One entire wall was dedicated to what Parwaiz described as his ‘life’s work in the making’. Anything he came across in newspapers or magazines and that he associated with Afghanistan he would cut out and glue on before priming the surface and frantically drawing all over it. And so it grew into a historic panorama that went back to the invasion of Alexander the Great and covered the centuries until the arrival of the US Air Force. Shards of exploding Buddha statues were everywhere. Whatever befell his country, Parwaiz always managed to find it a place in his detailed mural.
They drank tea and ate the dates that Farah had bought in a Turkish cornershop. Then she retrieved the parcel with her gift for Parwaiz. ‘A special day calls for a special gift,’ she said with a tentative smile.
His fine long fingers caressed the gift wrap.
‘Open it carefully, kaka jan, it’s fragile,’ she said, eager to see his reaction.
He removed the sticky tape, unfolded the parcel and looked at the paper butterfly as though it were the world’s most precious diamond.
‘Ah, a lucky butterfly.’ He brushed his fingers over the wings and then over the paper body and smiled at the two enormous antennae on its head. ‘I’m putting it in the same drawer inside my heart where I’ve put you, dokhtar jan.’ He blew her a few kisses.
‘Are you nervous about today?’ she asked in an effort to keep her emotions at bay.
‘Today is a special day. Special days stimulate the nerves,’ he said with a smile. ‘But let’s talk about you, bachem. You’ve been through a lot and you haven’t had much sleep,’ he said as he scrutinized her. ‘Your forced cheerfulness worries me.’
She stared at the floor for a while, the tea glass untouched in her hands. Finally, she looked up at him.
‘Kaka jan, what do you know about Bacha Bazi?’
‘I don’t know much about it.’ If he was surprised because she brought this up, he certainly didn’t show it. ‘It’s a tradition that goes back a long way, it originates in rural areas. Owing to the strict Islamic moral code, women were practically unattainable for men. Before marriage, they always lived completely separate lives. But the men still had needs. It’s a common phenomenon in monasteries, in prisons, in virtually all places where men live without women. In those communities, other men are often forced to assume the role of the woman. And the younger and more feminine the man is, the more desirable he becomes to the others.’
He drank some tea and chewed on a date.
‘Boys without beard growth,’ he muttered. ‘Boys with a girlish face. I once found myself at such a party, Farah. I’d been invited, but I didn’t know that’s what it was. And then suddenly she appeared. I say “she”, because that’s what he looked like. A boy tackily made up and laden with jewellery by other men. I left. It was disgusting. Why are you asking me this?’
‘Such a boy was found in a wood outside Amsterdam the other night.’
This time Parwaiz was unable to hide his surprise. He stared at her in disbelief.
‘Impossible,’ he muttered, ‘impossible.’ And what he then added would stay with Farah as a prophecy of everything still to come: ‘We live in a world in which the hell that is our past always catches up with us.’
6
Tomasoa kicked off his briefing with the manipulated image of Dennis Faber.
‘Nice try, but we’re not letting Detective Diba go off to TV land so easily. While all of you were still snoozing, he and his partner Calvino delivered a good piece of investigative work this morning on a hit-and-run in which a boy was seriously injured.’
There was an immediate commotion in the room. Marouan couldn’t believe his ears. Had he ended up in some insane collective joke that even Tomasoa was involved in, or had his colleagues put something in his coffee and he was hallucinating? After putting his wife and children on the plane, followed by a sleepless night of gambling, he’d aimlessly driven around the city. When had he supposedly done all this top-notch detective work?
But Tomasoa continued unperturbed.
‘There are strong indications that this case involves more than just an accident. In the immediate vicinity of where the boy was run down, evidence has been found suggesting the likelihood of a multiple homicide. Drag marks and traces of blood were discovered at an old, empty villa a few hundred metres from the site of the collision. After extensive deliberation between the Public Prosecutor and the Examining Magistrate, the go-ahead has been given for a detailed technical investigation of the area around the villa and the villa itself. The purpose of this investigation is to secure evidence and to reconstruct what might have happened there, and to determine if the boy was present.’
The commotion had died down and been replaced by an impressed silence. Tomasoa took a moment to treat his men to one of his inscrutable glances.
‘What complicates this matter is that the villa in question appears to be the property of the Dorado Group. As you may already know, it’s a billion-dollar business divided into real estate, shipbuilding and media, and the kingpin of that conglomerate is none other than Armin Lazonder, who also owns De Nederlander and IRIS TV, and is the man behind the New Golden Age Project.’
Tomasoa had pointedly glanced in Marouan’s direction when he mentioned IRIS TV. Nobody said anything.
‘The fact that we’re going to focus part of our investigation on a property belonging to Lazonder will certainly cause a stir in the media,’ Tomasoa continued. ‘That’s why I’m asking you to avoid all contact with the press. Our PR department will make the appropriate announcements and arrange any necessary contact.’
The colleague who’d shoved the manipulated photo in Marouan’s face at the coffee machine raised his hand. ‘So for the time being no more live arrests on television, chief?’ The men started laughing. Tomasoa swiftly raised his hand. A small gesture, but big enough to silence the laughter in no time.
‘Let me put this plainly, Dennis Faber was arrested on suspicion of complicity for withholding evidence in a hit-and-run case. The prosecutor, based on the available evidence, issued an arrest warrant. Therefore, the action of detectives Calvino and Diba was completely justified.’
Tomasoa paused, a tactical silence – every second that it lasted confused Marouan even more. He stared at his boss and did his utmost to follow his arguments as unemotionally as possible.
‘I spoke with both detectives yesterday,’ continued Tomasoa. ‘They agreed that their choice of location for the arrest was unfortunate.’ He held up the Photoshopped image of Marouan as the host of The Game of Love again. ‘So if anyone else here has something to add, or has whipped up yet another manipulated masterpiece, he can now stand up and give us all a chance to enjoy it. If not,’ he stared into the room and gave his sovereign ruling, ‘I consider the incident around Dennis Faber closed.’
Moses probably had a look like this on his face when he parted the Red Sea, Marouan thought.
‘Back to the business at hand,’ Tomasoa continued. ‘As already mentioned there are two different investigations underway. Forensics is going to do an extensive search in and around the villa, and there will be a “walk-through” starting from the location of the villa to the spot where the boy was hit. The reason being: we want to determine whether the boy came from the villa before he crossed the road. Detective Diba will lead this investigation. He has asked for some volunteers, which I will now democratically appoint.’
Marouan kept his eyes glued to the ground. Regrettably, among the names called were a number of men who’d in the past given him a hard time for various reasons. Alas!
‘Given the nature of this investigation, I expect everyone to do their utmost today,’ Tomasoa said after announcing the last of the names. ‘Are there any questions? Comments?’
One of those present raised his hand.
‘Is it possible that what happened at the villa and the hit-and-run involving that boy are both related to the case of the burnt-out station wagon the MIT is currently working on?’
‘A
t the moment, it’s simply speculation. We can only start thinking about this once the results of our own investigation are in. However, at this stage we shouldn’t rule anything out.’
You could feel an undercurrent of excitement among the men. They were starting to grasp that there might be something huge, even sinister, behind what at first glance looked like an ordinary traffic accident. The men whom Tomasoa had appointed to comb the woods with Marouan assembled. Marouan knew that Tomasoa’s briefing hadn’t changed anything about their attitudes towards him, but these men were professional enough to realize they had to put their personal feelings aside and get down to business.
Tomasoa motioned for Marouan to come over to him.
‘Keep the upper hand. If there are problems, please let me know right away, understand?’
‘Crystal clear, chief,’ Marouan heard himself reply, but the only thing really clear to him at that moment was the enormous and mounting chaos that was his life.
7
Despite the glorious summer weather, a dark cloud had slipped into Parwaiz’s apartment. Farah regretted mentioning the Bacha Bazi boy. She’d been determined to push aside her own troubles and to really be there for Parwaiz jan. This was supposed to be his day. But she was bewildered and, however much she wanted to, she couldn’t hide her emotions from him. He was a sensitive man. The minute she’d walked in, he picked up on her state of mind. The cloud wouldn’t simply lift, that much she knew.
‘How did you come in contact with him, bachem?’
She was startled. For a split second she thought he meant Joshua. But while Parwaiz might have many talents, so far she’d failed to detect any telepathic powers.
‘I was at the hospital when he was brought in, kaka jan.’
‘What were you doing there? Is anything the matter with you?’ he asked, worried.
‘No, I …’ Remembering that Parwaiz didn’t read any Dutch newspapers and never watched TV, she decided to spare him the story about the martial arts gala. ‘I’d gone to the Emergency Department for someone else when the boy arrived. He was seriously injured. A hit-and-run. I helped interpret for the doctors.’
‘Was he able to tell you anything?’
‘He was in really bad shape. They operated on him. The operation went well, but last night he took a turn for the worse. And no family has come forward to claim him. I suspect he’s the victim of child trafficking.’
‘No doubt about it,’ Parwaiz said. ‘Bacha Bazi is never voluntary. It’s a form of forced prostitution.’
‘I’m sorry I mentioned it, kaka jan,’ Farah said.
‘I’m glad you’re telling me what’s bothering you, dokhtar jan,’ he said with a smile. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘So why don’t you tell me everything?’
Farah could no longer hold back her tears. She started off by apologizing, saying that she’d really wanted this to be a festive day for him. And now she was spoiling it. But Parwaiz dried her tears the way a worried uncle would and very gently told her to start at the beginning. He wanted to hear the whole story.
And so she told him, haltingly, about the dramatic way the dancing boy had entered her life, and about her conflict with Danielle. Parwaiz listened intently to the obviously abridged version of her meetings with Joshua Calvino, the appearance of Raylan Chapelle’s ghost and the story of Paul’s return, more than thirty years after their first meeting in Kabul’s butterfly garden.
‘Some people claim the future has all kinds of secrets in store for us,’ he said, while lovingly touching the lucky butterfly. ‘But as long as you don’t know the secrets of the past, you can’t really focus on the future.’
‘But I don’t know what to do, kaka jan. What to choose?’
‘In your heart of hearts, you know what choice you’re going to make, bachem. Follow your heart.’
‘Even when it frightens me?’
‘Especially when it frightens you. I won’t be able to offer you much more help, my child. I’m an old, worn-out man. I don’t have much time left.’
‘You mustn’t say that, kaka jan,’ she said with a smile breaking through the tears. ‘Apparently, as a freshly minted Dutchman, you have the right to a brand new life. And I bet it will be a long one.’
‘That’s sweet of you, but you know, Farah, my old life is too precious to me. I think and dream in Dari. However pleased I am to become a Dutchman, my heart will always be Afghan.’
‘I understand, kaka jan.’
His lips curled into a solemn smile.
‘Dokhtarem, you’ve always been candid with me. You’ve always confided in me. And I’ve always treasured your visits. Your support has helped me through difficult times. But while you’ve been up front about what you’ve been going through, as you were just now, that’s more than I can say for myself. I’ve never spoken to you about some of the things that happened to me, like my imprisonment in Kabul. Even now I can’t talk about the unspeakable things people inflict on others. Not even to you. But it’s time for me to be frank and share a secret that I’ve kept to myself for far too long.’
He fell silent, searching for words. Farah’s heart was in her throat.
‘I promised someone dear to us both to keep this secret as long as I deemed necessary,’ he continued. ‘I only wanted to share it with you when I thought the time was ripe. That time has come.’
Parwaiz struggled to his feet and walked over to the workbench where he pulled the top drawer open with some difficulty before removing a bulky parcel wrapped in tissue paper and tied together with frayed string.
Farah thought of her mother and father. Had either of them left her something?
Parwaiz stood with his back to her, looking at the parcel in his hands, his head bowed, lost in thought. Then he turned around.
‘I’d like to ask you, dokhtarem, not to jump to conclusions about what you find in here. In their quest for the true meaning of life, people should be allowed to walk paths you perhaps don’t want them to go down …’
‘You speak in riddles, kaka jan.’
‘But you like riddles, don’t you, Farah jan?’ he said with a knowing smile as he came towards her with the parcel. ‘Look, some people betray their political ideals to protect art, like I did …’
‘Wholly justified,’ Farah said encouragingly.
He stood right in front of her now. She was tempted to reach for the parcel, but stopped herself.
‘I’d like you to be just as forgiving of your mother Helai after you’ve laid eyes on this.’
A wave of sadness swept through her at the mention of her mother’s name. She couldn’t utter a word.
‘Helai experienced more doubts than she cared to admit in her quest to be true to herself.’
‘I’d never judge her, kaka jan, whatever she did or whatever she felt. Is it painful, what I’m going to see?’
‘Her story has some parallels with what you’ve told me about yourself,’ he said tentatively.
Suddenly her mind jumped. To the unthinkable. It was out before she knew it. ‘Kaka jan! Don’t tell me you and mum …’
Parwaiz shook his head, shocked.
‘No, your mother confided in me before she decided to flee with you,’ he said firmly. ‘Other than that, I play no role in any of it. She handed me this with the words, “If you can protect defenceless works of art against bombs, you’ll know what to do with this.” She told me what you’ll read here. But I won’t disclose what it is. That’s for you to find out. I hope it will give you a better understanding of why certain things in your life are the way they are.’
He handed her the parcel. It burned in her hands, because she knew that as soon as she removed the tissue paper she’d forget the world around her and lose herself in its contents. And they would no doubt be explosive. She had to control her emotions. This was supposed to be Parwaiz’s big day and so it would be. She gave him a grateful smile.
‘I’d like you to store the parcel in the same place for now, kaka jan. We mustn’t be lat
e. When we get back, I’ll take it home with me. Let’s get going.’
Parwaiz put the parcel back in the drawer and walked to the balcony doors to close them. When she saw him standing there, his slender silhouette against the sun, she suddenly felt as if the time had come to say goodbye.
‘Kaka jan!’ she exclaimed, with mild panic in her voice.
‘What is it?’ Worried, he walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
‘I … I love you very much,’ she said, feeling sad.
‘I know, bachem. I love you too.’
8
Marouan Diba thought of the rising star he’d once been. In spite of, or perhaps due to the antagonism of his colleagues. He was Moroccan and they’d known it, inside as well as outside the police force. He’d been stationed in Amsterdam-Oost because he knew the young Moccros who hung around on the street corners. He’d grab them by the neck and get them talking. Because they respected him, they showed him their true selves. And if they talked back, they might get a smack from him. Then they sat there moping with a bloody nose or a fat lip. ‘Go file an assault report,’ he’d say. Because he knew that they wouldn’t do it. Filing a report was the same as yelling for your mummy or daddy. The ultimate humiliation. And so they fell. One by one. Out of respect.
Respect was a rarity nowadays. As rare as that pat on the shoulder Calvino had given him yesterday, just before they were going to have their heads handed to them by Tomasoa.
Marouan had been confused by Calvino’s gesture. He’d climbed the executioner’s scaffold but got a pat on the back. Had Calvino done it out of some sort of misplaced pity? Marouan couldn’t imagine. His confusion had only increased when the half-baked Italian claimed during their talk with Tomasoa that he and not Marouan had initiated Dennis Faber’s arrest. Calvino was as sly as a fox. He knew better than most that if Marouan kept bungling the case, he’d be blamed too.
Butterfly on the Storm Page 18