Nadeem Aslam - The Blind Man's Garden

Killing the Pope. Killing the American President. Blowing up a dozen airliners simultaneously. Assassinations in Pakistan and the Philippines. Bombings in Iran and India among other countries. Attacks on consulates in Pakistan and Thailand. There is a drawing of a crude device for delivering anthrax, and in another box he finds gas masks and the final volume of an eleven-volume ‘encyclopaedia’ on modern weapons, including notes on where to source high explosives, like RDX and Semtex, that can be used in shaped charges to compress the nuclear core in an implosion-type nuclear device . A map shows the location of a synagogue in Tunis. Nuclear power plants in Western lands. Sports stadiums.

A sense of defilement runs in his body. They want the birth of a new world, and will take death and repeat it and repeat it and repeat it until that birth results.

‘I too was in a military prison like you and Akbar,’ he hears someone say behind him.

He turns around. ‘I was sent to give you this,’ he says quickly and holds out the gun towards the man. He is an Arab, young but with a large beard.

‘When they released you, they took you back to the mosque beside the lake, and they took Akbar back to Jalalabad. Am I right? Guess what happened to my brother.’

Mikal just wishes to leave.

‘He was captured during the exodus of Arabs after Kabul fell on 13 November, so Kabul is where they should have returned him. Instead they flew him to an unknown city and put him on a bus that took seven hours to reach its destination. He couldn’t speak the language, had no money or identification, and it was a while before he learned that he was in the country of Albania. No one believes his story, no one believes he was captured.’ He shakes his head pityingly.

Mikal gives him the gun and he turns it in his hand, holds it at various distances from his body. He gestures with it at the boxes. ‘If you find anything of interest in there you may take it.’ He smiles and adds, ‘The scholar’s ink is holier than the martyr’s blood, as they say.’

‘I was just curious.’

‘You killed two Americans. Single-handedly.’

Mikal points to the door. ‘I have to go.’ He wishes he could pick up a telephone and dial Basie’s number in Heer.

‘I must shake the hand that did the blessed deed.’ The man gives what must be his happiest smile. ‘We have the right to kill four million Americans, two million of them children. And to exile twice as many and wound and cripple hundreds of thousands. No?’

Mikal looks at the proffered hand. ‘I have a better idea,’ he says. He lets a few seconds pass for all sediment in the room to settle, to be able to speak into clear air. Looking directly into the man’s eyes, he says what he wishes to say.

*

All day he searches for Akbar but cannot locate him.

*

The moon rises almost vertically, growing smaller as it ascends.

Entering her room he places the cub on the floor, watches it disappear through the curtained arch on the other side. There is a short leaf-like rustle from the other side.

She parts the curtain and looks at him, the animal in her hands. Astoundingly she is standing in a pile of loose banknotes. Every inch of the wide floor on the other side of the curtain is heaped with dollars and rials, pounds and rupees. It is a large room and the crumpled rectangles of paper are up to her shins in places. The surface of the bed is a large white square marooned in money, a chair submerged up to the seat. A spray of blue plastic lilies sprouts close to her, the vase itself unseen.

‘I am to be married.’

He doesn’t have to ask who the bridegroom is. Al-Qaeda terrorists often cement relationships with the tribes by marrying the daughters and sisters of their hosts.

‘Within the next few weeks.’

‘I leave for my visit to Heer in the morning.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘I don’t know what’s waiting for me there. It could be dangerous.’

‘I don’t care.’

He shakes his head. ‘I will be quick. I’ll come back and then we’ll leave.’

She picks up the leopard from among the banknotes, responding to its calls of unease. It opens its mouth and the whistle comes after a few seconds of silent effort, and is followed by a silence before the mouth is closed.

‘Your father doesn’t approve of this match. Am I right?’

‘Yes. It was my brothers’ idea.’

*

The house is in darkness. Beyond the earth’s curve, beyond its weather, the high distances are blank. The tops of the palatial trees silhouetted against it. In his pocket is the envelope of money Akbar has given him for the journey to Heer. He lies on the wall fully clothed and concentrates on sounds like a blind man. He gets up and climbs down into the courtyard. He walks through the trees to Akbar’s room but the bed is empty. He knows he must disclose the father’s betrayal to the son — but how severe will be the consequences?

He returns to the wall but comes down again after what must be an hour according to the stars and walks to the kitchen.

Akbar is at the window, his arms crossed on the sill. Mikal goes to stand beside him and Akbar drapes his arm familially around his shoulder.

‘What are you looking at?’ Mikal asks.

‘There is nothing to look at. It’s night.’

He turns his face towards the boy. ‘Akbar, what’s the matter?’

He still won’t answer. After a while he takes his arm away from Mikal’s shoulder. ‘I heard what happened in the south wing. Why did you say that to a man as great as him?’

‘Akbar, are you weeping?’ Mikal asks.

He shakes his head. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘Why are you weeping, Akbar?’

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve. ‘It had to be done.’

‘What had to be done?’

‘Dishonour has to be paid for.’ He takes Mikal’s arm. ‘Come with me.’

He stands firm. ‘Why?’

‘Come with me.’

They drive out of the house, moving through the darkness, the dust of their wake sidling into the thorn bushes on either side of the car. Mikal’s heart lurches as they turn onto the small path towards the yellow field, the hills in the distance. On the other side of the hills are wild and barren plains, stretching widely away mile upon mile towards Afghanistan. Akbar drives to the centre of the field and says, ‘Let’s stop here for a while.’ Insects — different with each minute — come out of the night and fall around the headlights. Moths like golden-winged machineries. And Akbar is talking frantically about America and the West. Did you know what they did in Vietnam, did you know what happened in Bosnia, did you know, did you know, did you know. There are sallies of breeze in the flowers, the thousand sounds of the night, and the clouds lift and the countless white flames of the sky emerge.

‘Akbar, why are we here?’

‘Did the Americans ever ask you to collaborate with them?’ Akbar asks. ‘Did they say they would let you go if you spied on al-Qaeda and the Taliban for them?’

‘No. We have had this discussion already.’

‘The Malaysian boy three cages away from us was almost definitely turned into a double agent and sent back to Malaysia to spy on al-Qaeda. At the brick factory they gave him ice cream, pizza and apple pies and showed him movies.’

‘Akbar. What are we doing here?’

He looks at the dashboard clock and moves the car forwards through the flowers, towards the hills. Ahead of them their headlights illuminate the father’s Datsun. Stationary on the hillside. Mikal raises his arms and places his hands on top of his head. ‘Oh God.’ The vehicle’s front — on the passenger side — is crushed against a boulder. Akbar stops the car ten yards from the collision site and they sit looking out. At the moment of impact the driver had been thrown out of the driving seat and through the windshield.