Yasmina Khadra - The Swallows of Kabul

“If that’s the case, why do you keep on making the same mistake?”

“I’m afraid. . ”

“Of what?”

“Of the coming days. They terrify me. If only you could make things easier for me.”

“How?”

“By repeating to me what the doctor told you about my illness.”

“Again!” Atiq exclaims in a fury.

He kicks the table over, leaps to his feet, swiftly collects his shoes, turban, and whip, and leaves the house.

Left alone, Musarrat puts her head in her hands. Slowly, her thin shoulders begin to shake.

A FEW BLOCKS away, Mohsen Ramat isn’t sleeping, either. Lying on his straw mattress with his hands folded behind his head, he stares at the candle as it drips wax into its earthenware bowl and throws shadows that dance in fits and starts upon the walls. Above his head, a sagging beam in the exposed ceiling threatens to give way. Last week, a section of the ceiling in the next room came down and nearly buried Zunaira. .

Zunaira, who’s holed up in the kitchen and taking her time about coming to bed.

Their late dinner, long since over, proceeded in silence: he was devastated; she was far away. They barely touched the food, distractedly nibbling at a bit of bread that took them an hour to get down. Mohsen felt deeply embarrassed. His account of the prostitute’s execution had brought discord into his home. He’d thought that confessing his guilt to Zunaira would salve his conscience and help him get a grip on himself. Never for a moment had he imagined that his words would shock his wife so thoroughly. He tried several times to extend his hand to her, to indicate to her how sorry he was. His arm refused to obey him; it remained clamped to his side as though paralyzed. Zunaira did nothing to encourage him. She kept her head bent and her eyes on the floor, while her fingers barely brushed the edge of the little table. It took her even longer to bring a mouthful of bread to her lips than it did to take a bite of it. Distant, mechanical in her movements, she refused to rise to the surface, refused to wake up. Since neither one of them was really eating, she picked up the tray and withdrew behind the curtain.

Mohsen waited for her for a long time, then went and lay down on the pallet, where he has continued to wait for her. Zunaira has not come. He’s been waiting for two hours, perhaps a little longer, and Zunaira still has not returned to his side. Not a sound comes from the kitchen to suggest that she’s in there. Washing two plates and emptying a little basket of bread couldn’t have taken any time at all. Mohsen sits up and lets a few moments pass before deciding he’s waited long enough, he’s going to see what’s going on.

When he draws the curtain aside, he finds Zunaira lying on a mat with her knees pulled up to her chest and her face to the wall. He’s sure she’s not sleeping, but he doesn’t dare disturb her. He retreats soundlessly, puts on a pair of sandals and a robe, blows out the candle, and steps outside into the street. A mass of hot, moist air presses down on the neighborhood. Here and there, in carriage entrances or in front of walls, groups of men are conversing. Mohsen doesn’t deem it necessary to stray far from his house. He sits down on the front step, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks for a star in the sky. At this precise moment, a man who resembles a wild animal suddenly appears and rushes past him, striding wrathfully along the little street. A ricocheting moonbeam illuminates his hardened face; Mohsen recognizes the jailer, the man who nearly lashed him across the face with his whip outside the coffee shop a little while ago.

ATIQ SHAUKAT returns to the mosque for the Isha prayer; when it’s over, he’ll be the last to get to his feet. He passes long minutes with his open hands in a fatihah , reciting verses and beseeching saints and ancestors to help him in his misfortune. Forced by the old wounds in his knees to interrupt his prostrations, he retreats into a corner cluttered with religious books and tries to read. But he can’t concentrate. The lines of the text entangle themselves before his eyes, and his head threatens to burst. Soon the thick heat of the sanctuary obliges him to join the faithful standing in scattered groups outside. The old men and the beggars have disappeared, but the disabled veterans are still there, exhibiting their mutilations like so many trophies. The legless man is ensconced in his barrow, listening intently to his companions’ stories, ready to assent and even readier to object. The Goliath has returned; sitting next to a one-armed man, he listens obsequiously as a graybeard relates how, with a handful of mujahideen and only one light machine gun, he succeeded in immobilizing an entire Soviet tank company.

Atiq can’t put up with these preposterous feats of arms for very long. He leaves the precincts of the mosque and wanders around the city, passing through neighborhoods that look like hecatombs, wielding his whip from time to time to drive off the most relentless beggars. Suddenly, inadvertently, he finds himself standing in front of his jailhouse. He goes inside. The silence of the cells is soothing to him, and he decides to spend the night here. He gropes his way to the hurricane lamp, lights it, and lies down on the cot with his hands under his head and his eyes riveted to the ceiling. Every time his thoughts bring him face-to-face with Musarrat again, he kicks out a foot as though trying to shake them off. His anger returns, flows over him in successive waves, making his blood throb inside his temples and compressing his chest. He’s angry at himself for not having dared to lance the abscess once and for all, for not having pointed out a few hard truths to his wife, who should consider herself privileged in comparison to the depraved women haunting the streets of Kabul. Musarrat is taking advantage of his patience. Her illness no longer counts as an extenuating circumstance; she has to learn how to deal with it. .

A huge shadow darkens the wall. Atiq gives a start and grabs his whip.

“It’s only me, Nazeesh,” a trembling voice reassures him.

“Nobody ever taught you to knock before you come in?” growls Atiq, furious.

“My hands are full. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Atiq shines the lamp on his visitor. He’s a man of about sixty, as tall as a mast, with stooped shoulders, a grotesque neck, and a swirl of wild hair topped by a shapeless head covering. His emaciated face tapers to his chin, which is prolonged by a hoary goatee, and his bulging eyes seem to spring out of his face, as though he were in the grip of some unspeakable pain.

He remains standing in the doorway, smiling indecisively, waiting for a sign from the jailer before he advances or retreats. “I saw a light,” he explains. “I said, Good old Atiq, he’s not doing very well, I should go and keep him company. But I haven’t come with empty hands. I brought a little dried meat and some crab apples.”

Atiq considers, then shrugs and points to a sheepskin on the floor. All too glad to have been granted admission, Nazeesh sits down in the indicated spot, opens a little bundle, and spreads out his bounty at the jailer’s feet.

“I said to myself, Atiq was too nervous to stay home. He wouldn’t come to the jail when there aren’t any prisoners, not at this time of night, unless he needed to relieve his mind. Me, too, I’m the same way. I’m not comfortable at home. My hundred-year-old father won’t let up. He’s lost most of his sight, he’s lost the use of his legs, but his capacity for endless grousing remains intact. He’s always bitching about something. Before, we could give him something to eat to shut him up. These days, we don’t have very much food to sink our teeth into, and since he’s lost his, there’s nothing in the way of his tongue. Sometimes he starts by demanding silence, and then he’s the one who can’t stop talking. Two days ago, he wouldn’t wake up. My daughters shook him and sprinkled water on him; he didn’t move. I felt his wrist — no pulse. I put my ear against his chest — no breathing. I said, Okay, he’s dead; we’ll notify the family and give him a fine funeral. I left the house to tell the neighbors the news; then I went around to cousins, nephews, other relatives, and friends and announced the passing of the eldest member of the tribe. I spent the morning receiving condolences and demonstrations of sympathy. Around noon, I go back home, and who do I find in the courtyard, bitching at everybody? My father, in flesh and blood, very much alive and kicking. His mouth was open so wide, I could see his gums— they’re kind of a sickly white. I think he’s lost his mind. It’s impossible to sit down to eat or even to go to bed with him in the house. As soon as he sees someone passing, he pounces and starts growling out insults and reproaches. Sometimes I lose my head, too, and I start yelling back at him. The neighbors join in, and they all believe that I’m sinning in the face of God by not being patient with my venerable sire. So in order to avoid upsetting God, I spend most of my time outside. I even take my meals in the street.”