by Salar Abdoh
The phone showed it was already past eleven thirty. Music on the television stopped playing and a woman began speaking in Russian. All Fariba could understand was “Mozart.” She called Maryam. Her phone was off.
Worry. It suddenly came in a wave and made her scurry for fresh clothes. In the car she thought how Maryam must be waiting for her at Ahmad Fard’s office by now, or maybe she was outside the building wearing her usual bright red lipstick and smoking a cigarette. This image made her smile. She still couldn’t smoke cigarettes out on the street like Maryam. It didn’t feel ladylike. And Maryam always made fun of her about such things. How she ached to be more carefree like Maryam. Just have a good time and not give a damn about the world and its ways. To this day she had never asked how Maryam managed to go on living after they pulled her sister out of their cell and took her to be executed. How could Maryam dance and laugh and party like that when she’d had to witness a horror of that magnitude?
Fariba was glad she’d never asked Maryam about this.
The traffic barely budged this morning. But she didn’t have far to go. They’d probably give her a ticket at some point for driving through midtown on a weekday morning without a special traffic permit. But who cared! She had to hurry. She called Maryam again. No answer. Another ten minutes, she figured, before she got there.
At the corner of Sepand, the street was completely closed off. A soldier directing traffic told her to turn the other way. Instead she got out of the car. There were police in front of the building where Ahmad Fard’s office was supposed to be. The soldier started waving at her and telling her to get back into her car. Other vehicles began honking and several more soldiers came from behind and made them do U-turns. Fariba pushed the soldier’s hand away and the young conscript appeared to simply give up on her. More police cars arrived from the other direction. When she tried to walk toward the building on Sepand Street, one of the policemen shouted to her to not come closer. She swallowed hard and froze.
Just then she saw him as they came out of the building, Ahmad Fard surrounded by half a dozen cops. He wasn’t in handcuffs though. He just looked completely shaken up and scared. A good ten years older than how he’d appeared in that video. Fariba remained motionless, watching him, wondering where they were going. When she realized they were not getting into one of the police cars, she started to say in a voice that was barely above a whisper, “Mr. Fard, it’s me. Fariba Tajadod. We had a meeting this morning.”
Ahmad Fard neither heard her nor looked her way. He was talking a mile a minute to one of the policemen who kept nodding his head as they walked right by her. Another cop came unhurriedly out of a corner store smoking and speaking on his cell phone. He was a small man with a voice twice his size and he seemed pleased with himself. Fariba listened to him talk.
“Yeah, the woman stood right in front of the guy and shot herself in the head. Can you believe that? Sure I’m sure. I saw her dead body myself. Happened around ten. She was pretty too. In a beat-up sort of way. Poor thing. Had on that red lipstick you like to wear. And she had your name too, love. Maryam! . . . What? How should I know which Maryam? There’s a lot of Maryams in this town. Half of them want to kill themselves and the other half want to kill somebody else.” He paused and laughed. “Sure, I just hope you belong to neither of those halves.”
THE CORPSE FIXER
BY MAJED NEISI
Shahrak-e-Gharb
Afghanistan
A lot of people wanted to steal his corpse. But Mullah Qader belonged to me. Because I was the only real corpse fixer who operated on the front lines between the Taliban and the mujahideen. Everyone knew I could get the goods like no one else. But no one is born into this world with the title corpse thief written on his forehead, you know? War does that. It takes away opportunities and it brings other opportunities. It was a job no one else really wanted, or could handle. So it fell upon me and my mule. Whenever one side wanted a corpse of one of their own brought back from the other side, I was the man to do it. And they both let me operate with impunity. Why? Because both sides needed me. Families wanted their dear ones properly buried. Comrades wanted comrades to have a suitable resting place on the right side of the battlefield. So Asef—that’s me—and his mule were there to do the job: take dead Taliban fallen on the wrong side back to the Taliban, and take dead mujahideen back to the mujahideen.
I figured after delivering the body of the great commander, Mullah Qader, back to the Taliban and coming away with a decent payday, I could retire, go next door to Iran, get out of this hellhole of endless war. Like other Afghans I could get me a laborer’s job there or, better yet, I’d become a super to a building or a groundskeeper at some rich folks’ home and enjoy a peaceful life at last.
It all started on that fateful night when I was in the Taliban camp getting the order for a corpse that Mullah Qader himself wanted back. Suddenly they bring in this mujahideen boy who can’t be more than sixteen. He looks like a peach. He looks better than a peach with those beautiful green eyes of his. The Taliban fighters can barely contain their excitement. They’re going to have a night with him, and then some. But then, in the middle of our deal about the corpse, Mullah Qader’s eyes fall on the boy too and the deal is forgotten. I saw the mullah zoom in on that kid like he wanted to tear into him right there and then. He jumped up, pushed his soldiers aside, took the boy’s hand, and led him away. There were murmurs, but who could argue with the mullah? Only last week he had lashed one of his men within an inch of his life for raping a prisoner, yet tonight all he could think of was the green-eyed boy. I even tried calling him back to finish our deal. But no dice. The mullah and the boy disappeared into the only tent at that camp and I had no choice but to gather my things and head for the mujahideen line; I had a fresh corpse for them that was but a day old.
Later on, I heard the story the boy told of how he captured the mullah and brought him to the mujahideen lines. He only told half the story, of course. There was nothing about how he’d had to take it up the ass first from Mullah Qader and make sure the man fell asleep, satisfied, before he stole the commander’s Colt and took him as his prisoner right out of that Taliban camp. And this is where I—poor old Asef and his mule—came in. The kid made the mullah drive them out in the wee hours of the morning before the morning call to prayer. They were heading toward the Panjshir Valley where the mujahideen were camped. But the kid knew it was only a matter of time before the Taliban realized their commander was gone and came looking for them. So he had the mullah drive his own Land Cruiser off a cliff and went the rest of the way on foot.
And they were lost.
Until they ran into me, poor Asef the corpse fixer.
The kid ran up to me, my mule, and my corpse, his gun pointed at us. I was thunderstruck. He should have still been back in the Taliban camp and under the mullah; what was he doing in this no-man’s-land between the two battle lines?
He said, “This is a fighting zone. Where are you headed with the mule and the woman?”
The “woman” was only the corpse, of course. With fresh corpses I always shaved them and put some makeup and a burqa on them to keep people from asking too many questions.
“She’s a new bride. She’s not feeling too well. I’m taking her to see a doctor.”
“A doctor? In this wilderness?” He came closer to the mule and noticed the henna I’d daubed on the dead body’s hands. The mullah stood to the side watching all this with a face that promised plenty of evil and blood. The kid gave a not-so-light slap to the mule’s rear and the thing bucked, throwing my corpse to the ground. “A bride, did you say?”
I have to give it to him; even though he’d been buggered just a few hours ago the kid had some balls. He motioned with his gun to the mullah to come over. Then he put me and the mullah next to each other and made me talk.
I told the kid what I did for a living.
“I’ve heard of you.”
“Well, here I am in flesh and blood.” I didn’t tell hi
m I’d witnessed his being taken into the mullah’s tent a little while back.
He asked, “Why the henna on the dead man’s hands?”
“Makes them more womanly, in case I run into trouble and people have questions.”
“All right. Forget the corpse. Take the burqa off him and put it on the mullah.”
Was he kidding? Put a woman’s burqa on the one and only Mullah Qader? When I hesitated, he flashed the weapon in my face. So I took the burqa off the dead man and without looking into the mullah’s eyes put the thing on him. The kid seemed to know exactly what he was doing. He searched me for weapons and took my knife away. Then he rifled through the mule’s packing and found a blade for shaving, some henna, and another set of women’s clothes. I was wishing just then this latest corpse hadn’t been so damn new so I wouldn’t have had to dress it up like that. The best remains were the oldest ones, far past their stink. No one ever argued with those, not even if you made a mistake about the body sometimes.
The kid said, “How far are we from my side’s front positions?”
“Half a day.”
“You must help me deliver this whore’s son to my people.”
I took one look at the boy and another at Mullah Qader. What was I going to do? I’d always dealt only with the dead and it was a good enough job. It brought peace to the living to see their dead buried where they should be. But now I had to choose between the living—Mullah Qader and this boy. If I helped the mullah, the kid would die; if I helped the kid, Mullah Qader would die. If I helped no one, I was the one who’d probably be killed. Damn this war that someone would have to die for, either way you looked at it.
I barely mumbled, “Whatever you say.”
The kid gave me a meaningful look and said, “Now, get to work. First cut off Mullah’s beard and put henna on his hands and feet.”
Hearing this, Mullah Qader sprang from his feet and, throwing the burqa off, roared like a lion. Anyone else would have soiled their pants hearing the invincible mullah’s roar just then. But that kid, it was like he’d come to this world to do just one thing: put the mullah to shame. He shot a round next to the mullah’s feet and we both saw he could shoot, and shoot well.
I can’t describe what I was feeling then. Here, in the middle of nowhere, in Afghanistan, on a path that no one but myself was familiar with, I had to run into this boy and Mullah Qader. I was hoping someone, anyone, would show up and put all three of us and my mule out of our misery. I stood there frozen while the mullah took his clothes off. His massive belly hung over his balls like something obscene, and all I could think just then was how those balls had taken care of the boy’s behind just a few hours ago.
The kid pushed me toward Mullah Qader. “It’s time. You are in charge of fucking him.”
I fell to the ground, crying and begging. “Do you know what you are saying? God Himself couldn’t do that to Mullah Qader. How can you expect me, poor Asef, to be a part of something like this?”
But the boy was enjoying this. He was in his element. His eyes were bright with anticipation. He watched Mullah Qader, who was chalk-white now, and said, “Mullah, a bullet for a bullet, an ass for an ass. It’s time to give up your ass.”
I continued to beg. I took off my pants and showed him, “Look at this shriveled little thing of mine. I’m in shock. How do you expect me to fuck Mullah Qader with this?”
The kid nodded and went and got my shovel.
“No, I beg you. That shovel is just for digging up graves.”
He pointed the gun at me and said, “He’s going to bend over for you and you’re going to push this handle as far in as it will go. If you don’t, I’ll shove it up your own ass.”
Mullah Qader could barely stand on his feet. He had begun crying. I could not believe it. Was this the same Mullah Qader whose very name would make the enemy lose its resolve? Was this really you, Mullah? You pathetic fat turd crying like a bitch! You should have made a move just then, put up a struggle and fought for your life and died like a man. Instead you bent over and let the kid make me shove that handle inside you and tear your ass up. Yes, that kid was clever. He knew that after doing this to you, I would never consider helping you again, because the first person you’d take revenge on if you stayed alive would be me, poor Asef!
The mullah was half dead by the time we were done with him. The kid had me splash water on his face and then I had to shave him. I put the henna on his hands and feet and helped him into the burqa again. The mullah wasn’t saying a word. He looked like a mute bride being sent to her husband’s home. It’s amazing how quickly you can reduce a man like that.
As we got close to the mujahideen lines, I handed the muzzle to the kid. “This is as far as I go with you. Please send my mule this way so I can go back and fetch my corpse before it’s too late. And I beg you not to tell anyone I helped you with Mullah Qader or I’ll lose my means of livelihood.”
The boy laughed and said that I’d done my job well; he’d send the mule back to me in no time.
As they took off, Mullah Qader turned back to me. And from behind the burqa he said the words that would follow me for years: “I’ll kill you.”
Tehran
The Mrs. had told me, “Asef, you have two choices. By the time I get back from Paris, you either find my dog, or if he’s dead I want his body back. Otherwise you leave my house.”
So here I was, far from the Afghan battlefields. I was no longer pulling corpses from one side to the other. I had a comfortable job, one that was a lot better than the backbreaking construction work my Afghan brethren did for these ungrateful Iranians. But now the bitch’s dog was lost and she’d handed me several hundred color copies of her Poopi’s mug. I had to go around sticking Poopi on every wall and traffic pole in the Shahrak-e-Gharb District in the hopes that someone would recognize and bring him back so the Mrs. would award the lucky bastard with more money than I made in two years.
And that’s exactly what I did.
All up and down Shahrak-e-Gharb, Poopi’s face competed with photos of some of those dog-faced presidential candidates. I even paid off the local garbage collectors to let me know if they saw Poopi. I suppose my lot in life was to always be digging after the dead, whether dog or human. That fucking dog could be anywhere. All these huge villas in this district. All these rich Tehranis. Half of them with dogs who eat dinners I can only dream of. I would hit the streets in early evenings and watch young men and women in their latest-model cars cruising Iranzamin Boulevard, flirting and exchanging phone numbers. I saw a lot of Poopi-like dogs in some of those cars and thought about stealing one and taking it to the Mrs. But the Mrs. knew her dog well. The thing slept next to her in bed at night and licked her pussy. Now, I can’t say this for sure. But another of my compatriots, Baig Jaan, who worked three blocks up from me, swore that he’d seen his Mrs. getting licked by her dog. And I had to ask myself, why else would the Mrs. have Poopi in that bed? It didn’t seem natural. Maybe all I had to do was find another small dog to lick the Mrs. and she’d forget Poopi altogether. I mean, here I was, with Rex and Juli, two monster-size guard dogs who also belonged to the Mrs. But the three of us had to live together in some shack at the end of the garden while Poopi got to have the Mrs. all to himself.
Wasn’t right.
So the Mrs. called again and asked about Poopi. I told her I was still searching. She told me to go print more posters and stick them in every side street too. I figured this was a good sign. As long as she wasn’t giving up on Poopi she wasn’t giving up on me. Also, I didn’t mind going out there searching for the dog. Come twilight I’d go to the construction sites in the area where fellow Afghans worked and slept at night. We’d drink tea, reminisce, and occasionally some pretty young Afghan boy would show up and we’d play music and have him dance and shake his ass for us.
On this fateful night Baig Jaan had told me he’d be at a half-finished site near his Mrs.’ villa. He said there were a bunch of new Afghans working the area who’d be there
too. I went to see who they were and maybe find something out about Poopi.
When I got there, the green tea was up and steaming. It was freezing out and they had wood burning in a metal trash can where men stood around warming their hands. Baig Jaan’s foul mouth was running as usual, telling the newcomers about his Mrs. and how she liked the dog to eat her out. I’d told him more than once not to say these things to just anyone. One of these poor horny bastards, so far from home, would get it to his head to go pay Baig Jaan’s Mrs. a visit. Worse still, the police would probably blame Baig Jaan as an accomplice afterward, because that’s what they always do to us Afghans.
I joined the group around the fire and splayed my legs a little so my balls would warm up. Then I looked up to see who was who. That’s when our eyes met. Those intense, full-of-hate eyes of Mullah Qader himself. The very mullah I’d supposedly dug from underground and delivered for a nice sum to the Taliban so they could have their legendary commander’s body back. Except Mullah Qader hadn’t died. Only a few select people amongst the mujahideen—and of course yours truly, Asef, who knows everything about the dead—knew about the mullah’s escape and survival back then. Much later, I found that the mullah had caught up to the kid and finished him off. Now it was my turn.
My knees went weak. It was him all right. And he knew perfectly well who I was. How could he not? How can you stick the handle of a shovel up a man’s ass, tear him up, make him bleed, shave him, put henna on his hands and feet, and finish his transformation with a woman’s burqa, and not have him remember you? I’ll kill you. Those had been his exact words all those years ago. And probably in his mind’s eye he’d already killed me a thousand times.
I sat, trying to act normal. Baig Jaan handed me a cup of green tea and continued with his story of how the rich cunt liked having herself licked by her dog.