The reply sprung out automatically, without thinking, an imitation of the lie he had already used to deceive Ainullah. The fiction was beginning to gain weight, to take root, it was being transformed into something resembling a truth, and that was fine, because it saved him stuttering and spared him giving explanations about his private life.
The Dutchman was not altogether convinced, though he did want to believe that there had at least been one woman. He continued to suspect that there was something physical between Jordi and little Shamsur, but, well, Jordi seemed like a good guy, obviously a strange one — a 100 per cent pedigree eccentric — though, all things considered he could even end up becoming his friend. Besides, in Holland, being gay was pretty well accepted, wasn’t it? And what did he care how Jordi enjoyed himself, whom he loved? It was a private matter. He determined not to raise the subject again. After all, Jordi wouldn’t tell him a thing anyway.
In the valleys, Gyuri was introduced to Abdul, Khalil, and Jordi’s whole Kalash-Nuristani universe. The local Muslims watched them on the whole from a distance. Jordi was relentless with them. Ignorance irritated him, as did the mullahs’ demagogic speeches, so he wasn’t going to disguise his position for Gyuri. What for? The Muslims’ assault on Kalash culture, their slow but inevitable invasion, disgusted him too much for him to compromise, and besides, somebody had to denounce the hypocrisy of those religious zealots who spent their days talking about Allah and heaven while racking up one sin after another. Gyuri would have to understand how things were if he was going to get involved — there was no other way.
Gyuri thought that if Jordi went on firing off such blunt criticisms in public, he wouldn’t last long in that radical, orthodox Muslim society.
Back in Peshawar, Jordi tut-tutted, pursed his lips, and acknowledged that lately his friend Khalil, the bearded one with the fringe to whom he’d introduced him, was doing some things wrong.
‘He thinks about money too much,’ he said to Gyuri. ‘Now he wants to make some rupees at the expense of the Kalash, and he has been trying to organise their women as prostitutes. He thinks they can do good business with the Pakistani tourists. It’s not right.’
Jordi expressed himself moderately, despite the scale of the accusation, despite the great disgust he’d felt when he came to learn of Khalil’s wheeling and dealing. If it had been anyone else, he would have given him a good thrashing; he could not bear humiliation, still less the humiliation of people he was fond of and whom he respected more and more. But he had to contain his anger. After all, Khalil had been a great help to him, and there were still strong bonds to unite them — such as Shamsur. Because on top of everything, Khalil was Shamsur’s brother. How could he ever do anything to threaten his relationship with his beloved, irreplaceable Shamsur? How much that kid meant to him.
Infected by Jordi’s contagious enthusiasm, Gyuri contributed to completing a pro-Kalash action plan that included backing from the Greek embassy.
‘Well, we’ll see. You’ve got to be careful with the Greeks,’ said Jordi. ‘There’s no question of squandering the chance of aid, but it has to be made clear that the Kalash are not descended from Alexander the Great.’
‘And why do they periodically fund the studies of Kalash children? Why do they finance projects in the community? Why would they spend all this money on people who’re nothing to do with them?’
‘Because they use this to keep up the legend of Greek ancestry in these mountains. But it’s false.’
‘Well, as long as they’re helping …’
‘I agree. But their support is very targeted, it’s not structural. These people still live on the nuts and grasses they harvest. They’re totally wretched. Haven’t you seen that?’
‘If the A.M.I. joins forces with the Greeks, the progress will be quite apparent, and that’s what we want, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Yeah, man. Yeah.’
They handed the plan to the secretary of the Greek embassy in Pakistan, who promised to get properly involved in the matter. They were pensive leaving the building, and boarded the pick-up at the gates of Peshawar.
‘Why don’t you come for dinner at my place one night before going back to Chitral?’ Gyuri said as he started the engine. Jordi accepted, delighted.
A few days later, he met Gyuri’s wife, Iris, and the girls, Kris and Maartje. It gave the adventurer such comfort feeling at home. How many memories assailed him. Such nostalgia for Fontbarlettes and those evening gatherings back in France. It wasn’t that he wanted to go back, but that heat was unforgettable. When the girls had gone to bed, they spent the night joking and talking about money, sex, and geography.
Not far from where the friends were talking, in Peshawar itself, the terrorist Zubaydáh had spent a year openly presiding over the House of the Martyrs, a boarding-house for members of Al-Qaeda. The Taliban were tireless in their recruitment of whole tribes of Pashtuns. The pashtunwali, the tribal code of honour and behaviour, was catching on, stretching out across the country like a law. Pashtun honour is maintained via a series of constant struggles that centre around zar (gold), zan (women), and zamin (earth).
Money.
Sex.
And geography.
XXXVI
NOT long after he had begun renting Sharakat House, Jordi learned that the transaction had troubled two Muslims: Abib Noor and his father, Hazar Khan. The introduction of a foreigner into the area had irritated them distinctly, and they pressured Abdul to throw his new tenant out and sell them the land they’d had their eye on for years.
‘Take care with those two,’ Abdul warned Jordi when they came across them on the path. There were no greetings.
Jordi knew that both men were feeding the rumours about him, spreading suspicion, wondering publicly what Jordi was up to living in Chitral for so long, making fun of the search for the barmanu. Fine. In accordance with his new focus of interest, he was concentrating on the Kalash; but, naturally, while it wouldn’t be a bad thing to put a stop to these kinds of suspicion, how was he going to dispense with the motivation for which he was known in the valleys? He couldn’t do it. In a way, the barmanu served to justify his presence to the ever more inquisitive stares of the mountain dwellers. If he gave up on that, what would he have left? All those years would seem an utter sham: it would prove right all those people who had never stopped harassing him, and if all of a sudden he were to renounce the barmanu in order to rise up as an active defender of the Kalash, he would be nothing but cannon-fodder.
Ainullah also noticed the fence tightening around Jordi. He caught the sound of whispering between neighbours, and some even dared to question him directly about what he and his boss were up to. Sometimes Jordi would walk around the house complaining out loud about the treatment he was receiving at the hands of the more radical of the Muslims, or damning the Greek embassy for taking so long to respond to his plan to support the Kalash, about whom he continued to take notes for the book he planned to write. It was to these notes that he dedicated most of his time, so he was most commonly to be seen deep in concentration, and taciturn. Which was why Ainullah was surprised on the day Jordi opened the door in a state of elation.
‘Do you want to meet Massoud?’ asked Jordi, though in truth it was a command.
Ainullah stood there with the ladle in his hand, right beside the hearth, where he was making soup.
‘What for?’
‘So that he’ll let us into Afghanistan.’
Jordi had just received a job offer from Yves Bourny. In previous meetings, Jordi had offered Bourny suggestions for ways of getting access to an Afghanistan that was still very complicated for N.G.O.s to enter. The zoologist’s ideas and his determination and courage at the time of approaching possible expeditions took root in Bourny, who hadn’t stopped trying to figure out how to transport equipment and medication to the Pa
njshir valley.
‘You’ll have to talk to Massoud and the Taliban,’ Bourny had warned him.
‘I’ll do it.’
When the A.M.I. resumed its operations in the Panjshir valley in 1998, the humanitarian aid had had to travel from Peshawar to Tajikistan, and from there across the mountains to reach Safed Shir — four days per journey at least. Occasionally it was possible to cross the front line at Tagab with authorisation from the local Taliban, but it was difficult, which meant that provisions and supplies invariably spent a good while deadlocked en route, with no alternative solution. In any case, it would be necessary to resume that route somehow or other. And who was master of that terrain better than Jordi? He knew every valley, every commander, every shepherd. And he wasn’t Afghan, Tajik, Pashtun, or Pakistani, so nobody could suspect him of an allegiance to a different group. His personality meant that he would be able to resist the pressure from each of those valley bosses who demanded a portion of the cargo as a toll if a convoy wanted to continue on its way. Which was why those in charge of the A.M.I. checked with Jordi whether crossing the Hindu Kush to Panjshir carrying medicine was really doable. He got excited. Within minutes, he had proposed detailed plans for the whole thing.
‘I know all the lapis lazuli merchants who come and go between Peshawar and Panjshir with their donkeys laden with stones,’ he said to Bourny, ‘and I can assure you that they’ll be interested in helping us. We’ll pay them, they will trade with the goods they transport, and at the end they’ll earn themselves a tip … That’s important to the Muslims, right? The zakat.’
Some days later, he headed for the Peshawar bazaar, where he agreed terms with the merchants who would take part in the journey.
Now he had to talk to Massoud.
He’d take care of everything; they needn’t worry. At last he could be sure of having access to some money. He was going to work wonders. Money, at last. At last! He got a packet of paper, removed one sheet, drew several columns with a biro, and began to detail the cost of medicines, dressings, sticking-plasters, bandages, and other nursing supplies. He took another sheet to budget the costs of building toilets, carrying out assorted repairs, sewing bedsheets. And he went on doing calculations to figure out how much food would cost, specifying that the staff were above all going to need ‘a lot of sugar, some grapes, carrots’.
When Jordi had constructed a first illustrative budget, and he and Bourny had agreed the route and the terms for the convoy, he managed to get one of his intermediaries to set up a meeting with Ahmed Shah Massoud, the man born in a hamlet in Panjshir who had played a crucial role in the expulsion of the Russian army from the country.
Massoud had been a student at the Istiqlal French lycée in Kabul until university, where he studied engineering before taking charge of bands of militiamen armed with old rifles. Working with them he was able to demonstrate his gifts as a strategist, and his charisma did the rest. There was a reason they dubbed him the Lion of Panjshir. The French didn’t merely support his current struggle against the Taliban; they advertised him as a hero. He had banned the growing of opium in the region, forbidden his men from smoking tobacco, and it was said he regretted the rumours that compared his ferocity with that of the worst leaders of the Taliban.
The debates about Massoud were all over France, where there were recurring arguments. Even Erik L’Homme found himself at a dinner party taking on the Lion: ‘Massoud is a Tajik … and a Muslim fundamentalist.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked a friend.
‘Because I’ve been there.’
‘Isn’t it possible for there to be a different kind of fighter? Have you heard that thing about him reciting poetry to his soldiers to enlighten them?’
‘It’s a mistake to believe Massoud’s fighting against Taliban fundamentalism. The Panjshir mullahs are no milder than the ones in Kandahar, and Tajik women are no freer than their Pashtun sisters.’
‘Well, Jordi’s still in Pakistan, and he doesn’t think the same as you by a long shot.’
Erik cleared his throat. Jordi. Why did they rely on him? Did they really not know that he was a radical and a pathological liar?
Jordi went to the meeting accompanied by Ainullah. Massoud received them in a typical Afghan house in Malaspa, in Panjshir. Jordi seemed more nervous than usual. It was the first time he had dealt face to face with someone he truly admired. Perhaps the closest he’d felt before had been the trembling that had come over him when he received his first letter from Bernard Heuvelmans, the Lord of Cryptozoology, though the emotions provoked in him by Massoud belonged to a realm that was much less sophisticated, more basic. In his eyes, Massoud was a complete man. A warrior. A true one, one of the greats. A man he could consider somehow his equal. When he was face to face with him, he understood that what he was feeling was not admiration, but respect.
They sat opposite each other, without a table between them. Jordi held himself straighter-backed than usual, shoulders up, chin raised, and he explained the plan that the A.M.I. and the European Union were intending to carry out in Panjshir.
‘The A.M.I. is doing good work helping people, I congratulate you,’ said Massoud. ‘But, tell me, do you like the Afghans? Afghanistan?’
‘Yes. I have Afghan friends. Ainullah —’ he gestured towards him — ‘is Afghan.’
‘Do you like our dress? Our hats?’
‘Very much. As you can see.’
Jordi touched his pakhol. Satisfied, Massoud spoke about the Taliban attacks on Afghanistan and the need to shake those dogs off them.
‘I agree,’ said Jordi. ‘It’s hard to understand what the Punjabis and the Taliban are doing to Afghanistan. I live in Chitral, and I’m already tired of the Punjabis. To tell the truth, I’ve been hoping for a while that you’d attack Chitral.’
Massoud smiled.
‘We don’t have enough support to get ourselves into your valleys,’ he replied. ‘For now, you’re going to have to wait. But you can count on our getting as far as Panjshir. My men won’t bother you. I hope those dogs will have the decency to let you pass.’
As they said goodbye, on their feet now, Jordi hesitated, I’ll say it, I won’t say it. They walked over to the door. They were about to leave. Jordi stopped, turned towards the soldier, and asked: ‘Can we take some photos with you?’
As they shook hands, Massoud said: ‘Goodbye. I’d like to see you again.’
Ainullah took charge of securing the Taliban’s consent for the expedition. Maiwand, his best friend, was nephew to a Taliban commander, and he managed to convince his uncle to intercede in favour of the A.M.I.’s plans.
‘Congratulations, Ainullah. Not just anybody could have pulled that off,’ said Marie Odile.
The working day had ended a while ago, and just the usual people were left in the N.G.O.’s offices chatting about all manner of things: together with the French girl and Ainullah were the doctor, Kayan, Jordi, and Shamsur.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Jordi. ‘Ainullah has mobilised the entire Panjshir — they’re already waiting for us.’
‘It’s just that I’m from there. People know me, so it’s not that hard.’
‘And what’s Shamsur’s responsibility?’ asked Kayan.
Jordi’s expression darkened as he nodded towards the boy, who, hearing his name, lifted his eyelids as wide as they would go.
‘Shamsur isn’t coming. He’s too young. He has to stay behind and study.’
Shamsur looked at Dr Kayan’s face with his eyes wide, blankly petrified, his way of biting his tongue. He didn’t want to go to school; he so wanted to say it. He was Nuristani. People from that land don’t like studying. They like a slow, natural life, and that’s that. How many times had he already said as much! But Jordi insisted on inculcating an academic instinct in him, despite the defeat he had suffered months earlier, when Shamsur had suggested that he send Ainullah to
study French at the Alliance in his place. Jordi had taken him at his word, and Ainullah had attended the classes for four months, squeezing everything he could out of them.
‘Besides,’ added Jordi, ‘the mission’s quite risky, and I don’t want to upset his parents. I’m supposed to be teaching him things, not getting him into danger.’
‘Come on, man, it won’t be as bad as all that.’
‘Have you read the article about Islam?’ asked Jordi, nodding towards the table around which the group was chatting. On the tabletop they could see the cover of the magazine Marianne, with its headline ‘Why is Islam advancing?’ Jordi opened the magazine, and searched for one particular paragraph.
‘“The followers of the Prophet,”’ he read, ‘“are more numerous than Christians for the first time in history.”’ He looked up. ‘This superiority is confusing a number of people. There are some who believe the time has come to take power. To take revenge.’
As he talked, Jordi recalled something else he had read recently, a kind of column in which a former teacher from Kabul was reflecting on the oppressiveness of his day-to-day life: ‘The Taliban don’t want the world to know their horrors. The information should not get out […] People are beaten or murdered for singing lullabies to their little ones […] in this territory of arbitrariness and the absurd,’ where even ‘linguistic racism’ was being practised, in an attempt to crush the Persian language because the Taliban found it intolerable that it should be older than Arabic.
No, Jordi was not going to take Shamsur to Panjshir, that pit of horrors. And he was fed up of pressuring him over his studies. He was sixteen — he was a big boy now. If Shamsur didn’t want to study in a structured fashion, from now on Jordi would teach him whatever was necessary himself. He’d be his only teacher. The problem was what Shamsur would do while Jordi was travelling.
‘Shamsur,’ he said to him when they were alone, ‘I think you ought to start looking for work.’
By April, the Greek embassy still hadn’t responded to the plans for the Kalash, so without hesitation Jordi signed the contract to be the manager of the emergency project in Panjshir, assuring himself of some vital regular income. He would be working with Gyuri, who was designated the mission’s chief of party. Before setting off, Gyuri invited him for dinner at his house. The evenings with his friend’s family were becoming frequent occurrences, and Jordi went along gladly. He liked the atmosphere, and considered it a privilege to be able to share these family surroundings while so far from his own.
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