Everything is absorbed into the man’s silence and passivity.

And this continues.

For a long time.

Once in a while, flies’ wings sweep through the silence. At first their flight is decisive, but after a tour of the room they become engrossed in the man’s body. Then leave again.

Occasionally, a gust of wind lifts the curtains. It plays with the migrating birds frozen on the yellow and blue sky studded with holes.

Even a wasp, with its ominous buzzing, is not able to disturb the torpor of the room. It circles the man again and again, lands on his forehead-stings him or not, we shall never know-and flies off toward the ceiling, presumably to build itself a nest amid the rotting beams. Its dreams of nesting come to an abrupt end in the spider’s trap.

It wriggles. And then nothing.

Nothing then.

Night falls.

Shots ring out.

The neighbor returns, with her singing and her lugubrious cough. And immediately goes off again.

The woman does not come back.

Dawn.

The mullah performs his call to prayer.

The weapons are asleep. But the smoke and smell of gunpowder maintain their presence.

It’s when the first rays of sunlight pierce the holes in the yellow and blue sky of the curtains that the woman returns. Alone. She walks straight into the room, straight to her man. First she takes off her veil. Stands there a moment. Looking around, checking everything. Nothing has been moved. Nothing has been taken. The drip bag is empty, that’s all.

Reassured, the woman comes to life. She walks unsteadily to the mattress on which the man is lying, half naked, as she left him the previous night. Stares at him a long time, as if again counting his breaths. She starts to sit down but suddenly freezes, crying “The Koran!” Once more her eyes fill with dread. She searches every inch of the room. No sign of the word of God. “The prayer beads?” She finds them under the pillow. “Has someone been here again?” Again the doubt. Again the fear. “The Koran was here yesterday, wasn’t it?” Unsure, she sinks to the floor. Then suddenly cries, “The feather!” and starts scrabbling around in a frenzy. “My God! The feather!”

From outside comes the sound of children’s voices. Local kids, playing in the rubble.

“Hajii mor’alé?”

“Balé?”

“Who wants water? Who wants fire?”

The woman goes over to the window, parts the curtains and calls to the children: “Did you see anyone come into this house?” “No!” they all shout at once, and carry on with their game: “I want fire!”

She leaves the room, inspects the whole house.

Wearily she comes back and leans against the wall between the two windows. “But who is coming here? What do they do to you?” Worry and distress are visible in her eyes. “We can’t stay here!” She falls silent suddenly, as if interrupted. Then, after a brief hesitation, continues: “But what can I do with you? Where can I take you in this state? I think…” Her gaze falls on the empty drip bag. “I’ve got to get water,” she says to give herself time. She stands up, goes out, and comes back with the two glasses of water. Carries out her daily tasks. Sits down. Keeping vigil. Thinking. Which allows her, after a few breaths, to announce almost triumphantly, “I’ve managed to find my aunt. She’s moved to the northern part of the city, to a safer area, to her cousin’s house.” A pause. The habitual pause, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come. So she continues: “I left the children with her.” Again, she pauses. Then, overwhelmed, mutters, “I’m afraid, here,” as if to justify her decision. Receiving no reaction at all, no word of agreement, she looks down as she lowers her voice. “I’m afraid of you!” She searches the floor for something. Words. But more importantly, courage. She finds them, grabs them, and hurls them at him: “I can’t do anything for you. I think it’s all over!” She falls silent again, then talks quickly, firmly. “It seems this neighborhood is going to be the next front line between the factions.” She adds, furiously, “You knew, didn’t you?” Another pause, just a breath to gather the strength to say, “Your brothers knew, too. That’s why they all left. They’ve abandoned us! The cowards! They didn’t take me with them because you were alive. If…” She swallows her spit, and her rage as well. Continues, less fiercely, “If… if you had died, things would have been different…” She interrupts that thought. Hesitates. After a deep breath, decides: “One of them would have had to marry me!” Her voice shakes with a silent snigger. “Perhaps they would have been happier if you had died.” She shudders. “That way, they could have… fucked me! With a clear conscience.” Having said it, she stands up suddenly and leaves the room. Paces nervously up and down the passage. Searching for something. Calm. Serenity. But returns more febrile still. She rushes at the man and gabbles it all out in a rush: “Your brothers have always wanted to fuck me! They…” Walks away, and back again. “They spied on me… constantly, for the whole three years you were away… spied on me through the little window in the bathhouse while I was washing myself… and… jerked off. They spied on us too, at night…” Her lips tremble. Her hands move feverishly through the air, through her hair, through the folds of her dress. Her footsteps stumble on the faded stripes of the old kilim. “They jerk…” She breaks off, and again storms furiously out of the room, for a breath of fresh air and to purge herself of her rage. “The fuckers!” she yells in exasperation. “The bastards!” And can immediately be heard weeping and begging: “What am I saying? Why am I saying all this? Help me, God! I can’t control myself. I don’t know what I’m saying…”

She walls herself up in silence.

The children who were playing in the rubble can no longer be seen either. They have moved off at last.

The woman reappears. Her hair in a mess. A wild look in her eyes. After a little walk around, she sinks down by the man’s head. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. My strength is deserting me, day by day. Just like my faith. I need you to understand.” She strokes him. “I hope you are able to think, to hear, to see… to see me, and hear me…” She leans against the wall, and lets a long moment go by-a dozen cycles of the prayer beads, perhaps, as if she were still telling them to the rhythm of the man’s breathing-enough time to think, to explore the nooks and crannies of her life, and return with memories. “You never listened to me, never heard me! We never spoke about any of this! We’ve been married for more than ten years, but lived together for only two or three. Isn’t that right?” She counts. “Yes, ten and a half years of marriage, three years of conjugal life! It’s only now that I’m counting. Only now that I’m realizing all this!” A smile. A short, false smile worth a thousand words of regret and remorse… but very soon, the memories take hold. “At the time, I didn’t even question your absence. It seemed so normal! You were at the front. You were fighting for freedom, for Allah! And that made everything okay. It gave me hope, made me proud. In some way, you were with us. Inside each of us.” She is looking back, seeing it all again… “Your mother, with her enormous bust, coming to our place to ask for the hand of my younger sister. It wasn’t her turn to get married. It was my turn. So your mother simply said, No problem, we’ll take her instead! pointing her fleshy finger at me as I poured the tea. I panicked and knocked the pot over.” She hides her face in her hands. In shame, or to dispel the image of a mocking mother-in-law. “As for you, you didn’t even know this was happening. My father, who wanted nothing more, accepted without the slightest hesitation. He didn’t give a damn that you weren’t around! Who were you, really? No one knew. To all of us, you were just a title: the Hero! And, like every hero, far away. Engagement to a hero was a lovely thing, for a seventeen-year-old girl. I said to myself, ‘God is far away, too, and yet I love him, and believe in him…’ Anyway, they celebrated our engagement without the fiancé. Your mother said, Don’t worry, victory is coming! It will soon be the end of the war, we will be free, and my son will return! Nearly a year later, your mother came back. Victory was still a long way off. It’s dangerous to leave a young, engaged woman with her parents for such a long time! she said. And so I had to be married, despite your absence. At the ceremony, you were present in the form of a photo, and that wretched khanjar, which they put next to me in place of you. And I had to wait another three years for you. Three years! For three years I wasn’t allowed to see my friends, or my family… It was not considered proper for a young married virgin to spend time with other married women. Such rubbish! I had to sleep in the same room as your mother, who kept watch over me, or rather my chastity. And it all seemed so normal, so natural to everyone. To me, too! I didn’t even know how lonely I was. At night I slept with your mother, in the daytime I talked to your father. Thank God he was there. What a man! He was all I had. And your mother hated that. She would get all wound up whenever she saw me with him. She used to send me straight to the kitchen. Your father read me poems, and told me stories. He encouraged me to read, and write, and think. He loved me. Because he loved you. He was proud of you, when you were fighting for freedom. He told me so. It was after freedom came that he started to hate you-you, and also your brothers, now that you were all fighting for nothing but power.”