by Atiq Rahimi
On whom? What could he do alone? They'll kill him, too. Dastaguir, have you lost your mind!
All you have left is a son, and you want to sacrifice him? Why? To bring back your wife and your other son? Swallow your anger. Leave Murad alone. Allow him to live. Let my tongue be still! Let my mouth fill with dust! Murad, sleep in peace.
After exploring your pockets, you pull out your box of naswar and offer some to Shahmard. You put a small amount into the palm of his hand and place some on your own palm before putting it under your tongue. Silence.
You watch the rocks and scrub race past. It's not you who are passing them. No. It's as if they are passing you. You're not moving. It's the world that's moving. You've been condemned to exist and watch the world pass, to watch your wife pass, to watch your children pass . . .
Your hands tremble. Your heart flutters. Your sight goes dim. You roll down the window of the truck to refresh yourself. The air isn't refreshing. It has become thick, heavy and black. It's not your sight that has gone dim, it's the air that has grown dark.
'Dastaguir, what have you done with my scarf?'
It's Murad's mother. You see your wife at the base of the hills, running at the same pace as the truck. You untie the bundle and let the coal-apples fall out. Then you let the scarf blow out of the window. The cloth dances through the air. Murad's mother runs after it, dancing as she goes.
'We've arrived.'
The image of Murad's mother reflected in the pools of your pupils is lost to the ripples of Shahmard's voice.
You open your wet eyes. The truck is nearing the mine. You sense that Murad is close. Your chest tightens, your heart swells, your veins constrict, your blood freezes . . . Your tongue has become a piece of wood, a charred piece, half-burned, an ember, a silent piece of coal . . . Your throat is dry. Water! You swallow your naswar. The smell of ash fills your nostrils. You take a deep breath. You smell Murad. You fill your lungs to their utmost with his scent. For the first time, you realize how small your lungs are and how big your heart is - as big as your sorrow . . .
Shahmard slows the truck and turns to the left. He comes to a halt at the entrance to the mine. A guard appears from a wooden hut, just like the one at the start of the road. He asks for papers from Shahmard, looks over them and begins a conversation. You sit silently. You don't move a muscle. Actually, you wouldn't have the strength to do so if you wanted to. You hold your breath. For a few moments, you're nothing but a hollow shell. Your lifeless gaze falls through the grille of the mine's large iron gate. You sense that Murad is waiting for you beyond the gate. Murad, don't ask Dastaguir why he has come.
The truck passes through the gate and enters the grounds of the mine. At the foot of a large hill lies a line of concrete workers' quarters. Which of them is Murad's? Men with blackened faces, wearing metal construction helmets, come down the hill as others climb up. You don't see Murad among them. The truck heads towards the small concrete buildings and stops in front of one. Shamard suggests you get out and ask the mine's foreman about your son.
You experience a moment of confusion and don't react. There isn't enough strength in your hand to open the door. You are like a child who doesn't want to be separated from his father. You ask Shahmard, 'Is my son here?'
'Of course, but you'll have to ask the foreman where.'
'Where is the foreman?'
Shamard points out a building to the right of the truck.
Your weak, trembling hand has difficulty opening the truck door. You put your feet on the ground. Your legs are of no use. They don't have the strength to hold you up. But your body is not heavy. It's the heaviness of the air that's pressing down on your body. The air is weighty and thick. You rest your hand on your waist. Shahmard passes your bundle through the window and says, 'Father, I'm heading back to town between five and six. If you want to come, wait for me at the gate.'
Bless you. You say this to yourself. To him you only nod. Your tongue doesn't have the strength to move. Words, like the air, have become heavy . . . The truck moves off. You remain nailed to the ground in a cloud of dust. A few black-faced miners walk by. Murad? No, Murad's not among them. Come on, go to the foreman and ask.
You try to move. Your legs are still tired and weak. It's as if they are sunk into the depths of the earth, all the way down to its molten centre . . . Your feet burn inside your shoes. Wait a while. Take a deep breath. Calm down. Move your legs. You can walk. So walk.
You reach the foreman's building and stop outside the door. It's an imposing door. Like the entrance to a fortress. What might be on the other side? Probably a mineshaft. One that is long and deep, that goes right down to the depths of the earth, all the way down to furnaces of molten rock . . .
You place your hand on the doorknob. It is burning hot.
Dastaguir, what are you doing? Are you going to plunge a dagger into the chest of Murad, your only remaining child? Can't you keep your troubles to yourself? Leave Murad alone! One day he'll find out. It's better if he hears it from someone else's lips.
What should you do then? Go and disappear from his life? No! What, then? You can't tell him today, you're exhausted, turn back! You'll come back tomorrow. Tomorrow? But tomorrow it'll be the same story, the same anguish. Knock on this door then! Your hands have become heavy. You step back.
Where are you going, Dastaguir? Can't you decide? Don't abandon Murad. Take the hand of your son like a father and teach him about life.
You walk up to the door. You knock. The door creaks loudly. The shaven head of a young man peers out. He is blind in his right eye. A fine web of red blood vessels worms over the white of the eye. With a gesture of his head he asks you what you want. Gathering your resolve, you say, 'Salaam. Murad, the son of Dastaguir, is my child. I have come to see him.'
The man opens the door wider. The inquiring expression has left his face. Taken aback, he turns his head to a man who sits writing at a large desk at the far end of the room.
'Foreman sir, Murad's father is here.'
On hearing these words, the foreman freezes. His pen drops on to his desk. His eyes bore into yours. A weighty silence fills the space between you. With all your strength, you draw yourself up and enter the room. But the silence and the strange expression of the foreman gradually burden your shoulders. Your legs tremble. Your body begins to stoop again. Dastaguir, what have you done? You have asked for Murad. You are going to kill Murad . . . No, may all be well. You won't speak to him. If he asks you why you've come, you'll say something else, an excuse. You'll say that his uncle visited the village, and you returned together by car to Pul-i-Khumri. Taking advantage of the opportunity, you came to the mine to get news of Murad. That's all. Afterwards you're returning to the village . . . Stay well, Murad!
The foreman stands and limps towards you. He places his heavy hand on your tired shoulder. It's as if the mine, with its big hill, its coal and its square cement buildings, rests there on your shoulders. Your body stoops even further. The foreman circles around you. He's very tall. It's his left leg that makes him limp. He is a mountain next to you. His mouth is open. As if he's about to devour you. His big black teeth are concealed under a dirty moustache. He smells of coal.
'Welcome, brother. You must be tired. Sit down.'
He directs you towards the wooden chair in front of his desk and then limps back to his place on the other side of the table. You sit down, keeping your bundle pressed against you. On the wall in front of you, just above the foreman's chair, hangs a large framed portrait of him. He wears a military uniform and, under his black moustache, a victorious smile.
The foreman, sitting in his chair again, starts to speak, slowly and carefully.
'Murad is down the mine. It's his shift now. Would you like tea?'
In a quavering voice, you reply, 'God protect you, sir.'
The foreman calls to the man who led you inside and sends him for two cups of tea.
You are relieved that Murad isn't available right away. It'll give you some
time to come up with coherent answers and words of comfort. Maybe the foreman can help you. You ask, 'When will he be off work?'
'At about eight this evening.'
Eight this evening? Shahmard will be returning at six. Where will you go till eight? What will you do? Could you spend the night here? And what about Yassin?
'Good brother, Murad is fine. He has received news of the incident that has stricken his family. May God absolve them and give their souls peace . . .'
You don't hear the rest of the foreman's words. Murad has received news? You repeat the words to yourself a few times. As if you don't understand what they mean. Or you didn't hear correctly. After all, at your age one grows hard of hearing and misunderstands.
You ask loudly, 'He has received news?'
'Yes, brother, he knows.'
Then why didn't he return to the village? No, it can't be your Murad. It must be another Murad. After all, your son's not the only one with that name. In this very mine there are probably ten men with his name. The foreman hasn't understood that you're looking for Murad, son of Dastaguir. He must also be hard of hearing. Start again.
'I'm talking about Murad, son of Dastaguir, from Abqul.'
'That's right, brother, I'm referring to him, too.'
'My child Murad learned that his mother, his wife and his brother have died and he . . .'
'Yes, brother. He even heard about you, that you . . . May God protect you.'
'No, I'm alive. His own son's alive too .. .'
'Praise God
Why praise God? If only Yassin and Dastaguir had died as well! That way a father wouldn't have had to witness the frailty of his son, and a son the helplessness of his father. What has become of Murad? Something must have happened to him. The mine has collapsed and he has been entombed in coal. Swear to God, foreman, tell the truth. What has happened to Murad?
Your eyes flit about. They seek an answer from every object: from the worm-eaten table; from the portrait in which the foreman is immortalized; from the pen lying lifelessly on the paper; from the ground that trembles under your feet; from the roof that is collapsing; from the window that will never be opened again; from the hill that has devoured your child; from the coal that has blackened his bones . . .
'What has happened to Murad?' you ask in a loud voice.
'Nothing, thank God, he's fine.'
'Then why didn't he come to the village?'
'I didn't allow him to.'
The bundle of apples falls from your knees to the ground. Once more, your eyes search the room before fixing on the dirty lines of the foreman's face. Once more, your mind fills with questions - and with hate.
Who does this foreman think he is? What does he take himself to be? You're Murad's father. Who is he? He has taken Murad from you. There is no longer any Murad. Your Murad's gone . . .
The foreman's gruff voice echoes around the room:
'He would have gone. But I didn't let him. Had I, he would have been killed as well . . .'
What of it? Death would have been better than dishonour!
The servant brings two cups of tea and gives one to you and the other to the foreman. They begin a conversation. You can't hear what they're saying.
With trembling hands you hold the cup on your knees. But your legs are trembling too. A few drops of tea spill on to your knees. They don't burn you. No, they do burn you, but you don't feel it. You're already burning within. Within, a fire burns that is more fierce than the tea. A fire stoked by the questions of friends and enemies, relatives and strangers:
'What happened?'
'Did you see Murad?'
'Did you speak to him?
'What did you tell him?'
'What did he do?
'What did he say?'
And how will you answer them? With silence. You saw your son. Your son has heard about everything. But he didn't come for his dead mother, wife and brother. Murad has lost all his integrity, he has become shameless . . .
Your hands tremble. You put the cup on the table. You know that your sorrow has taken shape now. It has become a bomb. It will explode and it will destroy you too - like Fateh the guard. Mirza Qadir does indeed know all about sorrow. Your chest collapses like an old house, an empty house . . . Murad has vacated his place inside you. What does it matter if an abandoned house collapses?
'Your tea will get cold, brother.' 'It's not important.'
The foreman continues:
'Until two days ago Murad wasn't doing well. He wouldn't go near bread or water. He withdrew to a corner of his room. He didn't move. He didn't sleep. One night he went out of his quarters completely naked. He joined the group of miners who spend the night beating their chests in repentance around a fire. At dawn he began to run around and around the fire and then he threw himself into the flames. His companions came to his aid and pulled him out . . .'
Slowly you open your clenched fists. Your shoulders, drawn up to your ears, relax. You know Murad. Murad isn't one to remain calm. He either burns or causes others to burn. He either destroys or is destroyed. He didn't set fire to others this time, he burned himself. He didn't cause destruction, he was destroyed . . . But why didn't he come back and burn together with his mother's corpse? If Murad were Dastaguir's Murad, he would have returned to the village, he would have beaten his chest beside his lost ones, not around a fire . .. They told him that you too were dead. The day when you do die - and you will die, you won't live eternally - what will he do? Will he see you have a proper burial? Will he lower your coffin into a grave? No, without shroud or coffin your body will fester under the sun . . . This Murad isn't your Murad. Murad has sacrificed his soul to the rocks, the fire, the coal, to this man sitting before you, whose hot breath stinks of soot.
'Murad is our best worker,' the foreman says. 'Next week we'll be sending him on a literacy course. He'll learn to read and write. One day he'll hold an important post. We're sending him because he's a model mine worker who earns respect for being an enlightened, hard-working youth who's committed to the revolution . . .'
You don't hear the rest of the foreman's words. You think of Mirza Qadir. Like him you must choose whether to stay or leave. If you see Murad now, what will you say to him?
'Salaam.'
'Salaam.'
'You've heard?'
'I've heard.'
'My condolences.'
'Condolences to you too.'
And after that? Nothing.
'Goodbye.'
'Bye.'
No, you have nothing else to share with each other. Not a word, not a tear, not a sigh.
You pick up the bundle resting on your knees. You no longer want to give it to Murad. The apple-blossom scarf smells of your wife. You stand and say to the foreman, 'I am going. Please tell Murad that his father came, that he's alive, that Yassin, his son, is alive. With your permission . . .'
Goodbye Murad. Head bowed, you walk out of the room. The air has grown thicker, heavier and darker. You glance at the hilltop. It seems bigger and blacker . . . The men coming down the hillside have faces that are even more tired and even more black. You don't want to look at these faces, the way you did when you first arrived at the mine. What if Murad were among them?
You head towards the gate of the mine. You have only taken a few steps when a shout stops you:
'Father!'
The voice is unfamiliar, thank God. You recognize the foreman's servant hurrying stealthily to your side.
'Father! What I say stays between us. They told Murad that it was the mujahiddeen and the rebels who killed his family ... in retaliation for his working here at the mine. They terrified him. Murad doesn't know you're alive.'
You are now even more hopeless and forlorn. You glance back at the foreman's building and grab the servant by the arm. 'Take me to my child!'
'It's not possible, father! Your son is working at the bottom of the mine. If the foreman knew, he'd kill me. Go, father! I'll tell him that you came.'
The servant wants
you to release him. Confused, you place your bundle on the ground. You explore your pockets. You take out your box of naswar, hand it to the servant and request that he give it to Murad. He grabs the box and rushes away.
Murad will recognize your box of naswar. After all, he gave it to you himself, the first time he was paid. As soon as he sees the box, he'll know you're alive. If he comes after you, you'll know Murad is your Murad. If he doesn't, you will have no Murad anymore. Go, get Yassin and return to the village. Wait there a few days.
You quicken your step towards the exit of the mine. You reach the gate. Without waiting for Shahmard, you walk towards the hills. A sob constricts your throat. You close your eyes and weep quietly within. Dastaguir, be strong! A man doesn't weep. Why not?! Let your heart's sorrow overflow!
You wind around the side of the first hill. You want naswar. You have none. Maybe the box of naswar is already in Murad's hands.
You slow your pace. You stop. You bend down. You take a pinch of grey earth between your fingertips and place it under your tongue. Then you continue on . . . Your hands are clasped behind your back, holding tightly the bundle you tied from the apple-blossom scarf.