F0008 · 03.03 — The Voice

03.03 — THE VOICE

Damascus · Farid, twelve years old
A drop falls from the ceiling. Then another. I wait for the third.

It doesn’t come.

I open my eyes.

The lamp has almost burned out, and the tallow gives off a smell that mingles with the dust in the blankets, the travelers’ bodies, the wet wood of the ceiling. I raise my arm to cover my nose and still find pine nuts, carob, smoke on my skin. Qasioun.

One drop.

Two.

Three.

I think of the oaths.

I don’t want to.

The third falls beside my head.

Rashid sleeps near the door, one arm bent beneath his neck. He looks younger asleep. The scar on his forehead almost disappears.

I watch him breathe.

Yesterday he tells me that Christ may keep his promises.

Then he says he doesn’t know.

I like him better when he doesn’t know.

I close my eyes.

The flute begins.

No.

Water.

Only water falling from the ceiling.

When I open them again, Rashid has a hand on my shoulder.

—Farid.

His face is too close.

—Get up.

—Already?

—Already.

I don’t know how long I’ve slept.

I sit up, and the room moves for a moment. Someone coughs behind a curtain. A woman picks up a pair of sandals. Outside there are voices, animals, metal.

Rashid hands me a piece of bread.

—Eat.

—I’m not hungry.

—Then save it.

I save it.

That seems to satisfy him.

We leave with others.

First there are ten, then twenty, then so many I stop counting. Men, women, children, two old men who walk faster than I do, a woman with a baby bundled against her chest, a boy carrying an empty cage.

—Where are they going?

—To Jerusalem.

—All of them?

—That’s what they believe.

—And us?

Rashid doesn’t answer.

I smile.

—You never answer the important questions.

—Important questions tend to have that problem.

We pass the wall.

Yesterday there was a man there.

Today there isn’t.

I don’t need to look for him, but I do.

Nothing.

No snakes.

No flute.

Only some stains on the stone and a dog sniffing something in the rubbish.

Rashid takes my arm.

—Come on.

—I’m looking.

—You’ve looked.

No.

That’s what I think.

But I follow him.

Outside the city the road opens up, and people begin to separate according to their pace. For a while I look only at feet.

Sandals.

Cracked heels.

Dust.

A gray bandage around an ankle.

The feet of a little girl walking ahead of her mother.

My feet.

Yesterday they were on Qasioun.

Today they’re going to Jerusalem.

Tomorrow perhaps they’ll be in Lisbon.

I don’t know what Lisbon is.

It makes me laugh.

—What?

Rashid looks at me.

—Nothing.

By midday no one speaks anymore.

The air comes in hot through my nose and seems to leave even hotter. I have a little bread left; I chew it without saliva, and it takes so long to go down that for a few steps I think I’m going to throw it up.

I hear a horse.

I raise my head.

I see nothing.

Another neigh.

Rashid is already looking toward the dunes.

Then he changes.

I don’t know how.

He’s still the same man, but he stops being with me.

—Farid.

His hand finds my shoulder.

—When I tell you to run, you run.

—What’s happening?

—Did you understand?

—Yes.

—What did you understand?

It irritates me.

—To run.

Something metallic strikes stone.

A man shouts:

—Get down!

Everyone falls in a different way.

That’s the first thing I see.

A woman kneels.

Another man throws himself onto his side.

The man with the cage lets it go, and the cage bounces twice before landing upside down.

The girl with the little feet stays standing until her mother pulls her down.

Then the horses appear.

Many.

I don’t know how many.

The horizon stops being a horizon.

—Run.

Rashid pushes me.

I run.

Three steps.

Four.

I stop.

I don’t know why.

Perhaps I hear the flute.

No.

Shouts.

A horse passes so close that I feel the rush of air against my face.

—Farid!

I turn.

Rashid has a knife.

I’ve never seen it on him.

That seems strange to me too.

Yesterday he was talking about Christ.

Today he has a knife.

These things aren’t incompatible.

I don’t know why I think they should be.

A man falls.

Another runs.

Someone calls for their mother.

A child screams in a voice so high that for a moment I think it’s me.

It isn’t me.

Not yet.

Rashid moves toward the riders.

It’s absurd.

He’s alone.

No.

There are other men around him.

But I see only him.

The scar.

The knife.

The dust stuck to his face.

One of the horses turns.

Rashid disappears behind it.

He appears again.

—Careful with the young ones! —someone shouts.

I don’t understand.

A hand grabs me by the hair.

Now I do scream.

The pull bends my neck.

I want to bite.

I can’t reach.

Something rough goes between my lips and presses against my face.

My voice stays inside.

That’s new.

I try to scream again and hear an animal.

It’s me.

They tie my hands.

Then my ankles.

The sand is so close that I can make out little red stones in the dust.

An ant.

That’s what I see.

An ant walking beside my mouth while someone drags me.

Rashid.

I look for his legs among the others’ legs.

Horses.

Robes.

Blood.

Dust.

Rashid.

There.

He’s on his knees.

For a second I think he’s praying.

Then I see the spear.

Nothing special happens when it goes in.

That’s the worst of it.

A body is standing.

Then it isn’t.

Rashid falls to one side.

I want to say his name.

The rope sends it back into my throat.

The Serpent King is coming for you.

My mother.

I don’t know if she ever said it.

Now she does.

She’s here.

In my head.

The cave.

Qasioun.

The open mouth.

The snake doesn’t come down from the mountain.

The mountain comes with me.

A man bends over Rashid.

I don’t see what he does.

The light turns white.

Then black.

I wake because the wheel strikes a stone.

My whole body jumps.

I’m under a blanket that smells of old sweat, blood, and animal. My wrists are tied. So are my ankles.

The cart is moving.

I don’t know where.

I try to raise my head.

There are other bodies with me.

Alive.

I think so.

One breathes too fast.

Another doesn’t move.

I don’t want to find out.

I try my voice.

At first barely air.

Then:

—Rashid.

It comes out.

My voice is still there.

The same.

Too clear.

I say something else to make sure.

—I’m not going to stay here all my life licking this scar.

I have no scar I could lick.

I like the phrase.

I don’t know where it comes from.

Lisbon perhaps.

Indochina.

A street that doesn’t exist yet.

I laugh once.

It hurts.

I close my eyes.

I see the wall.

The empty place where the Charmer stood.

Rashid’s scar.

The spear.

Three drops falling from the ceiling.

Three oaths.

Then I hear the flute.

Now I do.

I’m certain.

Three notes.

You will be a child forever.

I open my eyes.

No one has spoken.

The cart keeps moving.