The Swallows of Kabul (9 page)

Whenever Atiq sees these children, he feels a deep uneasiness. They’re invading the city inexorably, like the packs of dogs that turn up out of nowhere, feed in rubbish dumps and garbage cans, eventually colonize whole neighborhoods, and keep the citizenry at bay. The innumerable
madrassas
, the religious schools that spring up like mushrooms on every street corner, no longer suffice to hold all the children. Every day, their numbers increase and their threat grows, and no one in Kabul cares. All his adult life, Atiq has regretted that God never gave him any children; but now that the streets teem with them, he considers himself lucky. What good does it do to burden your life with a pack of brats, just so you can watch them croak little by little or wind up as cannon fodder in a war so endemic, so endless, that it has become part of the national identity?

Persuaded that his sterility is a blessing, Atiq slaps his thigh with his whip and walks toward the center of the city.

Nazeesh is dozing in the shade of his umbrella, his neck strangely twisted to one side. He’s probably spent the night there, in front of his door, sitting on the ground like a fakir. When he sees Atiq coming, he pretends to be asleep. Atiq passes in front of him without saying a word. He strides on for about thirty paces, then stops, weighs the pros and cons, and retraces his steps. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Nazeesh clenches his fists and scoots a little deeper into his corner. Atiq plants himself in front of him and crosses his arms high against his chest; then he squats down and begins drawing geometric shapes in the dirt with his fingertip. “I was rude to you last night,” he acknowledges.

To enhance his impression of a beaten dog, Nazeesh presses his lips together, then says, “And I hadn’t done anything to you.”

“Please forgive me.”

“Bah!”

“Yes, I insist. I behaved very badly toward you, Nazeesh. I was mean, and unfair, and stupid.”

“But no, you were just a tiny bit disagreeable.”

“I blame myself.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Come on, of course I do. And besides, to tell the truth, some of it was my fault. I should have thought for a minute before disturbing you. There you are, in an empty jail, looking for a little peace and quiet so you can sort out your problems. And here I come, I drop in on you unannounced and talk to you about things that don’t concern you. I’m the one to blame. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“It’s true that I needed to be alone.”

“So it’s up to you to forgive
me.
”

Atiq extends his hand. Nazeesh seizes it eagerly and holds on to it for a long time. Without letting go, he looks all around to be sure it’s safe for him to speak. Then he clears his throat, but his emotion is so great that his voice comes out in an almost inaudible quaver: “Do you think we’ll ever be able to hear music in Kabul one day?”

“Who knows?”

The old man strengthens his grip, extending his skinny neck as he prolongs his lamentations. “I’d like to hear a song. You can’t imagine how much I’d like to hear a song. A song with instrumental accompaniment, sung in a voice that shakes you from head to foot. Do you think one day—or one night—we’ll be able to turn on the radio and listen to the bands getting together again and playing until they pass out?”

“God alone is omniscient.”

A momentary confusion clouds the old man’s eyes; then they begin to glitter with an aching brightness that seems to rise up from the center of his being. “Music is the true breath of life. We eat so we won’t starve to death. We sing so we can hear ourselves live. Do you understand, Atiq?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.”

“When I was a child, it often happened that I didn’t get enough to eat. It didn’t matter, though. All I had to do was climb a tree, sit on a branch, and play my flute, and that drowned out my growling stomach. And when I sang—you don’t have to believe me, but when I sang, I stopped feeling hungry.”

The two men look at each other. Their faces are as tense as a cramp. Finally, Atiq withdraws his hand and stands up. “I’ll see you later, Nazeesh.”

The old man nods in agreement. Just as the jailer turns to go on his way, Nazeesh grabs his shirttail and holds him back. “Did you mean what you said yesterday, Atiq? Do you really think I’ll never leave? Do you think I’m going to stay here, planted like a tree, and I’ll never see the ocean or far-off lands or the edge of the horizon?”

“You’re asking me too much.”

“I want you to say it to my face. You’re not a hypocrite; you don’t care how sensitive people may be when you tell them the truth about themselves. I’m not afraid, and I won’t hold it against you, but I have to know, once and for all. Do you think that I won’t ever leave this city?”

“Sure you will—feetfirst. No doubt about it,” Atiq says, whereupon he walks away, slapping his whip against his side.

I could have been gentler with the old man, he thinks. I could have assured him that hope is legitimate even when it’s impossible. Atiq doesn’t understand what came over him all of a sudden; he can’t figure out why the malicious pleasure of stoking the poor devil’s distress suddenly seemed more delightful than anything else. He’s worried about his irresistible impulse to spoil with two words what he’s spent a hundred begging for. But it’s like an itch: Even if he scratched himself bloody, he wouldn’t want to be rid of it altogether. . . .

Yesterday, when he went home, he found Musarrat drowsing. Without understanding why, he purposely knocked over a stool, banged the shutters, and recited several long verses aloud before finally going to bed. When he woke up this morning, he realized what a boor he’d been. Nevertheless, he’s sure he’ll act the same way tonight if he goes home and finds his wife asleep.

He wasn’t like this before, not Atiq. It’s true, he never passed for an affable person, but he wasn’t evil-tempered, either. Too poor to be generous, he prudently chose to abstain from giving, thus deliberately sparing others the duty of returning the favor. In this way, never requiring anything from anyone, he felt neither indebted nor obliged. In a country where cemeteries and wastelands compete with one another for territory, where funeral processions prolong the military convoys, war has taught him not to get too attached to anybody whom a simple caprice, a change of mood, may take away from him. Atiq has consciously enclosed himself in a cocoon, where he’s exempt from making futile efforts. Acknowledging that he’s seen enough of those to be moved by the plight of his fellowman, he’s wary of his tendency toward sentimentality, which he looks upon as a sort of ringworm, and he limits the sorrow of the world to his own suffering. Recently, however, he’s found that he’s no longer content to ignore those who are close to him. Although he’s made a vow to mind his own business exclusively, here he is, of all people, intentionally drawing on others’ disappointments for the inspiration to master his own. Without realizing it, he’s developed a strange aggressiveness, imperious and unfathomable, which seems to fit his moods. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore, face-to-face with adversity; or rather, he’s trying to prove to himself that burdening others will make him better able to bear the weight of his own misfortunes. Perfectly aware that he’s doing Nazeesh harm, and far from feeling any remorse, he relishes his assaults as though they prove his prowess. Is that what’s called “malicious pleasure”? No matter; it suits him, and even if it does him no practical good, at least he can be sure he’s coming out on top. It’s as though he were taking revenge on something that keeps escaping him. Ever since Musarrat fell ill, he’s felt profoundly convinced that he’s been cheated, that his sacrifices, his concessions, his prayers have all come to naught, that his luck will never, never, never change. . . .

“You ought to get yourself an exorcist!” a heavy voice calls out to him.

Atiq turns around. Mirza Shah is sitting at the same table as last evening, outside the coffee shop, fingering his beads. He pushes his turban back to the crown of his head and creases his brow. “You’re not normal, Atiq. I told you I didn’t want to see you talking to yourself in the street again. People aren’t blind. They’re going to decide you’re a crackpot and sic their progeny on you.”

“I haven’t started tearing my garments yet,” Atiq mutters.

“The way you’re going, it won’t be long.”

Atiq shrugs his shoulders and continues on his way.

Mirza Shah takes his chin in his fingers and shakes his head. Certain that the jailer is going to start gesticulating again before he reaches the end of the street, Mirza watches Atiq until he’s out of sight.

Atiq is furious. He’s got a feeling that the whole city is spying on him, and that Mirza Shah is his chief persecutor. He lengthens his stride, determined to get away from Mirza’s table as quickly as he can. He’s convinced that his friend is watching him, ready to hurl another rude remark in his direction. He’s so enraged that he collides with a couple on the street corner, banging first into the woman, then stumbling against her companion, who must cling to the wall to keep from falling over backward.

Atiq picks up his whip, pushes aside the man, who’s trying to pull himself upright, and hastily disappears.

“A genuine lout,” grumbles Mohsen Ramat as he dusts himself off.

Zunaira aims a few blows at the bottom of her burqa. “He didn’t even apologize,” she says, amused by the expression on her husband’s face.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“He gave me a little scare, but that’s all.”

“Well then, it could be worse.”

They readjust their clothing. Mohsen’s movements display his irritation, while Zunaira chuckles under her mask. Mohsen perceives his wife’s smothered laughter. He mutters for a moment, but then, mollified by her good humor, he bursts out laughing, too. A club immediately comes down on his shoulder.

“Do you think you’re at the circus?” A Taliban police agent, his milky eyes bulging out of a face scorched red by the summer sun, is shouting at him.

Mohsen tries to protest. The club whirls in the air and strikes him in the face. “No laughing in the street,” the police agent insists. “If you have any sense of shame left, you’ll go home and lock yourself inside.”

Pressing one hand to his cheek, Mohsen quivers with rage.

“What’s the matter?” asks the Taliban agent, taunting him. “You want to gouge my eyes out? Come on, let’s see what kind of guts you’ve got, girl-face!”

“Let’s go,” Zunaira entreats Mohsen, pulling him by the arm.

“Don’t touch him, you! Stay in your place!” the thug yells, thwacking her across the hip. “And don’t speak in the presence of a stranger.”

Attracted by the commotion, other agents approach in a group, whips at the ready. The tallest of them strokes his beard with a mocking look and asks his colleague, “Is there a problem?”

“They think they’re at the circus.”

The tall one stares at Mohsen. “Who’s that woman?”

“My wife.”

“Then lead her like a man. And teach her to stand aside when you’re talking with a third person. Where are you going like this?”

“I’m taking my wife to her parents’ house,” replies Mohsen, lying.

The Taliban agent scrutinizes him intensely. Zunaira feels that her legs are about to give way. A panicky fear seizes her. Deep in her heart, she begs her husband not to lose his composure.

“You’ll take her to her parents later,” the tall agent decides. “For now, you’re going to join the congregation in the mosque over there. In about fifteen minutes, Mullah Bashir is going to preach a sermon.”

“I’m telling you that I have to accompany my—”

Two whips interrupt him. They land simultaneously, one on each shoulder.

“I tell you that Mullah Bashir is going to preach in ten minutes, and you talk to me about walking your wife to her parents’ house. What exactly do you have inside your skull? Am I supposed to believe that you attach more importance to a family visit than to a sermon from one of our most eminent learned men?”

With the tip of his whip, he raises Mohsen’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eye, then scornfully thrusts him back. “Your wife will wait for you here, by this wall, out of the way. You’ll take her home later.”

Mohsen raises his hands in a gesture of capitulation. After a furtive glance at his wife, he directs his steps to a green-and-white building, around which other police agents and militiamen are intercepting pedestrians and compelling them to join the faithful who are waiting to hear Mullah Bashir’s words.

Eight