As suddenly as they had begun, the poppy fields disappeared and we were returned to the golden desert landscape. Rapid mountain streams cascaded through gnarled and ancient apple orchards. Fields of graceful young birches swayed toward one sunlit ravine. There were gorges of monumental rocks perched dramatically after landslides, and snow framed distant crests. Spectacular, unsuspecting butterflies tripped through the bright air and smashed against the windshield. As we neared Bamiyan there were cracked, mud-walled castles, fortresses where colorfully overclothed tribesmen crouched. Slant-eyed, round-faced boys swung slingshot rings in the air.
Then, at last, when I was too weary and saddle sore to care where we were, off in the distance, three towering statues of Buddha appeared standing upright and balanced, carved and elite, within the sides of a mustard-colored plateau. Even then I knew that I beheld something mystical and reverent. They were more impressive to me out there in the wild land, those still figures, than any ornate cathedral I’d ever beheld. Even at this distance, though, we could see that there were no faces. “But where are they?” I asked.
Chartreuse said, “The hands and faces were cut off long ago by different armies on their way to India—probably the Muslim armies that brought Islam to the area in the ninth century.”
“God. How old are they?”
“Fifth century,” he said, driving even faster. I clung to my tarp.
Blacky, wide awake now and avidly reading from his guidebook, added, “The thinking was that by carving out the head and hands, it would take away the soul of the image.”
As we neared the Buddhas it became evident that there was no town, just a crumble of ruins, some tents and caves. Men were gathered at the feet of the Buddhas, though. They’d been waiting for Chartreuse and were delighted with the unexpected gifts he had packed under the tarp. I thought they must be drugs, the way they secreted them away, but in their hurry they ripped open a scar of burlap, revealing the butt of a rifle. I looked away and smiled politely, pretending I hadn’t seen.
Stiffly we disembarked and shook hands all around. The men were shy and sweet, offering us figs. They took us to a kettle of dark water where we refreshed ourselves, then brought us into a huge tent that was so dark at first after the daylight that we had to stand for a moment to adjust our eyes. I remember the tent. There were chests of drawers and carpets everywhere, even pictures on the walls. A fire was in the middle with stones in a circle and an elegant kettle. We had some greasy, delicious tea and bowls of lentils while Chartreuse was brought up to date by one of his cousins. The children sat with us. They were so different from American or European children. More ignorant, but wiser. I gave them my bangles. It didn’t matter, they were cheap bangles I’d bought on the Leopoldstrasse. I wished I had more to give them. They were barefoot, with soles crusty and thick, used to the desert. Then we went back out into the daylight and, blinking and blinded by the sun, into the mysterious dark caves that led right to the feet of the Buddhas. There was certainly nothing else to do. But for the Buddhas, we were literally in the middle of nowhere. Carefully we negotiated the worn, centuries-old sedimentary earth steps, the dirt caking between our fingers as we pulled ourselves upward through the honeycomb of caves. Light streamed in at different intervals.
“Here we go,” Blacky called back to me, his eyes lit up with adventure and high spirits. “These used to be the cells where more than a thousand monks would contemplate.”
The height was dizzying when we reached the top and climbed out onto one of the heads, a space the size of a small balcony. I climbed to my feet but kept both arms to the wall. The drop was straight down and the wind blew fiercely. We were a good ten stories high.
“For centuries Bamiyan was the center, the heart of the Silk Route,” Chartreuse shouted. “Can you imagine? This very spot was pulsing with people! Look down! We’re standing where the face used to be.”
The crisp wind died suddenly and I was so relieved. “Was this really the face? What a shame,” I said. “Why would anyone want to destroy such mysterious treasures?”
“The Muslims,” Blacky said. “They were image breakers.”
“There can be no image resembling Allah,” Chartreuse explained.
“It’s really interesting when you think of it.” Blacky wiped his glasses clean with the edge of his shirt. “The whole idea of Buddhism is nonattachment. That means to ideas, to things, to people, and even to existence itself. You really have to wonder if we are dishonoring the very intention of the creators of these statues by placing undue attachment to them. I mean, can the doctrine of nonattachment coexist with the need to preserve antiquities?”
We looked out over the seemingly endless valley, pondering this. And, I thought uneasily, that was no doubt why a man like Blacky would never be attached to someone as worldly as me. He thought great thoughts, did Blacky. Although I could not help remarking to myself how similar the doctrines of Buddhist thought seemed to be to my old grammar school nuns’ doctrines of basic Christianity. Wasn’t perfect contrition supposed to be selfless? Sorrow for one’s sins supposed to stem at best from the wish for the greater good? And how staunchly the nuns had taught us never to pray to a statue but through it.
Blacky stood taking the newly revived wind, enjoying letting it throttle him. I admired his slim hips and fierce beard. No matter how often he shaved there was always that underlying blue threatening to come forth. Chartreuse sat on his haunches to make a shield from the wind. He lit a joint and the two of them passed it back and forth. They stood untethered. I thought if I smoked I would fall off. I felt as far away from safety as possible. For who were these men? Did I really know either of them? I had the sudden feeling that my only weapon against them was that I was not alone with either of them. As cool as it was, my forehead suddenly beaded with sweat. I stepped back and clung to the—what?—sort of nasal passages of the great Buddha.
Blacky said, “It wasn’t always like this. This was an important city, one of the major Buddhist centers from the second century up to the ninth century, when Islam entered the area. Can you believe it? Look how desolate now, and how peaceful!” He pointed out across the valley. “Think of it! This is the very spot where Buddhism was transferred to China, Korea, Japan, along this very old Silk Route.”
I could tell he was moved. These were the sorts of things that he was passionate about, that really riled him up, and I berated myself for imagining—even for a moment—that he, of all people, could ever be violent.
Below us stretched the valley of Bamiyan. If you squinted you could imagine the past, busy and thriving. Now a family of white dogs, huge as polar bears, romped freely. You could just make out the persistent ting of some worker’s hammer.
Chartreuse, his pajamas snapping in the wind, his animal skin vest still smelling of animal, said in a dreamy voice, “In India, the great king Aoka’s edict was, ‘All sects deserve reverence for one reason or another. By thus acting, a man exults his own sect and at the same time does service to the sects of other people.”
“Yes,” Blacky said. They grabbed hold of each other, clasping arms and grinning. I got a lump in my throat. I thought, I’ll never forget this moment. This crux in my life. Never.
But below, some children had climbed onto the roof of the truck. They began to dance on it.
“Hey!” Chartreuse shouted. “Hey!” Frantically, he clattered down the steps threatening retribution and leaving us alone on the magical summit.
We stood listening to the wind-furled echoes from Chartreuse’s shouts.
“Do you know where we are?” Blacky asked.
“Where?”
“In the third eye of the Buddha.”
How poetic he was. And how crass my perceptions had been. I would change, I resolved. Then out of the blue a huge hawk appeared in the sky. Something flaccid was between its beak. It landed near us on one of the ledges, but just out of sight. We could hear how close by the flap of its wings. We could hear hungry squeaks, and something else, a t
rial of agony, and then resigned silence.
Fascinated, horrified, we stood together.
“Claire,” he said and he sort of laughed at himself. Then he came at me, his face pitted with grime, his eyes wet and intent with desire.
I am his moment of weakness, I thought. I was right. He fell upon my red hair like a thirsty man to water. His head was tipped and when I turned I saw his eyes, anguished and filled with heat.
“It’s Bamiyon,” I said, excusing his behavior. “It’s this place.” But then I remembered that demeaning look in Tupelo’s eyes and the last veneer of my defenses was garroted and kicked away. I opened my vest and let him taste me. He held on to me like a viper. I became feather light. We stood there and the wind came up again. He wrangled his hands into the waistband of my jeans and groaned at the touch of my flesh. I kissed the salty neck that had been to Vietnam, that had studied night and day and become a doctor, that had slept with women left and right and made them cry, that had a mind that soared and pierced and—what was this?—oh, my God, was it blue?—and now … he dragged me back into the darkened tunnel, strange as a lighthouse made of mud, the wind whistling around us in a back-and-forth as old as time itself, and no … Yes. Oh, yes. Now it was my turn. He was my captive. And I was his.
chapter fourteen
We arrived back in Herat very late. I expected Tupelo to be waiting with, at the very least, a loaded gun. She had been to the silk merchants’ stalls, though, and was guiltily folding away her packets of glory. She had her back to us but I could see the ribbon of vermillion being stuffed silkily under the table. Yet I was too thirsty to worry about her vain acquisitions. She turned with a big false smile on her face, the tea pitcher in her hand, and cups for us all. She had poise, I’ll give her that.
If I hadn’t known she’d been up to something already, I would have then, because she was nice to me in front of everyone.
“You look all in,” she said, handing me the first cup. We all sat down. Greedily, I finished mine and turned back for more but she was just reaching across to give Blacky his and we got in each other’s way. It seemed we were always getting in each other’s way. Clumsily, she stumbled and dropped the pitcher. It fell to the ground and crashed apart. Everyone gave a cry of vexation. It would take a while for the next pot to boil. Boiled water was precious and there was no drinking anything not boiled.
We were both sorry, the others—dying of thirst—more than me. We sat about the fire waiting for the pot to boil.
“We’ve been to Bamiyon,” Blacky announced.
“Ah, Bamiyon,” Vladimir said, munching on walnuts, his legs up on a hassock. “The faceless Buddhas of time. I would have liked to come.” Isolde crouched at his feet, massaging them. He didn’t seem to mind. His head was thrown back in ecstasy. He lowered his chin with effort. “No chance of us going back?”
“No!” both Blacky and I shouted, our muscles sore from the hours of tedious throttling. But Blacky was happy. I could see it all around him. And I was happy, too. We kept bursting into laughter at odd moments. We arranged ourselves on cushions on the rug and ate mutton strips and hunks of bread soaked in chicken broth. There was yogurt—there was always yogurt—and grapes and pomegranates. Wolfgang walked around us in a circle, filming. It was our last night in Herat and he wanted to make sure he got it all. Daisy and Reiner played badminton. They got more use out of that set! Reiner would give a short blast with his whistle every time he scored.
“What’s with you, Claire?” Reiner poked me. “Don’t you think you ought to be shooting?”
“I know I should,” I murmured, “but the thought of getting up and changing film seems like an enormous job.” I just lay there. Blacky smiled at me from across the room. I noticed Chartreuse watching me. He seemed glad. Everyone was getting along so well. I stupidly believed it was all the good karma Blacky and I had produced. I should have taken better note of Tupelo’s glittering emerald, telling and alive in the firelight.
Harry couldn’t resist showing off all the treasures he’d finagled from the locals. Pots old as the hills. Kuchi dresses. He flung them over us; wonderful, many-colored, vast-skirted dresses with beading and sleeves in still different colors. “Claire!” He slung one across my lap. “I bought this one for you!”
“For me?” I held it to my face. It was cotton, very soft, made of jewel colors: lapis and ruby and on the bib rows of vibrant, hand-worked beading. The skirt had so much material that if you twirled, it would stand straight out. I’d never had anything so gorgeous, so detailed. “I don’t know what to say!”
Harry, pleased with himself, brought out his little gifts for everyone. Then he stood there rocking back and forth, watching us, jingling the change in his pocket.
“But, but …” everyone protested.
“Tut, tut.” He brushed away our protests. “We all needed a little treat, what? Time for a bauble or two!”
We ate ravenously that night. Although we tried our best to refrain from openly showing affection, Blacky and I kept smiling at each other. And we all got stoned. Except Harry, who seemed content to reap the emotional rewards of his own generosity. “Don’t forget to lock up your things,” he would say, like a parent. I didn’t think he’d got on well with his. When he spoke of them he spoke of punishments. It was his own private mantra.
Vladimir said, “I really wanted to go see those statues.” He turned to Isolde. “You know, if you hadn’t had to go to the marketplace—”
“Oh, stop glowering!” Tupelo defended Isolde. “Look at all the wonderful souvenirs she bought!”
“Go on,” Daisy urged her, “show us what you’ve bought.” She stood in the hard glow of a dangling lightbulb with a fingernail scissors. She was trimming Reiner’s straggly ponytail. “And so cheap!” Isolde marveled. As if to prove it, she opened her basket of hand-knit, leather-soled socks. We all agreed they were practical, beautiful, and would make excellent gifts when we returned to Europe.
“Yes, but did she have to buy so many?” Vladimir cried.
“How many?” Wolfgang asked.
Isolde looked at us with innocence. “Just eighty pair,” she said.
I think we laughed for half an hour.
The next morning I slept longer than anyone. I awoke with a raging headache.
Wolfgang came in. “I can’t believe you’re not up yet! Come on, Claire! We’re going to Kabul! Don’t you want to shoot it?”
“Yes,” I said and tried to get up. I felt my brain move. I squinted and looked at him. “I think I need a cup of tea. That hashish must have been too strong for me.”
I wrapped myself in one of the blankets and went out to the others, who were already set to leave. Isolde handed me a cup of tea. She looked at me strangely. “It’s warm in here,” she said.
“No, it isn’t,” I argued. “It’s freezing.”
I was feeling low. I sat down. “You know, I don’t think I will go.”
“She’s depressed,” Daisy told the others. It was beginning to annoy me that she always felt she had to interpret my motives. I said so.
“Claire, there’s no staying behind. We’re leaving,” Harry said.
I stood there in my blanket. “I’m dizzy,” I said in an aggravated tone. “I need some time, all right?”
“Tch.” Tupelo snorted malevolently. “She’s showing off. Looking for sympathy.”
Isolde screwed up her face. “Sympathy for what?”
Reiner said, “It’s not like you to be cranky, Claire.”
Blacky put his hand on my face. “She’s burning up,” he said.
“Oh, great. Just great,” Vladimir said.
Chartreuse dashed in the door. “Let’s go! Off we go!”
“Claire’s sick,” Isolde said.
“Merde,” Chartreuse said.
I ran at breakneck speed for the outhouse. When I returned they were all standing there, waiting. That’s all I remember. I must have passed out. There was no possible way I could travel. I was ill. Really ill
. Too ill to be frightened if I would live or die. I was simply, all-consumedly ill.
For many days and nights I remained sick. It was holding everybody up. “Well, she must be getting better now,” they would say. But I did not. Blacky came up with all his superior German medicines. “She must be taking a turn soon,” he would reassure them.
Still, there was no turn for the better. It went on for so long, it became at last a possibility that I might die. Through a haze of fever I heard them discussing me. Daisy was concerned that my family be alerted so they could come for the body. It was Blacky’s anger that jolted me to consciousness. “Just wait until she’s dead before you start referring to her as a body!” he yelled at them. He realized what he’d said and that I’d heard him. From my ravaged body on the cot my eyes met his. He sank down to the chair and put his head into his hands. The fever washed over me and I was gone again, but I remember his despair.
There was not one moment in all that time as he cared for me that I saw any sign of disgust or aggravation. He wasn’t just caring, I realized even in my delirium, he lived a vocation. If you were sick he was yours. I shall never forget that. And another thing I remembered, in and out of my nightmares: Tupelo’s face as she’d handed me that cup of tea. It hadn’t been hot, that tea I’d so ravenously drunk. It hadn’t—I realized now as I lay writhing on my cot—even been boiled. And Tupelo, it occurred to me in my moments of clarity, was many things but never, to my knowledge, clumsy.
One time I awoke with a jolt and saw her sitting on my bed. She held a silk scarf over her nose and mouth to cover a cough. But she wasn’t looking at me. She didn’t seek me out within my eyes. She was scrutinizing me, weighing, I thought, just how sick I was. It was like I wasn’t a person. I was past being a person. Like I was already dead because I had no more sexuality. And she’d only seen me as sexually useful.
I remember quite clearly that I turned my back on her.
Pack Up the Moon Page 19