In the Land of Giants

by Gabi Martinez

  LVIII

  ABDUL opened the imposing wooden door of Sharakat House, which had been uninhabited since Jordi’s death. He was using it as an occasional larder and for storing sheaves of grass and wheat. He showed me, in this order: the stables; the grapevine that Jordi had brought from a trip to Quetta, in Balochistan, and which survived still; the room that Asif had occupied; and the outbuilding for guests with the low roof and irregular floor that incorporated the piping to feed an ancient heater.

  When we climbed the steps to the terrace, the Afghan mountains appeared, splendid-looking despite the threatening clouds. To one side was Zinor; to the other, Shawal — the fearsome and mythical corridors to the neighbouring country. At their feet, taking advantage of a magnificent rocky outcrop, the cluster of houses that was most emblematic of Shekhanandeh rose up vertically, like a little fort from another age, like a Tolkien fantasy. Jordi had a terrace with gorgeous views of the homes and mountains from which the men would come down to kill him.

  The murmur of the river could be heard beyond the cornfields and the pea fields. Abdul put the key into the door of what used to be Jordi’s study. In the damp interior there was just a single iron chair facing the closed window.

  ‘This is where they killed him,’ said Abdul. ‘Though not in this chair. The chair’s with me. Khalil and Shamsur took everything except the chair, because it was covered in blood.’

  We walked through the empty room, and he showed me the door that led to the toilet and connected the study to the bedroom where Jordi and Wazir slept.

  ‘You should change your clothes afterwards,’ said Abdul. ‘This place is full of fleas. No one came in here for a long time.’

  He closed the door, and we sat down on a bench on the terrace.

  ‘Jordi had possessions worth around twenty million,’ said Abdul, opening a small penknife whose blade he started to run distractedly across the nape of his neck. ‘The people in the valley are poor, and those days were particularly bad … though, well, in this place there are always problems with that, with money. I had to sell the fridge and generator to get a bank loan, and I’m still paying it back with the walnuts and peas my family gathers. I even sold the Kalashnikov.’

  ‘But you helped Jordi. He owed you money, didn’t he?’

  We both scratched a leg at the same time.

  ‘Yes. I think they’d offered him something at the UN, and he was planning to accept. He said they’d pay him well and he’d be able to pay me back. It didn’t come in time.’

  For the rest of the day, Abdul showed me his village, Krakal, pausing sporadically for conversations with locals. That was how we learned that the previous day there had been an attack on the Minister of Religious Affairs in Islamabad. And that a neighbour had been executed by the Taliban on the other side of the mountains.

  ‘Didn’t you say nothing ever happens here?’

  ‘That happened in Afghanistan,’ Abdul nodded towards the mountains, ‘and it was because the man must have done something bad. They wouldn’t have killed him otherwise.’

  In the evening, we visited the Kalash cemetery. After crossing a solid wooden bridge suspended on steel cables, we reached the copse where Jordi is buried. All the coffins had been desecrated, apart from his. Human bones were scattered amid smashed pieces of wood. It was the hair-raising summary of the horror to which that community is subjected.

  ‘We have always said goodbye to our people with the things that were important to them in life, leaving the coffins in plain view, on the earth. But twenty years ago, the Muslims started plundering our tombs, and now we bury our dead beneath the ground. We are walking over them.’

  As the Kalash do not identify the locations of their burials, any trace of them is lost once the earth and leaves have covered up the marks of the shovels. Some cultures do prefer merely to deliver the bodies of their dead up to nature. The Mongols, for example, allow theirs to be eaten by wolves. But these are agreed ancestral rites, natural voluntary acts, while the Kalash had been obliged to pervert their tradition.

  ‘How can you allow them to do this to you?’

  ‘We’ve reported them.’

  ‘And nothing can be done?’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  Some days earlier, the hotelier Siraj Ulmulk had contemplated this very question.

  ‘Why do the Kalash allow themselves to have this cemetery?’ he had asked himself. ‘I protect my hotel. Can’t they get someone standing guard to take care of their tombs? And if not, what about that Greek? If he wants to help the Kalash, why doesn’t he invest in the cemetery instead of the museum that cost him a fortune? The dead are much more important to a culture than those nice-looking buildings. Why should the government worry about it? Places belong to the people, and they’re the ones who should watch over them.’

  ‘Why don’t you put someone on guard?’ I asked Abdul.

  ‘With what money?’

  Jordi’s tomb was at the far end of the cemetery, facing the mountain. In order to prevent vandalism, it had been protected with a series of flimsy crossbeams, and though one was broken, the sarcophagus appeared to be still beneath the ground, a perfect rectangle covered in leaves.

  Abdul booked me the most luxurious room in his hotel: a cabin with a bathroom separated from the main building by a patch of grass. Built out of wood, it was just a few metres from the river, with its inescapable murmur in the background. We had dinner together in a room attached to the cabin. One of Abdul’s children served us rice, vegetable stew, freshly made bread, bottled water, and apricot wine. As he drank the alcohol, at a slow but steady pace, Abdul told me stories about Jordi, about the valley.

  ‘The Muslims say I’m Kalash and that I shouldn’t be here. I get rid of them with some smooth talking. How else? If I tried fighting or resorting to official channels I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  A few gulps distorted his appearance. From time to time he would throw sudden glances at the door, at the window. The murmur of the river was constantly in the background. I was startled by the noise of something hitting the other side of the cabin, which backed onto the riverbed. Abdul got up, opened the door, spat, and shouted: ‘Hey, hey.’

  He closed the door again.

  ‘Dogs,’ he said. ‘They smelled the food, and came to see if they could filch something. Are you afraid?’ I suppose he could see it in me. ‘It’s normal. But there’s nothing happening. The Taliban have nothing against the Kalash. They think we’re innocent.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because some of them came to the hotel on holiday, and they told me. They told me they were in Dir and in Swat, but that they had nothing against us.’ Abdul ate a spoonful of rice. ‘They also drink and smoke, did you know that? I think the United States ought to intercede and get rid of them once and for all.’

  On the following nights, we repeated the dinners in the annexe to the cabin. I think on those days, apart from the Greek, I was the only westerner in Bumburet. And I never stopped asking him questions — questions that in minutes would expand across the valley like an echo, finding their way to too many ears. That was what I thought, and as the hours passed I became increasingly suggestible. I was living in a constant state of tension.

  Three lightning flashes heralded the first rain in many months. Before darkness had fallen, the water began to come down.

  ‘The summer’s coming to an end,’ said Abdul, the glass of apricot wine in his hand. The rain machine-gunned the cabin. ‘Shame. I prefer the heat.’ He tut-tutted, tapping his pakhol back a bit to uncover his forehead still further. ‘The investigation into Jordi’s murder was pitiful. It didn’t exist. Look, before Jordi, I can only remember one other murder of foreigners. It was in 1982. They killed a Swiss couple in Birir, for money apparently, but that time, oh yes, that time there was a good investigation: the police found four murderers, four Muslim guides. Th
ey hanged them. All four. You think this valley is really so big that people don’t know what happened to Jordi?’

  This time, his face altered without any need for the drink. We sat in silence.

  ‘If the news spreads that well, someone must know where Bin Laden is,’ I said.

  The rain overwhelmed the roar of the river.

  ‘It seems he’s dead. He had some kidney problem — five years back, he went to see a doctor around these parts … If you look carefully, ever since then they’ve only released tapes and videos from before that date. I’m sure he died. He was very sick. I’ve heard it from some Afghans …’

  The clattering on the roof-tiles accelerated. I suddenly needed to ask him a question.

  ‘Why have you given me this room that’s separate from the rest of the hotel, if there are no other guests?’

  ‘It’s the only one with a bathroom,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I sold my Kalashnikov, but I did keep a revolver. And besides, there’s a security guard patrolling the hotel at night. He also carries a revolver, a good one, and he has orders to shoot if he sees anyone. Shoot first, ask questions later, that’s what I’ve told him.’

  The rain was torrential now, or at least that was what the racket of the water against the wooden boards sounded like.

  ‘Did Jordi have security guards?’

  ‘When things got complicated, I offered him one, but he didn’t want one. He had his people, his dogs … He always locked his door from the inside.’

  We said a quick goodbye, and Abdul ran, hunched over, towards his room at the far end of the lawn. I followed the trail of his torch until it disappeared into the house.

  ‘I sleep soundly — you should do the same,’ he had said.

  I couldn’t. How must Jordi have slept? What pressures assailed him in his last months? Did he feel alone? How alone? Wasn’t he surrounded by friends?

  The rain abated after an hour. The river returned. A few dogs howled.

  I’d been storing up fear for too many months not to clothe it now in its severest, most warped, form, making me start at every loud noise, at a change in the flow of the river waters or the sense of footsteps outside. I spent hours trying to ascertain if there was somebody approaching the cabin. Something hitting the beams, presumably the dogs, gave me spasms of terror. At a certain moment, I wrote these words: ‘Just like Jordi was seeking the yeti, so I am seeking Jordi. We are a chain of dreams and hopes. Where will we end?’

  I slept in short bursts, between intermittent interruptions to my sleep. At 4:47am I checked the hour on my mobile phone for the last time before surrendering.

  I was back with the crowing of the roosters. When I woke up, I felt the relief of having done it. As in my childhood, my night-time fears had been reduced to fantasies. I was overcome by the sincere desire to give thanks for seeing the sun once again.

  LIX

  Equal with Gods: aspiring to be such,

  They taste and die:

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  HE pressed the switch — once, twice, three times. The light did not come on. He couldn’t believe it. He’d been so insistent with Khalil that he needed electricity by the time he returned …

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said to little Wazir, whom he’d collected some days earlier from his parents’ house. ‘Carry on with your homework.’

  He went down the path to Krakal with his fists clenched, glancing towards the trees, peering through the thickness to see whether he could spot Khalil. He found him playing cards on the grass with Shamsur and two friends.

  ‘What’s going on with my electricity! Didn’t I say I wanted it working when I got back? I paid you seventeen thousand rupees for your latest botched-up job, and I still can’t work! You’re always doing this to me! It’s always the same story, Khalil — always the same!’

  How you’ve changed, Jordi, thought Khalil. You’re speaking so quickly, out of control.

  Khalil got to his feet with his characteristic sobriety.

  ‘I wasn’t able to sort it out. There were some problems. I’ll do it another day.’

  ‘What do you mean, another day? I want you to sort it out right now!’

  ‘OK, OK. Take it easy, you’re nervous.’

  ‘Khalil!’

  Khalil turned around and began to walk away. Jordi could not believe it. Would he have to go after him and smash his fucking face in? He couldn’t believe it. As Khalil moved off, Shamsur intervened: ‘Don’t get angry — my brother’s had a lot of work these past few days.’

  Shamsur’s friendly tone helped to calm his rage. He was hoping for a reconciliation with him, and it soothed him to find the boy so willing to make peace. Ah, Shamsur, Shamsur. At least he still had his beloved boy, the man who would be king. He calmed down. They arranged to have dinner together.

  ‘I’m going back to the city for a few days, Shamsur. I need money, and it sounds like there’s a good chance of doing some work there.’

  On 30 July, Jordi paid the wages of Asif Ali and of Ghulam Sakhi, an occasional helper. Another of his casual workers, Rahmat Ullah, collected his pay that same morning. It was 1 August. Jordi wanted to leave without any debts.

  ‘Tomorrow I’m going to leave Wazir at his parents’ place, and then I’m going,’ he added. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘I can’t. I have a sick child — they’re going to operate on him.’

  ‘You didn’t say … Fine, it’s no problem. No problem. I’ll talk to Abdul.’

  And now Jordi found himself going down the path in search of Abdul, of a friend, of someone to depend on, who would be around to sustain him in these days. Always so proud of his autonomy and independence, he longed for the warmth of somebody close. He needed support. When he asked his Kalash friend to go with him, he specified that he was going to look for work at the offices of the A.M.I.

  ‘My wife’s about to give birth,’ said Abdul, ‘I’m sorry. Don’t worry about it — I’m sure you’ll find a good job.’

  Jordi returned with Shamsur, and they bought two small bottles of wine. Dawn was still breaking when they climbed back up the slope leading to Sharakat House. The dogs came out to meet them. Wazir greeted them from the terrace, and bounded down the steps to the kitchen building, where Asif was moving things about in the gloom after attending to the horses.

  ‘Still no electricity,’ said Asif.

  ‘We’ll have to light candles,’ replied Jordi.

  They lit a couple of oil lamps. Jordi opened the bottles of wine, kept one for himself, and handed the other to Shamsur, who drank it while they roasted two pigeons. Asif drank nothing. Jordi had dinner with Wazir and Shamsur, who talked and drank until he was intoxicated.

  ‘You don’t like wine any more, or what?’ said Shamsur to Jordi.

  ‘I have work to do. Finish mine if you want.’

  Shamsur was left with Jordi’s bottle in the bedroom that connected to the kitchen. Jordi and Wazir went upstairs. Once back inside, they lit candles.

  ‘Come on, Wazir, it’s time to practise,’ said Jordi.

  The boy went over to the small corner table and put down a candle and a pile of squared paper, each sheet representing a letter of the western alphabet, and he began to formulate words. Shamsur kept on drinking by himself on the lower floor. After a while, Jordi went down to ask him if he could go early the following day to bring some French books Shamsur was keeping at his family’s house; he wanted Wazir to use them.

  ‘I’ve already said I won’t have time,’ replied Shamsur out of the shadows. ‘My son is sick, and I’m going to have to look after him the next three days. If I can get away for a bit, I’ll come by, but I don’t think that’s likely, honestly.’

  Jordi went back upstairs. ‘I le
ft soon after that,’ Shamsur would tell the police.

  In his study, Jordi went back over a piece of paper on which he had listed his imminent plans. Besides helping out a friend who was doing research into a forbidden Nuristani language, Jordi made these commitments:

  Go find pieces of testimony on September 15th.

  Look for money.

  Sell jeep.

  Go see Sher Alam from Birir to ask when the class 5 exams are happening.

  Hervé Nègre: photo camera + magneto.

  Message to look for work in France and Spain.

  See Pir Tariq about staying in Chitral at his house and working. Room for me and Wazir.

  Sell the white horse.

  It was an unimprovable summary of the contradictions that were destroying him.

  There was a knock on the door, and the visitor identified himself. Jordi opened it, said hello, closed it, and as he said something he sat back down on the chair facing the unplugged computer. He tidied a few loose pages of the book he was writing, and separated the sheet on the desk summarising his schedule for the coming days. Reflected in the window, he saw somebody moving behind him and then, immediately, felt them grabbing his neck. He raised his left hand to defend himself. A knife made a cut in his thumb before being plunged diagonally into his throat, slashing his trachea, his oesophagus, and his jugular while, in an extremely quick movement, his assailant pushed Jordi’s head forward and aimed a second blow, which went in straight, fracturing his second cervical vertebra. The jets of blood bespattered photos, books, and the sheet of paper on which he’d written his plans for the future.

  LX

  SHAMSUR said in his statement that the following morning he found a moment to take Jordi the French books. Jordi wasn’t up, so Shamsur left the books in the jeep so that he’d see them on his way out.

  Over the course of that day, 2 August, there was no movement in Sharakat House. The doors remained closed, apart from the door to Asif’s room, next to the stables.