In the Land of Giants

by Gabi Martinez

  When Iris put Maartje and Kris to bed, the girls asked to have Jordi tell them one of his stories.

  ‘But of course, my beautiful young ladies,’ said Jordi, rubbing his hands.

  In the bedroom, he told them about another adventure in the forest, with suspense and sound effects that delighted the little girls.

  ‘Just one moment!’ he said not long after starting.

  He left the bedroom and returned with a small video camera.

  ‘Thanks to this miracle of science, I’ve been filming the tracks that this little fellow of ours has left.’

  ‘Have you got the footprints of the barmanu you nearly caught?’ asked Maartje.

  ‘The one whose trace I lost when I got to the stream?’

  ‘Yes, that one, that one,’ answered the girls in unison.

  ‘On that day I went out without the camera … but that’s why I’ve always taken it with me ever since.’ Jordi hugged the contraption theatrically.

  Then he had dinner with Gyuri and Iris, who got up from time to time to deal with Imre, the baby born in December. They discussed the situation in Afghanistan, described the camps they’d set up, and the aid that the A.M.I. would provide. Jordi recalled details of his encounter with Massoud.

  ‘You do know that, after that, there will be some people who’re going to think he’s a friend of yours,’ said Gyuri.

  ‘Massoud?’

  ‘Massoud.’

  ‘Pah, we just talked for a bit. Let idiots say what they like, I don’t care. Is that why you didn’t want to come along to the meeting with him? Because of the tittle-tattle?’

  ‘No, no … I know everybody would have liked the chance to see him, but personally that kind of thing … I don’t know, it does nothing for me.’

  Jordi found it hard to understand this attitude. He understood his friend’s dismissal of the excessively popular — he actually identified with the sentiment himself — but to him the figure of Massoud was so far above all others, the historic relevance of that warrior seemed so completely obvious to him, he found it hard to understand how anybody could forego a chance to get close to him. Jordi was in pursuit of precisely that strength, that flame, that valiant way of facing up to existence. But anyway.

  After saying goodnight to the couple, he ran into one of the security guards for Gyuri’s house out on the street. He knew a little about the guy, and Jordi still had the energy left to chat a while, so he asked him how he’d come to work for the Dutchman after having been in the army.

  ‘They fired me,’ said the man. ‘One night when I was on guard I saw two officers screwing a dog.’

  ‘Screwing it?’

  ‘Right. You know, really putting it in.’

  The guard made a graphic gesture. Jordi raised his eyebrows and clapped his hands.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I arrested the officers, and soon after that I got fired. But you know what I thought was weird? That the dog seemed to be liking it.’

  When Jordi mentioned this episode to Gyuri, the two of them agreed that the guy had to be some previously unidentified species of mental retard.

  XXXVII

  THE forty-donkey convoy set off in the spring towards Panjshir. Led by the lapis lazuli merchants, Ainullah and Jordi crossed narrow gorges and imposing plains, guarding the medicines and tools that were set to help reconstructing the valley. Armed men, some stationed on verges and others concealed behind boulders, watched their passing, and some greeted them. The loosening of a slope crushed a couple of the donkeys. The caravan retrieved whatever was salvageable of the material and continued on its way, alternating between dark, moss-cushioned gorges and sun-drenched vastnesses in flower between which mighty rivers zigzagged, which they sometimes managed to clear thanks to shaky, creaking wooden bridges. They made their way along the ridge of ravines on pathways so narrow that another donkey fell headlong. Still, the losses were minimal compared to previous expeditions.

  In Panjshir, they were met by men Ainullah had recruited in Peshawar, and they were led to the area where they would establish their first base. Jordi and Ainullah had just opened up a humanitarian corridor that would subsequently be used by the International Committee of the Red Cross and the United Nations.

  They unloaded packs, pitched tents, settled themselves in separate quarters, and once again discussed with the Afghans the best way of distributing the aid in the valley and the neighbouring Salang region. The speed of the operation was unprecedented for local customs, a model of efficiency. Within a few days, the base was working at full throttle, thanks in large part to the leadership taken on by Ainullah, to whom Jordi delegated many of the field initiatives, the negotiations with the natives, and the involvement of new partners.

  They made the perfect team. They succeeded in every objective with a speed and ease that brought them huge renown amid the Afghans of the region, and as he realised the possibilities of what they were doing, and felt certain that all their contributions were positive, to the benefit of the land and its men, Jordi allowed himself to fantasise.

  He imagined an independent country made up of Chitral, Gilgit, Nuristan, Badakhshan, and Panjshir. It would be named Hindu Kush. He never stopped thinking about how to do things for the people of the Hindu Kush.

  ‘It’s possible, Ainullah, it is possible. There are people supporting us, and I’ve got contacts. Look: the head of the Aga Khan Foundation in Chitral; the representative of Equo in Afghanistan; Allan, who’s the head of the Madera office; and a whole load of leaders from Chitral and Nuristan, in addition to commander Massoud Najomuddin Khan, the real top dog in Badakshan.’

  ‘I don’t know. It isn’t easy. Maybe,’ replied Ainullah.

  The truth was, his boss really was very famous in these parts. People did like him. Why shouldn’t it be possible?

  Jordi knew the tribal chiefs and their yearnings, which weren’t so different from his own, or so he believed. Besides, he was demonstrating that he could recover an area that had been devastated, if only he was provided with the necessary means and freedom. As Rudyard Kipling dreamed of a man who would be king, Jordi dreamed of himself, albeit in a manner that was more realistic and pacific than that suicidal adventurer. Where Kipling imagined the kingdom ruled by war, Jordi was proposing a government supported by humanitarian aid.

  In any case, Ainullah just listened in silence to his boss as they made their frequent journeys to Kabul to co-ordinate the acquisition and distribution of supplies. And it was there in the capital that he contracted matrimony with the woman who is still his second wife.

  ‘Congratulations, Ainullah. Though you already know it’s going to cost you money. One more mouth to feed.’

  ‘I’ll work twice as hard. And what about you — aren’t you planning to marry again?’

  ‘Of course. But my next wife won’t be French or Spanish. I’m going to marry a Kalash woman. I’ll become a Kalash, and ask her to marry me. I know a very beautiful girl, she’s called Goul Baegom, but the thing is, she’s still under-age, so I’ll have to wait a few years.’

  ‘A girl? Will you show her to me?’

  He did like Goul Baegom — she really was beautiful. There wasn’t much else he could say about her. It was true, back in Europe he never would have married in such circumstances, but this wasn’t Europe, and he had to demonstrate to the community that he was serious, even more serious. If he explained this to Ainullah … he was Afghan, he’d probably understand … but the kid was always talking about love. No, why would he want to complicate his life? He would talk to Ainullah about things he understood.

  ‘What matters is establishing something, Ainullah. Your lineage is what carries you on, what gives your life meaning.’

  ‘True. But are you going to show her to me one day, or aren’t you?’

  The following week, Jordi took him to see Goul Baegom. They walked over to
the fields where the girl was cutting grass for the winter. Amid the thickness they could still see the multi-coloured headdresses of other women, her cousins and neighbours who all worked with her. Jordi greeted her politely from ten metres away, shouting slightly. He asked after her family and whether the repairs had been done to the bashali where she would go to spend her period.

  ‘No,’ the girl replied, looking him in the eye. She crouched down again and went on cutting.

  ‘Those builders are a disaster,’ said Jordi, putting on a comic voice. ‘I may just have to come and sort out your bashali myself.’

  Women’s voices emerged from the field.

  ‘Yes, yes, plenty of talking, but we won’t be seeing hide nor hair of you, I bet.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare come close to so many women all together.’

  ‘You should talk less and do more.’

  The women kept laughing, throwing mischievous glances over the grasses until Jordi and Ainullah said goodbye.

  ‘Well? What did you think?’

  ‘She’s lovely. She has a face like a European girl. How old is she?’

  ‘About seventeen. And I’m going to have kids. It’s important to have descendants. As well you know.’

  Ainullah thought how often Jordi used to say that about descendants and lineage. Maybe he was becoming obsessed — which was normal, because getting to his age without children was reason enough to make you think about it, at the very least.

  When the Kalash women returned to their homes, they reported that Jordi had been to visit them. The news ran through the valleys.

  ‘It’s quite clear the barmanu-hunter is interested in Goul Baegom,’ said Abdul Khaleq’s wife to her husband.

  ‘She’ll never marry him,’ replied Abdul. ‘She doesn’t know him at all. And her parents respect her decisions.’

  Jordi went out to the encampment’s enclosed courtyard, scattering breadcrumbs all over the ground, and half a dozen ducks swirled around him. Three Afghans watched him from the door.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Jordi said to them.

  The bystanders had heard about the lessons about ducks that the boss used to give to anyone who would listen, and they enjoyed watching. Jordi exceeded their expectations.

  ‘… though you also have many other amazing animals round here, some of which are known and others aren’t. I consider myself fortunate to be able to travel round the region. Nature here is different from in Pakistan, there’s so much to discover.’

  When the Afghans had said goodbye, Ainullah asked how long they were going to be staying in Afghanistan.

  ‘I don’t know, we’ll see,’ replied Jordi. And he started to run through his accounts in his head.

  It was like a deformation. When he looked forward, toward the future, numbers would all throng together in his head, pressuring him to add, multiply, divide. He was taking in between three and five thousand francs a month. If he were to stay a year, gathering up as much money as possible, on his return he’d be able to continue with the restitution of the Kalash, furnished with hitherto unheard-of means. One year. Yes, he could handle one year in that valley.

  The economic recovery gave him strength to sit down — in late May — at the little wooden table where he usually worked, and write a postcard to Marie-Louise Marie France, mentioning that he had passed through the Taliban zone without problems, that his teeth were giving him trouble, and that the mission was somewhat delayed by the war, but everything was going well and he hoped to be able to repay the money he owed her in the autumn.

  Marie-Louise Marie France had lent him ten thousand francs, following another of his usual emergencies. Andrés had had difficulty sending money for a few months, because he was himself going through a precarious time. Andrés had argued about it many times with Philo, who was bothered by the amount of money her boyfriend was sending to Pakistan. She could see that Andrés was experiencing an adventure through his brother, that financing Jordi was his way of taking part in a dream. But everything has its limits. Philo wanted to start a family; that needed money, and they didn’t have any to spare. They weren’t in a position to be financing other people’s lives.

  ‘Stop now, Andrés. Your brother’s exploiting you,’ Philo had said one day.

  And though they would argue about it again, that money tap no longer flowed as plentifully as it used to.

  The funds coming in from the associations were also insufficient to cover the wages of the Storytellers of Tradition and the maintenance of Sharakat House, so Jordi had chosen to sound out new sources of financing. Marie-Louise Marie France had worked.

  Yes, he’d been through a tough time.

  But, at last, things were looking up. Soon he would be able to get out of debt. The new prosperity affected his mood when he was writing letters, in which he attempted to play down both his own situation and that of the country where he was living with calming messages. He didn’t want to add to Andrés’s worries. In any case, his brother replied by fax:

  I’ve told mamá that the business with the Taliban has no impact on Chitral, that it’s an autonomous territory. I hope I’m not wrong. The problem is, she isn’t as deaf as we seem to think, and she finds out about everything from the radio or the TV.

  What Jordi did not expect was to find Andrés so demoralised just a few months later:

  I want to go to Spain. This year I’ve given up on airplanes. My planes are for sale. I’m fed up with this shitty country where everyone’s so fake, where there are no projects of any ideological interest. And all that in this shitty Europe where you can’t do anything because it’s all so controlled and subject to some regulation that won’t allow you to be a free man. Four-star petrol is going to disappear. What am I supposed to do with the SEAT Ibiza and the 600?

  XXXVIII

  True believers do not have an opportunity to become strangers towards one another. Some things in Mein Kampf resemble chapters in the Koran.

  Karen Blixen, Letters from a Land at War

  AFTER I had spent several days consulting Jordi’s archives in Fontbarlettes, Dolores announced that her son Andrés would be coming for dinner. The final death-rattles of winter had been chilling the neighbourhood after dark, and Andrés appeared wrapped in a light black raincoat that filled up from below with the least gust of air, like the cape of a superhero or an old military officer. He kissed his mother, we shook hands, and he rubbed his very short hair, lately shaved. He adjusted his round spectacles before sitting down at the table, which did not yet have glasses or cutlery on it, folding his hands on the tablecloth. The dining room smelled of the vegetable broth that Dolores was preparing. There was the sound of a news bulletin coming from the television.

  Andrés had just left his job at Markem-Imaje S.A. He said that the firm had also been sending tracking devices, refills, and ink to Pakistan. The news meanwhile was describing how the Taliban had invaded the valleys of the Hindu Kush. Spokesmen for the U.N. were talking about a ‘major humanitarian crisis’, with some two million people displaced, the greatest movement of human beings in such a short period in history. There was talk of fifty-two Taliban eliminated in twenty-four hours, and an attack in response that had killed ten people. There was talk of an indeterminate number of people who had been caught in a phantom zone, with no help and no defence.

  ‘If you do want to go, now isn’t the best time,’ said Andrés, looking over at the television.

  Dolores brought glasses and cutlery for the three of us.

  ‘The problem is, when will it be a good time?’ I replied. ‘When it’s all over?’

  He rubbed his hair again.

  ‘I agree it’s worth going,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to Pakistan three times, and I know how the story goes. You learn things from travelling. For example, I know that from now on I’m only going to travel in Europe. But everyone ought to go to those countries once — you
learn a lot. If we get to know them well enough, we’ll be better placed to figure out the mistakes we’re making with the ones who’ve come to our country. Sounds good to me. What we can’t allow is that they get treated better than those of us who are here.’

  ‘Andrés, come on, man, it’s not like that. People say stuff like that a lot, but …’

  ‘But what? The intellectuals and politicians are always talking, blah-blah-blah-blah, but they don’t live in the neighbourhood, know what I mean? The damn Muzzies have started being given rights, and they’ve started believing they’re in charge. They already think they’ve been here since before those of us who really were. And if they wake up one morning in a bad mood and want to set fire to a car, they do it. You’ve seen it right outside. Did you see the burned-out car? Well, it was those animals that did it, that’s normal round here. And my sister told me you weren’t able to get the bus back to the centre the other day because on the weekend there are no buses after seven or something, right? Well, if the buses don’t come, it’s only because the drivers are scared of being in the neighbourhood after nightfall — they’re afraid of being robbed or getting their buses set on fire, and that’s why they changed the timetables. And the firemen only come with a police escort, because the Moors start throwing stones at them and shouting ‘French pieces of shit’. This is Fontbarlettes, one of Valence’s Moorish neighborhoods. And the Algerians are the worst of all, always looking for a fight.’

  Dolores started to serve out ladlefuls of soup. The daily bulletin was dealing with the sports news.