He used a part of the money to buy — in addition to food and basic tools — pencils for the Storytellers’ students. He was not going to forget them. He was one of their people; his duty was to the community. However little he had, his people would share in it.
Soon after returning to Sharakat House, he was visited by Mir Azam Khan, Ayun’s chief of police.
‘I’ve had complaints about you.’
‘From who?’
‘They say you’ve been taking pencils to the children in Birir and that you can’t only be helping the Kalash, that the Muslims also have a right to your help.’
‘I can give pencils to anyone I want. I don’t think the Kalash children have that many advantages over the Muslim kids. What the hell? You’ve really come to tell me off for taking children pencils?’
‘You know that people in the valleys are in a bad way, there’s no money, there’s not enough food. People have to manage with their lives however they can, and they see you there handing out gifts …’
‘What are you saying? Are we all going crazy?’
‘And it’s not just that, Jordi … You’d do well to leave the valleys for a while. Things are getting complicated, you’re a foreigner …’
‘Do you know something?’
‘It’s for your own safety.’
‘What have you been told? How do you know if I’m safe or not?’
‘Listen to me. Go.’
‘And what are the police for? And what are you for?’
‘It’s just for a few months. And when the situation improves, you come back.’
Jordi burned with rage, with impotence. They couldn’t kick him out after so long. He was one of them; this was his home. Didn’t they understand? His home — the place where he had offered up his wishes, making so many of them come true. Didn’t they understand? But I’m taking a big chance. He’s implying they want to kill me.
Back in Sharakat, as he closed the door, he noticed that he was trembling. He had left fear behind — nothing had ever intimidated him so badly to make him shake like that. No, it was rage that sparked off his nerves and pushed him out of control. Fuck. Fuck. Bastards. Fucking arseholes. He cursed them for as long as he could, shouting, punching the air, pausing several times to take a deep breath, until he took a piece of paper and biro, and — haltingly, because of the interruptions from the swearing and the deep breaths — he wrote a letter to three of his collaborators:
Today I received an interesting visit from the chief of police in Ayun […] The Muslims in the three valleys are complaining about me […] Maybe they want me to pay the Mullahs […] I’m notifying you that I am ceasing all of my activities for the Kalash. As of today, June 13th of the year 2002, everything stops. Please communicate to the other teachers that I will not be able to pay any more salaries.
Next he wrote the report that he produced annually for the G.E.S.C.H. It was report number four, published on 23 June, a monograph about the attacks on the Kalash. Writing in a frenzy now, he alleged that the authorities were claiming N.G.O. money that was in theory for helping the Kalash, but only in theory. Without a moment’s hesitation, the words just bubbling out, he explained the pressures Abdul Khaleq had been under for having rented him his house, and how anger was rising among the pagans. ‘Why shouldn’t they rent out their houses? Are we an underclass of men?’ he wrote.
‘We are.’
And he added that the D.C.O. had enacted an order prohibiting the young foreigners who visited the valleys from talking to the Kalash girls.
We believe, we hope, that these are not orders from the central government but an abuse of power by the D.C.O. […] Everything is creating a pressure towards conversion. (Information letter from the G.E.S.C.H.)
Impelled by impotence, fear, and a lack of alternatives, the Kalash set about sacrificing goats and oxen in the hope that the gods would protect them. The brothers Khalil and Shamsur assured the District Co-ordination Officer that they would guard Jordi’s safety, and why all this alarm — nothing ever happened in the valley, after all?
At first, Jordi tried to detach himself. The reporter Éric Chrétien was persisting with the idea of expanding his investigation into the barmanu-hunter, which suited him. The barmanu was reappearing just in time for Jordi to ride out the anxiety; it was so good having an ally with whom to take refuge in his perpetual, beloved chimera. He would recover, around the barmanu. Once again, he would recover.
‘Éric, could you do me a favour?’ he asked the reporter.
‘Of course.’
He talked to him about what he needed for his investigation. Éric had himself already witnessed the precariousness of the resources Jordi operated with.
‘So, if you wouldn’t mind,’ he concluded, ‘I’d like you to pass a message on to a former collaborator of mine. I’m asking her for some important equipment, and I want to be quite sure the message reaches her safely.’
Via Éric, Jordi asked Cat to send him some infra-red army goggles from Thomson TRT Défense, and anaesthetics capable of felling a weight equivalent to a gorilla, along with their dart gun.
‘We’re supposed to send him goggles! He’s amazing,’ said Valicourt aloud when she had read the request.
They still exchanged messages from time to time, but their relationship had been diluted, so it took some cheek for him to show up again like this, asking for something — quite apart from the question of who would even think of going into those Taliban-infested forests. Of course she wasn’t going to send him the goggles. Such a thoughtless man!
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve already explained: I can’t give you one hundred and fifty euro. The minimum the bank requires to cash a cheque is three hundred.’
‘And I’m telling you again that I don’t have that amount, but I want to take out the money I have in my account. That money is mine, and you have an obligation to give it to me. It’s mine!’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
There was nothing to be done. Without saying goodbye, he tore up the cheque right in front of the manager of the branch, threw the scraps of paper on the floor, and headed for the computer at the Mountain Inn to ask his brother, Andrés, for one final effort. As he sent the message, the computer’s toolbar read: 2 July.
‘Yes, I know, I know,’ he said.
Babu looked at him with surprise.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nothing. See you later.’
Yes, he knew it was July the 2nd — how could he fail to know it in that damned heat? As soon as he arrived home, he took off his shirt and curled up in the coolest corner of his office. Calm, still. How many hours did he stay there, his neurons firing with the sweat, and with them those fantasies that didn’t solve anything either. Finally, he was left with the same reality as always, his lifelong supports. Andrés, Andrés, Andrés. To whom would he turn, if not to his brother? After so many acquaintances and so-called friends and scientists who claimed to back him … what had changed?
Drenched in the shadows, he tried to reconcile himself to the idea that he ought to abandon this rudderless country. After a time, he gathered the strength to go over to the desk. He picked up a pencil and wrote: ‘I’m suffocating. After this mission I think I’ll leave here, I’ll go to Europe or Afghanistan, because Pakistan’s impossible.’ He begged his brother for one more effort. Please, I’m nearly done.
Andrés sent him a handful of euro that slightly alleviated his most pressing needs. Then he telephoned and wrote to friends and subscribers of his associations, asking for economic help or protection of some kind. In response, one of his European colleagues even tried to get a distinguished general in Afghanistan to intercede on his behalf, with no success. At the same time, Jordi undertook a series of visits. He stopped by to see Athanasious Lerounis. The Greek was surprised by the cordiality of their chat after their countless squabbles. Jordi also visited Bibi
, a westernised Kalash woman who was hoping to improve the tourism in the area and often travelled to Switzerland. They’d hit it off well. More than one person got the impression he was saying goodbye.
In view of the fact that nobody was able to help him and that his situation was getting worse every day, on 13 July he sat down to write a letter with his morale in a state of collapse. Every line contained something of the ordeal about it, some infinite disappointment. He now believed in his defeat, and, having accepted it, why hold back? ‘I’m in shit!’ he wrote.
He had nine thousand rupees left, but he needed to get the car fixed for a hundred and ten thousand and make it to the end of September. I want to get to September! Do I? Despite everything, he resisted giving up.
He was sweating; every day he sweated like an animal. Beads of sweat dripped onto his desk. He had reached a state where he thought he ought to offer himself up either to chaos or to heroism.
Shift the focus, he said to himself, squeezing his rings against the palm of his hand. You’ve lost everything. You’re dead. You no longer exist. You have no future. So if you then manage to turn things around, the victory will be all the greater. You will win yourself a new life.
He asked Esperanza for three hundred euro and to track down a member of the G.E.S.C.H., Monsieur Dupont. ‘Look for him at his holiday place if necessary — tell him it’s for his friend in Pakistan, that he’s in a lot of trouble.’ Then he changed into capital letters, hoping that the employees of the postal service or the policemen who read the letter — which he took for granted would happen — would understand that he was begging them to allow the procedure to be accelerated.
I DO THINK THE POSTAL SERVICE MUST BE ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THE SITUATION. THEY CANNOT FAIL TO PROVIDE ASSISTANCE TO A PERSON IN DANGER IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY LIKE PAKISTAN.
After Jordi had sent the accursed letter, a problem with the wiring left Sharakat House without electricity, so in those days he was not even able to work. All he had left was to wait. To dodge the debt collectors and wait.
He received another transfer from the family, Abdul lent him what he could, and he managed to gather enough rupees to escape to Peshawar, where he wanted to tidy up some matters that would make things easier in the future. Before leaving, he explained the problem with the electrical wiring to Khalil, and asked him to sort it out in his absence.
‘I’ll pay you for it, of course,’ Jordi replied to the humiliating question from a Khalil who was, at last, fully aware of his debacle.
‘Don’t get angry,’ said Khalil. ‘I need money, too, just like practically everyone in the valley. Nine-eleven has crushed us all.’
On the way to Peshawar, Jordi stopped off at Hindu Kush Heights. It had been more than a decade since he had visited Siraj Ulmulk’s hotel, the bonds connecting him to the millionaire were still pretty much zero, and the Ulmulk family had historically oppressed the Kalash and the rest of the region, but Jordi was desperate.
‘I need your help. The administration of Chitral and the police have recommended that I leave Bumburet.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like you to help me.’
Siraj Ulmulk retained an affectionate image of Jordi surrounded by dogs. The last time they’d met it had troubled him to see Jordi so closely involved with those Kalash infidels, but he still had sympathy with that odd way of life and of going after his goals, so, OK, yes, he’d lend a hand. Ulmulk consulted a few friends in important positions in the government, and one of them confirmed that Jordi’s life was indeed in danger.
‘Who wants to kill him?’ the hotelier asked.
‘We’ve got information — he ought to leave.’
Ulmulk decided not to believe his informer. Jordi seemed happy, Chitral was a peaceful place, and Ulmulk knew that exaggeration grew in this place like a national crop. Killing didn’t necessarily mean killing … He explained none of this to Jordi.
Then Jordi knocked on every possible door in Peshawar. He was hoping to get loans, but whom could he ask? He didn’t know these faces. His diary was a mess of crossed-out phone numbers, and at that moment there were no expats he trusted left in the city. He was also looking for a buyer for his car, and candidates for this hadn’t materialised either.
What he did not expect was to run in to Shamsur. They met on the street a few metres from the doorway of an N.G.O.
‘What are you doing here?’ the Nuristani asked him. ‘Have you found a job?’
‘No. What are you doing?’
‘I’ve come to visit some friends. It’s really weird seeing you here, though. And in this heat! Why could you possibly need to come to Peshawar now?’
What was Shamsur insinuating? Who did this kid think he was? Jordi still considered him a mere spoiled brat, after he’d educated him and had taken him to see Paris. Who did he think he was to speak to him like this? Jordi grabbed him by the shirtfront and pushed him angrily to the floor. Shamsur got to his feet, throwing himself onto Jordi. It was one of the saddest fights.
‘I’m leaving! I don’t want any more to do with you! I never want to see you again! It’s over!’ said Shamsur when they had tired of hitting each other.
‘That’s right, go once and for all. And don’t come back! Don’t come back!’ replied Jordi.
Sacked? Ha. He’d been sacked by him before, and two or three hours later Jordi always showed up again, saying sorry.
Emboldened, Shamsur smoothed down his clothes and said: ‘Fine, I’m done with you now. Give me my money, and I’ll disappear.’
Jordi handed him two thousand rupees. Then he was left alone in the middle of the street. Without money. Without Shamsur. In a place where he no longer had friends. The two hours that followed were a prelude to hell. He wandered disoriented around a city that was suddenly intangible, gaseous, where everything was volatile now and inconsistent. Was he floating? Several times he sat down on the tarmac, pulling up tufts of grass from some piece of ground he later would not remember. He cried, in secret. He cursed himself for his impotence, for his inability to bear a single day away from that wretch he so wanted to expel out of himself, never to see him again, truly, never to … but no, the idea was unbearable. Within two hours, Jordi had gone back in search of his dear Shamsur. He popped in at the offices of the N.G.O.s, to restaurants Shamsur knew. He found him watching a backgammon game at a friend’s food store.
‘I’m sorry, Shamsur, forgive me. I’m so tired, I haven’t been sleeping. It’s really hot. I’m here because there’s no electricity in Bumburet and I need to work, I’ve asked your brother to get the power fixed. Ask him. I’ll go back in a few days. Don’t get angry. Please, don’t get angry.’
‘Alright, alright. We’ll talk when you’re back in Bumburet.’
It was clear that Shamsur was not going to let the conversation drag on. Jordi longed to keep talking, to explain himself better, but he didn’t want to hassle or to seem tiresome, nor to arouse any more resistance than he could already sense Shamsur felt towards him. Move away, move away, he repeated to himself. Go now. He went.
And now where would he go? Peshawar seemed so remote, now that all he needed was a bit of comfort, shelter, the feeling of a family. He found a payphone, and called Gyuri.
On Sunday 28 July, Gyuri, Iris, and their son Imre had dinner with Jordi in a restaurant in Peshawar’s old quarter. The Dutch family found their friend unusually depressed.
‘Are you alright?’ he heard them ask.
I’ve come too far on my own, he might have replied — something like that, something artistic, something brilliant. In that collapse there lived a strength that was grandly artistic; it was sometimes visible from the outside, magnificent in its fall. He didn’t reply, and his friend did not insist.
Then they headed for the couple’s house, where Jordi explained to Gyuri that he had been invited to quit the valleys. That he had received death
threats. That the police couldn’t guarantee his safety.
‘I’m considering finding work as a night watchman in France. It doesn’t matter where, it’s just a matter of earning enough money to keep writing the books I’m involved in.’
‘Books?’
‘Yes. About the Kalash and the Nuristanis.’
‘Are you going to leave?’
Am I going to leave? Nothing would be easier — he had the free plane ticket paid for by B21. But, naturally, he hadn’t packed a single suitcase. Everything in Sharakat House was still in its place. And despite his differences with Éric Chrétien, he had mapped out an excursion with the reporter to the higher altitudes of the mountains, where for six months beginning in September they would wait for the barmanu, disguised as shepherds equipped with a video camera, telescope, and hypodermic syringes. Which was why he wanted more money: he needed to buy a herd of goats. And it was why he had asked Valicourt for the infra-red goggles. During dinner, he smiled at the path his imagination had taken. At his foolishness. Am I going to leave?
‘Right now, I have to pay the salaries of my employees,’ he replied. ‘And later, if the situation doesn’t change … I don’t know, Gyuri. It’s so hard.’
PARADISE LOST
Thus repulsed, our final hope
Is flat despair: we must exasperate
Th’ Almighty Victor to spend all his rage;
And that must end us; that must be our cure —
To be no more.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
More destroyed than thus,
We should be quite abolished, and expire.
What fear we then? what doubt we to incense
His utmost ire?
In the Land of Giants Page 30