Dust on the Paw

by Robin Jenkins

  Mrs Mossaour stood up. ‘Mr Wahab?’ she cried.

  He gave a little bow and came forward. At that moment a class in the school began to sing a French ditty. The contrast between its cheeky jauntiness and Wahab’s cat-footed caution was so funny that Gillie had to grin. Moffatt, though, could not help scowling, as if this young man approaching with such ridiculous decorousness were his enemy. Mrs Moffatt, on the other hand, smiled in a way so welcoming that it made not only hers, but the human face in general, beautiful. Again it crossed Gillie’s mind what a damn shame it was that she had been excluded from the British wives’ sewing circle.

  ‘Please come up, Mr Wahab,’ called Mrs Mossaour.

  Knees stiff with politeness, he climbed the three steps. He was handsome enough; a few faint pockmarks in his cheeks and some blemishes in his teeth were advantageous rather than otherwise – they gave an unexpected touch of manliness. His eyes were another surprise: brown certainly, but not melting, not hangdog, not sly, but candid, intelligent, and plucky. If there were a flicker or two of self-seeking in them, well, in what eyes, man’s, woman’s or cat’s, were those not to be seen? Gillie was inclined to approve of him – not the kind of man one would want one’s white-skinned Westernized daughter to marry of course – but in himself worthy enough. What Miss Johnstone of Manchester saw in him was another matter.

  Mrs Mossaour introduced them. He did not, like most of his countrymen, make a fool of himself with a display of self-effacing ostentation but contented himself with returning Moffatt’s nod and Gillie’s with similar brief nods, and Mrs Moffatt’s smile with one as friendly. There was no handshaking, which was really remarkable, since the Afghans were the most indefatigable handshakers Gillie had ever known.

  Wahab sat down in the chair Mrs Mossaour indicated. His cap rested on his lap, with his hands lightly upon it. His brown suit was far from new but well-kept and neat. His shirt and collar were fresh and clean, his tie not grubby. His shoes had recently been polished. Gillie, connoisseur of dress, judged that Wahab, like most of his contemporaries with Afghan salaries, had to keep himself respectably clothed by a discipline of tidiness. It was a point heavily in his favour.

  Mrs Mossaour was explaining why the others were present. ‘Mr Gillie, who is the British Consul, is one of the Board of Governors of the school. Mr Moffatt is a teacher of English at the University; he is also an expert on the English educational system. And Mrs Moffatt is one of my most valuable assistants.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ he said. His English accent, like his smile, was pleasant. He might have been thinking that they had no damn right to be present at what he’d intended to be a private interview, but it was hard to feel offended. So Gillie at any rate thought.

  ‘You have seen the letter which my fiancée wrote to Mr Lorimer of the U. N. Mission here in Kabul?’

  ‘Yes, I have it here.’

  ‘Mr Lorimer advised me, madam, that you might be able to offer my fiancée more suitable employment. She is a fully trained teacher.’

  ‘Miss Johnstone doesn’t seem to have taught for a number of years,’ said Moffatt.

  ‘That is so, Mr Moffatt. She has been a civil servant.’

  ‘Does she prefer that to teaching?’

  Wahab smiled. ‘It is a comparison I have not discussed with her. I think we must have discussed every other subject under the sun, except that. Since we were in Manchester, perhaps I should say, under the rain. But do not misunderstand, please. I liked Manchester very much; I liked every place in your beautiful country that I visited. If it had been possible I should certainly have remained there, though Afghanistan is my native country.’

  The others, except Moffatt, smiled with uneasy sympathy. Behind those lightly spoken words had been an anguish.

  ‘Did you,’ asked Moffatt, breathing heavily, obviously restraining himself, ‘ever discuss the advisability of her coming here?’

  Wahab met his gaze. ‘Many times, Mr Moffatt.’

  ‘You gave her a truthful picture of the conditions she could expect?’

  ‘You mean, have I told her about our women wearing shaddries, and our little shops, and our earth streets, and the smell of our people in the bazaar?’

  ‘Yes, all those; but something else.’

  ‘What else? She knows we are very poor. I made it clear. It was easy for me, Mr Moffatt, for you see I am myself an example of my country’s poverty.’

  ‘What were you in England for, Mr Wahab?’ asked Gillie.

  ‘I was doing a post-graduate course in science, sir, to enable me to become a better teacher of the subject to our pupils here. Not only our pockets are poor; our minds are too.’

  Gillie nodded.

  ‘Wahab turned to Moffatt. ‘What else, Mr Moffatt?’

  ‘Do you know a man called Mohebzada who’s a clerk in the Ministry of Works?’

  ‘Mohebzada? I know someone of that name, but he does not work for that Ministry.’

  ‘Has he an English wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Mohebzada I know has. Yesterday she ran away from home and came to my house for shelter. She was so desperate she spoke about killing herself. She hadn’t been treated brutally, by your standards.’

  ‘My standards, Mr Moffatt?’

  ‘I meant the standards of your country. Everything you mentioned, and a lot more, have combined to remove first, every scrap of her self-respect, and then of hope. She’s got a baby, which she hates one minute, because it’s the symbol of her captivity here, and loves the next because it’s hers. There’s nothing her husband can do to help her. What she wants is to go back home, taking her baby with her. This, neither he nor the Government will allow. And you know as well as I that Mrs Mohebzada is not the only European woman in that position in Kabul, at this moment. It seems to me, therefore, that we have a duty to any Englishwoman likely to make the same mistake.’

  ‘And what does your duty tell you to do?’

  ‘I can only speak for myself. I think it’s my duty to warn Miss Johnstone not to come, to point out to her the example of Mrs Mohebzada.’

  Wahab turned to Gillie. ‘You are the British official, Mr Gillie. Do you also think it is your duty to warn my fiancée not to come here?’

  The big Consul rubbed his chin. ‘Of course, like Mr Moffatt, I am concerned about Miss Johnstone.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘But whether she comes here or not seems to me her business and yours, not mine. I take it you have also talked it over with her people?’

  ‘She has none, sir. Her parents are dead. She has an aunt, whom she seldom sees; that is all.’

  Though interested in this cross-examination of Wahab, Mrs Mossaour felt it her duty, as principal, not to lose sight of the main purpose of his visit. ‘Do you happen to have a photograph of Miss Johnstone?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a photograph.’ That was all he said, and indeed all he seemed willing to say on the subject. He was now showing his agitation, so much so that Gillie hoped he wouldn’t start to cry.

  ‘Sometimes an applicant for a post is asked to submit a photograph,’ said Mrs Mossaour.

  ‘Yes, yes. I know. But here two matters have become mixed. If you wish to consider my fiancée for a post in the school, I should be very pleased to show you her photograph; but if you wish to see it, to judge of her suitability for marrying me, then I am not willing. It is not that you insult me; it is that you insult her. Please understand I do not wish to be unpleasant. When Laura comes she will need your help. It would be foolish of me to make it difficult for you to give it to her.’

  ‘Do not be afraid of that, Mr Wahab,’ said Lan. ‘We will help her.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Moffatt.’

  ‘And I’d like to make my position clear,’ said Gillie. ‘I’m not here to sit in judgment upon you and Miss Johnstone. I’m here to help Mrs Mossaour to decide whether Miss Johnstone would be a suitable teacher for the school.’

  Moffatt said nothing, though his wife smiled an
appeal at him.

  ‘In that case,’ murmured Wahab, ‘I shall be pleased to show you the photograph.’ From his inside pocket he took out a wallet with the name Manchester on it in gilt letters, and the city’s coat of arms. His fingers were so nervous that he was more than a minute in finding the photograph. It was passport size. A glance at it seemed to reassure him, for he handed it to Mrs Mossaour confidently and proudly.

  ‘Where do you live, Mr Wahab?’ asked Moffatt.

  ‘In Karta Char.’

  That was a district where some of the newer houses were as good as Moffatt’s own; others, according to Western standards, were slums.

  Mrs Mossaour was gazing at the photograph. She could not have explained why she felt disappointed. Perhaps she had been hoping that Miss Johnstone would look so unprepossessing, so dull and thwarted, that to reject her as a teacher would be a legitimate move in the endeavour to prevent her from coming to Kabul. But no, on the contrary, she was disconcertingly as bright and eager and pretty as Mrs Mossaour herself had been fifteen years ago when as Maud Barndyke she had married Pierre Mossaour despite the opposition of her parents and friends. Yet somehow Mrs Mossaour did not feel like sympathizing with her, not then at any rate; it would take time, privacy, and perhaps tears, for it would mean a review of Mrs Mossaour’s own marriage which, happy as most, nevertheless had had and always would have, its peculiar griefs.

  She handed the photograph to Lan, without the word of praise that Wahab had been waiting for so hungrily.

  Moffatt watched his wife closely. She knew it and glanced up to smile, indicating that whatever her judgment it would mean no disloyalty to him.

  ‘She seems very sure of herself,’ she murmured.

  Gillie was next. He had expected Miss Johnstone to be not eccentric exactly, but to show signs revealing why, with thousands of eligible young men at home to choose from, she should prefer this dark-skinned enigmatic chap who had had smallpox in his childhood. There were no such signs at all. Miss Johnstone, as Lan had said, was very sure of herself; she held her head high, and her smile was no simper. His test, that of the small close-set eyes of the person who acted with furtive difference from his fellows, she passed easily; her eyes were wide, frank, and particularly well-spaced. She had a well-shaped nose too, not a characterless blob. Altogether, she was the kind of woman at whom in the tube in London he would have glanced at least twice, but might not afterwards have remembered. He did not like to think of her in the same bed as Wahab, but then, as he had admitted, that was none of his business. Going about the world pulling ill-assorted couples out of their beds would be a task for a modern Hercules.

  Moffatt accepted the photograph, almost with aversion, and yet, reflected Gillie, he was supposed to be championing the woman.

  ‘My fiancée wanted us to be married in England,’ said Wahab, ‘but I said no. It was best for her to come first and see.’

  ‘A sound idea,’ agreed Gillie.

  Moffatt handed the snapshot to Mrs Mossaour who returned it to Wahab.

  ‘When do you expect her, Mr Wahab?’ she asked.

  ‘In about six weeks. Do you think you can give her a position?’

  Moffatt interrupted. ‘She’ll be paying her own fare?’

  Gillie grunted in protest, but Moffatt waited pugnaciously for an answer.

  Wahab, after a long pause during which he failed to hide his humiliation, whispered: ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not asking because I want to be rude. The air fare to Kabul is expensive. It’s important Miss Johnstone should be able to return if she decides that’s what she wants.’

  ‘I agree, Mr Moffatt. I have written that she should buy a return ticket. The money can be refunded afterwards.’ He turned to Mrs Mossaour. ‘When will you be able to give my fiancée an answer, madam?’

  ‘Very soon, I should say. I must of course discuss it with the Board, but I think it will be all right.’

  ‘She is highly trained.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you write to her, madam, or do you wish to leave it to me?’

  Mrs Mossaour looked for and caught Moffatt’s nod. ‘I shall write.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Wahab rose. ‘You will excuse me, please, if I go now. I have some work to do.’

  Again Lan spoke, quietly. ‘Mr Wahab, do you at present meet any of the foreign community?’

  ‘I am sorry I do not have the opportunity.’

  ‘But when your fiancée comes, she will associate with them?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better then if you started to do so yourself? There is to be a party at the International Club next Wednesday. Many foreigners will be there, including most of the British. My husband and I would be very pleased to see you there as our guest.’ She looked at her husband for support.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  Wahab was minded to refuse; he didn’t, perhaps because he felt he could not manage the high-mindedness without which his refusal would have sounded like the whine of the humiliated. ‘I should be greatly honoured, Mrs Moffatt. It is very kind of you.’

  ‘Please come to our house first and then go with us to the party.’

  ‘I do not wish to make trouble for you.’

  ‘It will be no trouble. I shall come with you to the gate and point out to you where our house lies. It isn’t far from here.’

  ‘You are too kind.’ Then he took a dignified farewell of each of them.

  Gillie jumped up. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to be pushing along, too, Mrs Mossaour.’

  The three of them went down the steps and along the path.

  The two left on the veranda watched them.

  ‘Too smooth by half,’ said Mrs Mossaour.

  ‘ “My fiancée!” ’ whispered Moffatt. ‘As if she were property he’d bought.’

  Had it really been like that? Mrs Mossaour hadn’t thought so, but now, in swift retrospect, she decided it must have been. ‘Yes. The trouble was he was acting a role. He’s been in England long enough to have a good idea how we would think a man in his position ought to act; so he tried to act like that. Not very convincingly, though he did seem to take in Mr Gillie.’

  ‘Gillie wanted to be taken in. He’s satisfied himself that whatever happens nobody can blame him.’

  Again Mrs Mossaour wondered. Had Gillie been so selfish? He had tried at least to show understanding; in Mrs Mossaour’s view his fault was not selfishness, but obtuseness. Fifteen years of exile had taught her it was the characteristic British failing – obtuseness, the centuries-old, irremovable unawareness that other people in other countries ordered some things better. It flashed through her mind that even the Afghans might be in one or two respects superior. Wasn’t Moffatt himself fond of praising his students for their courtesy and the peasants for the way in which, by dignified acceptance of it, they kept their poverty from degrading them?

  In some British people, such as the Wints, the obtuseness was aggravated by conceit; in Gillie, to be fair, it was alleviated by his brusque good nature.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, laughing, ‘we can exclude Lan. With her it’s never a matter of being taken in. Likely she saw through him further than any of us, but that would seem to her all the more reason for showing compassion. A person as good as Lan is really out of the game; or perhaps I should say she’s playing a different game from the rest of us.’ All the same, she wondered what the Moffatts would have to say to each other next time they were alone. Goodness had the fatal habit of being obstinate to the last degree. Consider martyrs. Moffatt was the one who deserved pity. The stake and faggots for the destruction of his wife would be provided by him; and yet, according to the ordinary human view, he would be more or less innocent.

  ‘I’d be obliged for your help in drafting that letter to Miss Johnstone.’

  ‘You intend to offer her a job?’

  ‘I don’t see how I can avoid it. But with the offer can go a list of deterrents as long as you like.’


  They watched as Lan came into the compound again, waved to them, called that she must go now to her class, and hurried into the building. Moffatt returned her wave and kept smiling after she had gone.

  What was it like, thought Mrs Mossaour, to be married to a paragon? Then, malice having slipped the rein, she found herself hoping that before long Moffatt would be condignly punished for that particular sin, committed every time he met Mrs Mossaour’s two children, of showing them a defiant affection, while in his heart he was strengthening his resolve to have none of his own, for fear their yellow skins and dark slant eyes would evoke a similar response.

  ‘I wonder, Harold,’ she mused aloud, ‘what Britannia and her court would advise.’

  That was her name for the Embassy sewing group, presided over by the Ambassador’s wife with needle for trident. Mrs Mossaour, amazingly, was one of the court. The invitation had been so long delayed, while her fitness was debated, that she had put off accepting for the same length of time, not so much out of spite as because otherwise the hurt to her pride would have shown itself in an undiplomatic screech. The meetings were held in the Embassy dining room, hung with portraits of Royalty and ancient Afghan swords and rifles. There, with much fatuous tittle-tattle, nightshirts were fashioned for patients in Kabul’s hospital. Several times Mrs Mossaour had hinted that Lan Moffatt, British by marriage, ought to be invited. So stony was the ground that her hints had never even grown into shoots of discussion but had withered immediately. Suppose at the next meeting she put forward the suggestion that if Miss Johnstone became Mrs Wahab, one of the best ways of saving her from Afghan despair would be to let her enjoy the society of the foremost British ladies, engaged in so typical an occupation as sewing for charity and whispering the most cautious of inanities. A stink bomb would hardly cause more elegant disgust than that suggestion.