by Atiq Rahimi
Sophia’s loving gaze rests on Rassoul’s lips, obscured by a curl of smoke. “You said you didn’t want to smoke anymore.” He drags harder on his cigarette and blows the smoke into her hair. They laugh.
Sophia’s laugh; what a joy! He adores that crystal-clear laugh, innocent and so fragile it falters under the slightest glance, the smallest of movements, but still it lights up her eyes.
The faraway sound of bullets and rockets doesn’t disturb the peaceful silence that has settled between them.
Sophia shyly puts her hand on Rassoul’s knee, in the hope that he might take it in his, stroke it, that they might delight in this loving moment. But his hands do not move. They are trembling, dripping with sweat.
“Have you decided to stop speaking?” asks Sophia desperately, staring at Rassoul’s unmoving lips.
After a short hesitation he jumps to his feet to go into the house, find a pen and paper, and write it all down for her. But he is stopped by a noise at the gate. Someone wants to come in. Is it Nazigol, back already? Rassoul throws down his cigarette and rushes to hide in the darkness of the corridor. Sophia goes to the gate. “Who’s there?”
“Nana Alia?” asks a deep, male voice. Sophia, panicking, replies: “No, she isn’t here.”
“What time will she be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who are you? Nazzi?”
“No, Nazigol isn’t here either. I’m their maid.”
“No! Sophia …?”
“No …”
“Of course it is! Be a sweetie and open up! It’s me, Commandant Amer Salam.” He pushes hard on the gate, which Sophia struggles to keep closed with her fragile, trembling hands as she cries: “No … No, I’m not Sophia … they told me not to let anyone in.”
“And I’m anyone? Come on, open up!” He starts pushing again. Hopeless—Sophia quickly attaches the security chain. Amer Salam shakes the gate even harder.
Rassoul surges out of the darkness to rush at the gate and yank it open. Taken aback, Amer Salam asks loudly: “Isn’t Nana Alia in?” No, gestures Rassoul furiously. The commandant peers over his shoulder for Sophia, and says: “Then tell her that Amer Salam will be coming tonight with some guests. There will be seven of us, seven!” And with that he leaves.
Sophia collapses weakly to the ground from her hiding place behind the gate. Rassoul closes it and watches helplessly through the gaps in the wall as Amer Salam wanders back to his car, parked a little way off. Then he moves away, nervously lights a cigarette and goes to sit on one of the terrace steps. Sophia stands up and walks over to him. He stares at her as if to ask And who is Amer Salam?
Come on, Rassoul, you love asking questions to which you already know the answer. He must be one of Nana Alia’s regular clients, who comes here to watch young dancing girls. Leave Sophia alone.
She puts her head on her knees and weeps, silently. Rassoul, confused, doesn’t know whether to comfort her or drive her away.
Why drive her away? She deserves to be comforted, loved, honored.
Tenderly, hesitantly, he puts his hand on her shoulder. She is soothed, as if not expecting this moment of grace. She huddles into his arms and starts sobbing in earnest. Rassoul strokes her back. If he could speak, she would hear him say: “It’s all over, Sophia. That dirty whore is gone. I killed her. Calm down!”
She is still crying. She doesn’t want to stop. She doesn’t stop. She will never stop, not while Rassoul is stroking her. May this moment last forever—these tears, and this stroking!
But sadly, it does end. Rassoul is on edge, not so much because of Sophia as from his strange experience of being in the house. He feels as if someone is watching them from the corridor. He stands and peers angrily behind him. Then he gestures to Sophia to leave right now. “When Nazigol comes back.” No, this house is cursed! He runs to the door. “But if they come back and we aren’t here, Nana Alia will kick us out of our house.”
Nana Alia can go to hell! I’ve killed her.
He throws his cigarette into the courtyard, opens the gate and runs out into the lane. Sophia, horrified, chases after him. “Rassoul! Do you know what’s happened to Nana Alia?” Don’t try and find out what he’s done to her, Sophia! You will lose him. “What’s the matter? I’ve a right to know.” He stops and stares at her, both oppressed and oppressive. How to tell her that she’ll find out soon enough, that he himself will explain. “Damn! My chador! Hang on, I’ll go back and get it.” She goes. Rassoul continues on his way. After a few steps he stops. The pain in his ankle. He rubs it.
Far away, somewhere in the city, there is a volley of gunshots. He looks up at the Asmai Heights. A group of armed men are climbing to the summit.
He, on the other hand, is going down, toward the saqi-khana where …
SOMEONE IS coughing—a loose, drawn-out cough. Then they spit. Between coughs we hear a voice; a rich, solemn voice belonging to a certain Kaka Sarwar, reciting: “… and thus Dhul-Qarnayn took a new road toward the north. He came to a city located between two mountains, and there he found a people who spoke some isolated language and could understand no other, and who were suffering the oppression of Gog and Magog, two evil tribes drawn from the dregs of society who were ravaging the area.” He stops to inhale a lungful of hash. “Seeing that he was a strong and powerful man, the people asked Dhul-Qarnayn to build a wall between them and the men of Gog and Magog, and offered to give him a handsome tribute in return. Gog and Magog were indeed two wicked and vicious tribes, who would listen to no counsel and feared nothing. As Dhul-Qarnayn was naturally inclined to do good and help the oppressed he immediately agreed to assist this people, but refused any payment in exchange. He said to them: ‘That which my Lord has established in me is better than tribute. Help me therefore with strength and labour and I will build a barrier between you and them.’ ” Kaka Sarwar pauses again in his tale to gulp some tea. “Dhul-Qarnayn thus asked the people to bring him blocks of iron, wood, copper, and charcoal. He erected the blocks of iron between the two mountains, and surrounded them with pieces of wood and charcoal. Then he lit the fire, and as soon as it turned into a furnace poured the molten copper on top. And thus Gog and Magog could neither scale nor pierce the wall. When Dhul-Qarnayn had finished, he cried: ‘This is a mercy from my Lord. But when the promise of my Lord comes to pass, He will make it into dust. And the promise of my Lord is true!’ ”
“Kaka Sarwar, when will this promise come?”
“But it is already come, dear Hakim! It was said that on the day of the apocalypse the hordes of Gog and Magog would make a hole in the barrier, and Allah would allow them to spread over the earth. They would dominate the world and wipe out the human race; then they would condemn Allah to death, by sending arrows up into the sky … Where is the chillum?” It is brought to him. He smokes and asks: “Do you know this passage from the Koran?”
“No.”
“Shame on you! And do you not know either where this city is to be found?”
“No.”
“Shame on you! This city is here, it is Kabul!” A final drag, and he withdraws into a corner. “Kaka Sarwar, don’t leave us with this terrible story! Recite us a poem!” asks a little man sitting next to Rassoul. Eyes closed, Kaka Sarwar sings quietly: “O City Mufti, you go more astray / Than I do, though to wine I do give way; I drink the blood of grapes, you that of men: / Which of us is the more bloodthirsty, pray?”
“Me!” says a voice. There is widespread, hollow laughter. Then silence, languor, dreams … The world is merely a transparent space without substance or weight. In the middle of it all, Rassoul. Swimming. Naked. Innocent. Weightless and delicate. How he loves this state of grace. A beautiful abyss, a poetry of hemp.
“Rassoul! Rassoul!”
Someone is shaking him. He sits up, slowly, opens his eyes, slowly; in his haze, he hears a teenage voice speaking to him.
“Hello. Razmodin sent me. He asked me to find you and take you to the Hotel Metropole. I’ve been looking for you everywhere …” R
assoul gazes at him from the depths of his dream “… I went to your house, and you weren’t there. I went to the late Mohamaramollah’s house …” Please, make him shut up! Rassoul isn’t in the mood to listen to every moment of the search. The boy watches Rassoul light a cigarette and exclaims “It’s a Marlboro!” in a voice full of envy. Rassoul offers him one. The boy hesitates, then takes it and sits down opposite Rassoul. “… Your fiancée told me she had lost you. I went back to your house, and the neighbor sent me here …” OK, OK! Rassoul gestures to show that he has understood. Be quiet now; let him get his head together.
When he comes to his senses, Rassoul glances all around the room and sees only silent, motionless ghosts. “Your cousin nearly died!” Nearly died? Why? asks Rassoul with his eyes, frowning. “A rocket landed just behind the hotel. It caused a lot of damage.” But Razmodin is safe?
Rassoul stands up suddenly and walks out of the smoking den, followed by the young lad. He runs—still limping—all the way to Razmodin’s office, in the basement of the hotel. The door is open. His cousin is busy picking up papers that have scattered all over the floor.
Nothing serious, then.
I can leave.
Yes, leave! Or it will be the same words, the same reproaches, the same temper as this morning … Worse, in fact, because he will see that you’ve been smoking hash.
He is about to leave when Razmodin notices him. He stops gathering his things and rushes to the door. “Where are you going, Rassoul?” Rassoul freezes. “Come in!” Rassoul comes in. “Sit down!” commands Razmodin, pointing to a decrepit sofa. He is febrile, more so than this morning. Something is roiling inside him, troubling him, preventing him from speaking. Time passes. Time spent searching for the right words, words that can make bad news bearable. Rassoul senses this. He knows his cousin, knows his confusion and clumsiness in difficult situations. He waits for him to find the words.
“Rassoul, do you know Commandant Rostam?” Rassoul looks down, pretending to think, and keeps his head down as he shakes it, so as not to give anything away. Of course he knows him. He must be the man his mother mentioned in one of her letters, without giving his name—the one who wants to marry Donia. “He’s come from Mazar, at your mother’s request. He’s upstairs now, waiting for you in the hotel restaurant,” says Razmodin as he paces over to his desk. He returns to whisper the thing that is torturing him: “Cousin, there’s bad news”; he waits, waits for Rassoul to stand up and cry: “What bad news?” But he doesn’t, he just sits there quietly, motionless, avoiding Razmodin’s eyes.
“Rassoul?” Rassoul looks up. “Your father …” He is dead—Rassoul knows that, but can’t say it. And even if he could, he wouldn’t; he’d nod his head, as he is doing now. That’s all.
“He is … dead.” Razmodin finally stutters out the word. Rassoul nods his head again to show that he already knows.
“You knew?” Rassoul mouths “yes” with his eyes on the ground. “You already knew?” repeats Razmodin, stunned. “How did you know? Who told you? When?”
Must I really find a pen and explain all this—how my mother told me a month ago, in a letter that she sent to this very hotel? Come on, Razmodin, you remember: it was you who brought me the letter. Don’t act like an idiot!
No, Razmodin is not an idiot. He has understood everything. The only reason he’s stunned is that he can’t understand why you didn’t tell him. “But cousin, it was your father!” He grabs Rassoul by the arm, outraged. “They killed him! Did you know that?” Few people die a natural death these days, Razmodin. You know my opinion on the subject. So please, spare me this absurd astonishment, this fake surprise … Rather let us remain in this silence, laden as it is with your accusations and my despair.
Razmodin stares at him. Rassoul keeps his eyes on the ground, not in case he contradicts himself but so that his cousin won’t see he’s been smoking.
Hide as he may, Razmodin is beginning to suspect. That’s why he leans over, checking Rassoul’s dark, evasive eyes for the slightest sign, the slightest gleam to assure him of his cousin’s state. He can’t believe that Rassoul harbors such hatred toward his father.
No, it’s not even hatred but something still more savage: indifference. And worse, not indifference at life itself, but at his father’s death.
No, Rassoul cannot be this cruel, this inhuman. There must be something else going on.
Hash! That’s what it is. Look at his eyes! So red, so lost, so dull …
“Have you been smoking again?”
Here we go!
Rassoul stands up and walks out. The door slams. Razmodin remains alone for a moment, bewildered. Then he comes to his senses and rushes into the corridor. “Where are you going? Commandant Rostam is looking for you.” Rassoul shrugs. What the hell does he care? “He’s come all the way from Mazar-e-Sharif. He was a friend of your father’s … He says he’s going to take care of your mother and sister.” He’d better come back another day. Rassoul is busy. “What’s happening to you, cousin? You’re not saying a word! Tell me what’s going on!” Nothing, Razmodin, nothing! “Are you sick?” No, he shakes his head.
But you are sick, Rassoul, sick of yourself.
Razmodin follows him: “You’ve let yourself go again, not eating, not sleeping …” He takes a few notes and slips them into Rassoul’s pocket. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself. See a doctor. Eat, rest, recover your strength. I’ll come and check on you …”
Why such contempt for Razmodin, when he is such a kindly cousin?
Because I know why he’s always taking such care of me. It is neither compassion nor friendship. It’s because he too wants to marry my sister. That’s why!
And?
Rassoul leaves the hotel, annoyed.
The street is still thick with smoke, and just as stifling. After a few steps Rassoul comes to a thoughtful standstill. “Who is this fucking Rostam?” He lights a cigarette, and glances across the road to the Ministry of Information and Culture. It is seething with armed men, Jano among them. He sees Rassoul and calls out, “Hey, Rassoulovski!” Rassoul crosses the street. “So you’ve decided, have you? Follow me!” They enter the building, go down the stairs and along a dark, smoky basement corridor until they find Commandant Parwaiz talking to two bearded men around a large map of Kabul. Their voices are muffled by the roar of a generator. Jano walks up to Parwaiz to tell him that Rassoul has come.
“And how is my Dostoevsky scholar? Welcome. You look much younger than last night!” says Parwaiz with his disarming smile. Rassoul strokes his chin to indicate that it’s because he has shaved off his beard. “The beard disgusted you?” Laugh. “And the voice?” Rassoul grimaces. “Watandar, why didn’t you tell me last night that you were Razmodin’s cousin? We met in prison. So … are you coming to join us?” Yes, he nods, glancing awkwardly at the two men. “They’re with us,” says Parwaiz in reassurance. After a brief silence, on account of his uncertainty about whether or not to say it, and how to say it, Rassoul picks up a pencil lying on the Kabul map and scribbles the name Commandant Rostam on one corner. Parwaiz reads it out and asks him, astonished: “You’re going to join Commandant Rostam?” The two men turn and stare at Rassoul. This makes him even more nervous. One says: “Who doesn’t know him!” and stares hard at Parwaiz, saying: “In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that. People are saying that you want to join forces with him.”
“Yes, but …”
“Tell me it’s just a rumor!”
“Sadly, it’s true!”
“So that’s why he’s in Kabul! And you’re up for it?”
“It’s not for me to decide …”
“Think about what you’re saying, Parwaiz: the day I find out that pig is with us is the day you’ll see me across enemy lines.”
“Commandant Morad, it is better to live in peace with him than …”
“In peace with one’s enemy? Do you believe in peace between a wolf and a lamb?”
“What you are saying is true,
but with our enemies we have a duty to make peace; with a friend, there’s no need.”
“But why? You’re well aware that we can’t stand each other! If you want to make peace with him then my place is no longer here with you. Goodbye!”
He takes his gun and strides out. Parwaiz and the other man rush after him. Rassoul remains there alone, distraught, staring at the map of Kabul laid out on the table, crumpled and full of holes.
At this point his sister’s name reverberates inside him—“Donia!”
THE CITY of Kabul is waiting for the wind. It waits for the wind as it waits for the rain to bring an end to the drought. Just five weeks ago, the wind would start blowing before the sun had even disappeared behind the mountains. It would raise all the dust that had covered the city and every inch of people’s lives, and chase it away. That wind arose from none of the cardinal points. You could say it arose at the end of the earth, and to there it returned having whirled around the city to help it breathe, sleep, and dream once more … But it blows no longer. It lets everything stagnate: the sulphur of war, the smoke of terror, the embers of hatred. The fatty stench of burning clings to your skin, seeps into your bones. Better to smoke one of Nana Alia’s cigarettes than to breathe this stifling air.
Rassoul lights up. No desire to go home, or to see Sophia. He is still wandering. Lost.
Perhaps he should find a doctor? With the money Razmodin gave him he could afford the consultation and the medicine, food, and something to smoke.
* * *
At the Malekazghar crossroads he sees a sign for a doctor’s clinic, “Specializing in ear, nose, and throat.” He walks in. The waiting room is full to bursting. Men and women with their families, some who seem to have spent the night there. People are eating, smoking, coughing, shouting, laughing …
At the entrance to the passage, a young man is handing out numbers. He shouts to Rassoul: “You have to arrive very early to get a number—around six in the morning.” Seeing Rassoul’s shocked face, he grumbles: “All Kabul comes here to be treated. Whether they have throat problems or piles! The hospital only takes the war wounded these days, and not all of them!”