A Case of Exploding Mangoes

by Mohammed Hanif

  Corporal Lessard went through the list and looked at the man again.

  ‘Of Laden and Co. Constructions.’ The man patted his beard impatiently and Corporal Lessard ushered him in with a smile and an exaggerated wave of his hand. Taking his turn at the beer pot, Corporal Lessard told a joke. ‘What does a towelhead wear to disguise himself?’ Then choking on his own beer, he blurted: ‘A suit.’

  The ambassador had reasons to be inclusive. A year into his job, Arnold Raphel was feeling increasingly isolated as dozens of American agencies ran their own little jihads against the Soviets along the Pakistan–Afghanistan border. There were those avenging Vietnam and there were those doing God’s work and then there were charities with names so obscure and missions so far-fetched that he had a hard time keeping track of them. Now that the last Soviet soldiers were about to leave Afghanistan and the mujahideen were laying siege to Kabul, some Americans were tearing at each other’s throats to claim credit, others were just lingering, reluctant to go home, hoping for another front to open. Just last week he had received a démarche about a group of teachers from the University of Minnesota who were writing the new Islamic books for Afghanistan and sending them to Central Asia. He investigated and was told to keep his hands off as it was yet another branch of yet another covert programme. Every American he met in Islamabad claimed to be from ‘the other agency’.

  He was certain that if he wanted to bring this chaos under control, he first needed to bring them all under one roof and make a symbolic gesture so it became clear that there was one boss and it was him. And what better way to do it than throw a party? What better time to do it than the Fourth of July? He was hoping that this would be a farewell party where American nuts would be able to meet the Afghan commanders who had done the actual fighting, get their pictures taken, and then everybody would go home so that he could get on with the delicate business of implementing US foreign policy. Arnie had not prepared a speech but he had a few lines ready that he would weave into the big conversation that he wanted to have with his American guests: ‘victory is a bigger challenge than defeat’, ‘answered prayers can be more troublesome than the sad echoes of unanswered prayers’.

  He wanted it to be a ‘job well done, now push off to wherever you came from’ kind of party.

  Standing with the ambassador and feeling disgusted at the sight of respectable men gnawing at bones was General Akhtar. He also felt out of place and overdressed. He had turned up in his full ceremonial uniform, with gold braid and shiny brass medals, and now he found himself surrounded by small groups of white men dressed in loose shalwar qameez and the most astonishing variety of headgear he had seen since his last visit to Peshawar’s Storytellers’ Bazaar. General Akhtar knew before everyone else that General Zia would not turn up for the party. ‘He is not feeling too well, you know,’ he told Arnold Raphel, looking closely for any reaction. ‘Brigadier TM’s loss is a big setback. He was like a son to General Zia. One of my best officers.’ When Arnold Raphel offered indifferent condolences, it only strengthened General Akhtar’s resolve to square things with the Americans one last time. He had won them their war against communism. Now he wanted his share of the spoils. He picked up a strawberry from the shortcake on his plate and said to Arnold Raphel, ‘Mrs Raphel has done a splendid job with the arrangements. Behind every great man …’

  OBL found himself talking to a journalist who was nursing a beer in a paper cup and wondering what he should file for his newspaper now that General Zia hadn’t turned up. ‘I am OBL,’ he told the journalist and waited for any signs of recognition. The journalist, a veteran of diplomatic parties and used to meeting obscure government functionaries from far-flung countries with bizarre motives, pulled out his notepad and said, ‘So what’s the story?’

  Out in the guardhouse, the University of Nebraska professor, now fully accepted as an honorary marine for the evening, raised his bottle and proposed a toast to the warrior spirit of the Afghans, then paused for a minute.

  ‘What about our Pakistani hosts?’

  ‘What about them?’ Corporal Lessard asked.

  ‘The guys on the trucks out there. Our first line of defence. What are they doing?’

  ‘They are doing their duty. Just like us.’

  ‘No, they are doing our duty,’ the professor said. ‘They are keeping the enemy at bay. They are guarding us while we enjoy this feast, this feast to celebrate our freedom. We must share our bounty with them.’

  Corporal Lessard looked around the already crammed guardhouse. ‘There are about two hundred of them. They wouldn’t fit in.’

  ‘Then we must take our bounty to them.’

  Corporal Lessard, drunk on Coors and patriotism and the love that one feels for one’s fellow human beings on days like this, volunteered to take a tray of food to the Pakistani troops. He thought of throwing in a couple of beers but he had been taught in his cultural sensitivity course not to offer alcohol to the locals unless you had an ulterior motive or the locals absolutely insisted. Corporal Lessard covered a stainless-steel tray with aluminium foil, hoisted it over his head and started walking towards the Pakistani troops. He walked in the middle of the road. The tree branches on both sides of the road hissed like snakes in his drunken vision. The road seemed endless.

  OBL and the journalist found each other equally dull. The journalist listened with a smirk on his face when OBL claimed that his bulldozers and concrete mixers had been instrumental in defeating the Soviets in Afghanistan. ‘My editor thinks that it’s his pen that forced the Red Army to withdraw, and he can’t even compose a sentence,’ the journalist said with a straight face. OBL gave up on the journalist when he offered to pose for a photograph and the journalist said, ‘I don’t have a camera and even if I did I wouldn’t be allowed to carry it into a diplomatic party.’

  ‘That is very unprofessional of you,’ OBL muttered, scanning various groups of guests enjoying themselves. He spotted General Akhtar in the middle of the lawn surrounded by a number of Americans wearing Afghan caps. He walked up and stood behind them, hoping that the circle would part to welcome him. He skulked for a few minutes, trying to catch General Akhtar’s eye. To OBL’s horror General Akhtar saw him and showed no signs of recognition, but the local CIA chief followed General Akhtar’s gaze, moved rightwards, making space for him in the circle and said, ‘Nice suit, OBL.’

  General Akhtar’s eyes lit up. ‘We would have never won this war without our Saudi friends. How’s business, brother?’ General Akhtar asked, holding him by his hand. OBL smiled and said, ‘Allah has been very kind. There is no business like the construction business in times of war.’

  Arnold Raphel talked to a group of Afghan elders and kept looking sideways at his wife who had reappeared wearing khaki pants and a plain black T-shirt, replacing the loose ethnic thing she was wearing at the start of the party. On the one hand he was relieved that General Zia hadn’t turned up, but on the other hand as a diplomat, as a professional, he felt slighted. He knew it wasn’t an official state occasion, but General Zia had never missed any invitation from his office. Arnold Raphel knew that General Zia had gone completely bonkers since his security chief’s death, but surely the General knew that a Fourth of July party at the American Ambassador’s residence was as safe a place as you could find in this very dangerous country. ‘Brother Zia is not coming. He is not feeling well,’ he told the bearded Afghan covered in a rainbow-coloured shawl. The Afghan elder pretended he already knew but didn’t care. ‘This is the best lamb I have eaten since the war started. So tender. It seems you plucked him out of his mother’s womb.’

  A wave of nausea started in the pit of Nancy’s stomach and rushed upwards. She put a hand over her mouth, mumbled something and ran towards her bedroom.

  OBL soaked up the atmosphere, laughing politely at the light-hearted banter between the Americans and General Akhtar. He felt that warm glow that comes from being at the centre of a party. Then suddenly the CIA chief put his hand on General Akhtar’s
shoulder, turned towards OBL and said, ‘Nice meeting you, OBL. Good work, keep it up.’ The others followed them and in an instant the party deserted him. He noticed a man in a navy-blue blazer talking to some of his Afghan acquaintances. The man seemed important. OBL slowly started drifting towards that circle.

  The party moved down to the den, a large basement hall with leather sofas, a forty-four-inch television screen and a bar; a blatant exercise in suburban nostalgia. Arnold had arranged for some of his American staff to see the recording of the Redskins versus Tampa Bay Buccaneers in the previous week’s NFL play-off. The den was full of cigar smoke and noisy Americans. Instead of beer, which seemed to be the drink of choice upstairs, here people were serving themselves whiskeys. The Saudi Ambassador sat on a divan with a wad of fifty-dollar bills in front of him taking bets on the game. Somebody had forgotten to explain to him that the game was eight days old and that the Redskins had trampled the Buccaneers.

  A tall American wearing a kaftan and a flyer’s orange scarf around his neck handed General Akhtar a glass half full of bourbon. General Akhtar felt the urge to throw the whiskey at the stranger’s face but then looked around, didn’t see any familiar faces except the Americans and the Saudi Ambassador, who himself seemed too sloshed to care. General Akhtar decided to hold on to his drink. The noise in the den, the veteran spymaster in General Akhtar concluded, was the perfect backdrop for sounding out Coogan. Not even the most sophisticated bug would pick out any distinguishable sounds in the incomprehensible chorus that was going up: ‘Lock him up, Jack, lock him up. Feed them dirt, Jack, feed them dirt.’ General Akhtar raised his glass like everyone else but only sniffed his drink. It stank like an old wound.

  Corporal Lessard was challenged by the Subedar Major from the back of the truck where the Pakistani soldiers were relaxing after security checking the last guests. The Subedar Major aimed his Kalashnikov at Corporal Lessard’s forehead and ordered him to halt.

  The marine raised his tray above his head, the aluminium foil covering it reflecting the searchlight held by one of the soldiers on the truck. ‘I brought some chow. For you brave men.’

  The Subedar Major lowered his rifle and climbed down from the truck. Two rows of soldiers peered down at the swaying American trying to balance the tray on his head.

  The Subedar Major and the marine squared off in a circle of light marked by the searchlight.

  ‘Hot dogs,’ Corporal Lessard said, pushing the tray towards the Subedar Major.

  General Akhtar shifted his glass from his right hand to his left and cleared his throat. Then on second thoughts he brought his hand up and mimed General Zia’s moustache, a universal sign used in Islamabad’s drawing rooms when people didn’t want to say the dreaded name. General Akhtar’s right thumb and forefinger twirled invisible hair on his upper lip: ‘ …has been having dreams,’ General Akhtar said, looking into Coogan’s eyes.

  Coogan, his heart running with the quarterback who had just set off for a fifty-six-yard dash, smiled and said, ‘He is a visionary. Always has been. They don’t change. I am sure TM’s free fall didn’t help. By the way, nice line, Akhtar: A professional who didn’t miss his target even in his death. If your boss had half your sense of humour, this Pakiland of yours would be a much livelier place.’ Coogan winked and turned towards the TV.

  General Akhtar felt a bit nervous. He had played these games long enough to know that he was not going to get a written contract to topple General Zia. Hell, he wasn’t even likely to get a verbal assurance. But surely they knew him and trusted him well enough to give him a nod. ‘He won’t stop the war until you give him the peace prize.’ General Akhtar decided to press his case. He had looked around and realised nobody was remotely interested in their conversation.

  ‘What prize?’ Coogan shouted above the chorus. ‘Lock him up, Jack, lock him up.’

  ‘Nobel Peace Prize. For liberating Afghanistan.’

  ‘That is a Swedish thing. We don’t do that kind of thing. And you don’t know those snooty Swedes. They would never give it to anybody with …’ Coogan mimed General Zia’s moustache and turned towards the television again, laughing.

  General Akhtar could feel an utter lack of interest on Coogan’s part in the matter at hand. He had won his war and he wanted to celebrate. General Akhtar knew what a short attention span the Americans had. He knew that in the subtle art of spycraft this non-commitment was also a kind of commitment. But General Akhtar wanted a sign clearer than that. He suddenly smelled the acrid smell of hashish in the room and looked around in panic. Nobody else seemed to be bothered. They were still busy urging Jack to lock them up and feed them dirt. General Akhtar noticed that the man who had poured him a drink was standing behind Coogan puffing on a joint. ‘Meet Lieutenant Bannon,’ Coogan winked at General Akhtar. ‘He has been teaching your boys the silent drill. Our main man.’

  General Akhtar turned round and gave him a faint yellow smile.

  ‘I am aware of all the good work he has been doing. I think his boys are ready for the real thing,’ General Akhtar said, looking at the joint in Bannon’s hand.

  OBL found himself strolling on the empty lawns amid discarded paper plates, half-eaten hot dogs and chewed-up bones. He suddenly remembered that he had not as yet eaten. He went towards the tent from where he had smelled the lamb’s fat burning.

  Inside the Kabul tent the Afghan chef minutely inspected the leftover of his culinary creation. Eight skeletons hung over the smouldering ashes of the barbecue fire. He was hoping to take some home for his family but even his small knife couldn’t salvage any bits of meat from the bones. ‘God,’ he muttered, packing his carving knives, ‘these Americans eat like pigs.’

  Coogan’s attention was divided between the misery that the Redskins were going through and this General who had been sitting there with his glass in his hands for ages without taking a sip. Coogan raised his glass to General Akhtar’s, one eye fixed on the Redskins’ quarterback who was demolishing the Buccaneers’ defence and the other winking at the General. Coogan shouted, ‘Go get him.’

  General Akhtar knew he had his answer. He didn’t want to let this moment go. He raised his glass and clinked it with Coogan’s again. ‘By jingo. Let’s get him.’ He took a generous sip from his glass and suddenly the liquid didn’t smell as horrible as it had a second ago. It was bitter but it didn’t taste as bad as all his life he had thought it would.

  The Subedar Major looked at the tray, looked at the marine’s face and understood.

  ‘Tea? Have some?’ the Subedar Major asked.

  ‘Tea?’ Corporal Lessard repeated. ‘Don’t go all English on me. Here. Chow. Eat.’

  The marine removed the aluminium foil from the tray, took a hot dog out and started chomping away.

  The Subedar Major smiled an understanding smile. ‘Dog? Halal?’

  Corporal Lessard was running out of patience. ‘No. No dog meat. Beef.’ He mooed and mimed a knife slicing a cow’s neck.

  ‘Halal?’ the Subedar Major asked again.

  A house sparrow blundered into the floodlight and shrieked as if trying to bridge the communication gap between the two. Corporal Lessard felt homesick.

  ‘It’s a piece of fucking meat in a piece of fucking bread. If we can’t agree on that what the hell am I doing here?’ He flung the tray on the ground and started running back towards the guardhouse.

  Nancy Raphel buried her head in her pillow and waited for her husband to come to bed. ‘We should stick to our cocktail menu in future,’ she said before falling asleep.

  * * *

  General Akhtar was greeted by a very disturbed major as he walked out of the gate of the ambassador’s residence.

  ‘General Zia has gone missing,’ the major whispered in his ear. ‘There is no trace of him anywhere.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE NIGHT IN the dungeon is long. In my dream, an army of Maos marches the funeral march carrying their Mao caps in their hands like beggars’ bowls. Their lips are sewn wi
th crimson thread.

  The brick in the wall scrapes.

  Secretary General’s ghost is already at work, I tell myself. ‘Get some rest,’ I shout. The brick moves again. I am not scared of ghosts; I have seen enough of them in my life. They all come back to me as if I run an orphanage for them.

  I pull out the brick, put my face in the hole and shout at strength 5, ‘Get some sleep, Secretary General, get some sleep. Revolution can wait till the morning.’

  A hand traces the contours of my face. The fingers are soft, a woman’s fingers. She passes me a crunched-up envelope. ‘I found it in my cell,’ she says. ‘It’s not mine. I can’t read. I thought maybe it’s for you. Can you read?’

  I shove the envelope into my pocket. ‘Nobody can read around here,’ I say, trying to terminate the conversation. ‘This place is pitch dark. We are all bloody blind here.’

  A moment’s silence. ‘This seems like a message from the dead man. Keep it. I think someone is about to start a journey. It’s not going to be me. You should keep yourself ready.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  GENERAL ZIA DECIDED to borrow his gardener’s bicycle in order to get out of the Army House without his bodyguards, but he needed a shawl first. He needed the shawl not because it was cold but because he wanted to disguise himself. The decision to venture out of the Army House was prompted by a verse from the Quran. To go out disguised as a common man was his friend Ceauşescu’s idea.

  The plan was a happy marriage between the divine and the devious.

  He had returned from Brigadier TM’s funeral and locked himself in his study, refusing to attend to even the bare minimum government work that he had been doing since ordering Code Red. He flicked through the thick file that General Akhtar had sent him on the ongoing investigation into the accident. The summary had congratulated General Akhtar for ensuring that Brigadier TM’s sad demise wasn’t broadcast live on TV. It would have been a big setback for the nation’s trust in the professionalism of the army.