The Man Who Snapped His Fingers by Fariba Hachtroudi (review)

Europa Editions brings us a book of unexpected things, in this new novel from an Iranian author in exile. The Man Who Snapped His Fingers, intriguing and unforgettable, is Fariba Hachtroudi's English debut, translated from the French by Alison Anderson.

The book opens without much in the way of introduction. But soon, layers of a man's circumstances begin to peel away. We are in the middle of his story, at a particularly anguished moment. We do not know his name, Ala, for many pages. Readers learn that he is applying for asylum and has been for five years. He was once a high-ranking military officer in a totalitarian state—this is a work of fiction; the state is referred to as the Theological Republic. Ala was a colonel, a member of the Supreme Commander's inner circle. He oversaw prison security, notably of the most notorious prison, in the capital city, a prison named Heaven. In close first person, the narration is steeped in heightened anxiety. The opening sentence: "I didn't sleep a wink all night." He arrives at the final interview in his application for asylum in an unnamed, presumably northern European country. Even on the sentence level, dread builds: "The fog calms me, penetrates me, engulfs my being."

Five years before, a "tsunami" of events had led him to flee the Theological Republic, events brought on (as he describes it) by a prisoner with the number of 455. Evidently one name is not enough for her. Her name is Vima, and she is also referred to as Prisoner 455, Bait 455, and other variations. What events have led him here, seeking asylum, with his wife and children left behind in the Theological Republic? Intriguingly, nothing is clear, and this is on purpose. On the first page, this man observes as he walks through a foggy morning, "I become blurred, I merge with my surroundings. This suits me perfectly. I can no longer stand clarity. Precision frightens me. Definite outlines oppress me." There is much for him to fear. He fears clarity of who he was, of his complicity in the violence of the state and within the prisons under his authority. His fear: "The past will adhere to me. I have no right to a future."

Hachtroudi's book challenges us to take an interest in his pain, despite who he is. Hachtroudi has designed a double narrative that situates Ala and Vima on neutral ground, former colonel and former prisoner, not side by side but face to face. Two narrative threads in the book alternate chapters as the circumstances of these two characters entwine. (The last few chapters are in third person, but the shift is almost unnoticeable; the narrator does not take advantage of the distance.) Ala and Vima are thrown together when, by fateful coincidence, Vima is assigned to be Ala's translator for the final interview. It makes structural sense to open the book with Ala, but Vima's story is the one we want to hear.

Ala is without remorse. Of the interviewer, when told that they will be going through his case point by point, Ala narrates (his narration often addresses his wife), "Is he capable of reading my thoughts? Do I have any choice, Mister Fucking Stupid Human Rights? If only I could spit in his face."

It is not easy to read some of the colonel chapters, though sympathy is the difficult task being set before us. Because he is in love. He is suffering too. It would seem that all the evil he has done has been in the name of love for his wife. The story frequently pivots to this theme. Vima 455's resilience in prison was in commitment and dedication to her husband.

The original title in French is Le Colonel et l'appat 455, "The colonel and Bait 455," which is a title that simply names the two. The title of this English edition, The Man Who Snapped His Fingers, offers its own...