Uzma Khan - Trespassing

He said, ‘What if I don’t need anyone to give me anything?’

‘You’d be killed.’

Salaamat stopped. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘It’s the rule.’

Fatah was too close now. ‘And no one changes the rules?’

‘You’ve learned well. No one but the Chief.’

He could see him now, behind a dense bush. His thick, bristly hair was a mess and he cursed while trying to leap across the thorns. Salaamat lowered his voice. ‘How long had that man been locked up?’

Fatah looked up, plucking thistles from his sleeve. ‘I don’t remember. Who can recognize any of them after the first week? There were many cells you know, all of them occupied, so relax.’

He could tell Fatah’s humor had changed. He let him catch up with him. Three feet away, he bent at the waist, breathing like he’d just climbed Rakaposhi. It was his turn to say nothing; he was exhausted.

‘What’s happened to you?’ Salaamat snarled. ‘The Commander could climb faster. I should have placed a bet. Won back all my cigarettes.’ He lit another one. Then: ‘When you see those men, don’t you wonder what it would be like to live in your own shit?’

Fatah had collapsed on a rock. When he got his breath back he shook his head. ‘I wish I’d known how stupid you were before I climbed all the way up here. Live in my own shit? I have lived in my own shit. And as long as I give my land to everyone else, I’ll continue living in it.’

‘You live in it because you talk shit,’ Salaamat spat.

Fatah threw his head back and laughed. ‘This country is a sister-fucking urinal, my foolish friend. Who hasn’t pissed in it? Have you gone to the mountains? Those fools are so cocky because they think they’re descended from Alexander! They’re proud his army raped their women because now they have white skin and eyes even bluer than yours. And what about the British? The Afghans? How much do we have to share with those bloody Pathans because of their war? How many of us will the General keep sending, so we don’t see who we really have to fight? Even the Gulf Arabs fart here. Taking our children, taking our workforce. You know what my brother did when he went there? They told him he could work on their jets, but what did he do? He cleaned air toilets! And the Amreekans, why should we work for them? Why do our leaders wag their fat bottoms in their face, begging, Pat me! Rub your slime all over me! Pah! Everyone in this country is a lapdog of someone who isn’t from here.’

‘You’re a lapdog too.’

‘I’m the lapdog of someone who represents my land. You can either be faithful, or you can be a traitor. There is no other way.’

Salaamat folded his arms. His gaze drifted down Fatah’s long broad nose, always a little oily. When he was worked up, especially during target practice, he’d wipe the grease with the back of his right thumb and smear it on his chest. He did that now.

Salaamat sighed. ‘You can belong to the land, instead of forcing it to belong to you …’ He was beginning to sound stupid even to himself.

Fatah spat another laugh. It sounded like, Chuff! Then he did it again. Chuff! ‘You’re just a no-good dreamer. The Koreans took your sea, but you learned nothing. The Punjabis took your sweat, still you learned nothing. The Urdu-speakers burned your bus: nothing. The Pathans took your first pay: nothing again. It’s not just land and sea they all want. They want the air we breathe. And what does this country do? It begs them to take it. It says, please, please, stick millions of dollars into our fat bottoms and own us all! Just let me keep my car, my house, my job. But I promise I won’t let those who’ve lived here for thousands of years have any of it!’ Fatah jabbed the air with his rectangular chin and pronounced, ‘No. If you don’t control them, they control you.’

Salaamat looked away. ‘That man yesterday was controlling no one. Not even himself.’ He wondered for the millionth time: was anyone else in there only pretending to push the button?

‘If we’d let him go he’d be part of the system that controls us.’

‘If you’d let him go you’d never even see him again.’

‘You’re wrong. He’d be the one to take my car, house, and job. He’d be in my space and I would see him everywhere. With every man I kill, I make a little more room for my people. For us.’

They stared at each other. Fatah’s sunken eyes were not angry now. They were cold and set. If Salaamat weren’t on his side, he’d also be in his way.

But he wanted neither. He just wanted to be here, at the top of the world.

Fatah continued, ‘He’s nearing the end, anyway. If we don’t destroy him, someone or something else will. And if it’s not him, it’s someone else. See? The Commander is wrong. We don’t have to target the bullet. No, we have to let it fly. Fate takes care of the rest. I wouldn’t be a freedom fighter if I weren’t meant to be. That man wouldn’t be in our cell if he weren’t meant to be. See? There’s a bigger force on our side. Everything is clear and simple.’

‘One day it’ll fly at you.’

‘I know. And I’ll embrace it proudly.’ He tossed his head. ‘If I were commander, that’s what I’d tell my men every morning.’

Salaamat shook his head. ‘I’m wasting my time talking to you. Leave me now.’

‘Your time? Your time belongs to us.’ Then he looked around him. ‘I bet no one down there’s ever climbed so high. Look at them! Smaller than rabbit dung!’

The peppercorn-men still mulled around on the shore and now there were two bread loaves whirring through the sand. Jeeps. The men had returned from the Chief’s. They’d speak of him later tonight, as they ate by the campfire. Maybe they’d brought supplies. They were running low on cigarettes and sugar.

He shut his eyes: the burning metal eyes of yesterday’s captive now lived behind his own. They said: the fat, drunk poacher with the woman waiting in the hut, the one who’d nearly killed him years ago in his village, Salaamat had become him.

What if he could erase yesterday? What were a few hours in an entire lifetime? That’s all they were: a few hours. Efface them! Be gone!

Pretend. Jerk. Pretend. Jerk.

He cringed.

Did the man even have a mind somewhere inside that convulsing body? Could he have had a single thought left in him?

And what would his last thought have been?

He couldn’t know, but he could see it. It would look like Handsome’s favorite dish: brain. He cursed his own for bringing the picture to him. Little slimy noodles in a wet pulp. That was what sat in the writhing man’s skull. The button was a benign black circle, soft to the touch. And each time it went down, those little slimy noodles flared out, out, out, a sea anemone yawning. Slow, graceful undulations. Soft, powdery hues. Out, out, out, only there was nowhere to go so they started moving down, and around, and soon there were knots, and the knots were angry because there was no space, and then they just shot off. One by one, each noodle burst out into nothingness, and there was a terrific fight between the remaining knots because they each saw now what would happen to them, and even when it didn’t happen, it did. So off they went. Panic in the sea. Mayhem in the seat. One little noodle left screaming, Oh please God, help me. Just wipe off my shit.

He turned around and began to scramble down, on the other side. Why was he torturing himself? Why wasn’t Fatah?

Fatah followed him down a precipice. ‘Leave me,’ Salaamat pleaded.

‘I will not.’ Fatah had got his old speed back and skipped beside him, whistling. Then he broke into song, ‘On your red lips, if only once, my name would fall …’

Salaamat shut it out. He never knew love could surge with a hatred this fierce.