Baghlan Boy

by Michael Crowley

  ‘She is a bad influence on Yashfa,’ said the uncle before spitting into the fire. ‘This African you have married—’

  ‘Yashfa likes her. She can be a friend to her. They’re close in age,’ replied Farood.

  The uncle had seen Yashfa stroking Salma’s hair and had struck her for it. Salma believed they were talking about her all the time.

  ‘Farood, can you ask your mother if I can cook a meal tomorrow? If you give me some money, I’ll go to the market with Yashfa.’

  He nodded. ‘Make sure you cover yourself.’

  ‘When are we leaving?’ she asked, as she did each day. The reply troubled her.

  ‘I’m going to see someone about some work.’

  ‘You said we were leaving, leaving in a day or two.’ She slapped her hand on her knee.

  ‘I have to get some more money. I know an easy way. It won’t take long.’

  Salma began to shout – the goat fled the house. ‘You lied to me, lied to me again. I’m sick of your lying!’

  The uncle pointed his finger at Farood and gave him some advice in a steady voice. ‘You need to beat this wife, every day for now. Someone will cut off her nose if she carries on like this.’

  *

  It wasn’t hard to find an agent, someone for whom people sold all that they had to get away. Mobile phones had spawned the profession, and after a few conversations he was speaking to the man who had come to his cave ten years ago.

  ‘You’ve come back? Why?’

  ‘To visit my mother. To show her my wife.’

  ‘You got to Europe?’

  ‘I got to England. I did well. I’ve got a place back there and everything. I rang you because I wanted to thank you.’

  The agent wanted to hear more; he asked to meet. ‘Farood, do you have a car here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have to go to Kokan today. Can you meet me on the main road, at the turn-off?’

  Farood drove north through the town and out the other side, past the scorched tarmac of a roadside bomb, to where the valley widened with low, mushroom-cap hills to the east and yellow grasslands to the west. The agent was wearing an oversized bodywarmer, leaning against his 4x4. In the front passenger seat sat an older, poorer man. Farood remembered the agent, the Tajik who promised much for all his family’s sheep. He had filled out since then and there was some greyness in his hair. Farood put on his broadest smile; they shook hands.

  ‘How is your mother, Farood? I remember her.’

  ‘She’s okay. She’s living with her brother now. I was able to come back and give her some money, thanks to you.’

  ‘Tell me about your life in England. What are you working at?’

  ‘I have a burger place. I started out working there as a kid, and now I run it.’

  ‘What about the journey? Did the agents treat you well?’

  ‘Fine. It was hard – I was so young. But people looked after me.’

  Farood was the grateful veteran, philosophical about his past trials, successful in his mission – like a general returning triumphant from a campaign at the far reaches of an empire.

  ‘Farood, I have a request of you. I’m going to talk to some men in Kokan. They’re thinking of making the trip, but they’re not sure. Would you talk to them for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They drove into a village of irrigation ditches, faded grass, cherry orchards and barefoot children. Four men were waiting, stamping out the chill on faded scrub beside a bridge.

  The agent took off his dark glasses. ‘Some of you are not sure you want to leave here. Your families have run out of land to share, of sheep to pass on. You can see how you will live and die here, but still you are not sure whether you want to leave or not. I have brought someone to talk to you – if you don’t believe me, listen to him. He has been to where I am offering to send you. Farood took the highway, the London Road, all the way. He has come back to tell the story, to look after his mother with the money he has made in England. He made something of himself there. I’ll let him tell you.’

  Farood stepped forward and shook the agent’s hand. Then he spread his arms, presenting his largesse. ‘These days I live in England but have come back to visit my family, to give them the money I made. I went across many countries – it took me a few years, I met a lot of people, but I was in good hands. I was never hungry. I was hungrier here than I was on the road. When I got to England, someone gave me a place to live, a place at school, work. I am married now, running a business. I have this.’ Farood held up his passport.

  The agent stepped forward. ‘Those of you who want to make the journey, be here, Friday, first thing, with your money. This will be your driver to Kabul.’

  The older, poorer man bowed.

  Salma and Yashfa set out along the track from the mine to the highway. They walked slowly, behind burkas, the world partitioned. For Salma it felt she like she was undertaking a test, taking part in a game that would end at the destination, with the removal of the hood. At the top of the track, by the junction with the highway, a concealed woman sat begging. Salma stopped, tried to construct an image of her, but Yashfa pulled her away. They walked down the side of the highway towards the oncoming traffic for a mile and a half. It was a day when it would scarcely get light, it was as the hour before dusk, all day. Men walked the market in shawls, stalls were lit by lamps, the light intensifying rose-red pomegranates. Salma gazed through her burka at birds in cages and the ancient-looking men selling them. Everyone, she felt, looked older in Afghanistan. Everyone, that is, whose faces she could see.

  She had planned a rice dish with apricots, almonds and turmeric. They got to a spice stall with pyramids of coloured powders and seeds. Salma could see pine nuts, chickpeas and dried fruits she couldn’t quite make out. She pulled up her burka and stooped to smell the turmeric, paprika, the cardamom. She breathed in, remembering her mother’s kitchen in Benghazi. She stood up straight in the aisle, rubbed her face and looked around her. A crate of parsley, a cart full of melons and another of pumpkins of astonishing size. A breeze crept down the aisle; she closed her eyes to feel it on her face and thought about freeing her hair. She heard Yashfa say a few anxious words, then she felt a blow to the back of her head. She turned to face the market trader, smelling of hashish and stale clothes. He waved her away from his stall.

  Salma told Farood about this, but he only admonished her.

  ‘It’s not safe here, for a woman. I don’t like it – I can’t live here,’ she remonstrated.

  ‘We won’t have to live here; we’re just staying here a little while longer.’

  She had bought enough for a meal, but not the one she wanted to cook. While they were still eating in small mouthfuls, a man came to the door. A man with sharp features, accentuated by a stoop. His hair, his close-cropped beard, was not yet entirely grey, but that was soon to come. His eyes were humble, his skin dyed by coal, for he was a working miner. Despite the hardness of his life, his voice was soft as he spoke to the uncle outside. Farood had greeted the man, and as money was handed over to the uncle, he asked its value. Farood spoke to his mother, who spoke to her daughter patiently. Salma tried to decipher the conversation.

  ‘Farood, what is everyone talking about? Who’s that man?’

  ‘Yashfa is going to marry him,’ he said, leaving the house for the twilight.

  Salma was on her feet and shouting after him, pointing at the visitor. ‘Him? She is too young to marry anyone. And he… he is like your father.’

  ‘His wife died and his sons have gone. He needs someone. He can’t be on his own.’

  ‘And he has paid for her. This is disgusting. Give me my passport. Do you hear me!’

  Farood ignored her; he walked off up the track to the highway to phone the agent he had met that morning. ‘I have some more people who want to meet you. Want to make the j
ourney.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Near my uncle’s. I’d have to show you. I’ve known them years. Two brothers.’

  ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow? It’s almost dark.’

  ‘They work all the way in Doshi; I’m on the main road south out of Pol-e. I’ll wait for you here.’

  Farood ended the call. Will he come? He had left his audience smiling and hungry that morning. Now he had new passengers for the agent.

  He took his time, but eventually the headlights flashed and the 4x4 slowed to one side.

  ‘So, tell me about these men?’

  Farood paused before he began, wondering how to describe his old friends. ‘Two brothers. Their uncles have put up the money. One I know, used to work in the mine, the other I don’t know.’ Farood climbed in beside him.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Down the track.’ Farood pointed. ‘Who is your driver to Kabul?’ he asked.

  ‘Abdi. You met him. He’s sound. He only works for me. Which way now?’

  Farood directed him to the left, to the deserted houses away from his uncle’s. The furthest one, with no lights burning inside. They pulled up.

  ‘Are you sure they’re there?’ asked the agent.

  ‘Sure.’

  Farood followed behind the agent as he approached the door. Just as the agent was about to knock, Farood reached inside his jacket pocket for his handgun. There was none of the hesitation of before.

  Salma shuddered and squeezed Yashfa’s hand when she heard the single gunshot. They both held their breaths for a moment and returned to the rhythm of Yashfa’s sobbing, and the stroke of Salma’s thumb across her palm. Like partly lit by embers, the uncle’s eyes were locked upon the two.

  Thirty-Eight

  The next morning Farood took Salma to Pol-e with him. He needed to get the agent’s phone unblocked and he wanted words with her.

  ‘It will not be so hard for Yashfa to marry him. She has no need to be frightened and you are making it worse, not better.’

  ‘She’s not old enough to be married and neither am I.’

  She was more self-confident than he thought. Farood’s tone tried to make the match sound reasonable. ‘It is the way here. Look, nothing will happen. He won’t touch her for a long time.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just know.’

  When the phone had been unblocked, he scrolled through the contacts and found Abdi, the agent’s driver to Kabul. Then he rang him from his own mobile, asking for a meeting.

  Abdi was standing by a green Skoda. Salma watched him deferentially shake Farood’s hand.

  ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ announced Farood. ‘The agent has asked me to be there for him in Kokan – make sure it goes okay and take payment for him. He has to be somewhere else.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He has gone to Mazar, for a meeting. Have you heard about agents from Mazar working down here?’

  Abdi shook his head defensively.

  ‘Well, they are, and it could get nasty. See you tomorrow.’

  It was a given that Farood was lying, but it was customary that Abdi played along.

  On the way back to his uncle’s, Salma asked, ‘This village where the people are leaving…’

  ‘Kokan.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘To the north, why?’

  ‘Why are they leaving? Is there war there?’

  ‘No. But the land is not great, so it can’t support everyone.’

  He looked at her again in anticipation of another question, in search of her purpose, but none came.

  It was still dark when Farood left for Kokan the following morning. He rehearsed his lines in the car, telling each man to put his phone number in theirs. Abdi would be paid when the next agent in Kabul sent him a photograph of the three men at his house.

  Salma woke Yashfa with tea and flatbread, saying, ‘Today – market, market.’

  The uncle went to scavenge coal and returned with a half-full bag, talking angrily to himself and the girls. Mother offered them some fresh goat’s milk, but Salma held Yashfa by the hand, saying, ‘Come, market… market, Pol-e.’

  At this, the uncle waved his arms across himself like a line judge and began to shout, his voice hoarse and high, and for the first time Yashfa turned and screamed at him from behind her burka. When they got to the top of the track, Salma led them down the highway, in the opposite direction to Pol-e. Yashfa tugged back; Salma crossed her arms like the uncle, shaking her head and shouting, ‘Marriage no… no marriage… Come…’

  Salma tried to drag Yashfa, but she threw her weight onto her back foot. Salma lifted Yashfa’s burka, pressed her face towards hers. Yashfa held her eyes closed for a moment or two. When they opened, Salma’s widened.

  ‘Ka bul… Ka bul, Yashfa.’

  Salma smiled, almost laughed, at the prospect. Yashfa switched her stare to one side. Salma read the fear in her eyes and took her hand, gently leading her down the road. After a few kilometres they stopped at a bend, Salma taking Yashfa to sit on a boulder at the bottom of the rockface. Salma watched the cars come and go for an hour. They slowed before the bend and she looked out for a dark green shape, low and box-like. A green vehicle approached, putting her on tiptoes, squinting, but the car was too high, the colour too washed out. Yashfa was crying. Salma wanted to tell her the plan, but even if there was an interpreter to hand, there was no plan, other than escape. She went over to her, lifted her burka, held her cheeks this time. Then Salma folded the burka down over her shoulders and stroked Yashfa’s hair. A breeze off the rocks raised some matted strands.

  Finally, it came. Salma saw the car she was looking for, the green Skoda, Abdi’s car, Farood’s driver. She set herself as a statue, standing in the road, looking straight down the tarmac as it closed upon her. A hundred and fifty yards away it slowed but didn’t stop. She waved her headscarf above her head. A lorry’s horn burst behind her; Abdi thumped his three times. What is she doing? She is mad, drive round her. Salma widened her stance and closed her eyes; she heard the tyres howl as they gripped the road and she heard a car door slam. Abdi stood before her, dumbfounded.

  She took off her ring, shook it in front of him. ‘Kabul?’

  He took the ring, tossed it in his palm. Its weight was worth the ride. He gave the merest of nods before Salma fetched Yashfa and stood her before him. He walked round to the back of his car and opened the boot. Salma pushed Yashfa into the edge of the backseat and climbed into the boot. She lay on her back and prayed. The acceleration and the bend’s pull forced her forward, lodging her up against the backseats. She tried to push herself away, but even when gravity swung her way, she could not. After a few minutes, less than a few miles, the car stopped hard, pushing her face into the roof.

  Farood had been going through the agent’s phone, ringing contacts all the way to London, the agent conveniently having put the city as the contact’s surname. He explained how he was now running the route and would want a photograph of all travellers having arrived safely at each stop before money was transferred. If there were any complaints of mistreatment, couriers would be replaced. A few more carloads would provide enough money to buy his mother a house outright. His uncle would probably want to stay where he was. He was about to go to Pol-e, to bank the cash, fill the boot with food, when the green Skoda came jogging down the track. Abdi was at the wheel, but in the front passenger seat was the man who had paid for Yashfa with a rifle across his lap. Salma and Yashfa were in the backseat alongside his uncle.

  ‘This whore you brought back – she was stealing my bride. You will have to punish her or I will,’ said the old miner.

  Farood stooped into the rear of the car and tugged at Salma. She swung out at him; he saw a weeping wound below one eye. He lifted his sister’s burka – she hadn’t been beaten, but
she was crying.

  ‘He beat Salma, badly.’

  The uncle and the miner were in conversation about the price paid for Yashfa when Farood pushed his pistol into the back of the miner’s head, reaching around for the rifle. Farood pushed his pistol hard against his skull, marching the miner up the track. He slipped the pistol down his waist and crashed the rifle butt into the back of the miner’s head. The miner fell to his knees; Farood walked around him like a warrior walks around the wounded on a battlefield. The miner peered up at him; his eyes were meek. He held the back of his head with both hands, preparing himself to be returned to God.

  Farood looked down on him as a butcher looks down upon livestock. Then he threw a roll of notes in his face. ‘You’re not marrying Yashfa, do you hear? Don’t ever come back here.’

  He swung the rifle round and offered him the bloodied butt by way of a conclusion. The uncle followed his friend down the track.

  *

  Farood’s mother washed Salma’s face and made her some tea. After the evening meal Farood asked Salma to walk with him under the blood-red moon. She leaned on him across the stubble grass behind the house to where the ground became full of tussocks near the river.

  ‘What were you doing?’ he asked her.

  ‘Escaping.’

  ‘You’re not in a prison.’

  She leaned her head in against his upper arm; he pulled away, threw a stone into the river.

  ‘There’s no need to take Yashfa now,’ he said, dusting his hands. ‘She’s not marrying him.’

  ‘If it’s not him, it will be someone else who wants to buy her. Life here is hopeless for women. There is no school for her; she can’t even walk around without a burka. Nothing for us in this country.’

  ‘So where will you take her?’

  ‘To Italy with me. We’ll find my father, live with him.’