Yasmina Khadra - The Swallows of Kabul

“That’s not a question anymore.”

“I was so afraid.”

“That’s because it’s so dark in here.”

“I left the lamps unlit on purpose. And I see no reason to light them now. Your face will shine on me more brightly than a thousand candles. Please, lift your hood and let me dream of you.”

She takes a step backward and turns up the top of her burqa. Atiq cries out in fright and recoils. She isn’t Zunaira anymore; she’s Musarrat, and a rifle shot has blown away half of her face.

Atiq wakes up screaming, thrusting out his hands to push away the horror. Covered with sweat, his eyes bulging, he realizes only after several seconds that he’s been having a nightmare.

Outside, the day is dawning, and so are the sorrows of the world.

LOOKING LIKE HIS own ghost, Atiq drifts toward the cemetery. He’s wearing no turban and carrying no whip; his trousers hang low on his hips, barely held up by a poorly buckled belt. As he walks, he doesn’t so much move forward as haul himself along, with his eyes rolled up and devastation in his every step. His untied shoelaces trace serpentine arabesques in the dirt. His right shoe has burst open, exposing to the sun a misshapen toe with a split nail outlined in blood. He must have slipped and fallen somewhere, as his right side is stained with mud and his elbow is skinned. He looks like a drunk, like a man who doesn’t know where he is or where he’s going. From time to time, he stops and braces himself against a wall: bent over from the waist, hands on his knees, vacillating between his urge to vomit and his need to catch his breath. His dark face, under its thatch of unkempt beard, is as wrinkled as an overripe quince; his deeply lined forehead and swollen eyes complement his appearance of advanced deterioration; his misery is shrill, unignorable. The rare pedestrians who cross his path look at him with fearful eyes. Some of them make broad detours to avoid him, and the children playing here and there keep him under careful surveillance.

Atiq has no idea of the terror he’s arousing. His head is a weight on his shoulders, his movements are erratic, and he’s only vaguely aware of the maze of little streets. He hasn’t eaten for three days. Fasting and grief have drained him. Saliva like dried milk stains the corners of his mouth, and he keeps blowing his nose into his cupped hand. He needs several heaves to detach himself from the wall and set himself in motion. His legs buckle under his sagging carcass. He’s been stopped twice by squads of Taliban police, who suspected him of inebriation; someone even struck him and ordered him to return home at once. Atiq noticed none of this. As soon as he was let go, he continued on his way to the cemetery, as though summoned there by a mysterious call.

A family consisting of women dressed in rags and children whose little faces are streaked with grime is gathered around a fresh grave. Farther off, a mule driver tries to repair one of his carriage wheels, which has struck a large stone and sprung from its axle. A few scrawny dogs with muddy muzzles and cocked ears sniff along the paths. Atiq staggers about amid the mounds, without gravestones and without epitaphs, that blister the arid terrain of the cemetery. The graves are only holes in the ground, haphazardly dug and filled in with dirt and gravel and caked earth. They lie in an alarming jumble that adds a tragic note to the sadness of the place. Atiq lingers over these bare tombs, squatting now and then to touch one of them with his fingertips. Sometimes he steps over the little mounds; sometimes he stumbles on them and mutters. After going in a circle, he realizes that he won’t be able to identify Musarrat’s last resting place because he hasn’t the vaguest idea where to look for it. He spies a gravedigger eating a piece of dried meat, goes over to him, and asks him where the woman who was executed at the municipal stadium yesterday is buried. The gravedigger shows him a pile of dirt a stone’s throw away and returns with hearty appetite to his meal.

Atiq collapses before his wife’s grave, takes his head in his hands, and stays that way until late in the afternoon — without a word, without a groan, without a prayer. His curiosity piqued, the gravedigger comes over to check whether the strange visitor is awake. He tells Atiq that the sun is dangerously hot, that he’ll be sorry if he doesn’t get out of it. Atiq fails to grasp what he’s doing wrong. He continues to stare undeterred at Musarrat’s grave. Then, when his head is crackling and his eyes are half blind, he rises and leaves the cemetery without looking back. Leaning sometimes on a wall, sometimes on a tree, he wanders through a series of alleyways until the sight of a woman stepping out of a house with a mansard roof seems almost to clear his head. She’s wearing a faded burqa with holes in its skirts, and down-at-the-heel shoes. Atiq stations himself in the middle of the narrow street and waits to intercept her. The woman veers off to one side; Atiq catches her by the arm and tries to hold her back. With a jerk, she frees herself from his clutches and runs away. Zunaira , he says to her, Zunaira. The woman comes to a stop at the end of the alley, stares at him curiously, and disappears. Atiq runs after her, holding out one arm as though trying to spear a smoke ring. In another narrow lane, he bears down upon another woman, who is sitting on the threshold of a ruined house. When she sees him coming, she goes back inside and closes the door behind her. Atiq turns around and sees a yellow burqa slipping toward the district square. He follows it, still holding one arm out in front of him. Zunaira, Zunaira . . Children hurry out of his path, frightened by this disheveled man with bulging pupils and bluish lips who seems to be stalking his own insanity. The yellow burqa stops in front of one of the houses; Atiq rushes toward it, reaching it at the moment when the door opens. Where did you go? I waited for you at the stadium exit, just as we agreed, and you didn’t come out to me. .

The yellow burqa tries to free itself from his painful grasp. You’re mad! Let me go or I’ll scream. .

I won’t leave you alone anymore, Zunaira. Since you can’t find me, you’ll never have to look for me again.

I’m not your Zunaira, you poor fool. If you don’t get out of here, my brothers will kill you.

Lift your hood. I want to see your face, your beautiful houri’s face. .

The burqa sacrifices its side panel to his grasp and vanishes. Some boys who have assisted at this scene pick up stones and begin flinging them at the madman until he retreats the way he came. One of the projectiles has split the side of Atiq’s head open, and blood is pouring over his ear as he starts running, at first with little steps, but then, as he approaches the square, with longer and longer strides, his breathing hoarse, his nostrils dripping, foam boiling out of his mouth. Zunaira, Zunaira , he babbles, tossing aside bystanders in his search for a burqa. As his frenzy mounts, he starts chasing women down and — O sacrilege! — lifting their veils above their heads. Zunaira, I know you’re in there. Come out of your hiding place. There’s nothing to fear. No one will hurt you. I’ve taken care of everything. I won’t let anyone bother you. .

Indignant cries ring out. Atiq doesn’t hear them. His hands snatch at veils, violently tearing them away, sometimes capsizing the cornered women. Whenever one of them resists, he throws her to the ground and hauls her around in the dust, only releasing her when he’s certain that she’s not the one he’s searching for. The first cudgel blow lands on the back of his neck, but he does not falter. As though catapulted by a supernatural force, he continues his wild career. Soon the scandalized crowd fans out to contain him. The women scatter, screaming; he manages to seize a few, tears their clothes, lifts their heads by the hair. The cudgel is followed by whips, and these by fists and feet. The men who have been “dishonored” trample their women to get at the madman. Demon! Fiend! Atiq has a vague sensation of being carried away by a landslide. He’s kicked by a thousand shabby shoes, buffeted by a thousand sticks, lashed by a thousand whips. Pervert! Monster! Crushed under the tumult, he collapses. The furious pack, sensing the kill, hurls itself upon him. He has just enough time to notice that his shirt has disappeared, torn to shreds by vicious fingers, that blood is running down his chest and arms in thick streams, and that his eyebrows have burst, rendering it impossible for him to measure the unquenchable fury of his assailants. A few fragmented shouts reach his ears amid the rain of blows that keep him pinned to the ground. Hang him! Crucify him! Burn him alive! All of a sudden, his head starts to oscillate, and his surroundings slide into darkness. There follows a solemn, intense silence, and as he closes his eyes, Atiq entreats his ancestors that his sleep may be as unfathomable as the secrets of the night.