Yasmina Khadra - The Swallows of Kabul

Mohsen lifts up his hands. Zunaira feels a sudden pang for him, a man who can no longer find his place in a society turned upside down. Even in the old days, before the Taliban came, he didn’t have very much drive. He was always more content to dip into his fortune than to embark on demanding, time-consuming projects. He wasn’t lazy, but he detested difficulties and rarely did anything that might complicate his life. He was a man of independent means but with no tendency to excess, and he was an excellent, affectionate, considerate husband. He deprived her of nothing, refused her nothing, and yielded so easily to her requests that she often felt as if she were taking advantage of his kindness. But he was like that: openhanded, easygoing, readier to say yes than to ask himself questions. The thoroughgoing upheaval provoked by the Taliban has completely unsettled him. Mohsen’s former points of reference have all disappeared, and he hasn’t got the strength to invent any new ones. He’s lost his possessions, his privileges, his relatives, and his friends. Reduced to the ranks of the untouchables, he spends his days stagnating, always deferring until later the promise to pull himself together.

“Well, all right,” Zunaira concedes. “Let’s go out. I’d rather run a thousand risks than to see you so demoralized.”

“I’m not demoralized, Zunaira. If you want to stay home, that’s fine with me. I promise I won’t hold it against you. You’re right — the streets of Kabul are hateful. You never know what’s waiting for you out there.”

Zunaira smiles at her husband’s declarations, which are flatly belied by the miserable look on his face. “I’ll go put on my burqa,” she says.

ATIQ SHAUKAT shades his eyes with his hand. The fierce summer heat still has many bright days to last. Although it’s not yet nine o’clock in the morning, the implacable sun beats down like a blacksmith on anything that moves. Carts and vans converge on the big bazaar in the center of town. The former are loaded with half-empty crates or shriveled produce from local truck farms; the latter carry passengers piled on top of one another like anchovies. People hobble along the narrow streets; their sandals scrape the dusty ground. Behind opaque veils, stepping like sleepwalkers, sparse flocks of women hug the walls, closely guarded by a few embarrassed males. And everywhere — in the squares, on the streets, among the vehicles, or around the coffee shops — there are kids, hundreds of little kids with snot-green nostrils and piercing eyes, disturbing, sickly, on their own, many barely old enough to walk, and all silently braiding the stout rope they’ll use, someday soon, to lynch their country’s last hope of salvation.

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.