Ken Follett - Lie down with lions

The women climbed the last stretch of the footpath up from the river and paused in front of the mosque, finishing their conversations before going to their separate homes. Jane glanced into the mosque. The men were praying on their knees, with Abdullah, the mullah, leading them. Their weapons, the usual mixture of ancient rifles and modern submachine guns, were piled in a corner. The prayers were just finishing. As the men stood up, Jane saw that there were a number of strangers among them. She said to Zahara: "Who are they?"

"By their turbans, they must be from the Pich Valley and Jalalabad," Zahara replied. "They are Pushtuns — normally they are our enemies. Why are they here?" As she was speaking, a very tall man with an eye patch emerged from the crowd. "That must be Jahan Kamil— Masud's great enemy!"

"But there is Masud, talking to him," said Jane, and she added in English: "Just fancy that!"

Zahara imitated her. "Jass fencey hat!"

It was the first joke Zahara had made since her husband died. That was a good sign: Zahara was recovering.

The men began to come out, and the women scuttled away to their homes, all except Jane. She thought she was beginning to understand what was happening; and she wanted confirmation. When Mohammed came out she approached him and spoke to him in French. "I forgot to ask whether your trip to Faizabad was successful."

"It was," he said without pausing in his stride: he did not want his comrades or the Pushtuns to see him answering a woman's questions.

Jane hurried alongside him as he headed for his house. "So the commander of Faizabad is here?"

"Yes."

Jane had guessed right: Masud had invited all the rebel commanders here. "What do you think of this idea?" she asked him. She was still fishing for details.

Mohammed looked thoughtful, and dropped his hauteur, as he always did when he got interested in the conversation. "Everything depends on what Ellis does tomorrow," he said. "If he impresses them as a man of honor, and wins their respect, I think they will agree to his plan."

"And you think his plan is good?"

"Obviously it will be a good thing if the Resistance is united and gets weapons from the United States."

So that was it! American weapons for the rebels, on condition they fought together against the Russians instead of fighting one another half the time.

They reached Mohammed's house, and Jane turned away with a wave. Her breasts felt full: it was time for Chantal to be fed. The right breast felt a little heavier, because at the last feed she had started with the left, and Chantal always emptied the first one more thoroughly.

Jane reached the house and went into the bedroom. Chantal lay naked on a folded towel inside her cradle, which was actually a cardboard box cut in half. She had no need of clothes in the warm air of the Afghan summer. At night she would be covered with a sheet, that was all. The rebels and the war, Ellis and Mohammed and Masud, all receded into the background as Jane looked at her baby. She had always thought small babies ugly, but Chantal seemed very pretty to her. As Jane watched, Chantal stirred, opened her rnouth and cried. Jane's right breast immediately leaked milk in response, and a warm, damp patch spread on her shirt. She undid the buttons and picked up Chantal.

Jean-Pierre said she should wash her breasts with surgical spirit before feeding, but she never did because she knew Chantal would not like the taste. She sat on a rug with her back to the wall and cradled Chantal in her right arm. The baby waved her fat little arms and moved her head from side to side, frantically seeking with her open mourn. Jane guided her to the nipple. The toothless gums clamped hard and the baby sucked fiercely. Jane winced at the first hard pull, then at the second. The third suck was gentler. A small, plump hand reached up and touched the round side of Jane's swollen breast, pressing it with a blind, clumsy caress. Jane relaxed.

Feeding her baby made her feel terribly tender and protective. Also, to her surprise, it was erotic. At first she had felt guilty about being turned on by it, but she soon decided that if it was natural it could not be bad, and settled down to enjoy it.

She was looking forward to showing Chantal off if they ever got back to Europe. Jean-Pierre's mother would tell her she was doing everything wrong, no doubt, and her own mother would want to have the baby christened, but her father would adore Chantal through an alcoholic haze, and her sister would be proud and enthusiastic. Who else? Jean-Pierre's father was dead. . . .

A voice came from the courtyard. "Anybody at home?"

It was Ellis. "Come in," Jane called. She did not feel she needed to cover herself: Ellis was not an Afghan, and anyway he had once been her lover.

He came in, saw her feeding the baby and did a double take. "Shall I leave?"

She shook her head. "You've seen my tits before."

"I don't think so," he said. "You must have changed them."

She laughed. "Pregnancy gives you great tits." Ellis had been married once, she knew, and had a child, although he gave the impression he no longer saw either the child or its mother. That was one of the things he would never talk about very much. "Don't you remember from when your wife was pregnant?''

"I missed it," he said, in that curt tone he used when he wanted you to shut up. "I was away."

She was too relaxed to respond in like manner. In fact she felt sorry for him. He had made a mess of his life, but it was not all his own fault; and he had certainly been punished for his sins—not the least by her.

"Jean-Pierre didn't come back," Ellis said.

"No." The sucking eased as Jane's breast emptied. She gently pulled her nipple from Chantal's mouth and lifted the baby to her shoulder, patting the narrow back to make her burp.

"Masud would like to borrow his maps," Ellis said.

"Of course. You know where they are." Chantal belched loudly. "Good girl," Jane said. She put the baby to her left breast. Hungry again after burping, Chantal began to suck. Giving in to an impulse, Jane said: "Why don't you see your child?''

He took the maps from the chest, closed its lid and straightened up. "I do," he said. "But not often."

Jane was shocked. I almost lived with him for six months, she thought, and I never really knew him. "A boy or a girl?"

"Girl."

"She must be ..."

"Thirteen."

"My God." That was practically grown up. Jane was suddenly intensely curious. Why had she never questioned him about all this? Perhaps she had not been interested before she had a child of her own. "Where does she live?"

He hesitated.

"Don't tell me," she said. She could read his face. "You were about to lie to me."

"You're right," he said. "But do you understand why I have to lie about it?"

She thought for a moment. "Are you afraid that your enemies will attack you through the child?"

"Yes."

"That's a good reason."

"Thank you. And thanks for these." He waved the maps at her, then went out.

Chantal had gone to sleep with Jane's nipple in her mouth. Jane disengaged her gently and lifted her to shoulder level. She burped without waking. The child could sleep through anything.

Jane wished Jean-Pierre had come back. She was sure he could do no harm, but all the same she would have felt easier if he had been under her eye. He could not contact the Russians because she had smashed his radio. There was no other means of communication between Banda and Russian territory. Masud could send messengers by runner, of course; but Jean-Pierre had no runners, and anyway if he sent someone the whole village would know about it. The only thing he could possibly do was to walk all the way to Rokha, and he had not had time for that.

As well as being anxious, she hated to sleep alone. In Europe she had not minded, but here she was frightened of the brutal, unpredictable tribesmen who thought it as normal for a man to beat his wife as for a mother to smack her child. And Jane was no ordinary woman in their eyes: with her liberated views and her direct gaze and her says-who attitude she was a symbol of forbidden sexual delights.