Zunaira, who’s holed up in the kitchen and taking her time about coming to bed.
Their late dinner, long since over, proceeded in silence: he was devastated; she was far away. They barely touched the food, distractedly nibbling at a bit of bread that took them an hour to get down. Mohsen felt deeply embarrassed. His account of the prostitute’s execution had brought discord into his home. He’d thought that confessing his guilt to Zunaira would salve his conscience and help him get a grip on himself. Never for a moment had he imagined that his words would shock his wife so thoroughly. He tried several times to extend his hand to her, to indicate to her how sorry he was. His arm refused to obey him; it remained clamped to his side as though paralyzed. Zunaira did nothing to encourage him. She kept her head bent and her eyes on the floor, while her fingers barely brushed the edge of the little table. It took her even longer to bring a mouthful of bread to her lips than it did to take a bite of it. Distant, mechanical in her movements, she refused to rise to the surface, refused to wake up. Since neither one of them was really eating, she picked up the tray and withdrew behind the curtain.
Mohsen waited for her for a long time, then went and lay down on the pallet, where he has continued to wait for her. Zunaira has not come. He’s been waiting for two hours, perhaps a little longer, and Zunaira still has not returned to his side. Not a sound comes from the kitchen to suggest that she’s in there. Washing two plates and emptying a little basket of bread couldn’t have taken any time at all. Mohsen sits up and lets a few moments pass before deciding he’s waited long enough, he’s going to see what’s going on.
When he draws the curtain aside, he finds Zunaira lying on a mat with her knees pulled up to her chest and her face to the wall. He’s sure she’s not sleeping, but he doesn’t dare disturb her. He retreats soundlessly, puts on a pair of sandals and a robe, blows out the candle, and steps outside into the street. A mass of hot, moist air presses down on the neighborhood. Here and there, in carriage entrances or in front of walls, groups of men are conversing. Mohsen doesn’t deem it necessary to stray far from his house. He sits down on the front step, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks for a star in the sky. At this precise moment, a man who resembles a wild animal suddenly appears and rushes past him, striding wrathfully along the little street. A ricocheting moonbeam illuminates his hardened face; Mohsen recognizes the jailer, the man who nearly lashed him across the face with his whip outside the coffee shop a little while ago.
Five
ATIQ SHAUKAT returns to the mosque for the Isha prayer; when it’s over, he’ll be the last to get to his feet. He passes long minutes with his open hands in a fatihah, reciting verses and beseeching saints and ancestors to help him in his misfortune. Forced by the old wounds in his knees to interrupt his prostrations, he retreats into a corner cluttered with religious books and tries to read. But he can’t concentrate. The lines of the text entangle themselves before his eyes, and his head threatens to burst. Soon the thick heat of the sanctuary obliges him to join the faithful standing in scattered groups outside. The old men and the beggars have disappeared, but the disabled veterans are still there, exhibiting their mutilations like so many trophies. The legless man is ensconced in his barrow, listening intently to his companions’ stories, ready to assent and even readier to object. The Goliath has returned; sitting next to a one-armed man, he listens obsequiously as a graybeard relates how, with a handful of mujahideen and only one light machine gun, he succeeded in immobilizing an entire Soviet tank company.
Atiq can’t put up with these preposterous feats of arms for very long. He leaves the precincts of the mosque and wanders around the city, passing through neighborhoods that look like hecatombs, wielding his whip from time to time to drive off the most relentless beggars. Suddenly, inadvertently, he finds himself standing in front of his jailhouse. He goes inside. The silence of the cells is soothing to him, and he decides to spend the night here. He gropes his way to the hurricane lamp, lights it, and lies down on the cot with his hands under his head and his eyes riveted to the ceiling. Every time his thoughts bring him face-to-face with Musarrat again, he kicks out a foot as though trying to shake them off. His anger returns, flows over him in successive waves, making his blood throb inside his temples and compressing his chest. He’s angry at himself for not having dared to lance the abscess once and for all, for not having pointed out a few hard truths to his wife, who should consider herself privileged in comparison to the depraved women haunting the streets of Kabul. Musarrat is taking advantage of his patience. Her illness no longer counts as an extenuating circumstance; she has to learn how to deal with it. . . .
A huge shadow darkens the wall. Atiq gives a start and grabs his whip.
“It’s only me, Nazeesh,” a trembling voice reassures him.
“Nobody ever taught you to knock before you come in?” growls Atiq, furious.
“My hands are full. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Atiq shines the lamp on his visitor. He’s a man of about sixty, as tall as a mast, with stooped shoulders, a grotesque neck, and a swirl of wild hair topped by a shapeless head covering. His emaciated face tapers to his chin, which is prolonged by a hoary goatee, and his bulging eyes seem to spring out of his face, as though he were in the grip of some unspeakable pain.
He remains standing in the doorway, smiling indecisively, waiting for a sign from the jailer before he advances or retreats. “I saw a light,” he explains. “I said, Good old Atiq, he’s not doing very well, I should go and keep him company. But I haven’t come with empty hands. I brought a little dried meat and some crab apples.”
Atiq considers, then shrugs and points to a sheepskin on the floor. All too glad to have been granted admission, Nazeesh sits down in the indicated spot, opens a little bundle, and spreads out his bounty at the jailer’s feet.
“I said to myself, Atiq was too nervous to stay home. He wouldn’t come to the jail when there aren’t any prisoners, not at this time of night, unless he needed to relieve his mind. Me, too, I’m the same way. I’m not comfortable at home. My hundred-year-old father won’t let up. He’s lost most of his sight, he’s lost the use of his legs, but his capacity for endless grousing remains intact. He’s always bitching about something. Before, we could give him something to eat to shut him up. These days, we don’t have very much food to sink our teeth into, and since he’s lost his, there’s nothing in the way of his tongue. Sometimes he starts by demanding silence, and then he’s the one who can’t stop talking. Two days ago, he wouldn’t wake up. My daughters shook him and sprinkled water on him; he didn’t move. I felt his wrist—no pulse. I put my ear against his chest—no breathing. I said, Okay, he’s dead; we’ll notify the family and give him a fine funeral. I left the house to tell the neighbors the news; then I went around to cousins, nephews, other relatives, and friends and announced the passing of the eldest member of the tribe. I spent the morning receiving condolences and demonstrations of sympathy. Around noon, I go back home, and who do I find in the courtyard, bitching at everybody? My father, in flesh and blood, very much alive and kicking. His mouth was open so wide, I could see his gums— they’re kind of a sickly white. I think he’s lost his mind. It’s impossible to sit down to eat or even to go to bed with him in the house. As soon as he sees someone passing, he pounces and starts growling out insults and reproaches. Sometimes I lose my head, too, and I start yelling back at him. The neighbors join in, and they all believe that I’m sinning in the face of God by not being patient with my venerable sire. So in order to avoid upsetting God, I spend most of my time outside. I even take my meals in the street.”
Atiq hangs his head. Sadly, Nazeesh isn’t the same anymore, either. Atiq met Nazeesh a decade ago, when he was a mufti in Kabul. He wasn’t an object of adulation, but hundreds of the faithful would gather to hear his Friday sermons. He lived in a big house with a garden and a wrought-iron gate, and sometimes it happened that he was invited to official ceremonies, where he received the same t
reatment as the notables. His sons were killed in the war against the Russians, a fact that elevated him in the esteem of the local authorities. He never seemed to complain about anything, and no one knew anybody who was his enemy. He lived a comparatively reserved life, moving from the mosque to his house, and from his house to the mosque. He read a great deal; his erudition commanded respect, even though he was seldom called upon to give his opinion. Then, without any warning, he was found one morning stalking along the avenues, wildly gesticulating, drooling, eyes bulging. The first diagnosis was that he was possessed; the exorcists, however, struggled with his demons in vain, and then he was sent for several months to an asylum. He will never return to full possession of his faculties, but sometimes, in moments of lucidity, he withdraws completely to hide his shame at what he’s become. He often sits outside his front door under a faded umbrella and looks with equal indifference upon the passing people and the passage of time.
“Do you know what I’m going to do, Atiq?”
“How could I? You never tell me anything.”
Nazeesh listens carefully; then, certain that there’s no chance he’ll be overheard, he leans toward the jailer and says in a confiding whisper, “I’m going away.”
“You’re going away where?”
Nazeesh looks toward the door, holds his breath, pricks up his ears. Unsatisfied, he gets up and goes out into the street to make sure there’s no one around. When he returns, his pupils are sparkling with demented elation. “Damned if I know. I’m just going away, that’s all there is to it. I’ve got everything ready—my bag, my stick, and my money. As soon as my right foot is healed, I’m turning over my ration card and all the papers I’ve got and then I’m going away. No thank-yous, no good-byes. I’ll pick a road at random and follow it all the way to the ocean. And when I reach the shore, I’ll throw myself into the water. I’m never coming back to Kabul. It’s an accursed city. No one can be saved here. Too many people are dying, and the streets are full of widows and orphans.”
“And Taliban, too.”
Alarmed by the jailer’s remark, Nazeesh jerks his head around in the direction of the door; his scrawny arm sketches a gesture of disgust and his neck grows an inch longer when he mutters, “Ah, them. They’ll get theirs.”
Atiq inclines his head in agreement. He picks up a slice of dried meat and examines it with a skeptical air. To prove to him that there’s no risk, Nazeesh gulps down two mouthfuls. Atiq sniffs at the morsel of dessicated flesh once again before laying it aside and selecting an apple, which he bites into hungrily. “So when will your foot be healed?”
“In a week or two. And after that, without a word to anyone, I’m going to pack my things, and— poof!—I’ll be gone in a flash, never to be seen again. I’ll walk straight ahead until I keel over, without speaking to anyone, without even meeting anyone on the way. I’m going to walk and walk and walk till the soles of my feet merge with the soles of my shoes.”
Atiq licks his lips, chooses another fruit, rubs it on his vest, and swallows it whole. “You’re always saying you’re going to leave, and you’re always here.”
“I’ve got a bad foot.”
“Before this, you had a bad hip. And before that, it was your back. And before your back, it was your eyes. You’ve been talking about leaving for months, and yet you’re always here. You were here yesterday; you’ll be here tomorrow. You’re not going anywhere, Nazeesh.”
“Yes I am. I’m going away. And I’ll cover my tracks on every road I take. No one will know where I’ve gone, and even if I should want to return, I won’t be able to find my way back.”
“Nonsense,” says Atiq. He obviously means to be disagreeable, as if frustrating the poor devil could be a way of getting revenge for his own disappointments. “You’ll never leave. You’re going to stay planted in the middle of the neighborhood like a tree. It’s not that your roots are holding you back, it’s that people like you aren’t capable of venturing farther than you can see. They fantasize about distant lands, endless highways, and incredible adventures because they’ll never be able to make them real.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“You can’t know what tomorrow has in store for us, Atiq. God alone is omniscient.”
“You don’t need a crystal ball to predict what the beggars are going to do tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sun comes up, you’ll find them in the same place, holding out their hands and whinnying, exactly as they did yesterday and the day before that.”
“I’m not a beggar.”
“In Kabul, we’re all beggars. As for you, Nazeesh, tomorrow you’ll be on your doorstep, sitting in the shade of that shitty old umbrella of yours and waiting for your daughters to bring you your wretched meal, which you’ll eat at street level.”
Nazeesh is upset. After all, the step he’s proposed to take is one that a considerable number of people have already taken; it’s happened many times over. He doesn’t understand why the jailer refuses to believe that he, Nazeesh, is capable of taking it, too, and he doesn’t know how to convince him otherwise. Nazeesh observes a period of silence, at the end of which he gathers up his little bundle, a sign that in his estimation the jailer is no longer worthy of his generosity.
Atiq sniggers, deliberately plucks away a third apple, and puts it aside.
“Before, when I spoke, people used to believe me,” Nazeesh says.
“Before, you were in your right mind,” replies the inflexible jailer.
“And now you think I’m cracked?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
Nazeesh shakes his chin in consternation. His hand is a little unsure as he lifts his bundle, but then he rises to his feet. “I’m going home,” he says.
“Excellent idea.”
With a heavy heart, he slouches to the door. Before disappearing, he confesses in a toneless voice, “It’s true. Every night I say I’m going to leave, and every day I’m still here. I wonder what can be holding me back.”
After Nazeesh has left, Atiq lies down on the cot again and joins his hands under his head. The ceiling in the little prison fails to inspire him with any escape fantasies, so he sits back up and clasps his face. A wave of anger mounts up to his eyeballs. With clenched fists and jaws, he rises and heads for home. If his wife persists in her role of sacrificial victim, he vows, he’s going to stop treating her so gently.
Six
THE PAST NIGHT, it seems, has mellowed Zunaira’s mood. This morning, she got up early, apparently reassured, and her eyes were more captivating than ever. She’s forgotten our misunderstanding, Mohsen thought; soon she’ll remember it and start sulking again. But Zunaira hasn’t forgotten; she’s simply understood that her husband is distraught, and that he needs her. To harbor ill will against him for having performed a primitive, barbarous, revolting, insane act, an act not only absurd in itself but also symptomatic of the current state of Afghanistan, an atrocious act that he regrets and suffers from as from a wound in his conscience, would only serve to render him more fragile than he already is. Things in Kabul are going from bad to worse, sliding into ruin, sweeping along men and mores. It’s a chaos within chaos, a disaster enclosed in disaster, and woe to those who are careless. An isolated person is doomed beyond remedy. The other day, there was a madman in the neighborhood, screaming at the top of his lungs that God had failed. From all indications, this poor soul knew neither where he was nor how he had lost his wits. But the uncompromising Taliban, seeing no extenuating circumstances in his madness, had him blindfolded, gagged, and whipped to death in the public square.
Zunaira is no Taliban, and her husband’s not mad; if he lost his way in a moment of collective hysteria, that’s because the horrors of everyday life are sufficiently powerful to overwhelm all defenses, and human degeneracy is deeper than any abyss. Mohsen is behaving like other people, recognizing his distress in theirs, identifying with their degradation. His deed provides proof that everything can
change, without warning and beyond recognition.
It was a long night for both of them. Petrified by his anguish, Mohsen remained outside, sitting on his stone step, until the muezzin’s call. Zunaira didn’t sleep a wink, either. Curled up on her mat, she sought refuge in memories of long ago, of the days when children sang in public squares now besmirched by dirt and disfigured by gallows. Not every day was a holiday, but there were no fanatics shouting “Sacrilege!” when kites fluttered in the air. Of course, Mohsen would take a certain number of precautions before allowing his hand to brush against the hand of his beloved, but such prudence only intensified the passion they felt for each other. Traditions were traditions; one had to live with them. The necessity of discretion, far from frustrating the lovers, preserved their romance from prying eyes and increased the profound thrill they felt whenever their fingers escaped notice long enough for a magical, ecstatic touch.
They had met at the university. He was the son of a middle-class family; she was the daughter of a prominent man. Mohsen was studying political science and looking forward to a diplomatic career; Zunaira’s ambition was to become a magistrate. He was a straightforward, decent, moderately religious young man; as an enlightened Muslim, she wore assertive head scarves and modest dresses, sometimes over loose trousers, and actively campaigned for the emancipation of women. Her zeal was unmatched, save by the praises heaped upon her. She was a brilliant girl, and her beauty lifted every heart. The boys never tired of devouring her with their eyes. All of them dreamed of marrying her, but Mohsen was her choice; she fell in love with him at first sight. He was courteous, and he blushed like a maiden when she smiled at him. They married very young and very quickly, as if they sensed that the worst, though yet to come to them, was already at the gates of the city.
The Swallows of Kabul Page 5