Yasmina Khadra - The Swallows of Kabul

Leading an impressive cloud of dust, the big 4 × 4 rolls through the cemetery. Qassim glances at the dejected young man wandering among the dead. It’s the same fellow he caught a glimpse of this morning, when he left for his native village. Qassim looks at him carefully for a moment, wondering what he could be doing all day long in a deserted cemetery under the scorching sun.

The driver relaxes, easing up on the accelerator as he turns into the first narrow streets of the city. The sight of groups of kids at play and clusters of old men gathered in the shade of garden fences cheers him up. He’s glad to be going home. “That sure was a hell of a trip,” he remarks, waving at an acquaintance in the crowd. “We spent hours jolting our vertebrae loose on bad roads, and we ate all sorts of horrible food.”

“Stop whining,” Qassim growls.

“After I turn off the engine, and not before,” the driver says stubbornly, pulling a comical face. “What are we going to do? Shall I drop you off at home?”

“Not just yet. I need to take my mind off things. Since you won’t stop griping about how I’m starving you, what do you say we go to Khorsan’s and nibble on some kabob? My treat.”

“I warn you, I can eat enough for four.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re a prince, boss. Thanks to you, I’m going to stuff myself until I’m sick.”

Khorsan’s eating place stands at one corner of a ravaged public garden, across from a bus stop. In the little square, the fumes of barbecued meat compete for the rare breezes with the clouds of smoke raised by the passing vehicles. A few customers — among them the jailer, Atiq — are sitting at the crude tables squeezed against one another under a wicker canopy. Indifferent to the sun and the squadrons of flies, the diners bestir themselves only to drive away the hungry street urchins. These children have been overexcited by the aromas coming from the grill, where Khorsan himself, his belly hanging to his knees and his beard to his navel, waves a fan to revive his coals. With the other hand, he turns the slabs of meat; when he determines that they’re done, he licks his chops. The 4 × 4 that squeals to a stop ten feet away does nothing to disconcert him. Without taking his eye off the sizzling cutlets, he merely turns his fan toward the cloud of dust that begins to envelop his person. Qassim shows him four fingers and takes a seat on a worm-eaten wooden bench; Khorsan acknowledges the order with a movement of his head and continues his ritual with renewed application.

Atiq looks at his watch. He’s clearly impatient; Qassim’s arrival has driven his nervousness to new heights. What’s Qassim going to think when he sees him there, eating dinner in a greasy spoon not twenty steps from his house? He hunches his shoulders and screens his face with his hand until a waiter brings him a huge sandwich bundled in wrapping paper. Atiq slips it into a plastic bag, places a few banknotes on the table, and beats a hasty retreat, without waiting for his change. Just when he thinks he’s free and clear, Qassim’s hand lays hold of him. “Is it me you’re running from, Atiq?”

The jailer acts the part of the man who just can’t believe his eyes. “Are you back already?”

“Why are you sneaking out like this? Have I given you some cause for complaint?”

“I don’t follow you.”

Qassim, disappointed, slowly nods his head. “Do you know what I think, Atiq? I think what you’re doing is wrong. No, please, don’t put on a show. It’s not necessary, I assure you. I’m not going to give you a lecture. It’s just that — look, I think you’ve changed a lot recently, and I don’t like it. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn about such things, but I can’t be indifferent in your case. Maybe it’s because of the long years we’ve spent together. Sometimes we’ve had fun, but more often we’ve had to struggle against adversity. I don’t like meddling in something that’s not my business, but I have no qualms about telling you this: if you barricade yourself inside your worries, you’re going to wind up stuck there, unable to get out.”

“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes I get a little depressed, that’s all.”

Qassim doesn’t believe him and makes no attempt to hide his incredulity. He leans toward Atiq. “Do you need money?”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

The militiaman scratches his forehead, deep in thought, then makes a proposal. “Why don’t you come and join us tonight at Haji Palwan’s? Only old friends will be there. We drink tea, we talk and talk, we reminisce about the army and all our skirmishes, and we laugh at the bad old times. It’ll suit you just fine, I promise. We’re just a bunch of war buddies; everything’s very relaxed. If you have any ideas, we’ll discuss them together so you can find the right partners and get things rolling at once. You don’t have to be a wizard to go into business. A little imagination, a modicum of motivation, and the locomotive starts moving down the track. If you’re broke, we’ll stake you and you can reimburse us later.”

“It’s not a question of money,” Atiq declares wearily. “Money doesn’t dazzle me.”

“It doesn’t light your way, either, as far as I can tell.”

“I don’t mind the dark.”

“That’s a statement that needs proving. For my part, I just want to tell you there’s nothing wrong with going to see a friend when things are getting you down.”

“Did Mirza Shah send you?”

“You see? You’re wrong all down the line. I don’t need Mirza Shah’s advice to reach out to a colleague I’m fond of.”

Atiq’s neck bone protrudes as he looks down at his plastic bag. He toes a stone, unearths it, and begins digging a hole in the dirt. “May I go?” he asks in a tight voice.

“But of course, what a question!”

Atiq thanks him with a nod and starts to leave.

“There was a learned man in Jalalabad,” Qassim blurts out, falling in behind Atiq. “A savant, a phenomenal sage. He had an answer for everything. No literary or scholarly allusion ever escaped him. He knew by heart every hadith in the Six Sound Books and all the great events that have marked the history of Islam, all Islam, from east to west. The man was astounding. If he’d lived in our times, he would’ve probably wound up at the end of a rope, or perhaps beheaded, because his knowledge was so great, it passed all understanding. One day, while he was teaching a class, someone came in and whispered in his ear. And all at once, the illustrious wise man turned pale. His beads slipped from his fingers. He got to his feet without a word and left the classroom. He was never seen again.”

Atiq raises an eyebrow. “So what did the other person whisper to him?”

“The story doesn’t say anything about that detail.”

“And the moral of the story?”

“You can know all there is to know about life and mankind, but what do you really know about yourself? Atiq, my boy, don’t try too hard to complicate your existence. You’ll never guess what it holds in store for you. Stop filling your head with false ideas and unanswerable questions and useless reasoning. Even if you find an answer to every question today, you still won’t be safe from whatever unknowable event may take place tomorrow. The learned man knew many things, but he was ignorant about the essential thing. Basically, being alive means keeping yourself ready for the sky to fall in on you at any time. If you start from the assumption that existence is only an ordeal, a test we have to pass, then you’re equipped to deal with its sorrows and its surprises. If you persist in expecting it to give you something it can’t give, that just proves that you haven’t understood anything. Take things as they come; don’t turn them into a drama. You’re not piloting the ship, you’re following the course of your destiny. Yesterday, I lost my mother. Today, I went to spend a few moments in silence at her grave. Now I’m at Khorsan’s getting a bite to eat. I plan to go to Haji Palwan’s tonight to hear what our old comrades are talking about. If some misfortune has happened since the last time I went there, it’s not the end of the world. There’s no more painful love than the love you feel when you’re in a railroad station and you exchange glances with someone whose train is headed in the other direction.”