The Dictator's Last Night Read online

  The Dictator’s Last Night

  Yasmina Khadra

  translated from the French by Julian Evans

  If you desire to move towards lasting peace Smile at the destiny that strikes you down and strike no one

  – Omar Khayyam

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  About the Author

  Also by Yasmina Khadra

  Copyright

  Sirte, District Two

  Night of 19 October 2011

  When I was a boy, my uncle – my mother’s brother – sometimes took me with him into the desert. For him it was a journey that meant more than going back to his roots. It was a cleansing of his spirit.

  I was too young to understand the things he was trying to instil in me, but I loved to listen to him.

  My uncle was a poet, uncelebrated and unassuming, a touchingly humble Bedouin whose only wish was to pitch his tent in the shade of a rock and sit listening to the wind whistle across the sand, as stealthy as a shadow.

  He owned a magnificent bay horse, two watchful greyhounds, and an old rifle he used to hunt mouflons, and he knew better than anyone how to trap jerboas (for their medicinal properties) as well as the spiny-tailed lizards that he stuffed and varnished and sold in the souk.

  When night fell, he would light a campfire and, after a meagre meal and a cup of too-sweet tea, he would slip into a reverie. To see him commune with the silence and barrenness of the rock-littered plains was a moment of grace for me.

  There were times when I felt as though his spirit was escaping from his body, leaving me with just a scarecrow for company, as speechless as the goatskin flask that dangled at the entrance to the tent. When that happened I felt utterly alone in the world and, suddenly scared of the Sahara’s mysteries, swirling around me like an army of jinn, I would gently nudge him to make him come back to me. He would surface from his trance, his eyes sparkling, and smile at me. I shall never see a smile more beautiful than his – not on the faces of the women I have graced with my manhood nor those of the courtesans I have raised in their station in life. Reserved, almost invisible, my uncle was a man of slow, gentle gestures who rarely showed his feelings. His voice was barely audible, though when he talked to me it resonated through me like a song. He would say, his gaze lost somewhere in the glittering heavens, that there was a star up there for every brave man on earth. I asked him to show me mine. His finger pointed unhesitatingly at the moon, as though it was obvious. And once he had said it, every time I raised my eyes to heaven I saw the moon as full. Every night. My full moon, nobody else’s. Never less than perfect, never hidden. Lighting my way. So beautiful that no other enchantment came near it. So radiant that it put the stars around it in the shade. So splendid that it looked cramped in the infinity of space.

  My uncle swore that I was the Ghous clan’s chosen one, the child who would restore to the Kadhafa tribe all its legends and former lustre.

  Tonight, sixty-three years later, I seem to see fewer stars in the sky over Sirte, and of my full moon only a greyish wisp remains, hardly wider than a nail clipping. All of the world’s romance is being smothered in the smoke billowing up from the burning houses, while the day, weighed down by dust and fighting, cowers miserably beneath the whistle of rockets. The silence that once lulled my soul has something apocalyptic about it now, while the gunfire that shatters it here and there is doing its best to challenge a myth far beyond the reach of any weaponry, in other words myself, the Brotherly Guide, the miracle boy who became the infallible visionary, who people thought was abnormal but who stands as firm as a lighthouse in a raging sea, sweeping with its luminous beam both the treacherous shadows and the gleaming cauldron of foam.

  I heard one of my guards, concealed in the darkness, say that we were living through ‘our night of doubt’ and ask himself whether dawn would reveal the eyes of the world upon us or our bodies delivered to the flames.

  His words upset me, but I did not reprimand him. It was unnecessary. If he had had the slightest presence of mind he would not have uttered such blasphemies. There is no greater insult than to doubt in my presence. If I am still alive, it is proof that all is not lost.

  I am Muammar Gaddafi. That should be enough for faith not to waver.

  I am him through whom salvation will come.

  I fear neither tempests nor mutinies. Place your hand on my heart; its rhythm beats out the certain annihilation of the renegades …

  God is with me!

  Has He not chosen me, of all men, to stand up to the most powerful nations and their hegemonic greed? I was no more than a young and disillusioned officer, whose commands barely rose above a whisper, but I dared to say no to their faits accomplis, to cry ‘Enough!’ to all their abuses, and I changed the course of destiny the way you turn over the cards you refuse to deal. It was a time when heads rolled if men ever stepped out of line, without trial and without warning. I knew the risks and I accepted them with a steely indifference, certain that a just cause must be defended because that is the prime condition on which we deserve to exist.

  Because my anger was strong and clean and my resolve legitimate, the Lord raised me above the banners and the hymns for the whole world to see and hear me.

  So I refuse to believe that the Crusaders’ bell tolls for me, the enlightened Muslim who has triumphed over every infamy and plot against him and who will still be here when everything is finally revealed. This sham of an insurrection that confronts me today, this shoddy little war being waged against a legend – my legend – is no more than another trial on my path – and is it not the gods’ trials that form them?

  I shall emerge from this chaos stronger than ever, like the phoenix rising from its ashes. My voice will carry further than ballistic missiles, and I shall silence storms by tapping my finger on my lectern.

  I am Muammar Gaddafi, mythology made flesh. And if there are fewer stars in the sky over Sirte this evening, and my moon looks no fatter than a nail clipping, it is so that I should remain the one constellation that matters.

  They can fire all the missiles they have at me, I shall see only fireworks celebrating me. They can move mountains, and I shall glimpse in their piles of rocks only the thousands of clamouring faces that surround me in public. They can unleash all their devils on my guardian angels, and no evil force will deter me from my mission, because it was written even before Qasr Abu Hadi opened its arms to receive me that I am the one who will avenge every wrong against the oppressed masses by forcing the Devil and his accomplices to their knees.

  ‘Brotherly Guide …’

  A shooting star has just raced across the sky. And that voice! Where is it coming from?

  A shiver runs down my spine. A tumult of emotion surges through my being. That voice—

  ‘Brotherly Guide …’

  I turn round.

  It is only the orderly, rigid with deference, standing in the doorway of what was once a charming living room.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your dinner is ready, sir.’

  ‘Bring it to me here.’

  ‘It would be better to have it in the room next door. We have blacked out the windows and lit candles there. In here any glimmer of light would betray your presence. There may be snipers in the buildings opposite.’

  1

  The orderly walks ahead of me into the next room. In the candles’ unsteady light, magnified
by the tarpaulins that have been put up to black out the windows, the place is even more depressing. A cabinet lies on its side, its mirror splintered; a slashed banquette has the stuffing coming out of it; drawers lie broken on the floor; on the wall there is a portrait of the head of the family in a sorry state, riddled with bullets.

  It was my son Mutassim, responsible for the defence of Sirte, who chose a disused school in the middle of District Two as my troops’ headquarters. The enemy imagine me holed up in a fortified palace somewhere, unable to adapt to spartan conditions. It will never cross their minds to suspect I might be in an awful place like this instead. When did they forget that I am a Bedouin, lord of the meek and meekest of lords, who knows how to be at ease with the most frugal resources, comfortable on a bare dune of sand? As a child I knew what hunger was, what it meant to wear patched trousers and old shoes with holes in them. For years I walked barefoot over burning stones. Misery was my element. I skipped every other meal and always ate the same food, tubers when rice happened to be in short supply. At night, with my knees pressed into my stomach, I would sometimes dream of a chicken leg so intensely that my mouth could not stop watering and I would nearly drown in my saliva. Since then, if I have lived in splendour it has been only in order to disdain it, and to prove by doing so that nothing that has a price is worthy to be called sacred, that no grail can elevate a mouthful of wine to the status of a magic potion, that whether a man is dressed in silks or rags he is only ever himself … and I am Gaddafi, sovereign, as happy sitting on a milestone as a throne.

  I do not know whose house this was, next to the school, where I have been living for several days – probably a loyal compatriot, otherwise how can one explain the ruined state into which it has fallen? The signs of violence are recent, but the building already looks like a ruin. Vandals have ransacked it, looting anything of value, smashing what they could not take with them.

  The orderly has gone to extraordinary trouble to brush an armchair clean and lay a table worthy to receive me. He has draped sheets over both to camouflage their scars. On a tray salvaged from who knows where a china plate offers a semblance of a meal: bully beef in jelly, sliced with care, a square of processed cheese, hard biscuits, some slices of tomato and a peeled and chopped orange in its juice at the bottom of a bowl. Our supply lines have been cut, and the standard rations are scarcely enough to feed my praetorian guard.

  The orderly invites me to be seated and stands to attention, facing me. His solemnity would be absurd among all this mess if his weather-beaten features did not speak of his sacrosanct loyalty to me. This man loves me more than anything in the world. He would give his life for me.

  ‘What is your name?’

  He is surprised by my question. His Adam’s apple twitches in his craggy throat.

  ‘Mustafa, Brotherly Guide.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-three, Brotherly Guide.’

  ‘Thirty-three,’ I repeat, moved by his youth. ‘I was your age an eternity ago. It is so far away now, I can hardly remember those days.’

  Not knowing whether he should reply or not, the orderly starts wiping the table around the tray.

  ‘How long have you been in my service, Mustafa?’

  ‘Thirteen years, sir.’

  ‘I do not believe I have seen you before.’

  ‘I’m filling in for the others … I used to look after the car park.’

  ‘Where has the other one gone, the redhead? What was his name?’

  ‘Maher.’

  ‘No, not Maher. The tall red-headed one, who lost his mother in a plane crash.’

  ‘Sabri?’

  ‘Yes, Sabri. I haven’t seen him lately.’

  ‘He’s dead, sir. A month ago. He was caught in an ambush. He fought like a lion. He killed many of his attackers before he died. A rocket hit his vehicle. We couldn’t bring his body back.’

  ‘What about Maher?’

  The orderly bows his head.

  ‘Is he dead too?’

  ‘He surrendered three days ago. He took advantage of a resupply operation to give himself up.’

  ‘He was a good boy. Funny, bursting with energy. We are surely not talking about the same person.’

  ‘I was with him, sir. We saw a rebel roadblock, and as our truck turned back Maher jumped out of the cab and ran towards the traitors with his hands up. The sergeant fired at him but he missed him. The sergeant says anyhow Maher’s got no chance. The rebels don’t take prisoners. They torture them then stiff them. Maher’ll be rotting in a mass grave right now.’

  He does not dare raise his head.

  ‘What tribe are you from, my boy?’

  ‘I was born in … Benghazi, sir.’

  Benghazi! Just the sound of the name makes me want to throw up so violently I would set off a tidal wave that would flatten that damned city and all the villages round it. It all started there, like a devastating pandemic that infected the people’s souls like the Devil himself. I should have flattened it, on the first day of the insurgency, I should have hunted down its renegade insurgents alley by alley, house by house, and skinned them alive in public to bring every ill-intentioned citizen to his senses and make him draw back from suffering the same fate.

  The orderly senses the fury welling up inside me. If the earth were suddenly to open up at his feet, he would not hesitate to leap into the chasm and be swallowed up.

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir. I’d prefer to have been born in a sewer, I would, or on a felucca. I’m ashamed to have come into the world in that city of ill omen, to have sat at the same café tables as those traitors.’

  ‘It is not your fault. What does your father do?’

  ‘He’s retired. He was a postman.’

  ‘Have you heard from him?’

  ‘No, sir. All I know is that he has fled the city.’

  ‘Any brothers?’

  ‘Only one, sir. He’s a warrant officer in the air force. I heard he was wounded in a NATO air raid.’

  His head is bowed so far that his chin is about to disappear into the hollow of his neck.

  ‘Are you married?’ I ask him, to spare him any more embarrassment.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I notice a leather strap around his wrist, which he hastens to conceal under his sleeve.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘A Swahili charm, sir. I bought it in the African market.’

  ‘For its talismanic properties.’

  ‘No, sir. I liked its red and green plaited strands. I wanted to give it to my elder daughter. She didn’t like it.’

  ‘One does not refuse a gift.’

  ‘My daughter doesn’t see me very often, so she sulks at my presents.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’

  ‘Three girls. The eldest is thirteen.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘Karam.’

  ‘Pretty name … When did you last see your daughters?’

  ‘Maybe six or eight months ago.’

  ‘Do you miss them?’

  ‘As much as our people miss their Brotherly Guide.’

  ‘I have not gone anywhere.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, sir.’

  He is shaking, though not from fear. This man worships me. His whole being is trembling with reverence for me.

  ‘I am going to ask Hassan to send you home.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Your daughters are crying out for you.’

  ‘A whole people is crying out for you, Brotherly Guide. My family is just one drop in the ocean. To be at your side at this moment is an absolute privilege and joy.’

  ‘You are a good boy, Mustafa. You deserve to be with your daughters.’

  ‘If you send me I would disobey you for the first time in my life, and it would wound me so badly I would die.’

  He means it. His eyes gleam with the tears that are only ever found in the pure in heart.

  ‘But go you must.’

  ‘My pla
ce is at your side, Brotherly Guide. I wouldn’t exchange it for a place in paradise. Without you there is no salvation for anyone, let alone my daughters.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I say to him, pointing to my armchair.

  ‘I could not possibly do that.’

  ‘I command you.’

  His face is twisted in acute embarrassment.

  ‘Show me your tongue.’

  ‘I have never lied to you, Brotherly Guide.’

  ‘Show me your tongue.’

  He gulps again and again, his face slightly turned away. His lips part to reveal a tongue as white as chalk.

  ‘How many days have you been fasting, Mustafa?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your tongue is the colour of milk. It proves that you have not eaten for a considerable time.’

  ‘Brotherly—’

  ‘I know that my meals are made from your rations and that many of my guards are fasting so that I can go on eating.’

  He lowers his head.

  ‘Eat,’ I tell him.

  ‘I could not possibly do that.’

  ‘Eat! I need my faithful servants to stay on their feet.’

  ‘Strength comes from the heart, not the stomach, Brotherly Guide. If I was starving or dying of thirst or had my legs cut off, I would still find the strength to defend you. I am capable of going to hell and back to fetch the flame that would reduce to ashes any hand daring to touch you.’

  ‘Eat.’

  The orderly attempts to protest, but my expression stops him.

  ‘I am waiting,’ I say.

  He sniffs noisily to work up his courage, clenches his jaws, and a feverish hand comes to rest on a hard biscuit. I sense him digging deep into his soul to find the courage to close his fingers around the biscuit. I hear him breathing shallow staccato breaths.

  ‘What happened, Mustafa?’

  He is choking on the biscuit and still trying to chew it. He does not understand my question.

  ‘Why are they doing this?’

  He grasps the meaning of my words and puts down the biscuit.

  ‘They have lost their senses, sir.’

  ‘That is not an answer.’