Yasmina Khadra - The Swallows of Kabul

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.