Yasmina Khadra - The Swallows of Kabul

“That’s what I said to myself the first time I saw her.”

“Then why have they sentenced her to death?”

Atiq flinches. Evidently, he hasn’t asked himself this question. That’s not like him at all, Musarrat thinks. Surely there must be some mistake. “How about her? What’s her story?”

“I haven’t spoken to her.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t done. I’ve guarded many female prisoners awaiting execution, some of them for several days. We never exchanged a single word. It’s as if you’re all alone and the other person isn’t there. We ignored one another completely, they in their cells and me in my hole. Tears can’t do any good when a sentence of death has been pronounced. In such cases, there’s no place like a prison for gathering your thoughts, so people keep quiet. Especially the night before an execution.”

Musarrat seizes her husband’s hand and presses it against her chest. Surprisingly, the jailer offers no resistance. Perhaps he doesn’t notice. His gaze is far away, his breathing tense.

“Today I feel quite strong,” she says, elated by the color in her husband’s face. “If you’d like, I could fix her something to eat.”

“You’d do that for her?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

THE PRISONER pushes away her tray and wipes her lips delicately on the end of a rag. Her way of patting the corners of her mouth reveals her origins in a social rank that has been abolished and no longer exists. She has class, and she’s surely well educated. Atiq scrutinizes her while pretending to examine the lines in his hand. He doesn’t want to miss a single one of her movements; he wants to take in all her expressions, all her ways — of eating, of drinking, of picking up the things around her and putting them down again. As far as he’s concerned, there’s no doubt: This woman has been rich and distinguished, has worn silk and jewels, has doused herself with fantastic perfumes and mistreated the hearts of innumerable suitors; her face has radiated the joy of many an ardent love; her smile has soothed many a misfortune. How has she wound up here? What wretched wind has blown her into this dungeon, a woman whose eyes seem to hold the light of all the world?

Those eyes look up at him. An immense oppression crushes his chest, and he quickly turns away. When he glances at the prisoner again, he finds her staring at him with an enigmatic little smile playing on her lips. To subdue his mounting embarrassment, he asks her if she’s still hungry. She shakes her head. He remembers that there are some berries on his desk, but he doesn’t dare go to fetch them. To tell the truth, he doesn’t want to go away, not even for a second. He feels fine , just where he is, on this side of the bars, yet at the same time so close to her that he believes he can register the beating of her pulse.

The woman’s smile doesn’t fade. It floats on her face like the beginnings of a dream. Is she really smiling, or is he seeing visions? Since being confined to his jail, she hasn’t said a word. Silent and dignified, she encloses herself in her exile, betraying neither anxiety nor torment. She looks as if she’s waiting for the sun to come up so that they can leave together, without a sound. The imminent expiration of her brief reprieve hangs over her prayers like a patient blade, but its pernicious shadow cannot reach her thoughts. She seems impregnable in her martyrdom.

“My wife prepared this meal for you,” Atiq says.

“You’re very lucky.”

What a voice! Atiq drinks it in and waits for her to expand on this subject, to speak a little about her dramatic circumstances, which he knows must be eating her up inside. He waits in vain.

After a long silence, he hears himself murmur, “He deserved to die.”

Then, with increased fervor, he says, “I’d take my oath on it. A man who doesn’t appreciate his good fortune has no right to any sympathy.” His Adam’s apple scrapes his throat as he adds, “I’m certain he was a brute. Of the worst kind. Full of himself. He couldn’t have been anything else. When you don’t appreciate your good fortune, you forfeit your right to it. It’s obvious.”

The prisoner tenses her shoulders.

As Atiq’s words come faster, his voice grows steadily louder. “He abused you, isn’t that right? If he didn’t like some little thing you said, he rolled up his sleeves and attacked you.”

She lifts her head. Her eyes remind him of jewels; her smile has become more pronounced, at once sorrowful and sublime.

“He pushed you too far, was that it? He made you suffer more than you could bear. . ”

“He was marvelous,” she says in a tranquil voice. “I’m the one who didn’t appreciate my good fortune.”

ATIQ IS OVERWROUGHT. He can’t stand still. Ever since he came home, earlier than expected, he hasn’t stopped walking back and forth in the patio, turning his eyes skyward and talking to himself.

Sitting on her pallet, Musarrat watches him without a word. This whole affair is beginning to bother her. Atiq hasn’t been himself since they put that prisoner in his charge. “What’s the matter?” he shouts at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Musarrat thinks it would be unwise to answer him, though not so unwise as it would be to try to calm him down. Atiq looks as though that’s exactly what he’s waiting for, an excuse to pounce on her. His eyes are full of wrath, and his clenched knuckles are white.

He approaches her. There’s a milky secretion in the corners of his mouth. “You said something?”

She shakes her head.

He puts his hand on his hip and turns toward the courtyard; then, grimacing with rage, he strikes the wall and bellows, “It was a stupid accident. It could happen to anyone. It was the kind of thing you can’t anticipate, the kind of thing that takes you by surprise. Her husband tripped over a carafe and struck his head on the floor, fatally. It was as simple as that. It’s a tragedy, that’s true, but it was an accident. She wasn’t responsible for anything, the poor woman. The qazi must be made to see that they were wrong to condemn her. They don’t have the right to send an innocent person to her death just because she was involved in an accident. That woman didn’t kill her husband. She didn’t kill anyone.”

Musarrat nods her head timidly. Lost in his tirade, Atiq doesn’t even notice.

“I must speak to Qassim about her,” he says at the end of a long monologue. “He’s got influential friends and connections in high places. People will listen to him. They can’t possibly let an innocent woman be executed because of a misunderstanding.”

“WHAT ARE YOU talking about?” Qassim Abdul Jabbar demands indignantly. He’s not best pleased with Atiq, who has disturbed him in his home about a lot of nonsense. “She’s a mad bitch; she’s been judged and condemned. Soon she’ll be executed in the stadium. Many prestigious guests are coming to the ceremony, and she’s the only woman on the entire program. Even if she were innocent, no one could do anything for her. And since she’s guilty—”

“She’s innocent.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me so.”

“And you believed her?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because she lied to you. She’s an incorrigible liar, Atiq. She’s taking advantage of your good nature. Don’t play defense lawyer for a criminal you hardly know. You have enough problems as it is.”

“She didn’t kill anyone. . ”

“Her neighbors testified against her. Their statements were categorical. That whore led her unfortunate husband a dog’s life. She was constantly chasing him out of his own home. The qazi didn’t even need to deliberate.”