Nadeem Aslam - The Wasted Vigil

The dukhi who had entered Benedikt’s room took away from him the leaf of the Cosmos Oak he had been holding, the feel of it a comfort to him. They crumbled it away, no doubt failing to understand how it could mean anything to anyone. Then they forced him to his knees, two of them grabbing his arms near the shoulders. The third was behind him, seeming to adjust or position his feet, gripping the tough cord of cartilage above each heel. Light was coming from behind him and Benedikt could see the ghost’s shadow on the wall in front of him. He saw the dark blade swing across the wall and disappear downwards — the cutting edge landed on his feet and he lost consciousness .

Now he lies in the circle, hearing his own cries of pain and the horses slowly coming towards him, a pall of dust ahead of them. He can feel the ground vibrating through his skin, as though listening to thunder below ground. A volcano about to erupt. In the eye that is looking up at the sky there is a distant row of birds, demoiselle or Siberian cranes. The lines appear to be stationary, making him think you could walk from one section of the sky to another by stepping on the back of the birds, a bridge, perfectly suspended there.

Onto his knees and elbows, he raises himself to dog level, but collapses after half a moment. He must try to run, escape, but there is no feeling in his legs other than pain. Weeping, he has begun to scream out for his mother and father and for Lara, for the girl he loved at six, at ten, at sixteen — tugging on any and all conceivable threads of love, summon deliverance from any corner. He is suddenly aware that he is fragile as glass now that the beasts are massed just on the other side of the circle, everything gone a little faint with dust for him. Above the horses’ knees many human hands are hanging, now and then the face of a rider reaching down to laugh at him. When the rifle shot comes he thinks they have fired into him, but no, he hasn’t been shot, and now a dozen hands grab onto his limbs and hair and clothing and he feels himself being lifted unevenly off the ground …

*

‘I think I’ll leave tomorrow,’ Lara says in a dazed faraway voice after David and Marcus have finished speaking, the tale told. What Nabi Khan and Gul Rasool had done to her brother.

Marcus looks at David.

‘Yes, I think I will. Thank you, Marcus, for everything, for your hospitality.’ She stands up abruptly, eyes full of brilliant energy now, and moves towards her suitcase. David approaches and lifts her hand away from the case’s handle, tries to bring her back to her chair, but she refuses to submit.

‘First we have to make arrangements — confirm your plane ticket …’

‘I’ll go to Kabul and stay in a hotel.’

‘No.’ He takes in the smell of her hair, her skin and clothes. Hoelun, the future mother of Genghis Khan, had given her tunic to her husband as she asked him to flee their pursuers, leaving her behind in the wilderness. Her smell in the dress to remember her by. To the peoples of the steppe it is part of the soul.

‘I cannot stay here knowing that man, Gul Rasool, is just over a mile away from me. What did they do with … the remains?’

‘I asked but James says they don’t seem to remember.’

She nods. ‘It was more than two decades ago. I must go.’

‘No, Lara,’ Marcus cries out behind them. David turns and sees that Marcus has planted his sole hand on his face to conceal the naked heartache. Maybe there is a ghost here, he had said to David once, because sometimes I get the vivid sensation that I am caressing my daughter’s face with my missing hand.

Apart from anything else he is afraid of their leaving, David sees now. The fear of being alone is on that hidden face.

Lara goes to sit beside him.

David moves towards the window. Towards free air. He can hear their muffled distressed words to each other behind him. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been told. Had he found out about it independently — away from Marcus, at another point in time — he would have kept it from her, he’s sure. But she had wanted to know, and he has been quick, sparing her any unnecessary details. Wouldn’t you wish to learn what happened to Jonathan in Vietnam? A different war — but maybe at some level it was the same war. Just as tomorrow’s wars might be begotten by today’s wars, a continuation of them. Rivers of lava emerging onto the surface after flowing many out-of-sight miles underground. James Palantine is the age David was when he was here fighting America’s enemy.

The sons of the fathers.

Here in this room the three of them are, the old ones. Four if Zameen’s ghost is included. And out there are the children. Dunia. Casa. James. The planet’s future.

ANGELS CONSTANTLY PRAISE Allah for having created beards for men and long hair for women.

Reciting the Koranic verse against vanity, he looks into the water of the lake.

Locating his reflection he raises his hand to the cheek where she had smeared kohl yesterday. His face. The most important instruction of the Uzbek trainer, who taught him how to carry out a martyrdom attack, was to bend the head downwards when he exploded himself. The head must be destroyed completely or he will enter Paradise with his body decapitated.

Is he thinking of her? If she kept her maddening face and hair concealed he wouldn’t be distracted.

If her face had been veiled he wouldn’t have been able to see that she was close to tears because of him yesterday, at the thought of possible harm to him.

When they poured wine into a goblet the ordinary goblet shone like a red jewel. And so he saw her looking into a mirror, and walking past it later he realised that without her reflection it was nothing but a piece of glass.

He is thinking of her. No, he can’t see why he should feel responsible because her well-being has been jeopardised because of him, because of what happened on the night of the Night Letter. He has no time for such worldly matters.

At certain times of day a small swarm of hornets comes to drink water from this part of the lake’s margin. He stops to watch them as they begin their descent, then continues his walk along the edge. So precious are the ingredients used in some perfumes, said the Englishman yesterday, that instead of metal weights a small berry is used to measure them out. The bodies of these small hornets could be used for that purpose too, he’s sure, given how very small they are. Something could also weigh as much as one of those red beetles that have black spots on their backs. He’s seen them painted in several places inside the house. Yesterday she was saying her prayers beside a vine leaf that held one.

Allah in his compassion understands what he is experiencing. By the time only six generations of Adam’s children had passed, corruption and other consequences of temptation were widespread on earth, and the fears the angels had expressed to Allah at the time of Adam’s creation began to seem legitimate to them. When the angels repeated their complaints regarding mankind’s weakness, He responded, ‘If I had sent you to live on earth and instilled in you what I have instilled in them — a passionate nature — you would have acted as they have.’

The martyrdom mission camp was near Kazha Panga village, just where the Durand Line separated the Azam Warsak town of South Waziristan from Afghanistan’s Paktika province. There were hundreds of other recruits. Though no girls or young women — it was thought their modesty might be compromised when they exploded themselves and certain body parts came to lie scattered in full view.

Some of the recruits had been brought there from schools, against the wishes of their infidel-in-all-but-name parents, who didn’t care that US and other Western forces were occupying Afghanistan. Didn’t realise how important it was for Muslims to rise up in revolt against them, unleash a planet-wide lightning storm. The recruiters would arrive at the schools and the children, after listening to their speeches and being shown DVDs of holy wars, would offer themselves up readily for martyrdom instruction. Gun battles often broke out, however, when the principals of the schools sought police assistance, or prevented the children from boarding the buses and vans bound for the secret camps. Once there, they were told to adopt the hairstyle of the jihadis — combed back from the brow and cut straight at the nape of the neck as Muhammad, peace be upon him, is said to have worn it. In addition to the Koran they were taught three books published in Pakistan.