The Patience Stone Part 1

The Patience Stone.

Atiq Rahimi; Polly Mclean.

THIS TALE, WRITTEN IN MEMORY OF N.A.

--AN AFGHAN POET SAVAGELY MURDERED BY.

HER HUSBAND--IS DEDICATED TO M.D.

From the body by the body with the body.

Since the body and until the body.

ANTONIN ARTAUD.

introduction.

BY KHALED HOSSEINI.

It is a vexing fact that women are the most beleaguered members of Afghan society. Long before the arrival of the Taliban, Afghan women struggled for basic rights. Outside of a few urban pockets, the ironclad rule of patriarchal, tribal law has long denied women their right to work, education, adequate health care, and personal independence--all of this made infinitely worse by three decades of war, displacement, and anarchy. Though there have been some improvements in recent years, far too many women continue to languish under the unquestioned, absolute domination of tribal customs that deprive them of meaningful partic.i.p.ation in societal life. For far too long, Afghan women have been faceless and voiceless.

Until now. With The Patience Stone, Atiq Rahimi gives face and voice to one unforgettable woman--and, one could argue, offers her as a proxy for the grievances of millions.

The plot could not be simpler. The entire story unfolds in one room, where an unnamed woman nurses her badly injured husband, who lies motionless, wordless, and helpless. As warring factions plunder and pillage on the streets, the woman feeds her husband through a tube. She lubricates his eyes and changes him. And she speaks to him. Tentatively at first, until gradually, the dam ruptures, letting loose a flood of startling confessions. With increasing boldness, the woman reveals how she has resented her husband, her disappointments in him, her fiercely guarded secrets, her desires and hopes, the pains and sorrows she has suffered at his hands. As her husband lies before her like a stone--indeed like the legendary t.i.tular stone, which absorbs the anguish of all who confess to it--the woman suddenly finds herself free from all restraint and her monologues reach a fevered pitch. What pours out of her is not only a brave and shocking confession, but a savage indictment of war, the brutality of men, and the religious, marital, and cultural norms that continually a.s.sault Afghan women, leaving them with no recourse but to absorb without complaint, like a patience stone.

It is to Atiq Rahimi's credit that his heroine is no saint suffering quietly in purdah. Nor is she much of a heroine. As the woman's one-way discourse with her presumably unconscious husband goes on, the layers are peeled back, revelations come forth, and what emerges is the portrait of a complex and nuanced human being. Rahimi's heroine is brave, resilient, a devout mother, but she is also flawed in fundamentally human ways, a woman capable of lying, manipulating, of being spiteful, a creature that, pushed hard enough, bares her teeth. And her body. Here, Rahimi has broached a great Afghan taboo, the notion of a woman as a s.e.xual being. A pair of pa.s.sages in this novel may very well generate protest from the more conservative sectors of the Afghan community, but Rahimi is to be applauded for not shying away from the subject. He is to be commended for not turning his heroine into the archetype of the saintly, as.e.xual, maternal figure. Perhaps, writing this novel in French, and not in Dari, made it easier for him. He has been quoted as saying, "... a kind of involuntary self-censors.h.i.+p has come into play when I've written in Persian. My acquired language, the one I have chosen, gives me a kind of freedom to express myself, away from this self-censors.h.i.+p and an unconscious shame that dwells in us from childhood." Whatever the reason, the reader benefits from his unflinching approach.

It is also a testament to Rahimi's considerable literary skills how vividly the war on the streets is depicted, even though the entire tale unfolds within the confines of a single bedroom. The specter of the unnamed conflict, fought between never named factions, is the third character in the room. Rahimi chooses to not take us to the streets. Instead, we experience war as most helpless civilians do. We hear the sudden bursts of gunfire, the screams, the terrifying silences. We feel the impact of mortar fire when the room shakes and plaster flakes rain down. Despite never taking us to the streets--or perhaps because of it--Rahimi succeeds in making us experience the chaos, the helplessness, the senseless brutality committed with impunity, the random and sudden outbursts of violence that take unsuspecting lives. The years of factional infighting were some of the darkest of the last thirty years in Afghanistan, and in Rahimi's spare prose, the era comes to life to devastating effect.

The Patience Stone, winner of the prestigious Goncourt Prize in France, is a deceptively simple book, written in a spare, poetic style. But it is a rich read, part allegory, part a tale of retribution, part an exploration of honor, love, s.e.x, marriage, war. It is without doubt an important and courageous book. In this reader's view, though, this novel's greatest achievement is in giving voice. Giving voice to those who, as the fable goes, suffer the most and cry out the least. Rahimi's nameless heroine is a conduit, a living vessel for the grievances of millions of women like her, women who have been objectified, marginalized, scorned, beaten, ridiculed, silenced. In The Patience Stone, they have their say at last.

the patience stone.

Somewhere in Afghanistan or elsewhere.

The room is small. Rectangular. Stifling, despite the paleness of the turquoise walls, and the two curtains patterned with migrating birds frozen mid-flight against a yellow and blue sky. Holes in the curtains allow the rays of the sun to reach the faded stripes of a kilim. At the far end of the room is another curtain. Green. Unpatterned. Concealing a disused door. Or an alcove.

The room is bare. Bare of decoration. Except between the two windows where someone has hung a small khanjar dagger on the wall, and above the khanjar a photo of a man with a moustache. He is about thirty years old. Curly hair. Square face, bracketed by a pair of neatly tended sideburns. His black eyes sparkle. They are small, separated by a hawklike nose. The man is not laughing, and yet seems as if he is holding back a laugh. This gives him a strange expression, that of a man inwardly mocking those who look at him. The photo is in black and white, hand-colored in drab tones.

Facing this photo, at the foot of a wall, the same man--older now--is lying on a red mattress on the floor. He has a beard. Pepper and salt. He is thinner. Too thin. Nothing but skin and bones. Pale. Wrinkled. His nose more hawklike than ever. He still isn't laughing, and still looks strangely mocking. His mouth is half-open. His eyes, even smaller now, have retreated into their sockets. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, on the exposed, blackened, rotting beams. His arms lie pa.s.sive along his sides. Beneath his translucent skin, the veins twine around the jutting bones of his body like sleeping worms. On his left wrist he wears a wind-up watch, and on his ring finger a gold wedding band. A tube drips clear liquid into the crook of his arm from a plastic pouch attached to the wall just above his head. The rest of his body is covered by a long blue s.h.i.+rt, embroidered at the collar and cuffs. His legs, stiff as two stakes, are buried under a white sheet. A dirty white sheet.

A hand, a woman's hand, is resting on his chest, over his heart, rising and falling in time with his breath. The woman is seated. Knees pulled into her chest. Head sunk between them. Her dark hair--it is very dark, and long--covers her slumped shoulders, rising and falling with the regular movement of her arm.

In the other hand, the left, she holds a long string of black prayer beads. She moves them between her fingers, telling them. Silently. Slowly. In time with her shoulders. In time with the man's breath. Her body is swathed in a long dress. Crimson. Embroidered, at the cuffs and bottom hem, with a few discreet ears and flowers of wheat.

Within reach, open at the flyleaf and placed on a velvet pillow, is a book, the Koran.

A little girl is crying. She is not in this room. Perhaps she's next door. Or in the pa.s.sage.

The woman's head moves. Wearily. Emerges from the crook of her knees.

The woman is beautiful. At the crease of her left eye, a small scar narrows the place where the eyelids meet, lending a strange wariness to her gaze. Her plump, dry, pale lips are softly and slowly repeating the same word of prayer.

A second little girl starts crying. She seems closer than the first, probably just behind the door.

The woman removes her hand from the man's chest. She stands up and leaves the room. Her absence doesn't change a thing. The man still does not move. He continues to breathe silently, slowly.

The sound of the woman's footsteps quiets the two children. She stays with them for some time, until the house and the world become mere shadows in their sleep; then she returns. In one hand, a small white bottle, in the other, the black prayer beads. She sits down next to the man, opens the bottle, leans over and administers two drops into his right eye, two into his left. Without letting go of her prayer beads. Without pausing in her telling of them.

The rays of the sun s.h.i.+ne through the holes in the yellow and blue sky of the curtains, caressing the woman's back and her shoulders as they continue to rock to the rhythm of the prayer beads pa.s.sing between her fingers.

Far away, somewhere in the city, a bomb explodes. The violence destroys a few houses perhaps, a few dreams. There's a counterattack. The retaliations tear through the heavy midday silence, shaking the window panes but not waking the children. For a moment--just two prayer beads--the woman's shoulders stop moving. She puts the bottle of eyedrops in her pocket. Murmurs "Al-Qahhar." Repeats "Al-Qahhar." Repeats it each time the man takes a breath. And with every repet.i.tion, slips one of the prayer beads through her fingers.

One cycle of the prayer beads is complete. Ninety-nine beads. Ninety-nine times "Al-Qahhar."

She sits up and returns to her place on the mattress, next to the man's head, and puts her right hand back on his chest. Begins another cycle of the prayer beads.

As she again reaches the ninety-ninth "Al-Qahhar," her hand leaves the man's chest and travels toward his neck. Her fingers wander into the bushy beard, resting there for one or two breaths, emerging to pause a moment on the lips, stroke the nose, the eyes, the brow, and finally vanish again, into the thickness of the filthy hair. "Can you feel my hand?" She leans over him, straining, and stares into his eyes. No response. She bends her ear to his lips. No sound. Just the same unsettling expression, mouth half-open, gaze lost in the dark beams of the ceiling.

She bends down again to whisper, "In the name of Allah, give me a sign to let me know that you feel my hand, that you're alive, that you'll come back to me, to us! Just a sign, a little sign to give me strength, and faith." Her lips tremble. They beg, "Just a word ...," as they brush lightly over the man's ear. "I hope you can hear me, at least." She lays her head on the pillow.

"They told me that after two weeks you'd be able to move, to respond ... But this is the third week, or nearly. And still nothing!" Her body s.h.i.+fts so she is lying on her back. Her gaze wanders, joining his vacant gaze somewhere among the dark and rotting beams.

"Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar ..."

The woman sits up slowly. Stares desperately at the man. Puts her hand back on his chest. "If you can breathe, you must be able to hold your breath, surely? Hold it!" Pus.h.i.+ng her hair back behind her shoulders, she repeats, "Hold it, just once!" and again bends her ear to his mouth. She listens. She hears him. He is breathing.

In despair, she mutters, "I can't take it anymore."

With an angry sigh, she suddenly stands up and repeats, shouting: "I can't take it anymore ..." Then more dejected: "Reciting the names of G.o.d, over and over from dusk till dawn, I just can't take it!" She moves a few steps closer to the photo, without looking at it. "It's been sixteen days ..." She hesitates. "No ...," counting on her fingers, unsure.

Confused, she turns around, returns to her spot, and glances at the open page of the Koran. Checks. "Sixteen days ... so today it's the sixteenth name of G.o.d that I'm supposed to chant. Al-Qahhar, the Dominant. Yes, that's right, that is the sixteenth name ..." Thoughtful: "Sixteen days!" She takes a step back. "Sixteen days that I've been existing in time with your breath." Hostile: "Sixteen days that I've been breathing with you!" She stares at the man. "Look, I breathe just like you!" She takes a deep breath in, exhales it laboriously. In time with him. "Even without my hand on your chest, I still breathe like you." She bends over him. "And even when I'm not near you, I still breathe in time with you." She backs away from him. "Do you hear me?" She starts shouting "Al-Qahhar," and telling the prayer beads again, still to the same rhythm. She walks out of the room. We hear her shouting, "Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar ..." in the pa.s.sage and beyond ...

"Al-Qahhar ..." moves away.

"Al-Qahhar ..." becomes faint.

"Al ..." Imperceptible.

Is gone.

A few moments drift by in silence. Then "Al-Qahhar" returns, audible through the window, from the pa.s.sage, from behind the door. The woman comes back into the room and stops next to the man. Standing. Her left hand still telling the black prayer beads. "I can even inform you that while I've been away you have breathed thirty-three times." She crouches down. "And even now, at this moment, as I'm speaking, I can count your breaths." She lifts the string of prayer beads into what seems to be the man's field of vision. "And now, since my return, you have breathed seven times." She sits on the kilim and continues, "I no longer count my days in hours, or my hours in minutes, or my minutes in seconds ... a day for me is ninety-nine prayer-bead cycles!" Her gaze comes to rest on the old watch-bracelet holding together the bones of the man's wrist. "I can even tell you that there are five cycles to go before the mullah makes the call to midday prayer and preaches the hadith." A moment. She is working it out. "At the twentieth cycle, the water bearer will knock on the neighbor's door. As usual, the old woman with the rasping cough will come out to open the door for him. At the thirtieth, a boy will cross the street on his bike, whistling the tune of "Laili, Laili, Laili, djan, djan, djan, you have broken my heart," for our neighbor's daughter ..." She laughs. A sad laugh. "And when I reach the seventy-second cycle, that cretinous mullah will come to visit you and, as always, will reproach me because, according to him, I can't have taken good care of you, can't have followed his instructions, must have neglected the prayers ... Otherwise you'd be getting better!" She touches the man's arm. "But you are my witness. You know that I live only for you, at your side, by your breath! It's easy for him to say," she complains, "that I must recite one of the ninety-nine names of G.o.d ninety-nine times a day ... for ninety-nine days! But that stupid mullah has no idea what it's like to be alone with a man who ..." She can't find the right word, or doesn't dare say it, and just grumbles softly "... to be all alone with two little girls!"

A long silence. Almost five prayer-bead cycles. Five cycles during which the woman remains huddled against the wall, her eyes closed. It is the call to midday prayer that s.n.a.t.c.hes her from her daze. She picks up the little rug, unfolds it, and lays it out on the ground. Makes a start on the prayer.

The prayer complete, she remains sitting on the rug to listen to the mullah preach the hadith for that day of the week: "... and today is a day of blood, for it was on a Tuesday that Eve, for the first time, lost tainted blood, that one of the sons of Adam killed his brother, that Gregory, Zachary, and Yahya--may peace be upon them--were killed, as well as Pharaoh's counselors, his wife Asiya Bint Muzahim, and the heifer of the Children of Israel ..."

She looks around slowly. The room. Her man. This body in the emptiness. This empty body.

Her eyes fill with dread. She stands up, refolds the rug, puts it back in its place in the corner of the room, and leaves.

A few moments later, she returns to check the level of solution in the drip bag. There isn't much left. She stares at the tube, noting the intervals between the drips. They are short, shorter than the intervals between the man's breaths. She adjusts the flow, waits two drips, and turns around decisively. "I'm going to the pharmacy for more solution." But before her feet cross the threshold, they falter and she lets out a plaintive sigh: "I hope they've managed to get hold of some ..." She leaves the room. We hear her waking the children, "Come on, we're going out," and departing, followed by little footsteps running down the pa.s.sage, through the courtyard ...

After three cycles of the prayer beads--two hundred and ninety-seven breaths--they are back.

The woman takes the children into the next-door room. One is crying, "I'm hungry, Mummy." The other complaining, "Why didn't you get any bananas?" Their mother comforts them: "I'll give you some bread."

Just as the sun withdraws its rays from the holes in the yellow and blue sky of the curtains, the woman reappears in the doorway to the room. She looks at the man a while, then approaches and checks his breath. He is breathing. The drip bag is almost dry. "The pharmacy was shut," she says and, looking resigned, waits, as if for further instructions. Nothing. Nothing but breathing. She leaves again and returns with a gla.s.s of water. "I'll have to do what I did last time, and use sugar-salt solution ..."

With a quick, practiced movement she pulls the tube out of his arm. Takes off the syringe. Cleans the tube, feeds it into his half-open mouth, and pushes it down until it reaches his esophagus. Then she pours the contents of the gla.s.s into the drip bag. Adjusts the flow, checking the gaps between drips. One drip per breath.

And leaves.

A dozen drips later, she is back, chador in hand. "I have to go and see my aunt." She waits again ... for permission, perhaps. Her eyes wander. "I've lost my mind!" Agitated, she turns around and leaves the room. Behind the door, her voice comes and goes in the pa.s.sageway: "I don't care," near, "what you think of her ...," far, "I love her," near, "she's all I have left ... my sisters have abandoned me, and your brothers too ..." far, "... that I see her," near, "I need to ...," far, "... she doesn't give a d.a.m.n about you ... and neither do I!" She can be heard leaving with her two children.

Their absence lasts three thousand nine hundred and sixty breaths. Three thousand nine hundred and sixty breaths during which nothing happens except what the woman had predicted. The water bearer knocks at the neighbor's door. A woman with a rasping cough opens the door to him ... A few breaths later, a boy crosses the street on his bike whistling the tune of "Laili, Laili, Laili, djan, djan, djan, you have broken my heart..."

So they return, she and her two children. She leaves them in the pa.s.sage. Opens the door, abruptly. Her man is still there. Same position. Same rhythm to his breath. As for her, she is very pale. Paler even than him. She leans against the wall. After a long silence, she moans, "My aunt ... she has left the house ... she's gone!" With her back against the wall she slips to the ground. "She's gone ... but where? No one knows ... I have no one left ... no one!" Her voice trembles. Her throat tightens. The tears flow. "She doesn't know what's happened to me ... she can't know! Otherwise she would have left me a message, or come to rescue me ... She hates you, I know, but she loves me ... she loves the children ... but you ..." The sobbing robs her of her voice. She moves away from the wall, shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath in an attempt to say something. But she can't say it; it must be heavy, heavy with meaning, voice-crus.h.i.+ngly heavy. So she keeps it inside, and seeks something light, gentle, and easy to say: "And you, you knew that you had a wife and two daughters!" She punches herself in the belly. Once. Twice. As if to beat out the heavy word that has buried itself in her guts. She crouches down and cries, "Did you think about us for even a second, when you shouldered that f.u.c.king Kalashnikov? You son of a ...," the words suppressed again.

She remains still for a moment. Her eyes close. Her head hangs. She lets out a long, painful groan. Her shoulders are still moving to the rhythm of the breath. Seven breaths.

Seven breaths, and she looks up, wiping her eyes on the sleeve embroidered with ears and flowers of wheat. After looking at the man a while, she moves closer, bends over his face and whispers, "Forgive me," as she strokes his arm. "I'm tired. At breaking point. Don't abandon me, you're all I have left." She raises her voice: "Without you, I have nothing. Think of your daughters! What will I do with them? They're so young ..." She stops stroking him.

Somewhere outside, not far away, a shot is fired. Another, closer, in retort. The first gunman shoots again. This time, no response.

"The mullah won't come today," she says with some relief. "He's scared of stray bullets. He's as much of a coward as your brothers." She stands up and moves a few steps away. "You men, you're all cowards!" She comes back. Stares darkly at the man. "Where are your brothers who were so proud to see you fight their enemies?" Two breaths and her silence fills with rage. "Cowards!" she spits. "They should be looking after your children, and me--honoring you, and themselves--isn't that right? Where is your mother, who always used to say she would sacrifice herself for a single hair on your head? She couldn't deal with the fact that her son, the hero, who fought on every front, against every foe, had managed to get shot in a pathetic quarrel because some guy--from his own side, would you believe--had said, I spit in your mother's p.u.s.s.y! Shot over an insult!" She takes a step closer. "It's so ridiculous, so stupid!" Her gaze wanders around the room and then settles, heavily, on the man who may or may not hear her. "Do you know what your family said to me, before leaving the city?" she continues. "That they wouldn't be able to take care of either your wife or your children ... You might as well know: they've abandoned you. They don't give a f.u.c.k about your health, or your suffering, or your honor! ... They've deserted us," she cries. "Us, me!" She raises her prayer-bead hand to the ceiling, begging, "Allah, help me! ... Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar ..." And weeps.

One cycle of the prayer beads.

Desolate, she stammers, "I'm going ... I'm going ... I am ... mad." She throws her head back. "Why tell him all this? I'm going mad. Allah, cut off my tongue! May my mouth be filled with earth!" She covers her face. "Allah, protect me, guide me, I'm losing my way, show me the path!"

No reply.

No guide.

Her hand buries itself in her man's hair. Beseeching words emerge from her dry throat: "Come back, I beg you, before I lose my mind. Come back, for the sake of your children ..." She looks up. Gazes through her tears in the same uncertain direction as the man. "Bring him back to life, G.o.d!" Her voice drops. "After all, he fought in your name for so long. For jihad!" She stops, then starts again: "And you're leaving him in this state? What about his children? And me? You can't, you can't, you've no right to leave us like this, without a man!" Her left hand, the one holding the prayer beads, pulls the Koran toward her. Her rage seeks expression in her voice. "Prove that you exist, bring him back to life!" She opens the Koran. Her finger moves down the names of G.o.d featured on the flyleaf. "I swear I won't ever let him go off to fight again like a b.l.o.o.d.y idiot. Not even in your name! He will be mine, here, with me." Her throat, knotted by sobs, lets through only the stifled cry "Al-Qahhar." She starts telling the prayer beads again. "Al-Qahhar ..." Ninety-nine times, "Al-Qahhar."

The room grows dark.

"I'm scared, Mummy. It's all dark." One of the little girls is whimpering in the pa.s.sage, behind the door. The woman stands up to leave the room.

"Don't be frightened, darling. I'm here."

"Why are you shouting? You're scaring me, Mummy," weeps the little girl. The mother rea.s.sures her: "I wasn't shouting. I was talking to your father."

They walk away from the door.

"Why are you calling my father Al-Qahhar? Is he cross?"

"No, but he will be if we disturb him."

The little girl falls silent.

It is now completely dark.

And, as the woman predicted, the mullah has not come.

She returns with a hurricane lamp. Puts it on the ground near the man's head, and takes the bottle of eyedrops out of her pocket. Gently, she administers the drops. One, two. One, two. Then leaves the room and comes back with a sheet and a small plastic basin. She removes the dirty sheet covering the man's legs. Washes his belly, his feet, his genitals. Once this is done she covers her man with a clean sheet, checks the gaps between the drips of sugar-salt solution and leaves, taking the lamp with her.

Everything is dark once more. For a long time.

At dawn, as the hoa.r.s.e voice of the mullah calls the faithful to prayer, the sound of dragging feet can be heard in the pa.s.sage. They approach the room, move away, then come back. The door opens. The woman enters. She looks at the man. Her man. He is still there, in the same position. But his eyes draw her attention. She takes a step forward. His eyes are closed. The woman moves nearer. Another step. Silently. Then two. She looks at him. Can't see clearly. She isn't sure. She backs out of the room. Less than five breaths later she is back with the hurricane lamp. His eyes are still closed. She collapses onto the floor. "Are you sleeping?!" Her trembling hand moves to the man's chest. He is breathing. "Yes ... you're sleeping!" she shouts. Looks around the room for someone so she can say it again: "He's sleeping!"

No one. She is afraid.

She picks up the little rug, unfolds it, and stretches it out on the ground. The morning prayer done, she remains sitting, takes the Koran and opens it at the page marked with a peac.o.c.k feather, which she removes and holds in her right hand. With her left, she tells the prayer beads.

After reading a few verses, she puts back the feather, closes the Koran, and sits thoughtfully for a moment, gazing at the feather peeking out of the sacred book. She strokes it, sadly at first, then anxiously.

She stands up, tidies away the rug, and walks toward the door. Before leaving, she stops. Turns around. Goes back to her place by the man. Hesitantly opens one of his eyes. Then the other. Waits. His eyes do not close again. The woman takes the bottle of eye-drops and measures a few drops into his eyes. One, two. One, two. Checks the drip bag. There's still some solution.

Before standing up, she pauses and looks nervously at the man, asking him, "Can you close your eyes again?" The man's vacant eyes do not respond. She persists, "You can, you can! Do it again!" And waits. In vain.

Concerned, she slips her hand gently under the man's neck. A sensation, a horror, makes her arm twitch. She shuts her eyes, clenches her teeth. Breathes in deeply, painfully. She is suffering. As she breathes out, she extracts her hand and examines the tips of her trembling fingers in the weak light of the lamp. They are dry. She stands up to roll the man onto his side. Brings the lamp closer to his neck so she can examine a small wound--still open, bruised, drained of blood but not yet healed.

The woman holds her breath, and presses the wound. The man still doesn't respond. She presses harder. No protest. Not in the eyes, or the breath. "Doesn't it even hurt?" She rolls the man onto his back again, and leans over him so she can look into his eyes. "You don't suffer! You've never suffered, never! I've never heard of a man surviving a bullet in the neck! You're not even bleeding, there's no pus, no pain, no suffering! It's a miracle! your mother used to say ... Some b.l.o.o.d.y miracle!" She stands up. "Even injured, you've been spared suffering." Her voice rasps in her tightening throat. "And it's me who suffers! Me who cries!" Having said it, she moves to the door. Tears and fury in her eyes, she disappears into the darkness of the pa.s.sage, leaving the hurricane lamp to project the trembling shadow of the man onto the wall until the full rise of dawn, until the rays of the sun make their way through the holes in the yellow and blue curtains, condemning the lamp to insignificance.

A hand hesitates to open the door to the room. Or is struggling to. "Daddy!" The voice of one of the children can be heard over the creaking of the door. "Where are you going?" At the woman's shout, the child pulls the door shut and moves away. "Don't bother your father, darling. He's sick. He's sleeping. Come with me!" The small footsteps run off down the pa.s.sage. "But what about you, when you go in there, and shout, doesn't that bother him?" Her mother replies: "Yes, it does." Silence.

A fly sneaks into the heavy hush of the room. Lands on the man's forehead. Hesitant. Uncertain. Wanders over his wrinkles, licks his skin. No taste. Definitely no taste.