The Honey Thief (24 page)

Abbas listened closely. He still did not understand why Khalid Naseri should have come to Afghanistan all the way from America to tell a story to a stranger.

‘May I speak to you of Esmail?’ said Khalid Naseri. ‘Of your grandfather? Will you permit it?’

‘Please. As you will.’

‘You and I in our lives have seen wounds of the flesh. Who in this land has not? Abbas, a day came in my life when I saw a wound made in the flesh of Esmail Behishti. A rope burned along his arm from his wrist to his elbow. I stood no further from him than you are from me at this moment. I stood and watched and prayed that he would not betray me, as I had betrayed him. He did not betray me. While the rope burned, he turned his face from me and stared at the wall of the room where he was being tormented. He said nothing. Nor did he cry out. The captain of the soldiers who had done this thing to Esmail allowed him to live, as he allowed me to live. Do you know why, brother? Where is there a man who does not know sin when he sees it for once in his life? The captain watched the rope burning and heard not a sound from your grandfather. Was this the one time in that captain’s life when he saw sin and knew that he was the sinner? He released your grandfather out of respect for a great man, and he released me out of disgust. Out of disgust, Abbas, as if my life was so vile to him that he could not bring himself to notice me. The rope burned into your grandfather’s arm for a long time, brother. The rope that torments my flesh has been burning for many, many years.’

Khalid Naseri closed his eyes. When he opened them again, pain had dulled their colour.

‘I did not ask you to come here to forgive me,’ he said. ‘That is not possible. I asked you to come because you loved Esmail Behishti. Do you see?’

‘Yes, I see, of course I do.’

‘Tomorrow, I have something I will ask of you. For now, if you will excuse me, I must sleep.’ And he added, ‘My illness kills me by degrees, so God wills.’

*   *   *

Abbas and Konrad were guests for the night. They ate well from dishes prepared by Barbara Naseri,
kofta
and
osh pyozee
and
dampukht
, with
sher berinj
to follow and then Charikari grapes. Barbara asked Abbas and Konrad if they would like to try English tea, and with their consent, served them something called ‘Prince of Wales’. Konrad was well used to English tea and preferred it to Afghan tea, but to Abbas it had the odour of something he might smell while working with animals that had passed urine, and he declined to taste it, with many apologies.

It was difficult for Barbara Naseri to keep her scarf in place, although she persisted. Konrad said, ‘Mrs Naseri, please feel free to remove your headwear. It will not offend Abbas and it will not offend me. My mother dresses in the Western fashion.’ Barbara Naseri accepted this offer with relief, but it was not a relief to Abbas, who was suddenly faced with golden tresses that fell down Barbara Naseri’s back to her waist. No longer young, although younger by many years than her husband, Barbara Naseri remained a woman of great beauty, as Abbas recognised. It was impossible for him to look at her directly, and seeing this, Barbara Naseri said, ‘And yet, I should practise for the times when I am outdoors,’ and replaced her blue scarf.

But Abbas became more relaxed with this American woman as the evening wore on and the shock of her blue jeans and smiling manner wore off. He had never heard a woman speak in Barbara Naseri’s way, with no allowance made for the fact that he and Konrad were men, while she was a woman.

‘Khalid was not my first husband,’ she said. ‘Before Khalid I was married to an inebriate – a very wealthy inebriate, but an inebriate nonetheless.’

Abbas had asked, and now he asked again, ‘What is an inebriate?’ The Dari words that Barbara Naseri had used were closer in meaning to ‘incontinent taker of beverages’ than the word employed here.

‘Abbas, he drank too much alcohol. You know?’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘We were only married for two years. I walked out.’

‘Walked out?’

‘I left him. I got tired of ducking.’

‘I am sorry, madam. “Ducking”?’

‘He hit me with his fists.’

‘He hit you?’ said Abbas. ‘An infamy!’

‘And then I met Khalid. He treated me like a lady. You know? Such beautiful manners. Khalid asked me if I would become a Muslim. It’s not so complicated.’

‘You are of the faith?’

‘Well, as best I can, Abbas. Maybe I’m not such a good Muslim. I wasn’t such a good Catholic, either!’

Abbas was so moved to hear that Barbara Naseri had embraced the beliefs of the Shi’a that he clapped his hands as if applauding. He didn’t know how else to show his joy.

‘You must keep your faith,’ he said. ‘Even after your . . .’

He had intended to say, ‘Even after your husband dies,’ but realised that such a remark would be in bad taste.

Barbara Naseri saw the distress the mistake had caused Abbas. ‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly. She looked away for a few moments. When she looked back, she was composed. ‘I will keep our faith, Abbas.’

*   *   *

Khalid Naseri was too ill to see Abbas the next day. It was necessary for him to breathe the gas from a special iron bottle. A young doctor who had come with him from Brooklyn – an American Hazara – provided the relief of morphine. Abbas took Khalid Naseri to the toilet – that was one way in which he could help.

But the sick man also asked if Abbas would speak for him in his prayers. This was difficult for Abbas, because speaking for Khalid Naseri in his prayers was the same as offering him forgiveness, and Abbas did not forgive the man who had betrayed his grandfather. He did not despise Khalid Naseri, but he was a long way from commending him to God. Konrad saw the trouble in his eyes and asked him the cause. ‘If you had lived in the time of my grandfather, you would know what troubles me,’ Abbas replied.

Then Abbas remembered the Sufi apothecary who had come to the fields in the valley of Farah many years ago. These fields Abbas visited only once in every seven years when a rare flower bloomed with crimson petals and a golden stamen. The honey that the bees made from the nectar of these flowers would heal ailments of the skin when used as a balm, especially the scaling illness that would madden the victim and cause him to scratch his flesh until his body was bleeding. The Sufi said, ‘I came here when Esmail Behishti harvested the honey balm. Now you.’ Over his white robes he wore a brown apron to keep his garments clean when not at prayer. In the hem of the apron, tied with a knot, he kept a stone the size and shape of an almond that was as clear as glass except for a blue vein at its heart. With permission, he held the stone against the flesh over Abbas’ heart. Within a few seconds, the blue vein had disappeared. He tied the stone into the hem of his apron once more.

The Sufi said, ‘You intend me no harm.’

‘Did the stone tell you that?’

‘The stone told me that.’

‘I could have said as much.’

‘I must leave my body here for six days. It is well to know that it will be safe.’

‘Are you ill? Are you in danger of dying?’

‘No,’ said the Sufi. ‘I will leave my body while I am with God. Then I will return.’

Abbas was doubtful. Perhaps the Sufi was mad. Some were. ‘Why does God not keep your body safe while you are with Him?’

The Sufi said these words, remembered by Abbas: ‘God has no interest in my body, or in yours. Our bodies are in our own care. But the soul – that is another matter.’

The Sufi found a place to sit in the open field and closed his eyes and did not open them again for six days. When he did, he said, ‘Good morning!’ and went to relieve his bladder.

So Abbas spoke to God on behalf of Khalid Naseri. He did not ask for Khalid Naseri’s body to be healed nor for his pain to be relieved, but for his soul to be judged with charity. He added to his prayer a poem he’d learnt from the old Sufi who came in search of honey balm: ‘A pail is lowered into a well. On its journey of descent, the pail may believe the worst. But it comes to the top of the well overflowing with water. Your mouth closes here in the grimace of death, but opens again with a shout of joy.’

*   *   *

Khalid Naseri asked to see Abbas the following morning. He was resting in his bed on pillows – such a bed as an American would own, raised above the floor. He looked as ill as he was. He asked the doctor to leave the room. Barbara Naseri remained, but he said, ‘Sweetheart, may we have this time alone?’ Barbara Naseri kissed his forehead and departed.

Then Khalid Naseri spoke to Abbas. ‘I did not ask you for forgiveness because forgiveness is a hard journey to make. You must think to yourself, “Why did this sinner not return to Hazarajat in the lifetime of Esmail and ask forgiveness himself?” And you must think of me, “He has made his fortune in America, and now when death is near he dares to ask for my love?” So I don’t ask you to say, “Khalid, you old sinner, you have my forgiveness.” Why should I ask for words like that when I can see in your eyes that you do not forgive me?’

Khalid Naseri began to struggle for breath. He waved in a distressed way at the iron bottle. Abbas gave him the plastic mask that covered his mouth and nose. Khalid Naseri held up two fingers, and Abbas understood that he should turn the dial on the machine to the numeral ‘2’ above the red mark. He knew Western numerals. Khalid Naseri breathed from the iron bottle for some minutes, then took the mask from his face. Abbas turned the dial back to the red mark.

‘In America, the doctors could keep me alive for another three months,’ said Khalid Naseri. ‘Such machines for hospitals in America that you could not imagine, Abbas! But I wanted to die in Afghanistan. I had hoped to die in Hazarajat, I had hoped my sons would join me there and sit beside me with their mother while I waited for death. But I could go no further than Charikar. My sons still believe that I have three months of life left to me. Barbara knows the truth. How many fingers would a man need to show the days left to me, Abbas? I will tell you. One finger would be enough. Perhaps two.’

Khalid Naseri again gestured at the iron bottle. Abbas turned the dial to ‘2’ above the red mark. When his breathing had eased, Khalid asked Abbas to take a small calico bag with a green drawstring from the table beside the bed. He then asked Abbas to open the bag and look at what was inside. Abbas found a ball that had once been white but was now discoloured from use. It was also covered in handwriting, some blue, some black. He also found a triangular flag like those displayed on the wall. Like the ball, the flag of orange and blue was covered in handwriting.

Khalid Naseri spoke again. ‘The ball was pitched in the famous victory of the Mets in the 1969 World Series. It is signed by five of the players. The pennant is signed by seven of the players. After my ring of marriage to Barbara, I value the ball and the pennant above all else. This is what I would like you to do for me, brother. I want you to take the ball and the pennant with you back to Hazarajat. Go to the grave of Esmail Behishti and beside his headstone dig a hole to twice the depth of your hand. Place the ball and the pennant in the hole and pack the earth tight above them. Say these words to the honoured man: “The sinner Khalid Naseri offers these to you.” Will you do that, my brother?’

Abbas said nothing at first. He studied the handwriting on the ball, and the stitching. Then he said, ‘As you will.’

Tears came to the eyes of Khalid Naseri. With difficulty, he raised his hands and turned them palm outwards towards Abbas. It is a gesture amongst our people, the Hazara, that means: Peace between us, surely.

*   *   *

Khalid Naseri closed his eyes late in the afternoon of that day and did not open them again on this earth. In the evening after prayer, Abbas and Konrad sat in the cool of the courtyard discussing the mystery of vacuum flasks. Abbas had become more beguiled with vacuum flasks with each day of thought that passed. Konrad spoke of atoms, and of molecules, which were patterns of atoms. The talk of atoms and molecules thrilled Abbas. As a boy in school, he had listened to his teacher who owned a copy of the
Saturday Evening Post
speak of atoms.

Barbara Naseri came into the courtyard at a time in the evening when the moon had made its shape in the eastern sky. Her face was wet. She said, ‘Well, it is done.’ She sat with Abbas and Konrad and wept into her hands. Abbas was too shy to comfort a woman with touching or embracing, but Konrad had no such fears. He put his arms around Barbara Naseri and spoke words of comfort to her. Abbas wished that he could do the same, but it was not possible. When the chance came, he said to Barbara Naseri, ‘May your husband find his way to God.’ Barbara Naseri dried her eyes with her hands, and found a way to compose herself. ‘Oh, I do hope so! May he find his way to God, Abbas,’ she responded.

10

The Russian

Abbas and Konrad remained in Charikar for the funeral rites of Khalid Naseri, who would be buried with further ceremony in Hazarajat once Abbas gave his approval in person to Baba Mazari.

For the journey back to Baba Mazari’s village, Konrad filled the flat-sided cans with petrol from a depot in Charikar. The goat-hide bag was packed with food and bottled water. Barbara Naseri said, ‘God protect you on the long road.’ And then she asked Abbas, ‘May I hope that my husband will lie in his native soil once you have spoken with Abdul Ali Mazari?’ Abbas said that he would not deny Khalid Naseri his final wish. But he did not say that he forgave Khalid Naseri.