The Widow's Husband

by Tamim Ansary

  “Beggin' your pardon, sir, but you smell like old fishwrap, sir. You’d best have a hot bath before you go in to the guv’nor.”

  Rupert had to laugh. “A hot bath! Can you supply such a thing?”

  “We’re not so savage as all that here, sir. I’ll have the girl prepare it.”

  “Girl?”

  “Yes, sir, we engages a native girl to take care of the needs in this here bunkhouse. Whatever comes up, you mought say.” Edward winked at him. “Have a sit in your room and let the girl pull off your boots.”

  Rupert enjoyed a long soak in a bath prepared by a girl he could barely see for her swaddlings. Then he was drawn into having tea with several officers from the garrison, good fellows about his own age. After tea, he turned down an invitation to an evening performance of The Repentant Schoolmaster, a Comedy in Two Acts, by Cantonments’ own amateur theatrical society. Time enough for entertainments, he thought, after he had properly impressed his superiors.

  Sir William Hay Macnaghten, the Queen’s envoy to the court of Kabul, was a man of medium height, but he looked shorter, due to his barrel-chest. Rupert could have sworn someone had stuffed a pillow under his shirt. His cheeks and cherry nose shone with a ruddy glow. His waxy forehead extended up as two high domes. His thinning hair was brushed back and tamped down with oil. He was sitting behind a large table, playing with his watch fob. “Ah, Lieutenant Oxley,” he said when Rupert knocked. “Come in, young man. Welcome to our rude camp. I trust your journey went well? Good, good. What will you have? I can offer a passable Madeira.” He gestured at a bottle sparkling on the table next to his elbow.

  “Fine, sir…or if you have some whiskey?” Rupert glanced about, calculating where to sit—on the divan across the room? On one of several large armchairs arranged around an oriental carpet? On the straight-backed chair across the table from the envoy?

  Macnaghten jingled a bell and a servant came gliding in but to Rupert his servility smacked of insolence. “Sahib?”

  “Whiskey for the gentleman.” The servant did not immediately leave. Macnaghten repeated the command slowly, separating the syllables as if talking to a simpleton, and finishing with a native word. “F’meedi?”

  The servant nodded and departed. Rupert handed over Lord Auckland’s dispatch and took a seat. “M’lord Governor asked me to deliver these papers to you.”

  Macnaghten glanced through the contents of the envelope until the servant came back with a glass of whiskey, which Oxley sipped slowly while he waited for Macnaghten. Finally the envoy set the letters aside. “Fresh news from England is always welcome,” he sighed. “One comes to miss even the fog. But perhaps you’ve not been away long enough to know what I mean.”

  “It’s more that I’m green enough to know exactly what you mean, sir. I’m still getting used to things,” said Rupert.

  “We’ll keep you distracted,” Macnaghten assured him. “I only hope you won’t find it tedious here. You young men come east looking for adventure, but it’s all administrative work now. Frankly, this whole enterprise has been more of a job than a war—and yet Parliament remains squeamish, I understand.”

  “The talk in London has been alarmist.” Oxley picked his words carefully. “If Lord Auckland mentioned that I—well, if he drew the inference that I—well, if he said that I said ‘folly,’ what I meant by ‘folly’—”

  But Macnaghten wasn’t listening. “I send reports, they don’t believe me,” he interrupted. “What will it take to convey the message, Mr. Oxley? How can we get our countrymen to appreciate the magnitude of our success in Afghanistan?”

  Rupert cleared his throat. “It’s all in how you put it, I suppose. But sir,” he ventured, “on the road from Peshawar…”

  Macnaghten’s pin-prick eyes gleamed. “Road from Peshawar? What about it?”

  “Something happened, Captain Scott said to let you know.”

  Rupert reported their encounter with the Ghilzai chieftains, keeping his own heroism down to a modest mention. He could see Macnaghten relaxing as he spoke..

  “Is that all?” the envoy smiled. “The Ghilzai like to bark, but they have no bite. I regret I ever started them on subsidies. It was never really necessary. You should have seen their fortress in Ghazni, my God, Jerusalem never looked so stout! When Keane blasted through those walls, every hill village heard the shots. They know what they’re up against now, Mr. Oxley. After Ghazni, I don’t think you’ll see anyone in this country putting British arms to the test again, least of all these Hindu Kush hillsmen.”

  Rupert sipped at his whiskey again and ran a fingertip across moist lips. “Yet, when we entered the city…” Should he mention the men hanging from the gibbet? He lifted the now-empty glass to his lips to buy a moment of consideration.

  “Speak,” Macnaghten demanded uneasily.

  “We saw some men hanging from gallows. It gave the ladies a start.”

  “Did it.”

  “Yes. They were wondering if a good bit of hanging goes on here. What makes it strictly necessary, so to speak. The ladies were wondering.”

  “The city is quite secure, Mr. Oxley. Tell them so. Scattered incidents, yes. The pretender had a sizable clan, some of them still lurk about, it’s true. Incidents can happen. On top of which, Ivan isn’t quite ready to concede defeat. Still, there are five fewer scoundrels this week than last, eh? Once we’ve rooted out the last of the ringleaders, we’ll have no further trouble. Every city has its Cheapside, Lieutenant, but if you take sensible precautions, you’ll find Kabul no more dangerous than London.”

  15

  The day that Rupert Oxley arrived in Kabul, the village of Char Bagh was in something of an uproar. The men had come back from Sorkhab and the story of their trip had aroused much consternation. Women were on the move among the compounds, seeking each other out for information, gravitating gradually to a few central households where they clustered to confer. Ibrahim had called the men to the mosque for another meeting to discuss, not just Sorkhab’s water grab, but this new king and his supposed tax collectors...For all the restless anxiety, however, no one suspected the day would end in tragedy.

  The distraction of the grown-ups made this a happy day, however, for two small boys, Ahmad and Karim,. It meant that no one was paying attention to them. No one was scolding them for being naughty or loading them up with chores. The boys were free to do what they wanted. And so they decided to climb the steep slope west of the village that day, to a place no one else knew about, a secret cave just deep enough for two, from the mouth of which, sitting cozily side by side, the boys could take in a tremendous view. From up there, they could see that their little valley was not the whole world but just one of many valleys extending like folds of drapery from a single enormous peak. From there, the river looked like a skinny little ribbon. They could see where it entered the valley, thundering out of a narrow gorge that exhaled the mist of many unseen waterfalls. They could see how it snaked among the fields and past the tiny toys that were their own compounds. Downstream, they could see where their valley tightened again into a narrow crack, into which the river disappeared.

  Looking west, over the lip of the bowl that contained their village, they could make out another valley, much vaster and much lower. Cliffs cut them off from that country, but on a clear day, the boys could see a road down there, pounded into the earth by generations of caravans. On that road, sometimes, they could even see bands of nomads, several hundred strong, traveling along with camels and sheep beyond number, with mules and dogs and horses…

  Ahmad loved the cave because the sight of the road, and the caravans, helped him to dream his dreams of traveling. Sometimes, he spent whole afternoons telling Karim about the distant cities he would visit someday, grand and glorious places such as Kabul, mysterious places like the City of Eyeballs, which figured so heavily in his mother’s nighttime tales.

  Karim listened patiently, never scoffing. If such stories made his friend happy, they made him happy. He, however, liked
the cave for a different reason: up here a fellow could talk with a buddy about secret things not meant for adult ears. Today, he wanted to tell Ahmad about a fantastic spot he had discovered among the rocks, just above the river. You had to crawl through brush to get to it and if you lay flat on your belly, no one on the river bank could see you, but you could see—“Hey!” He nudged Ahmad. This was the good part—you could see anyone who happened to be at that spot by the river, and that spot—Karim poked his friend. again “Listen.” It was the spot where the women washed clothes.

  “Hey! Are you listening to me?” Karim nudged his friend a third time, trying to get him to appreciate the implications. There where the women washed clothes they sometimes washed themselves too. They rolled up their sleeves—they took off their pantaloons ... lifted their skirts—“Ahmad! Are you listening to me, boy?”

  But Ahmad was not listening. “What’s that?” His shallow breath rasped in and out. He pointed to the road.

  Karim shaded his eyes and stared. Two rows of men in red coats were marching side by side on that distant road. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Men.”

  “What men? Why the red coats?” Ahmad jumped to his feet and dusted off his knee-length shirt. “Come on, Karim-jan. Let’s get a closer look. Coming?”

  “Coming where? Ahmad, it’s a two-day journey to The Road!”

  “Let’s climb the other side. We’ll see them from the cliffs. It’ll be closer. They’ll be right down there.”

  Karim frowned. “We’d have to cross the river.”

  Ahmad shivered in the stiff breeze and looked up at the darkening sky. All morning, light and darkness had been wrestling each other. Clouds kept gathering to gray and then breaking into fleecy blobs again. If it rained when they were on the other side of the river, they might be in trouble. “We’ll cross where it’s narrow,” he said. “If those men are marauders, you should warn your father. You know you should. Your father would want you to. You’re not scared, are you, Karim?”

  “Scared!” Karim jumped to his feet. “I’d better lead, little guy.”

  On the way down the slope, Karim found a couple of round stones just big enough to nestle in his palm. He slipped them into his pantaloon pockets where they swung pleasantly, like an extra set of balls, heavier than his own. How fine it would be to have balls that heavy, he thought. Did the weight of a man’s balls matter when it came to Doing It? Of course, you didn’t do it with your balls exactly; he’d watched couples rutting whenever he could, hidden away in certain places that only he knew about, but the people he managed to spy through chinks and cracks did their work under blankets, so you couldn’t see the details. But animals had given him a more precise picture. He heard a crack of thunder, but it was far away.

  Donkeys, by God, now there were some beasts with good equipment—when the time came. But before, or later, if you looked between their legs—nothing. The sun went behind a cloud and it made the wind feel colder, wetter. Karim slapped himself for warmth. Maybe a man grew like that, too, when the time came. He tried to picture himself with a rod the size of an aroused donkey’s. How difficult would it be to steer such an instrument? How big was the hole, he wondered? Was it obvious where to stick it in? He wanted to quiz Ahmad on this, get his opinions, but Ahmad had hurried on ahead.

  Karim ran to catch up. After all his big talk, he couldn’t let the little guy go first. But Ahmad had pulled up short by the river bank, looking dismayed. The boys had waded across the river at this very spot many times in late summer, but the water was lower at that season. The swollen spring current they saw now could easily sweep them away, and if it hurled them into Needle Gorge, they’d be gone: no one got out of that gorge alive.

  “We have to turn back,” said Karim, secretly relieved.

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Are you calling me a coward? Look at this river, you damned fool!”

  “We could still get across,” Ahmad insisted. “Look. See that branch sticking out? If you dropped from the end of it, onto that boulder? Then if you went jump, jump, jump—from that stone to that stone? The last bit is shallow. We could wade.”

  Karim studied the route, his long arms wrapped around his chest to keep himself from shivering. He didn’t want Ahmad to mistake his cold for fear. “Jumping down is easy,” he said, “How do we jump back?”

  Ahmad moved to the edge of the river bank and examined the other shore. He could barely see it over the immense stones jammed into the current. The water crashed around the smooth boulders, splashing up billows of white and feeding a continuous spray of fine mist into the air. “We don’t have to come back here,” he shouted over the roar. “We won’t be in a hurry later, we could follow the river back to the village. I’ve waded across a hundred times up there. Haven’t you?”

  “In summer,” said Karim. “But all right. I’ll go first.”

  He climbed the tree and scooted to the end of the branch that stuck out over the river, then slid off until he was hanging by his hands alone. He couldn’t look down to see how far he would have to drop or if the surface was wet. He should have removed his sandals. It would be easier to land on a wet rock with bare feet, but he couldn’t chin back up to the branch now. He had no choice but to let go. He dropped through the air, feeling spray wetting his cheek, hearing Ahmad shouting something over the roar. His feet struck the rocky surface and he crumpled to keep them from sliding out—hey, it worked!

  On the river bank, Ahmad was jumping up and down in excitement.

  “Take off your shoes,” shouted Karim. “It’s easier if you’re barefoot.”

  “…need them on the other side…” Ahmad’s voice came to him faintly.

  “Throw them to me, and I’ll throw them to the other bank!” But Ahmad only looked puzzled. The wind was against Karim, his voice did not carry. “Look!” He pulled off his own slippers and threw each one hard, sailing it to the far bank. Ahmad understood. He was barefoot already, a shoe in each hand. He nodded to Karim to get ready and then flung one shoe. It came end over end, but Karim caught it, turned, and sailed it onto the opposite bank. He turned, nodded, and Ahmad’s second shoe made its two-step journey to the other bank.

  Now Ahmad was climbing the tree. To make room for him, Karim went ahead and leapt down to the second boulder, which was easy. From there he jumped to an even lower rock and then to another, and then onto a flat stone. Now he was standing close to the current. He stuck a toe into the swirling gurgle of it—ouch! Freezing cold, by God!

  Fortunately, the other bank was not far. Karim could wade the rest of the way, just as Ahmad had said, and if he moved fast, he would get to dry land before his feet froze. There was nothing to gain by waiting. He rolled up his pantaloons and stepped into the current.

  Instantly, the water buffeted his thighs with such shocking force it made him reel. Karim recovered his balance just in time. Then he had to lean against the current to remain upright. He started moving with crablike caution, searching the river bottom with his toes for places where the stones were neither too jagged nor too slippery.

  The cold crunched into him like a dog biting through meat and bone. He could not hurry, however, or he might stumble, and then the current would shoot him into Needle Gorge. Why had he agreed to this? Why rush to see a bunch of strangers in red coats? What did it matter who they were? He cursed Ahmad and his damned curiosity! The stones in Karim’s pockets—his spare testicles—felt heavier now. He stepped forward, and his toe jammed painfully between two rocks. He was tripping. Fear spouted inside him. But even as he pitched forward, he saw that one good leap would get him close enough to the river bank to grab the bushes growing there. He leapt forward, reaching—weeds came into his clutch, and he hung on. The current dragged at his feet, but he pulled himself painfully toward shore until he had his footing again.

  He turned to tell Ahmad not to try it, this was too dangerous, but Ahmad had just dropped onto that first boulder, from which point there was no going back. A lum
p filled Karim’s throat. If only he could light a fire. He sat halfway up the bank, shivering in the river’s frigid breath. Rubbing his shins and feet didn’t help much: his hands were wet.

  Ahmad made it to the second third boulder. One Two more to go and he could start wading. Karim rubbed his skin furiously, trying to get his blood moving again. The men in red must have reached the foot of the cliffs by now and would soon pass out of sight. Crossing this accursed river had been for nothing.

  Ahmad negotiated the next jump perfectly, his skinny little body swaying for a moment when he landed. He had a lithe little frame, Karim was thinking. A good-looking boy. He pictured stroking Ahmad’s lean legs.

  Now, Ahmad was letting himself down into the water. He had not rolled his pantaloons quite high enough. The water licked and lapped at the fabric, and he shouted a little cry of merriment mixed with alarm. “Wai! Fuck this river in the asshole! It’s pure ice!”

  “Hurry,” Karim yelped. “The longer you wait, the colder you get.”

  He should look for something to hold out to Ahmad, he thought, something his friend could grab when he came close enough. He found a dead tree branch with leaves still clinging to its finger-like ends. He dislodged it, and turned to the river just in time to see Ahmad lose his balance right where Karim had slipped. Down he went. He actually disappeared under the water. Disappeared! Then his ball of a head bobbed back up, but the current instantly carried him off.

  It would have ended right there, if Karim had lost his head, but he didn’t lose his head, he didn’t even hesitate. He thrust that branch out with lightning bolt speed. Ahmad’s flailing arms got tangled in it and he clutched. His body whipped around, his head knocking hard against a rock barely sticking out of the water. His sudden weight nearly pulled Karim into the water. The older boy braced and held on, pleading to dear God for help, straining against the river current, staring into his friend’s eyes. Then, his desperation won out and he dragged Ahmad closer and closer until the lad could grab handfuls of the same shrubbery that had saved Karim. Crying and coughing water, he crawled onto the muddy shore.