Free Thirst: A Novel of the Iran-Iraq War by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi Page A

anything.’
    ‘In this cul-de-sac, the winner is the one who manages to take the last breath.’
    ‘What did you say, sir?’
    ‘I was talking to myself about that lioness. I still don’t think you believe that there really is such a lioness in this desert. I know … yes, I know blood is salty. It will make you even more thirsty … thirstier! But what can I do? Don’t be shy, let me know the moment you think your strength is at an end. And another thing – if we’re captured … no … focus your attention on that accursed hill! They’ve all travelled on the same path. All of my ancestors and yours! Right here, on this very spot. They rested in Ahwaz and raised their standard …’
    ‘Are you talking to me, sir?’
    ‘No, son. You just keep your eyes on that hill. And theyall came from far-away regions and farther still! What mystery is this?’
    ‘My heart … my heart … my heart.’ This was the first time my heartbeat had escalated with such rapidity with the writing of each word. No, it wasn’t a result of smoking the cigarette. It was the words that were to blame. Sucking blood, sucking from the gashed wound on a finger of a hand. Yes, it was at that point when my heart began to palpitate faster with every word I wrote. I could feel it happening, moment by moment. It was the first time; prior to this, such a thing had never happened. But I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t wake up any of my family. I had tranquillizers at hand. I put my pen down and stood up. I wasn’t afraid, but at the same time I wasn’t able to continue. The words were bursting my heart. The words must not kill me, the words are not permitted to take away my life. I stood up and reached for a glass of water without thinking. It didn’t occur to me that my body might be dehydrated, and that a lot of blood had drained out of the wound on my finger. I stood up, took a gulp of water and straight away collapsed. I fell on my back and put my hand to my brow, my temple. What had struck me down so quickly and violently? Where was a doctor to explain what had happened to me? To reassure me that words aren’t able to explode the brain of their author?
    If this man, this side of the border and at the foothills of the Alborz Mountains, willed himself to take notes day and night, he would write in the same way I have and admit that the name ‘dove’ had calmed him down. Just the word‘dove’, the writing of it and the way he could complete his sentence with this word have all probably ensured that his brain or heart wouldn’t burst!
    Once again a brief telephone call asking why hadn’t I written anything about the war?
    ‘But I have written something about the war – haven’t you read it?’
    ‘How? Where?’
    ‘It’s been published only once, maybe you were a child or a teenager back then.’
    He pauses and asks: ‘I mean fiction. A novel …’
    ‘Rest assured, I won’t be late submitting it! But who am I speaking to, please?’
    The person on the other end of the phone hangs up, and the line goes dead.
    If this man at the foot of the Alborz wanted to write a diary, he should have kept a log of how many times he has had to answer such calls and what kind of answers he has given, but what can a person do who believes the entire business of existence in these times isn’t worth the effort of detailed scrutiny, night or day?
    ‘
Talie
 … 
talie
 … in ancient times, a soldier in such a forward position would be called
talie
. The word
talie
derives ultimately from a word for the dawn, and by extension means ‘vanguard’, ‘standard bearer’, ‘herald’ or ‘rider’. The
talie
probe the enemy’s defences, right and left, while their own main army waits in the rear. They intercept potential deserters, mounted and with their blades drawn, ready to behead anyone fleeing the front. Oh you cowards! But
talie
also implies suddenly emerging in front of the enemy, like the night-rovers who penetrated the enemy