Pathological

by Jinkang Wang

  Hearing his anger, Mei Yin said in a conciliatory tone, “I believe that when we leave this world, we won’t regret what we’ve done today.”

  Stebushkin remained silent. He had to admit that Mei Yin was taking just as big a risk as he was. He was merely a custodian turned thief, but she’d be guilty of smuggling the most dangerous Level-Four virus. If this were to get out, the two of them would be public enemies. And the truth would get out sooner or later, because Mei Yin surely had plans for the virus beyond keeping it in a fridge forever. Trying hard to slough off these dark thoughts, he smiled. “Fine, let’s not speak of these things. I hope everything goes smoothly. Now let’s continue where we left off—the pleasure God bestowed on Adam and Eve.”

  They remained entangled till dawn. Exhausted, they slept a little, and when they woke blearily resumed making love. Both knew this might be their last hurrah, and they might well be separated after this day. They gorged greedily on each other. When Stebushkin woke, he saw that she was up too, sitting cross-legged and staring at him with faintly sad eyes, as if trying to brand his image onto her retinas. Clothed in the bright light of dawn, her naked body glistened, the tiny hairs standing out on her neck. Stebushkin said, “Have you been up long?”

  “Very long.” She grinned. “I’ve just been looking at you.”

  “You’re leaving after breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take you to the border.” A twinge went through his heart. “I can’t bear to lose you. I’ll never forget you.”

  “Me too. Kolya, you’re the first man I’ve ever had, and for all I know you might be the last. I’ll never forget you. And please remember my invitation, it was genuinely meant, and will remain open forever.” Then she added, “Whatever you decide, I’ll always wait for you.”

  Stebushkin didn’t reply. Smiling, he pulled Mei Yin onto himself once more.

  Mei Yin’s return journey was uneventful. After passing through Russian and Kazakh Customs, she and Zhang Jun, her “black market contact,” sat in the cab of a Steyr van. They’d set off from Aktogay in Kazakhstan, and passed through Druzhba to the Dzungarian Gate in China. Now they were waiting for the Chinese Customs official to wave them through. She’d met up with Zhang Jun the day before. While chatting, they’d discovered they were both from the northeast. He was from Shenyang, a short but sturdily built man, with a small, closely cropped head and broad shoulders. Given his line of work, he’d probably been involved in many illegal activities (such as tricking Russians with fake booze and down jackets), but he behaved himself with Mei Yin, and seemed honest and trustworthy. He said, “It’s a small matter, transporting frozen thoroughbred horse sperm”—Mei Yin’s cover story—“a little box no bigger than my palm, we’ll get that across with no problem!”

  Since they were from the same part of China, Zhang Jun said he’d waive his fee just this once—he was happy to have made a new friend. After all, even without her extra contraband, he’d still have to fork over the same amount in bribes. As he tucked the little box safely away in a truckload of Russian fur coats, military binoculars, and leather boots, Zhang Jun said half-jokingly, “As long as you can keep your cool crossing the border, your cargo could be an atom bomb and you’d be fine. If you break into a cold sweat the second a customs officer looks your way, you’ll give yourself away.”

  Their officer was a hard-faced young woman clutching a clipboard. She didn’t look Chinese—thick, joined eyebrows and a high nose—and her Mandarin was accented. She carefully studied everyone’s passports, but when it came to their cargo, Zhang Jun murmured something to her, and she waved them on after a brief glance into the back of their vehicle. It was late when they left the border, the setting sun gleaming on the sign behind them: “Dzungarian Gate Chinese Border.” Zhang Jun and the driver seemed in a hurry to get home, wanting to drive nonstop through the night, until they reached Urumqi at noon the next day. “Sister Mei, we did what you asked, lunch is on you! We’re going to the Grand Mercure—that’s a five-star joint.”

  Mei Yin, feeling relaxed, joked back. “No problem, and we won’t stop till you’re raging drunk. But don’t expect me to join in, I can’t hold my liquor at all.”

  The truck roared down the empty highway, until the sun was half-hidden below the horizon behind them. Mei Yin had let go of her anxiety about customs, but now she was beset with worry about Stebushkin. She’d picked up on many worrying signs over the last couple of days, particularly the way he’d made his decision: quickly, almost thoughtlessly, and only after they’d been intimate. It was the sudden certainty of someone who had decided to ignore a dilemma, not resolve it. He’d made a choice—but what choice, exactly?

  As the sun fell completely out of sight, Mei Yin felt a sharp, shooting pain. She wasn’t sure of its source—in the veins at her wrist, her temples, or her heart. But it was real, leaping through her nerves. Seeing her discomfort, Zhang Jun asked, “Sister Mei, is something wrong? Do you feel okay?”

  Forcing a smile, she shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just a bit dizzy—maybe I’m tired out from the last couple of days.”

  She leaned her head against the window, and drifted. She remembered when she was twelve, watching the great wildebeest migration with her adoptive father (not yet “the Godfather”) in Africa. As the animals surged across the rushing river to the other shore, they’d always leave behind a few unfortunates: dragged into the water by crocodiles, throats ripped out by lions on the river banks, trampled by their own kind so their spines broke, falling and snapping their legs. The sight made her sad, but her father told her that as long as the species continued to flourish, individual sacrifices were always worthwhile, and unavoidable. Then he said one more thing that she’d remember for the rest of her life:

  The Lord loves only the group, not the individual. That is how vast his love is.

  Kolya, the only man I’ve ever truly known, please forgive me.

  The morning after seeing Mei off, Stebushkin phoned his in-laws’ in Moscow, where Natasha was staying. After he’d chatted aimlessly with her and the kids for a while, she said, “The children need to leave for school, and I should be getting to work. Is there anything else?”

  He hurriedly said, “Nothing, nothing at all. You’d better go.” After she hung up, he sat mutely by the phone for a while, watching the second hand of the wall clock ticking along. When the lab opened, he phoned to say he’d decided to quit his job. He’d come in at some point to take care of the paperwork. So many people had resigned in the last two years that Director Chaadayeva had grown numb to it. She went through the motions of persuading him to stay, asked him what his plans were, sighed, and wished him good luck.

  Stebushkin did nothing that whole morning, apart from pacing round the apartment he’d lived in for almost twenty years, examining the family portrait, the wall-to-wall shelves full of technical books, the wok and Chinese spices left behind by Mei Yin. After that he took a nap, sleeping right through lunch. He woke a little after four and drove to the dacha with the last couple of six packs of Mei Yin’s Tsingtao beer. Once he got there, he drove past the dacha to a riverbank about six miles away. This was the grassy patch on which he and Mei had lain, their limbs entangled. Stripping to his shorts, he plunged into the icy water, swimming hard until his body had warmed up. Then he went back to shore and, his body still half-immersed, looked up at the sky, unhurriedly working his way through all twelve bottles of beer. His vision grew blurry, his blood pleasingly full of alcohol. Mei Yin’s image fluttered before his eyes, flickering into being in the haze of the setting sun. Her voice seemed to drift by his ears, soft and magnetic.

  A smile settled onto his lips. On the brink of ending his life, this connection with Mei Yin felt unbearably precious, a glimmer of light in the gray of his life, something to look back on from the other world. He removed the exquisite cross from around his neck and absently ran his fingers over it. Mei Yin’s belief was definitely stronger than his, almost fanatical. The Godfather a
nd his devotees might have everything planned out, but what if they took one step too far on the path of righteousness? A step too far, and they’d fall right off the cliff.

  If that happened, then his sin would be the greatest, the first link in this chain of events.

  He didn’t want to think anymore; the alcohol had made him hazy. Letting out a long sigh, he held up the crucifix. In its center was a small diamond, actually a cunningly concealed catch. Pressing it with his thumb, he gently rotated it clockwise until it sprang open. With a little effort, he slid off the bottom arm—actually a sheath—to reveal a short double-edged knife. The blade was completely transparent, with an inky gleam to it, almost invisible to the naked eye. These specially designed crucifixes were the emblem of the Society. The Godfather personally placed one around the neck of each new member.

  Of course, these crosses were only a symbol of their faith. The Godfather had never required adherents to kill themselves for the cause.

  The sun slowly went down, beams of red light shooting through cracks in the clouds to stain the clear river water crimson and gold. Stebushkin held the upper arm of the crucifix—the dagger’s handle—between the index finger and thumb of his left hand, and lightly drew the near-invisible blade over his right wrist. The knife was so sharp that he barely felt any resistance as it sliced open his flesh, as easily as passing through butter. There was hardly any pain at first. Stebushkin carefully replaced the sheath and fastened the catch. A researcher’s habitual meticulousness. Next, he plunged his right hand into the river, so the bright red blood quickly spread through the gilded water, irregular scarlet eddies more vivid than the background color. His sight blurring, he watched these ripples as his body filled with a soothing exhaustion. Finally, his head slumped onto the riverbank, and he fell asleep forever.

  September 2001—Pakistan-Afghanistan border

  Walking single file, three people and a mule made the arduous trek up to the Ayal Pass. Although only the end of September, it was already extremely cold fifteen thousand feet above sea level. Along the highest mountain ridge, there wasn’t a shred of greenery. The only vegetation lay beneath the snowline, dark green grass hugging the ground. After the pass was a sea of clouds, above which floated several snow-topped peaks, looking for all the world like desert islands in a wide ocean.

  The leader of the trio was a short tour guide, Tamala, a Pashtun tribesman from the border regions. He wore knickerbockers, and beneath the rounded flaps of his leather coat was a Soviet-style Makarov pistol. Around his head was a longga, a traditional scarf. He spoke Pashto and Dari, as well as being able to stammer out a little French or Arabic, so he was in charge of speaking to anyone along the way (the visitor and other guide knew only Arabic).

  The second guide brought up the rear, a tall man dressed in a sleeveless Kaffir jacket, a Kalashnikov rifle strapped diagonally to his chest. He was a foreigner, face like the blade of a knife and nose hooked like an eagle’s beak, the prominent characteristics of the Bedouin people. Despite not being local, he’d fought here more than ten years before, in the resistance against the former Soviet Union’s invasion during the eighties. He knew the area well, and was untroubled by the thin and icy air.

  Between them was a more pathetic figure, dragging himself along by the mule’s tail. This man, who called himself Mohammad Ahmed Segum, was of medium height, a little plump, and dressed in local Kaffir clothing that plainly did not fit his physique. The coarse, stiff fabric had rubbed his skin raw yet completely failed to keep the cold air out, driving him half mad. He was close to collapse, his mouth gaping wide as he panted, a rustling sound in his throat like a burst leather bag. Even so, he clung tightly to his briefcase, refusing to be parted from it. Three days earlier, as they’d ascended the first mountain pass, the taller guide had kindly offered to take the leather case, only to be firmly rejected. That was the end of the guide’s sympathy toward him.

  The travelers rested at a water hole, bowing four times in the direction of Mecca. The shorter guide produced some flatbread and cheese from his knapsack. This high above sea level, it was impossible to boil water, so they were reduced to dry rations. With effort, Mohammad chewed at the cold, hard bread and odd-tasting cheese, choking it down with difficulty, remembering with longing the delicacies he’d eaten in the past. The two guides ate in silence, quickly finishing their lunch. They didn’t enjoy the food either, but were used to it. The taller guide said brusquely, in Arabic, “Eat faster. If you take your time, who knows when we’ll get there!”

  Mohammad glanced coldly at the tall guide and didn’t reply, but chewed faster. All along the way, he’d sensed—not rationally, but in his gut—how correct his leader’s tactics were. Let these people fight the war, these tattered, scrawny fellows with the fierce vitality of wolves. Surely they’d be much better off as martyrs, ascending to paradise rather than stuck here on earth. They’d probably clamor to die on the field as quickly as possible. As for himself, well, terribly sorry, but he’d rather forgo the glory of battle and escape to safety.

  That afternoon, they reached the Nuristan Valley, where the roads became more navigable. The short guide let Mohammad mount the mule, and walked in front, leading it. He didn’t think much of this pampered fellow either, but he was a guest of the organization. Besides, for all he knew, the leather briefcase the man refused to leave aside might contain $100 million. The chief had given instructions not to slow him down. As they descended, shrubs began appearing on the slopes, and then stubby oak trees. A clear stream emerged from a crack in the rocks, then disappeared behind the hills. They began to encounter other travelers, mostly Nuristani locals, plus a few Tajik people. Dilapidated wooden huts stood in the distance, little farmsteads interspersed between them. Compared to the mountain pass earlier, this place had the breath of humanity, but still lay far from civilization. There were no cars, roads, power lines, or TV antennas. These farmers seemed to be the remnants of some ancient dynasty.

  Two people appeared up ahead, also dressed in local clothes, but their features and bearing indicated at a glance that they were Arabs. Rifles were slung diagonally over both their shoulders, one of them an old-fashioned British weapon. The two guides approached, the four men exchanging a brief greeting, like ants meeting and touching antennas. “They said the fighting will start soon,” said the shorter guide. “Five American aircraft carriers have reached the Persian Gulf, plus more than seventy navy ships. By Hamza’s calculations, it’ll start in the next few days.”

  “Hamza” was Abu Faraj Hamza, third-in-command of al-Qaeda, and the person Mohammad was here to meet. Mohammad silently congratulated himself on arriving just in time. After seeing Hamza, he would return by a different route, east through Pakistan, and go home from there. Even if fighting began in a few days, he wouldn’t be caught up in it.

  That night, they stayed at a village called Leenah. The short guide bought quite a bit of food, and even managed to get hold of three fish from the nearby Mandol Lake. They boiled up a pot of fish soup, and for the first time in days, Mohammad ate his fill. He felt much better after that, and even the taller guide’s disparaging gaze no longer irked him. The shorter guide said they’d reach Kandiwal Pass the next day, the highest point of their route. This would be a difficult trek, so Mohammad should get as much rest as possible. He was handed a duck-down sleeping bag from the mule’s burden, then both guides tightened their clothes, wrapped themselves in straw mats, and quickly fell asleep. Mohammad placed the leather case beneath his head as a pillow and zipped himself into the sleeping bag. Yet he stayed awake, the fierce cold of night piercing through the thick duck down, chilling him to the bone.

  He thought back to what he’d seen on his TV screen just ten days previously: the two airplanes, New York’s World Trade Center, raging fire and thick clouds of smoke, people fleeing for their lives like ants from a trampled nest. Al-Qaeda’s strike created terror, but it had also created anger, and the Americans were now gnashing their teeth and plotting revenge. Ac
cording to a friend who was close to him, the leader had clapped his hands and cheered after the attack, but then fallen into silence for more than ten hours. Finally, he made an important decision: he would completely change their nation’s direction, and bend the knee to the West.

  To put it plainly, this would mean being traitors. That sounded bad, but they all understood the leader’s choice. They weren’t like al-Qaeda, who had no fixed abode and could flee in any direction. They were rooted to their country, they couldn’t run.

  But before they bent the knee, they could make one last contribution to the common cause. And so he was here.

  The next morning, the guides made him get up early, saying they were in a hurry to get moving. It would be best to reach the mountain pass before noon, before it got too cold. After a simple breakfast, Mohammad mounted the mule and the trio set out. As they climbed, the temperature plummeted quickly, and the ground was entirely white. The mule’s hooves kept skidding, and it snorted ferociously, forcing him to dismount. Clutching the mule’s tail, and sandwiched between the other two men, he dragged himself up the twisty path with difficulty.

  And now they’d climbed high up into the sea of clouds. Damp fog surrounded them on all sides, and they couldn’t see any farther than a few dozen paces. The little path grew steeper and more slippery, so narrow the mule could barely fit on it. On one side was the hillside, on the other a sheer drop, and even though mist shrouded the bottom, just looking at the viciously sharp rocks along the way was enough to send a shiver through one’s heart. The mule rebelled, stamping its hooves and refusing to continue. No matter how hard they pulled at its harness, it refused to move an inch. The tall guide, at the head of the procession, clapped Mohammad on the back and told him to move back, so he could push the mule instead. Just at that moment, the mule’s back hooves skidded on the stony ground, and its whole rear half slipped off the cliff. The guide in front pulled hard on the harness, but as the mule began to slide over the edge, he was forced to let go or be pulled down after it. The mule’s cries sounded all the way down as it crashed against the jagged sides. Finally, there was a weighty thud, and silence resumed in the canyon.