common practice to kidnap baits and hold them in reserve, just in case, then torture and eliminate them the moment they became a burden. The machine had gotten out of control and was operating in a closed circuit. No one seemed to know how to stop the hemorrhage. Under these conditions, how was anyone supposed to know when or why Del might have betrayed his comrades? I look at her and say again, with conviction, Whatever he did, it was for you. She says nothing. She doesn’t believe me. She is weeping. In silence. Quietly. Not making a scene. Not a single feature on her face has changed. A marble statue, a cascade of tears. No doubt this was how she found relief in Ravine. Beneath her hood stinking of filth and hatred. I say to her, I am convinced of this, and I tell her about my meeting with Del. I dwell on the last few minutes. How he hurried to catch up with me to add their coded word at the end of the letter. To be sure she would leave. So she would be safe. So she—She interru
pts me. Runs her hands over her face. Wipes away her tears. Mutters, Safe? Says the word over and over as if she doesn’t understand what it means. Safe? Safe? She is gasping. And where is he? Wasn’t he supposed to join me? He didn’t keep his promise. Why? You must know! How can I tell her that I know nothing? Or that I don’t know enough, or that I know too much to be able to speak about it? That it would be better not to disclose convictions that are not necessarily justified, but which undoubtedly would cause irreparable hurt? How can I tell her that a man who fails to accomplish his dreams will be driven to renounce them? That it is himself he abandons, not others. I could go on about this topic for hours. I know a thing or two about it, after all. But how could I tell her that the worst betrayal is to one’s own self? I don’t have the courage to say, Vima, this burden is too heavy. One has to be alone to bear it. Far from the gazes of others. How can I make her understand that a man who is marked by guilt cannot confront a woman to whom he has caused so much suffering. What right does he have? To hold forth about such things would be as useless as it is indecent. Truth which causes pain loses its truthfulness. And besides, what do I really know? I’m merely trying to compromise as best I can. I’m wasting my breath. She asks me, Is he all right? I think about her husband, how decrepit he had become, old before his time, and I reply, He’s all right, Vima, as well as can be expected. Not a word, obviously, about the little boy I saw in the rearview mirror. The little boy he had with another woman. I go on, He isn’t . . . he’ll never be the man you knew, ever again. But he will love you all his life. No one can take from you what you had together. Your salvation is his. If you begin to enjoy life again, he too will live a bit better. He will feel it, he’s bound to, instinctively. She looks at me. Takes my hand. The contact of her skin is like a flame, burning me inside. This is the first time a woman has taken my hand in all the time I’ve been in exile. Five years.
He is speaking. I can feel his tears burning on my cheeks. He says safe. That Del wanted to keep me safe. What is this madman talking about? Can I ever be safe without the refuge of his gaze? Without his embrace? And his hands on my forehead, calming my headaches. The slump in my shoulders vanishes instantly with the touch of his palms, the concentrated tenderness in his fingertips. Safe? What is this safe he is talking about? Del’s love was what kept me safe, More than anything, when I was in the depths of hell. How dare he utter this word so lightly? He smiles. Rubs his moist eyes. Tries to explain the inexplicable. Comes out with things that are so banal they horrify me. He speaks to me the way you would speak to a child. Gently, and with conviction. A little more and he would dry my tears and blow my nose. I don’t know how or why—to shut him up, probably—I place my hand on his. It’s cold. Slightly damp. He goes tense. As if he’d received an electric shock. I wrap my fingers around his. Squeeze them. Dig my nails into his flesh. What is the matter with me? Perhaps it’s a desire, no, a visceral need to seal the pact that binds me to this man. To silence him so he hears only the voice of the heart. Be quiet. You don’t believe any more than I do in the honeyed words you’ve been coming out with, half-heartedly. At the banquet of the fallen queen, formulas like what-we’ve-been-through and he-will-love-you-all-his-life, the insipid treacle you’ve been dishing up as your main course, well they won’t go down well. Even with your shots of vodka, down in one. Bullshit, dear Colonel. There is no remedy that can cause the wound to close. It remains open. Whether I owe my life to you or to your wife does not figure in our equation, as you put it. It’s not a savior I see in you but my brother in suffering. Hounded by the sorrow of love. That’s what it’s all about, and nothing else.
The Colonel is stunned. My grip has stopped him in his tracks. I’m aware of that. I can feel it. I can feel the beating of his veins beneath my palm. I am holding him with the tension of my being concentrated in my fingers of bronze. I could crush him. With his free hand he taps my wrist, awkwardly. He would like to withdraw his hand. It’s pathetic, the way his fingers tap before they let go. His arm dangles uselessly by his side and he slumps forward. If I don’t let him go, his heart will. And then our pain, our twice-felt pain will explode in our faces and blow us to bits. I loosen my fingers and let him go. My palm is burning. His palm has been branded. The blood coagulates around the imprint of my nails. He rises slowly to his feet. Looks at me. I put the tape recorder into my bag. That was the answer he was waiting for. He says thank you, and turns on his heel.
A man with a lopsided walk, wearing a worn overcoat, moves away down the pier. Briefly caught in a pale ray of sunlight. Then the figure vanishes. I never asked him his name. Nor do I remember his case number at the Office. The curtain falls on the strange encounter between the bait and the Colonel. All that remains now is a tape recorder and a promise. From him to his Vima. From Vima to her Del.
I walk home. I take a steaming bath then a restorative cold shower. The cold water unravels my tangled nerves, helps me think. Should I listen to the cassette in one go, or in short spells? Shouldn’t I begin with the end? With my escape and . . . Maybe he even talks about Del. Maybe he says everything he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me in person. No, I mustn’t shoot ahead. I have to begin with the beginning. I have to . . . I let the cold water run over me. I massage my legs, and rub the tight muscles in my back by twisting around the way I used to in Ravine. I’ll begin with the beginning. And take my time. The time it takes.
I’ve been listening to the Colonel for half an hour. The tape lasts three and a half hours. I’m only at the very beginning of the story.
“I had just turned eighteen, a young volunteer on leave . . .” I could hear him and see him. He was young, handsome. More handsome than an hour ago when I left him. A fine head, sculpted in angles. Prominent cheekbones. Big dark eyes—not the least bit protruding—just somewhat deep set. Which added mystery to his charm. An athlete’s body, long and slender. I close my eyes. I remove the headphones. The loudspeaker continues to broadcast the Colonel’s words. The echo amplifies his voice. The love song of the man who snapped his fingers spreads through me. I incorporate him, bit by bit. Several times over, this man who loves the other Vima says, “I may be a murderer but I am madly in love. Don’t forget that. You have to tell my story from that angle.” And I find him moving, in more ways than one, this murderer who is madly in love. Because of the simplicity of his words, where there are no adjectives, no superlatives, no emphasis. A visceral love in all its clarity. The Colonel goes straight to the point. The story is linear. The episodes of his life are told in chronological order. He avoids commentary, ponderousness, useless details. He doesn’t go on and on. Doesn’t tire his listener. Describes situations clearly. Speaks quickly. Uses everyday words. Prefers short sentences. Five to describe their meeting. “I met her at a wedding. It was at the beginning of the war. I was a young volunteer on leave. I came late to the party. She was sitting next to the bride and I saw no one else.” And three to describe how he fell, head over heels. “She was so young. Scarcely fifteen and already a woman. The love of my life and no one else’s.” Four about the obstacles to their marriage. “My eldest brother, who had been head of the family since our father died, was a fanatic of the new regime and he didn’t trust Vima. She didn’t wear the uniform the government had imposed. Vima’s father was suspected of being ideologically soft, well-disposed toward the former regime, so he was also under suspicion. My brother forbade our union.”
From that faraway province of a country in turmoil, the young volunteer returned to the front with the woman of his dreams in his heart. A year and a half later he would make her his bride. His lifelong companion had her eyes on the sky and her head on her shoulders. A young woman who set down her conditions before marriage. His first private conversation with Vima is described in sober terms. I would even say gravely. The young volunteer was under her spell; now he said he was ready to confront his family if his lovely lady—The young woman did not let him finish his sentence. She was one step ahead of him. She was prepar
ed to marry him, but she would call the shots. “It was a shock,” says the Colonel. He had never heard a young girl speak with so much self-confidence. I can hear the irony in his tired voice. The self-mockery. Of the mature man vis-à-vis the young soldier, a believer, whose convictions would be shaken by an adolescent—“a young girl” he says, several times over. The warrior prepared to sacrifice his life for the leader who inflamed spirits: now he was in awe of a tiny, dauntless little woman. He had to react, to look composed. And why was she prepared to marry him? Did she already love him? Vima laughed. Her laughter was candid. Instantaneous. Enchanting. She said, Love? That’s a big word. Do you think you love me? I think you’re handsome. I fancy you. A great deal, even. But I want to go on with my studies. No matter what. Nothing is easy for girls. Especially in the provinces. He was completely disorientated. She had dazzled him with her boldness. Her frankness. Her obsessions. Vima’s father didn’t have the means to send her to the capital where she could have continued her studies at a private school. She would love the man who allowed her to fulfill her dream. To study. Completing her studies was her reason for living. She didn’t mention the Commander, whom the young soldier so admired. She didn’t like him. The old man hated people who used their minds. He hated women. And he fuelled the hatred of provincial despots toward those who did the work of the devil. But not a word. No opening her heart to someone whose belief in the leader was unconditional. Blind. Deaf. The potential fiancé was absolutely convinced that the holy man was misunderstood, poorly informed, surrounded by the wrong people. She left him to his imaginings. She merely spoke to him about her passion for the heavens. Not the Commander’s heavens, which were the habitat of his God. But the heavens of mathematicians and physicists . . .
The Man Who Snapped His Fingers Page 8
