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The Good Son

Page 28

by Michael Gruber


  Amin said, “Enough, Harold. Let us not make enemies among ourselves. We have enough in the vicinity.”

  A short while later the point is proven, when the door flies open and a group of armed mujahideen storm into the room, Alakazai among them. The men herd the captives roughly into a group against one wall and Alakazai tells them that a missile strike in Badaur last night has killed fourteen people, four of them children, and that as a result, in accordance with his threat, one of the captives will be executed today after the noon prayer. To Sonia he adds, “Make your selection!”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” answers Sonia.

  “Then decide by noon, or by God I will take two at once. And before the execution you will have your conference. We shall all attend.”

  With that, he leaves the room and his men follow after.

  There is silence, except for Porter Cosgrove’s dripping sobs. Amin says, “Gather around this bed, my friends and we will do what must be done. Sonia, you have the cards?”

  Sonia brings out her deck and places it on a blanket pulled tight across the string bed. She says, “Everyone cut the deck once, and then I’ll shuffle and deal out one card each. Low card loses, aces are high, repeat deal if there is a tie for lowest. Does everyone understand?”

  Nods all around, and then, one by one, they cut the deck. Sonia gathers up the cards, gives them a thorough shuffle, and deals out one card to each. Ashton tosses his down first, turns and walks back to his bed. It is the ten of spades. Amin has the king of spades, Manjit the eight of hearts, Schildkraut the jack of clubs, Father Shea has the jack of diamonds, and Annette the six of clubs. Only Porter Cosgrove has not picked up his card. He is staring at it, like a bird at a cobra.

  “Pick up your card, Porter,” says Amin.

  “I won’t,” croaks Cosgrove. “I didn’t agree to this. This is not right. They have no right to do this to me.”

  His wife reaches out a hand to touch him. Sonia notices that her face looks bleached, the freckles standing out starkly, like the onset of a disease. “Porter, please,” she says.

  But he leaps to his feet and runs to the door, upsetting the blanket. The card flips and falls to the floor: the four of clubs. Instantly, Father Shea stands and runs after him, bringing him down with a football tackle. Annette lets out an un-Quakerish wail and moves toward her husband, but Sonia grabs her, folds her in a tight embrace. She resists, struggles a moment, then becomes soft, like a child, and from her throat comes the kind of hopeless keening that Sonia before this has heard only from Afghan women.

  It takes the strength of Amin, Ashton, and the tiny contribution of Manjit to subdue Porter Cosgrove. He thrashes, he howls like an animal, he sprays thick saliva. At last, they use ropes torn from the charpoys to tie his hands and feet, and Ashton gags him with a strip of blanket, none too gently. But they can still hear him, cries like a distant bird and thumps as he strikes his head against the wall. In a civilized land he would, of course, be sedated, and his loved ones would not have to bear this, but here they must. Or she must.

  Everyone goes to their own charpoy and lies down, exhausted, ashamed, except for Sonia, who sits with Annette and tries to comfort her. She is not good at it, she knows. Annette must sense this too, because she twitches her shoulders at the touch of Sonia’s hands, snarls, and tells Sonia to go away, to leave her alone.

  Sonia does not. Instead, she reaches out toward the source of all compassion; she slides off the charpoy, kneels, and begins the zikr that will take her deep into contemplative prayer.

  After an undefined period of this, she hears in her mind’s ear the laughter of her murshid. Of course she has time, all the time in the world. Through Ismail’s spirit, now burned into her heart, she has access to eternity. The answers will come.

  – You begin to learn patience, I see, says the voice of her guide. She can just make him out, a figure glowing with wheaten light.

  – Yes, and I recall you used to say it takes patience to learn patience, so how can anyone learn?

  – It’s a mystery, he says, and laughs again.

  – And is Paradise what you expected, my murshid? Is everything truly revealed?

  – Indeed. Everything, including answers to questions we never thought to ask.

  – And are there gardens and flowing streams and boys like strings of pearls?

  – If I told you, you would not understand, but you would imagine that I described gardens and boys.

  – Well, it won’t be too long before I will see for myself. I am going to die very soon, I think, and I’m afraid.

  – Do you recall when I passed from the world, my murid?

  – I do. It was in a filthy town outside Bukhara. You asked for wine and I gave you tea. Then you recited from Rahman Baba: If man’s purpose and destination is God, then all the dead are guides for the living; if travelers shout at the time of departure, all their shouts are bells for the sleepers. Oh, my murshid, I am awake now, be my guide! Help me to help this poor child!

  – When pain exceeds its own bounds, it becomes the cure, he says, as the vision fades.

  The line is from Ghalib. Strangely, Jung says almost the same thing, and Sonia has never before quite grasped the meaning, but she knows she would have a hard time explaining it to a suffering one. The panic and guilt she felt have now passed away. She feels a warm energy passing through her body and puts her hands on Annette’s back; the woman stiffens, then relaxes. Something is going on, but Sonia does not understand what it is. She knows only that it is something beyond understanding and is as grateful as she has been at any other time of her life.

  Now the door opens again, and they all flinch, but it is only Rashida with their meal. They are ashamed to eat after what has happened, but they are hungry. They pass the chapatis and tea. Only Annette does not eat; she takes a chapati from the tray, stares at it, leaking slow tears, and tears the bread into tiny pieces, small as confetti. After some silence, Amin says, “I am afraid the morning still has a store of unpleasantness for us. My sense was that the person chosen for death would be the one to speak at this so-called conference. My God! I cannot believe these words are issuing from my mouth.”

  “Yes, our ordinary language is quite inadequate for the situation,” says Schildkraut, “but this does not produce in me a desire for silence. In fact, I find my thoughts are bursting out of me, so much I had not realized that I wanted to say. It is clear to me, and I speak as a psychiatrist here, that Porter has in a sense abandoned rational speech entirely and retreated to animal levels. It is impossible for him to speak, obviously, so I am prepared to go on in his place, if that is agreeable.”

  They start to make group-agreement noises, when Annette clears her throat and says, “No, I’ll do it. I know what he has to say. I’ve written enough speeches for him, haven’t I? I’ll give this one.”

  They all gaze at her in amazement. Her eyes are red but crying no longer. She seems to have become a different person.

  Some hours later, the room is packed to overflowing with the men of the village and the mujahideen troop. Sonia and the others are made to sit against the wall at the opposite end, ostentatiously guarded by rather too many armed men, as if they were dangerous criminals poised to escape. Porter Cosgrove has been released from his bonds and sits slumped over between his wife and Father Shea. Annette has been given a dark blue burqa, as has Sonia. Father Shea is speaking quietly to Cosgrove, a low confessional drone that Sonia cannot make out. Sonia wonders if he is seeking a last-minute conversion but dismisses this thought as unworthy. She wonders also what one actually says to a man about to die in an unjust execution, and whether Shea has ever done it before. Surely there can be no rubric for this office, but maybe there is. The Church has strange hidden depths.

  Ashton is sitting on one side of her, Amin on the other. Ashton whispers to her, “I hadn’t realized there were so many of the bastards. What do you think, over a hundred at least? We must be more important than I thought.”

  “
It’s not just us. There’s a bomb factory in the village. It may be a major resupply depot.”

  “And those are quartermasters, I suppose. Those over on the left are Arabs.”

  All the charpoys have been moved to one end of the room, and upon these sit the dignitaries: Alakazai in the center, Mullah Latif on his right, Idris Ghulam Khan on his left. In the same row, also seated, is a group of men the prisoners have never seen before. They are darker and smaller than the locals. Sonia agrees with Ashcroft that they are Arabs. Their apparent leader is a wonderfully handsome young man of about thirty, with pale hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard. The body language of the Pashtuns is easy to read, and Sonia observes that even the older men pay elaborate deference to him.

  “Pretty Boy up there is no Arab,” says Ashton. “That’s odd.”

  “He’s a Pashtun,” says Sonia. “I think he’s the one they call the Engineer.”

  Ashton says, “Who is he?” but Sonia doesn’t answer because Mullah Latif has risen and raised his hands for silence. He invokes the blessings of God on this jirga and says they are gathered to hear the lies of infidels and apostates. Why should good Muslims and mujahideen hear lies? So they can resist them in their hearts, even as the Prophet, peace be upon him, heard the lies of Jews and Christians and made certain that they had rejected the holy word of God before he slew them. Thus, after the infidel speaks, our distinguished emir, Haji Bahram Pason Alakazai, will answer their lies and provide right guidance. Riotous applause, shouts: Death to the infidels! Death to America, death to Israel! When this dies down, the mullah withdraws and Alakazai rises. He describes the murder of innocents in the recent American missile strike and says that one of the hostages will be executed that day in revenge. More applause, the screams echoing off the low ceiling. He says that the choice of who will die will fall to the infamous apostate and blasphemer Sonia Bailey; as a punishment for her evil deeds she will send each of her companions to death. The assemblage loves this; it is such a Pashtun solution, redolent of the savage old tales, a clever trick to catch the evildoer in her own tangle and make her destroy her allies.

  Two guards grab Sonia from the wall and pull her out into the room. One is a large man with a shaved head and a beard like a black bib reaching to his chest. His Kalashnikov is slung across his back. The other is a much smaller man in a black-striped turban and a Russian camo jacket, who has a scarred hook-nosed face like a nasty Western cartoon of a terrorist. He carries the AKMS version of the Kalashnikov, with the stock folded, and he likes to use it as a cattle prod. Sonia feels the muzzle jammed painfully into her ribs.

  Alakazai says, “Choose!” and Sonia says, “I choose Porter Cosgrove,” and points to the cringing man. The guards hustle him out to the center of the room, the little one grinning and poking the prisoner with his weapon. Cosgrove falls to his knees and starts crying again; urine darkens the front of his trousers and pools on the floor, to the vast amusement of the assembly. A few of the onlookers leap out balletically to deliver a kick, others beat him with their shoes. When this jolly uproar fades (and it takes a long time), Alakazai says, “Does this worm have anything to say?”

  Sonia says, “Yes, but he has been driven mad by what has been done to him, just as Muslims in American prisons have been driven mad by what has been done to them. The shame is on you, as it is on the Americans. But his wife knows what he would say if he were able, and she will speak.”

  A babble of voices at this, with the mullah calling out that it is haram for a woman to speak to a jirga, but Sonia says in reply that Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet (peace be upon him) and his wife Aisha were both consulted after the Prophet’s death by the rightly guided caliphs and spoke to assemblies of Muslims. They knew that women can be heard when they speak the words given to them by men, and so it is here.

  There is some grumbling but in the end Alakazai allows it.

  Annette comes forward and begins to speak. As they have agreed beforehand, she pauses after every phrase, and Sonia translates it into Pashto. She sees Alakazai frown at this-he had assumed that only a few of the assembly would be able to understand the doomsday speeches-but he does nothing now.

  Annette says that she and her husband came to this country to speak about making peace. He has devoted his whole life to peace, and now he will be a martyr to peace. Why did they come into this country? Because every day a billion Muslims wish one another peace, yet from one end of the umma to the other, with few exceptions, there is no peace-there is dissension and riot, war, and calls for the death of this group or that-and they wished to learn why and to see if they could do something about it. Because, she says, peace is possible. It is not an idle dream of unrealistic people. She speaks about successful peace projects of the recent past, some of which she and her husband had helped bring about: Mozambique, Angola, South Africa, Ireland, Bosnia. In Bosnia, she says, the Americans and Europeans prevented the extermination of Muslims, and also in Kosovo. So peace is possible, even in places that have been fighting for years. Why then is there still so much war? There are two reasons, she says. First, many people find war beneficial. They are nobodies in peacetime and great men in wartime, admired, powerful, and rich. Naturally, they do not want to give that up, so nearly all successful peacemaking must address the ego needs of these warmongers. This can be done far more cheaply than most people realize, and she gives examples of warlords bought off or retired. The second reason is that war literally maddens. People do things to one another in wartime that they would never think of doing otherwise, psychopathic criminality becomes the norm, and people believe that only “victory” can make things right, can justify what they have done. So they fight on, even if-especially if-they have lost sight of the original purposes of the war. But this madness can be cured, and has been, in many places. She talks about how, even under the most oppressive regimes, peace movements can and have flourished and prevailed, and gives examples from different nations and periods of history.

  Sonia thinks it is a good speech, cogent and spoken from the heart. No one listens to it, of course, since here in the heartland of misogyny no man ever listens to what a woman has to say, especially about war. War is the life of men here; the Pashtuns have always had war: clan war, tribal war, the war of nations and empires when available; peace means poverty and boredom to them. If Sonia had translated into Estonian instead of Pashto they could not have been less interested. Nevertheless, Alakazai rises now and explains why the woman is in error. The wars of the infidels are of no concern to the faithful, they are a just punishment on a people who disdain God’s holy word and His prophet, peace be upon him. The jihad, on the other hand, is not war at all but a sacred duty and cannot and should not be stopped until the House of Peace, the umma, has won its final triumph over all unbelievers, which we rightly call the House of War. Everyone listens to this with respect and afterward they all shout the greatness of God and wave their weapons in the air.

  Alazakai has been brief because the assembly is anxious to attend the next item on the agenda. He gives orders; the guards heave Cosgrove to his feet and drag him out, followed by the men and the prisoners. In the courtyard the prisoners are lined up against the wall as before. Sonia supports Annette, who does not seem to need much supporting; her face bears the thousandyard stare of the combat veteran. The sky is overcast, as it often is this time of year, and a chill wind whips up small dust devils in the yard. Then, remarkably, the sun emerges from a small gap in the cloud cover, as if on order. A man holds what looks like a professional camcorder. One of the Arabs has a smaller camcorder and there are quite a number of cell-phone cameras in use. Sonia reflects that neither these people nor the culture they represent could ever have even dreamed up such a thing as a camcorder or a cell phone, far less the Internet along which they will send the images, but they are perfectly comfortable using them, rather as worms infest a larder without any idea of where the food came from. She realizes this is an imperialist thought; perhaps these toys are only a
fair recompense for the zero, paper, and algebra-gifts of the umma and vital to the rise of the West-but just then she is not ashamed of it; she wishes a CIA drone would fire a missile and burn all of them to a crisp.

  The guards bind Cosgrove’s hands behind him and force him to his knees. There is no ceremony. A large man wearing a black ski mask comes forward carrying a chora, the thick-backed chopping knife of the Pashtuns, and strikes Porter Cosgrove’s head off with one blow. Sonia makes herself look, and like everyone who sees this phenomenon for the first time she is amazed at the height of the blood fountain that shoots from the severed neck and how much red liquid is contained in a human body. The sad corpse topples slowly over, and the dusty smeared head is held up by the executioner, to a great shout from the crowd attesting once again to the greatness of God.

  Later, she is with Annette in the prison room, listening. The new widow is dry-eyed. “What’s wrong with me?” she asks, “I can’t feel anything. I mean, if we’d been together, if Porter hadn’t-you know-collapsed like that, like he decided to die, to dissolve, before they killed him, maybe that would’ve been different; we could’ve talked about our lives and I could’ve held on to something, I could’ve felt that our life together wasn’t meaningless. That pathetic thing they killed wasn’t him. What I said in that speech was real; that was the real Porter. I loved him. I thought I loved him, but who was he? Was he really that… sad thing? I can’t cry for that. Am I a monster? Why can’t I cry?”

  “You’re in shock. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

  “That’s your advice? Okay, I won’t be. I’ll watch a little TV and catch up on my e-mails. Is that Islamic, by the way? Is that what God says? I see you talking to Him all the time. Is it like He’s saying, Hey, when my servants cut off your husband’s head, kick back, take it easy! Only in more elevated language, of course.”

 

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