The Swallows of Kabul

Eleven

“QASSIM ABDUL JABBAR asks you not to leave your post today,” the militia soldier says. “He’s got a new consignment for you.”

Atiq, sitting on a stool in the entrance to the jailhouse, shrugs his shoulders without taking his eyes off the trucks, loaded with soldiers, that are leaving the city in an indescribable frenzy. The drivers’ bellowing and the blasts of their horns cleave the crowd like icebreakers, while groups of street kids, delighted by the upheaval the convoy is causing, run about shrieking in every direction. The news has come this morning: Commander Massoud’s troops have fallen into a trap, and Kabul is sending reinforcements to annihilate them.

The militiaman also looks at the military vehicles streaming past them like the wind, leaving a storm of dust in their wake. His hand, dark with scars, instinctively squeezes the barrel of his rifle. He spits to one side and says in a grumbling voice, “It’s really going to hit the fan this time. They say we’ve lost a lot of men, but that renegade Massoud is caught like a rat. He’ll never see his goddamned Panjshir again.”

Atiq picks up the glass of tea at his feet and brings it to his lips. With one eye closed against the sun, he stares at the soldier, then mutters, “I hope your Qassim isn’t going to make me hang around here all day waiting for him. I’ve got a lot of better things to do.”

“He didn’t specify any time. If I were you, I wouldn’t budge from here. You know how he is.”

“I don’t know how he is, and I don’t want to find out.”

The militiaman frowns, creasing his broad, prominent forehead. With a bored look in his eyes, he considers the jailer. “You’re not well this morning, right?”

Atiq Shaukat’s lips go slack as he sets his glass down. The other’s presence irritates him. He doesn’t understand why the man won’t just go away now that he’s delivered his message. Atiq stares at him a moment, finding his profile quite disagreeable, with his tangled beard, his flat nose, and his rheumy, inexpressive eyes.

“I can go away if you want,” the soldier says, as if reading the jailer’s thoughts. “I don’t like to disturb people.”

Atiq suppresses a sigh and turns away. The last of the military vehicles has passed. For several minutes, they can still be heard, a distant rumble behind the ruins; then silence sets in and dampens the howling of the children. The air is still filled with dust, obscuring a section of the sky, where a flock of painfully white clouds has come to a halt. Far off, behind the mountains, one seems to hear the sound of detonations, which echoes counterfeit as they please. For ten days, sporadic firing has broken out amid general indifference. In Kabul, especially at the market and in the bazaars, the hubbub of commerce would drown out the tumult of the very worst battles anyway. Stacks of banknotes are sold at auction; fortunes are made and unmade according to mood shifts. People’s eyes are fixed solely on investment and profit; news from the front is taken into consideration, but quietly, as something of a spur to business negotiations.

Atiq’s sick of it. He has started seriously wondering whether he might wind up following in Nazeesh’s footsteps. Apparently, the poor devil made up his mind at last; one morning not long ago, he packed his things and — poof! — vanished without a word to his children, who spent a week looking for him. Some shepherds claimed they’d seen the old man in the mountains, but no one took them seriously. At his age, people thought, Nazeesh wouldn’t be capable of taking on even the lowest of the surrounding hills, especially in the summer heat. Atiq is nevertheless convinced that the former mullah has indeed ventured into the mountains, and that he has done so only to prove to him — to Atiq, the cruel, sardonic jailer — that he was wrong to bury him too soon.

The militiaman suddenly stoops and picks up the jailer’s glass. “You’re a nice fellow,” he says. “I don’t know what’s been wrong with you lately, but that doesn’t make any difference. I won’t be angry if you run me off.”

“I’m not running you off.” Atiq sighs, watching in disgust as the other drinks from his glass. “You’re the one talking about going away.”

The soldier nods. He squats down with his shoulders against the wall and goes back to fingering his Kalashnikov.

After a long silence, Atiq asks him, “Whatever happened to Qaab? It’s been a good while since I’ve seen him.”

“Which Qaab? The one from the armored outfit?”

“There’s only one.”

Raising his eyebrows, the militia soldier turns toward the jailer. “Are you trying to make me think you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Qaab’s dead. Come on, he’s been dead for more than two years.”

“He’s dead?”

“That’s enough, Atiq. We all went to his funeral.”

The jailer pouts a little, scratching his temple, but his mental efforts get him nowhere. He shakes his head in embarrassment. “How could I forget something like that?”

The militiaman, more and more fascinated, observes Atiq out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t remember anything about it?”

“No.”

“That’s strange.”

Atiq recovers his tea glass, sees that it’s empty. He ponders it dreamily and places it under his stool. “How did he die?”

“You’re not putting me on by any chance, are you, Atiq?”

“I assure you I’m serious.”

“His tank blew up during a firing exercise. The shell had a defective charge. Instead of following proper security procedure and waiting for the official observer, Qaab immediately ejected the shell, and it exploded inside the turret. Pieces of the tank were scattered for a hundred and fifty feet all around.”

“Did they find his body?”

The soldier slams the ground with his rifle butt and stands up, convinced that the jailer is making fun of him. “You aren’t well today. Frankly, you’re not well at all.”

Whereupon he spits on the ground and goes away, cursing under his breath.

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, Qassim Abdul Jabbar arrives in a dilapidated van. The two militiawomen accompanying him take hold of the prisoner and hurry her into the jailhouse. Giving the key a double turn, Atiq locks the new inmate inside a narrow, stinking cell at the end of the hall. His head is elsewhere, his movements mechanical; he doesn’t appear to notice what’s going on around him. Qassim, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes glowering down intensely from his great height, observes Atiq in silence. When the two militiawomen have climbed back into the van, Qassim declares, “At least you’ll have some company.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Don’t you want to know what she’s done?”

“What would be the good of that?”

“She killed her husband.”

“These things happen.”

Qassim perceives the jailer’s growing disgust. This exasperates Qassim in the highest degree, but he forbids himself to yield to the temptation to put Atiq in his place. He strokes his beard as though lost in thought, then turns toward the end of the corridor and says, “She’s going to stay here a bit longer than the others.”

“Why?” Atiq asks in an annoyed voice.

“Because of the big rally in the stadium next Friday. Some very high-ranking guests will be in attendance. To provide this event with some atmosphere, the authorities have decided to carry out ten or twelve public executions. Your inmate is to be included in the lot. In the beginning, the qazi wanted to have her shot right away. Then, since there was no woman on the program for Friday, they gave her a reprieve until then.”

Atiq nods halfheartedly. Qassim puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “We waited for you at Haji Palwan’s the other evening.”

“Something came up.”

“And the following evening, as well.”

Atiq elects to beat a retreat and withdraws into the cubbyhole that serves as his office. After hesitating a moment, Qassim follows him. “Have you thought about my proposals?” he asks.

Atiq emits a snort of laughter, brief and nervous. “I’d have to have a head to be able to think about something.”

“It’s your fault, you refuse to open your eyes. Things are clear. All you have to do is look them in the face.”

“Please, Qassim. I don’t feel like going over that again.”

“As you wish,” Qassim Abdul Jabbar says apologetically, raising his hands in front of his chest. “I take back what I just said. But for the love of heaven, hurry up and get rid of that gloomy expression. You look like a bad omen.”