1001 Nights Cast

The following story has been related to me by a superior weaver of tales, one whose lips taste of distilled orange flowers and whose body smells of patchouli and fine incense. It is purportedly a true tale, though some have denied its veracity. I cannot say whether or not it is true, but I will tell you that, as bizarre as it all may seem, I have heard of stranger things…

* * *

O sits in his cell and contemplates the cracks running up and down the pasty white walls. His hands are rough, and dry spots of blood dot the knotty joints of his bone-thin fingers. His gaunt, tired face betrays no sign of what he feels in the pit of his stomach. When morning comes, it will all be over. This thought neither comforts nor upsets him. Although he knows himself to be innocent of any crime, his fate has already been decided by others, and there is nothing he can do. He would utter a prayer, but it would be useless; he no longer believes in God, no longer believes in redemption. Instead, his eyes move up and down the walls, tracing the dark, jagged lines there, imagining all of those who have done the same before him, have sat in the same cold spot and reflected on their lives, the choices they have made, the choices that have been made for them.

He is a man of few desires, few necessities. His first wife was a dwarf, but he had married her willingly and they had made a comfortable, if poor, home for themselves for many years, up until her untimely death at twenty-seven (she died during childbirth, as did the foetus). His second wife was gorgeous, her face like that of a princess, but she was missing her right foot and was infertile. (She mysteriously disappeared one day, by-the-bye, or so the story—which would take too long to relate here—goes…). His third wife, he discovered when he tried to bed her during their honeymoon, was in fact a man masquerading as a woman. It wasn’t until he married his fourth wife, an average woman in every way, that he was granted a son. This son, he believed, would grow up to be a great public figure, perhaps even a politician. It was what the fortuneteller had said. It was what he felt in his heart, and he trusted his instincts more than he trusted anything else in this world, though instinct would eventually betray him, as will be related in due time.

He heard it on the radio one day. A group of dissidents were said to have attacked the central government building in the city of M. Those reporting on behalf of the central government in M vehemently denied such a thing. ‘This news about the bombing is absolutely untrue. It never happened. That is all there is to say.’ This news story intrigued O so much that he decided to investigate. His instincts—or was it mere curiosity?—led him away from home on that day and into the heart of the city, where the central government offices lay. A thick layer of smog surrounded the area, and people scampered about as though they were insects running away from the sole of a giant shoe in the sky, poised to pounce upon their feeble heads. Helicopters, a cavalcade of cars, motorbikes and trucks, camerapersons and news reporters, etc. flooded the scene. O could hardly breath, could hardly move, but he pressed onward, determined to see what, if anything, remained of the buildings that were said to have been attacked. In the chaos of the scene, however, he, along with a large group of others, was detained by a line of officers wearing helmets and spraying the crowd with some sort of toxic mixture that made the skin burn as if one were roasting in the fires of hell.

Some hours later, he found himself being charged by a string of seven darkened heads (or, rather, by their booming voices) as guilty of having conspired with the dissident group, and was given the death penalty without so much as a hearing. (He wondered whether he would have fared any better had he been a character in one of Kafka’s fictions, for at least then he may have been granted a trial for the crimes he had not committed.) The anonymous individuals responsible for his fate claimed that they had found incriminating evidence on his person, evidence that directly linked him to the group thought responsible for the attack. ‘So, there was in fact a bombing?’ O suddenly uttered, but the answer he received was anything but revealing. You have been charged guilty of conspiring with the group. That is all. And, with that, he was dismissed to his damp cell without food.

* * *

O now hears a sound and looks away from the crack he had been following to its inevitable end. It is the sound of a voice, of a choir of voices; they are discussing something in heated tones. He realises that they are talking about him, about his fate this morning (has the sun already risen? he has no window, no clock to refer to, and can only guess…). Seven dark figures stand in front of his cell, lined up like the officers who had arrested him on that fateful day. A voice booms from the darkness: You have been granted reprieve for now. This reprieve is valid for one year, after which time you may again be considered as guilty and sentenced to death. In the meanwhile, enjoy your solitude, and do take some time to reflect upon the choices you have made in life. The bodies move away from his line of vision, one by one. He listens to the sound of their footsteps moving down the hall. And then…

* * *

The storyteller stops, sensing that her words have reached their limit for this night.