Free A Curse on Dostoevsky by Atiq Rahimi Page B

this. I’m sure of it.
    Let her go, then!
    Nazigol leaves.
    Sophia gazes at Rassoul lovingly, but his mind is elsewhere. He waits for Nazigol’s footsteps to fade away down the street. “Where are you going?” cries Sophia, following Rassoul back into the room. “What on earth are you doing?” Rassoul is searching the room. “Don’t rummage through their house. That’s not nice. If they come back …” He gestures at her to go downstairs. More and more upset, she remains at the door. “No, Rassoul, you’ve no right to do this. Tell me what you’re looking for!”
    You must respond, Rassoul. You can’t get out of this so easily. You’ve got to tell her everything.
    But how? This isn’t the time.
    She’s finding you more and more weird, abstruse …
    So much the better!
    What if it that woman in the sky-blue chador really was her?
    He stops scouring the room and glares suspiciously at Sophia for a long time, almost aggressively.
    “What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that? Why won’t you tell me anything?”
    Silence. Staring. Suspicions …
    She leaves the room, exasperated. He goes back to his rummaging—inside the cupboards, under the table, in the drawers, beneath the sofa … No trace of the things he left behind yesterday: no jewelry box, no money, no ax, no
patou
. Nothing. He sits on the rug and runs his hand over the spot where the corpse lay. It is clean and dry. Is this the same rug? Who could have arranged such quick, efficient cleaning? It all seems the work of a professional, not two young girls like Nazigol and Sophia!
    Disconcerted, he stands up and is about to leave the room when his gaze falls on a box on top of the wardrobe. He opens it, but finds only six packs of Marlboro cigarettes. He takes one and returns the box. But what about the other five, who is he leaving them for? He takes the lot.
    As he passes the half-open door to the kitchen, he spots a plate of food on the table. He walks in, starving, picks up a big handful of sticky rice, and stuffs it into his mouth. It isn’t good. He spits it out on the plate. Then he carefully inspects the room. He still doesn’t find anything to give him any kind of clue as to whathas happened. He grabs the matches that are on the table and leaves. He lights a cigarette, and takes a long drag. Outside, he finds Sophia sitting on the terrace steps, staring at the front gate. Still frightened and furious, she asks: “What’s going on? Why won’t you say anything?” Rassoul, waving at the air with his hands, tries to express how weary he is of the question. “Lost your tongue, have you?” Yes, he nods, knowing Sophia won’t take him seriously. “What were you looking for up there?” He exhales smoke in her direction. “Cigarettes?” He looks at her and sits down, preoccupied. A thousand questions run through his mind. What time did she come here, yesterday? Did she see anyone? It couldn’t have been before the murder; otherwise, Nana Alia would have told him she’d come.
    No, she can’t be the woman in the blue chador. If she was, she would never have agreed to stay in the house.
    But she didn’t stay to protect the house, or for your sake. She wanted to be alone with you. You’ve never had that opportunity—a lovers’ tête-à-tête! She has a thousand things to tell you. A thousand things she’d like to hear from you …
    Sophia’s loving gaze rests on Rassoul’s lips, obscured by a curl of smoke. “You said you didn’t want to smoke anymore.” He drags harder on his cigarette and blows the smoke into her hair. They laugh.
    Sophia’s laugh; what a joy! He adores that crystal-clear laugh, innocent and so fragile it falters under theslightest glance, the smallest of movements, but still it lights up her eyes.
    The faraway sound of bullets and rockets doesn’t disturb the peaceful silence that has settled between them.
    Sophia shyly puts her hand on Rassoul’s knee, in the hope that he might take it in