The Colonel Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  Translator’s Note

  Glossary of Names and Terms

  Afterword

  Copyright Page

  This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s Writers in Translation programme supported by Bloomberg. English PEN exists to promote literature and its understanding, uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and promote the friendly co-operation of writers and free exchange of ideas.

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  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  Translator’s Note

  In the original Persian, the title of the book is Kolonel, from the French. There are two colonels confronting the reader in this book: the nameless colonel of the title and his alter ego in the photograph. Both are referred to as Kolonel. The Persian for ‘colonel’ is sarhang, but there was one colonel who was always known as Kolonel. This was Mohammad-Taqi Khan Pesyan who, in recognition for his training in Europe, was given the nickname Kolonel. Any educated Iranian would know who this was. His story is in the Glossary. To help the reader distinguish between the two colonels, I have referred to Pesyan as ‘The Colonel’, while the protagonist remains in lower case.

  Dowlatabadi’s language shatters the Persian literary conventions. It is rough and ready, the language of the street and the barrack room. Like the great 11th century Persian epic Shahnameh, it avoids the use of Arabic words imported into Persian. In an effort to reproduce this in English I have tried to use Anglo-Saxon words in preference to Latin.

  Tom Patterdale

  I’d better put my cigarette out first…

  This was perhaps the twentieth butt that he had stubbed out since nightfall. He was feeling suffocated and he had smoked so much that he had lost all sense of taste. The cracked pane in front of him had steamed up. It was unusually quiet.

  Every knock at the door broke the caressing silence of the rain. There was nothing but the sound of unremitting rain drumming on the rusty tin roof, so unceasing that it amounted to silence.

  Only once in my lifetime do I remember seeing these roofs in the sunset. I remember it well…

  In the evening after the rain, just after sunset, the ochre of the rooftops glowed with melancholy beauty, in those days when the first grey hairs had started to appear on his temples. In those days he still walked upright, with his head held high, and he could feel the earth under his feet. He had not been old and worn out then, his cheeks had not yet sunk in and the worry lines had yet to furrow their way across his brow.

  Now that these gentlemen have come… I had better put out my cigarette first, then get up and throw my raincoat over my head. Then I can go to the door. Knock away, knock, keep on knocking, whoever you are! It’s been years since I’ve heard any good news and I’m certainly not expecting any now, at this ungodly hour of the night. Let’s see now, if this old clock is right, it must be about half past three in the morning, and just look at all the fog on that cracked old window… Knock, knock, my friends. Knock hard enough to wake the dead in their graves. But I am not going to take a single step out into the yard before I’ve put my raincoat over my head and my galoshes on my feet. You can see for yourselves that the rain is coming down in buckets. Besides, I need to switch on the outside light before I come downstairs. Do you want me to slip in the dark and put my shoulder out…? I’m coming. I just hope that Amir’s basement light isn’t on… I must not get muddled. I must stay calm and try not to appear upset or frightened when I open the door. I absolutely must not bat an eyelid or let my mouth shake. But I can’t stop my left eyelid twitching. As soon as I concentrate on anything, it starts fluttering. It’s just this weary old left eye…

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming… Just a minute…”

  Why should he need to ask who it was, banging on his door at this ungodly hour? It’s not that he didn’t dare ask the question. No. It wasn’t like that at all. It was just that he knew that, in the end, it made no difference. He knew full well that nobody knocked on a locked door in the middle of the night without a reason.

  There’s no escape… Take a deep breath… And try not to think about the number of cigarettes I have smoked all day. Stay calm; don’t do any of those stupid things I do when I’m wrong-footed. I must be in full control of myself when I open the door. My puffing and wheezing might be seen as panic, so I just have to take a deep breath. Then, I shall open the door quite calmly. ’

  “colonel?”

  “Yes, yes…”

  “Is that you, colonel?”

  “Who else did you think it would be?”

  “Well, why don’t you open the door?”

  “All right, all right, I’ll open it. I’m trying to find the key. Ah, I’ve got it. Oh, no, that’s the key to the safe. I’ll have to go and look for the right one. Sorry, just give me a minute…”

  Where could I have put it? On the ledge or on the table? I always keep the key in my pocket, because… well, just in case. But I haven’t left the house since I got back this afternoon, so I didn’t have to change out of any wet clothes. Unless I put the key with my prayer beads and lighter – that German petrol lighter that doesn’t work any more – on the mantelpiece, next to the photo of The Colonel. Yes, that’s it.

  There it was, right beneath The Colonel’s shiny black field boots, next to the passport photo of Mohammad-Taqi, which he had had taken for his driving licence. He had placed the photo there two, maybe three, years ago, next to The Colonel’s shiny black boots so that he could get used to looking at his son.

  Yes, I want to get used to seeing my sons’ pictures…

  In truth the colonel had made this decision for his own self-preservation. By positioning his son’s photograph at eye level he would force himself to ride out the great wave of emotion that welled up from the depths of his heart to invade his mind. He believed that as long as Mohammad-Taqi’s photo was where he could see it, he wouldn’t run the risk of forgetting the boy. He tried to persuade himself that by always facing his son, he was facing the barrage of emotion that wanted to destroy him. It was just like ‘engage and confront’ in army exercises. Or like war. A decisive blow has to be delivered where the enemy least expects it. You can only parry an attack if you are prepared.

  He had kept the full-length portrait of The Colonel before his eyes for half a century. He had also felt an urge – yes, even a longing – to push his wife’s photograph into the left-hand corner of the frame, right beneath the point of The Colonel’s sabre, so that he could look at her as well. But I couldn’t… I still can’t. But he had managed to position Parvaneh’s photo right beneath The Colonel’s boot. That was different. Three days and three nights after she had left the house and never returned, he had placed Parvaneh’s photo next to Mohammad-Taqi in the right-hand corner of the frame. For almost two months now, he had been trying to get used to seeing the little photo of his daughter – and the one of Masoud, whom they called Little Kuchik at home: Ah yes, Kuchik. Maybe it was because of his bushy black eyebrows and low forehead that the children had nicknamed him Kuchik Ja
ngali…’1

  “I’ve got the key, I’ve just found it. I’ll open the door now. I’ll be with you in a second. Come in. Good evening!”

  The pale reflection from the neon light in the shrine to the young martyr2 on the street corner opposite lit up the colonel’s face like a moonbeam and fell on the olive green parkas of his visitors. Merging with the drizzle, it formed a white mist, which glinted off the men’s epaulettes and the peaks of their caps. From their silhouettes, the colonel could see that both men were young and carried rifles slung over their shoulders, which was probably why the colonel did not even hear himself wish them a good evening. He found himself doing it again. He gave himself up and waited for these two youths to say something, anything, and to do with him whatever they pleased.

  They did not take long. One of them took a torch from a deep pocket in his parka and, even though he could see the colonel’s face perfectly well by the cold light from the shrine, he pointed the sharp beam at him, flashed it round the rain-soaked yard and, before it could reflect off the water in the pond, shone it down on the colonel’s wet galoshes and then switched it off, as if waiting for his companion to make a move.

  The colonel was full of questions. As he stood there in the rain, hunched and stooping, with his rigid, frightened gaze, he looked just like a question mark written by a child with bad handwriting. But no question came to his lips: not a single word could he utter. He could not even remember the simplest of greetings. He just stared at the two young men, still standing outside, who seemed to be inspecting something somewhere in the rainy reflections from the shrine.

  They could think whatever they wanted, but what was preoccupying the colonel, quite apart from the fear flowing through him like a river, was that these two were the same age as Mohammad-Taqi and Kuchik. All he could think was that if Mohammad-Taqi had lived, he would have been twenty-one in March, on 3rd March 1983 to be exact, and that Kuchik Masoud, if he were still alive, would now be about twenty-six.

  What could I have done? What should I have done? There was nothing, nothing that I could have done. Things were out of my control by then. The children had grown up. They knew their own minds and felt no need to listen to anything I had to say to them. Come on, could I have ordered them not to be so hot-headed? There was a revolution on then, a revolution, you know, and it was every man for himself. Except the young, you can’t say the young were driven entirely by self-interest. The young were all trying to find themselves in the revolution, trying to give some meaning to their lives. Revolution gave them a thrill and kept their adrenaline going. They were riding a wave of excitement, like a dove that flies higher and higher to reach the sun, until it burns up – that’s the acme of truth for youth! The revolution carried my children off and I have no idea at what point any of them got burned, or may still be burning, for that matter. We should feel sorry for our immediate neighbours, our fellow townsmen and fellow countrymen, if any of their young men should come back from the edge of immolation only half-burned, if they descend from that height only to discover that the truth they have found is nothing but specious doctrine and bogus ideology… Then this glowing, molten wreck turns into a stream of raging fire…

  “Now then, lads, don’t stand outside in the rain, come inside.”

  What else could he have said? Even though they had not shown the colonel their identity cards, he could hardly object to their coming in.

  The fact is, I’m frightened, I’ve been very frightened for a long time now…

  Perhaps he should have left the yard gate unlocked. The very thing that could happen if he left it unlocked had just happened. Locking the gate had become second nature to the colonel. It was not so much a conscious act of securing his property now, but just a habit born of fear.

  I am afraid, my friend, I am afraid. I don’t know of what or of whom, but I feel that people are something more than just the clothes they wear. I feel that man comes naked into the world, and most of the time I can’t help seeing myself as naked, too. All the good manners and politeness in the world actually tell you nothing about people. When I see through people, I’m shocked at what confronts me, because they remind me of herds of wild, stampeding buffalo – I probably saw them in a film. I screw my eyes tight shut to keep the image out, or rather they shut by themselves, out of sheer fright, as I see herds of men with strange horns growing out of their heads coming to destroy everything, including me, this little heap of bones. A nightmare, my friend.

  “My good fellow, why don’t you come in and sit down? Oh, yes, I should warn you, those bentwood chairs are clapped out and they crack like a dry poppadom when you sit on them, but as they used to say: what we have is what we have, and a guest is a guest. Anyway, please have a seat!”

  They will sit down, won’t they…? Yes, a seat for the gentlemen… A towel, maybe…

  He could have fetched a towel to dry his rain-soaked white hair and wipe his face and neck, but it was too late. He had thought of it too late. It was all he could do to light a cigarette and sit down on one of the opium-coloured chairs, with his back to the stove. A kind of calm was creeping over him, even though he was having to hold his left hand to stop it shaking. Even worse was the way his cigarette would not stop twitching; there it was in his hand, it seemed to have acquired a life of its own… This is a small town. It hasn’t grown like all the others; everyone knows everyone else here. If I could just control my nerves and gather my wits for a minute, I am sure I’ll know who my visitors are, or at least know their parents. Although I wasn’t born here, I have lived here so long that my Parvaneh was born in this town. Amir, the eldest, was no more than fifteen when we moved here, and the middle boys were so small that in no time they spoke like the locals. If my mind doesn’t fail me, I’m sure I’ll be able to get my visitors to admit they know Mohammad-Taqi and Masoud. Maybe they were friends, even. I bet they were at school together, sharing a desk. Or if not, they must at least have run across one another during all the ballyhoo in the revolution…

  His guests were silent and kept their faces averted, as if they were embarrassed to be there. Finally, the one who reminded the colonel of Mohammad-Taqi – or did the colonel only wish he did? – could stand it no longer. He got up and went over to the big portrait of The Colonel and stood staring at Mohammad-Taqi’s photo for a long while, with the hood of his parka hanging down over his back. Meanwhile the other lad, whom the colonel thought was the very spit of Masoud, just sat opposite him, with his arms crossed and his elbows on the table, gazing in silence at a threadbare corner of the old red table cloth.

  One would think that boys were born coy, but there lurks within them a dreadful, perverse force that can, in the blink of an eye, turn them into savage beasts, beasts that since the beginning of history have been easily drawn into committing the most appalling of crimes, just to prove themselves. They follow their orders to the letter and call what they do acts of heroism. Can we blame them? What about us, the people who send these unformed lumps of soft putty out onto the street, where they fall into the arms of the first merchants of villainy they come across? And we just sit back and wait for them to be turned into rods to beat our own backs…

  “My Mohammad-Taqi was in his first year of medicine…”

  “I knew him, yes, I knew him…”

  Maybe the conversation had gone like that, or maybe it hadn’t but, from the way the young man was standing, the colonel assumed that he had known his son. He wanted to believe that he had met Mohammad-Taqi, even though he doubted that knowing or not knowing someone like him would make any difference to his situation, whatever it was. But, just for a moment, the thought took the colonel’s mind off the maelstrom of his thoughts.

  He’s just as impatient as Mohammad-Taqi was.

  Which was probably why he did not linger in front of the photograph, and the colonel did not think he would spend much time looking at Parvaneh’s photo either. Instead, the youth sat down, checked his watch and glanced at his colleague. It seemed to the
colonel that the young man must be worried about the time, for time had passed and nothing had been explained. As for the colonel himself, he was unnerved by their uncertainty and gaucheness. He still did not know where the blow was going to fall. He just had to wait for it. The only thing he was sure of was that these young men – they looked wrecked and melted by their return to earth from the sun – had not come knocking at his door to pour balm on his wounds. All he could do was wait. And so he waited, until one of them spoke:

  “Right, we’re taking you to the prosecutor’s office.”

  “The prosecutor’s office?”

  “It’ll all become clear when you get there, colonel.”

  Now, whatever I do I mustn’t look surprised or appear indignant. I need to behave myself. I’ve been telling myself for ages that I mustn’t boil over and lose my temper. I mustn’t let anything faze me ever again. No, whatever happens, I mustn’t be surprised. It’s the only way of steeling yourself against nasty bombshells. I live in the past anyway. Maybe it’s to do with my army service under the Shah, or Kuchik going to the Iraqi front, or what happened to my wife… or Parvaneh… I don’t know. It could be one of a thousand things. But the butterflies in my stomach I can’t do anything about. Not a thing! Look at me, I can’t even go downstairs without locking the door behind me.

  It’s lucky I didn’t leave my hat behind. It’s on my head. Just to be sure, I’m putting my hand up to my head to touch it once more. I’ve got enough of my wits about me to realise that I need to turn up my coat collar to stop the rain wrapping itself round my neck like a chain. And of course I mustn’t let these young men find out that Amir’s in the basement. It probably doesn’t matter, but I have a feeling that my Amir’s hiding himself away there for over a year might raise the odd doubt or two and give rise to some curiosity, or even suspicion. There is just no logical reason for an ex-political prisoner, particularly one under forty, to hide himself in the basement of his parents’ house, turning himself back into a prisoner, as it were, and cutting himself off as much as he can from his own family. Such behaviour is bound to make the authorities suspicious, especially with a chap like Amir. Amir isn’t really crazy. I mustn’t even think about him. Many times I’ve heard him talking to his sister Farzaneh. She does bang on a bit, and she gets carried away with sisterly concern. She’s the same sort of age as Amir, so when she gets the chance, she comes and sits at the top of the basement stairs and starts pouring out her heart to him.