She eats. A crust of bread, a layer of onion. “Once, I asked your father if he knew the story. He said no. So I told it to him. At the end, he paused a long while, then said these poignant words: You know, my daughter, it’s an illusion to think you can find a happy ending to this story. It’s impossible. Incest has been committed, and so tragedy is inevitable.”
In the street, we hear someone shouting, “Halt!” And then a gunshot.
And footsteps, fleeing.
The woman continues. “So, your father disabused me of my illusions. But a few days later, when I brought him his breakfast early one morning, he asked me to sit down so we could talk about the story. Speaking very slowly and deliberately, he said, My daughter, I have thought long and hard. And actually, there could be a happy ending. I was so keen to hear this ending that I felt like throwing myself into his arms, kissing his hands and feet. Although, I restrained myself, of course. I forgot your mother and her breakfast, and sat down next to him. At that moment, my whole body was one giant ear, ignoring all other voices, all other sounds. There was only the wise, trembling voice of your father, who after a great slurp of tea said the following: As in life, my daughter, for this story to have a happy ending there must be a sacrifice. In other words, somebody’s misfortune. Never forget, every piece of happiness must be paid for by two misfortunes. ‘But why?’ I asked with naive surprise. He replied in simple words: My daughter, unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, not everyone in the world can attain happiness, in real life or in a story. The happiness of some engenders the hardship of others. It’s sad, but true. So, in this story, you need misfortune and sacrifice in order to arrive at a happy ending. But your self-regard, and your care for your loved ones, prevents you from considering this. The story requires a murder. But who must be killed? Before replying, before killing anyone, you must ask yourself another question: who do you wish to see happy, and alive? The father-king? The mother-queen? Or the daughter-princess? As soon as you ask yourself this question, my daughter, everything changes. In the story and in you. For this to happen you must rid yourself of three loves: love of yourself, love of the father, and love of the mother! I asked him why. He looked at me quietly for a long time, his pale eyes shining behind his glasses. He must have been searching for words I would be able to understand. If you are on the daughter’s side, your love for yourself prevents you from imagining the daughter’s suicide. In the same way, love for the father doesn’t allow you to imagine that the daughter could accept the marriage and then kill her own father in the marital bed on the wedding night. Finally, love for the mother stops you from considering the murder of the queen in order that the daughter can live with the king and conceal the truth from him. He let me think for a few moments. He took another long sip of tea and continued: In the same way, if I, as a father, imagined an end to this story, it would be the strict application of the law. I would order the beheading of the queen, the princess, and the executioner, to ensure that the traitors were punished and the secret of the incest buried forevermore. ‘And what would the mother suggest?’ I asked him. With a small private smile, he replied, My daughter, I know nothing of maternal love, so I cannot give you her answer. You yourself are a mother now; it’s for you to tell me. But my experiences in life tell me that a woman like the queen would rather have her kingdom destroyed and her people enslaved than reveal her secret. The mother behaves in a moral way. She will not allow her daughter to marry her father. My God, it was hard, listening to those wise words. I was still desperately seeking a merciful outcome, and I asked him if this was at all possible. First of all he said yes-which comforted me-but then he shouted, My daughter, tell me, who in this story has the power to forgive? I replied naively, ‘The father.’ Shaking his head, he said, But, my daughter, the father-who has killed his own children, who during his warfaring has destroyed whole cities and populations, who has committed incest-the father is as guilty as the queen. As for her, she has betrayed the king and the law, certainly, but do not forget that she too was misled, by her newborn daughter and by the executioner. Desperate, I concluded before I left, ‘So there is no happy ending!’ There is, he said. But, as I told you, it involves accepting a sacrifice, and renouncing three things: self-regard, the law of the father, and the morality of the mother. Stunned, I asked him if he thought that was feasible. His reply was very simple: You must try, my daughter. I was much affected by the discussion, and thought of little else for months. I came to realize that my distress came from one thing and one thing only-the truth of his words. Your father really knew something about life.”
Another crust of bread and layer of onion, swallowed with difficulty.
“The more I think of your father, the more I hate your mother. She kept him shut up in a small, sweaty room, sleeping on a rush mat. Your brothers treated him like a madman. Just because he had acquired great wisdom. Nobody understood him. To start with, I was afraid of him too. Not because of what your mother and brothers kept saying about him, but because I remembered what my aunt had suffered at the hands of her father-in-law. And yet, bit by bit I became closer to him. With a great deal of fear. But at the same time a shadowy, indefinable curiosity. An almost erotic curiosity! Perhaps it was the part of me haunted by my aunt that drew me to him. A desire to live the same things she had lived. Frightening, isn’t it?”
Full of thoughts and emotion, she finishes her onion and stale bread.
She blows out the lamp.
She lies down.
And sleeps.
As the guns grow weary and quiet, the dawn arrives. Gray and silent.
A few breaths after the call to prayer, hesitant footsteps can be heard on the muddy courtyard path. Someone reaches the house and knocks on the door to the passage. The woman opens her eyes. Waits. Again there is a knock. She stands up. Half asleep. Goes to the window to see who this person is who doesn’t dare enter without knocking.
In the leaden fog of dawn, she makes out an armed, turbaned shadow. The woman’s “Yes?” draws the shape to the window. His face is hidden behind a length of turban; his voice, more fragile than his appearance, stammers, “C-c-can I… c-c-come in?” It’s the breaking teenage voice, the same one as yesterday. The woman tries to make out his features. But in the weak gray light she cannot be sure. She consents with a nod of the head, adding, “The door is open.” She herself stays where she is, next to the window, watching the shadow as it moves along the walls, down the passage, and into the doorway. The same clothing. The same way of hesitating on the threshold. The same timidity. It’s him. No question. The same boy as the day before. She waits, quizzical. The boy is struggling to step into the room. Glued to the door frame, he tries to ask, “How… m-m-much?” The woman can’t understand a word he’s saying.
“What do you want?”
“How…” The voice breaks. It picks up speed-“How… m-m-much?”-but not clarity.
Holding her breath, the woman takes a step toward the boy. “Listen, I’m not what you think I am. I…” She is interrupted by a cry from the boy, fierce to start with, “Sh-sh-sh… shut up!” and then calm, “How… m-m-much?” She tries to move back, but is halted by the barrel of the gun against her belly. Waiting for the boy to calm down, she says gently, “I’m a mother…” But the boy’s tense finger on the trigger prevents her from continuing. Resigned, she asks, “How much do you have on you?” Trembling, he pulls a few notes from his pocket and throws them at her feet. The woman takes a step backward and turns a little so she can cast a furtive glance at the hiding place. The green curtain is slightly open. But the darkness makes the man’s presence imperceptible. She slips to the ground. Lying on her back, looking toward her man, she spreads her legs. And waits. The boy is paralyzed. She cries impatiently: “Come on, then, let’s get this over with!”