The Widow's Husband

by Tamim Ansary

  The Grand Bazaar turned out to be a row of store fronts stretching out of sight along a broad avenue. Crowds milled about in front of the various stores, bickering and bargaining, or merely socializing. Ibrahim tried to keep his face still and his eyes hard so as not to seem the village bumpkin, but the profusion of merchandise robbed him of speech. Gorgeous carpets draped over clothes lines, the better to display colors and patterns! Saddles and stirrups and cavalry regalia! Cups and teapots of every conceivable design! Cutlery, swords, bolts of cloth—spices, powders and potions—hassocks and pillows—furniture of wood or silver or beaten brass, all with filigree designs etched or carved into them—houseware made of iron and leather and ivory, cunningly worked together, the eye could not tell how—hookahs adorned with beadwork—shirts, embroidered and unembroidered…Mascara. Kohl. Henna—flesh paint of every description. Beads and bangles, wristlets and adornments galore … Everything the nomads had presented on trade parlays plus a thousand items more!

  Dark gaps broke the row of storefronts at intervals, looking like missing teeth in a grin. These were alleys thrusting straight back from the avenue. Glimmers of light revealed these too to be lined with stores. The Grand Bazaar of Kabul was deep, then—no telling how deep.

  Suddenly a hubbub of curses and laughter sounded down the block. Ibrahim saw four horsemen coming. And although he had never seen the men before, he recognized the clothes, the red coats they wore, the tight black trousers, the white straps criss-crossing their chests over golden buttons. Each had a sword swinging at his hip. Ibrahim sensed Ghulam Dastagir tensing up next to him.

  Afghans were shouting insulting jests at the Engrayzees in Farsi and Pushto.

  “Who farted! Oh—foreigners! Should have known!”

  “Bring your mother down here, mister. We’ll fuck her, she wants it.”

  Each insult sparked bursts of laughter among the Afghans. The Engrayzees were conversing casually amongst themselves, but they smiled at the Afghans occasionally, waving as if acknowledging applause.

  “Hey, infidel! Want a donkey-dick? Throw me some baksheesh, I’ll lend you my donkey.”

  “Baksheesh?” beamed one of the foreigners. He stood out of his saddle, grinning, dug a few coins out of his pocket and flung them to the crowd. “Baksheesh,” he announced. The resultant burst of laughter elicited a bow from him. Two little boys rushed to gather the coins like chickens pecking up corn.

  As the foreigners rode away, Ghulam Dastagir clutched Abdul Haq’s arm. “Who were those men! Where did they come from?”

  “Foreign parts,” the other shrugged. “Come along, now, let’s get you to Hakim-sahib,” and he marched into the bazaar. Night had fallen, but every store had charcoal burning in a brazier, and most had lanterns too. The first alley was open to the sky, but there was no moon to see yet, only stars. Then they entered a covered lane, and the stars disappeared. Soon Abdul Haq turned right, then left, then right again. The villagers lost all sense of direction, moving like moles through that complicated network of fire lit tunnels crowded with shadows.

  At last they arrived at the store of the healer and hat merchant. (He was also a scholar, Abdul Haq reminded them.) Hakim Shamsuddin was a solemn fellow with a great, large belly, bushy eyebrows, drooping cheeks, and melancholy eyes. He greeted the travelers gravely and poured some tea for them out of a gigantic tin samovar. A boy popped out of a back room with bowls of pine nuts, raisins, and hard candies. The travelers nibbled at the snacks and sipped tea, while Abdul Haq poured out his distorted version of the Char Bagh story: an army of Engrayzees had appeared one day without warning, had poured over the hills in numbers greater than any invasion of ants—

  “Not entirely without warning—” Ibrahim corrected him politely. “Two of them were living next to our village for a month and more—collecting herbs, they said. And we let them. And when they came for the sheikh, they were only twenty-strong, give or take a few, but they came with guns. They took us by surprise.”

  “By surprise. Exactly,” Abdul Haq agreed. “By surprise. Twenty men stomping in on elephants. Every elephant hauling twenty cannons. The ground trembled. Suddenly, they were everywhere! Hakim-sahib, the whole village fought like tigers, but it was no use. These two survived. They’ve come to Kabul for vengeance.”

  “Well, for justice. That’s why we want to see the king.”

  “This sheikh of yours…” The healer leaned back against a hard cushion, resting his hands on his belly as if on a small table. “There is talk these days of a man up north somewhere—the Malang of Char Bagh, people call him. He wrote a book called Turbulence of Love…Is he, by any chance, the one you mean?”

  Ibrahim stared. How could a shopkeeper in Kabul know about the sheikh? His book? Ghulam Dastagir, however, took the question in stride. “That’s our sheikh. Malang of Char Bagh. Exactly. That’s our village! In fact, Sheikh-sahib dictated his great book to this man right here before your eyes. This malik of ours!” he boasted. “He can read, he can write—he’s been to Hajj, even.”

  “Only as a boy,” Ibrahim blushed, “with my father.”

  But a new mood suffused the room and would not allow his modesty. “The great man’s scribe.” The healer sounded awed. “You are the great man’s scribe…” He stroked his beard for a moment, sunk in thought, and then raised his hand for silence and declaimed: “Fill the ruby goblet…Let the wine be stirred… The music is forever there. The lyre makes it heard… Air is emptiness to us …Not so to the bird.” He stopped and looked at Ibrahim. “Did your sheikh write those words?”

  “It sounds right. I don’t know every line by heart, but yes: it sounds like his. Oh, do you know him, then?” Ibrahim leaned forward eagerly.

  “Hakim-sahib knows everyone,” Abdul Haq crowed.

  “Is he in Kabul?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” the healer intoned. “The book is known to us, not the man. People have been talking about him, though. Copies of his book have been turning up all summer. I have a few pages myself. But this is the first I’ve heard of Engrayzees abducting him. It’s shocking! It’s shameful!”

  “Could the king order a search?” Ibrahim pressed. “Could he make the Engrayzee confess what they’ve done with our saint?”

  The healer rolled his eyes and put a pinch of snuff under his tongue. “You’re a long way from home. Does news never reach your village?”

  “What news? What do you mean?”

  “The king can’t tell these Engrayzees what to do. It’s they who rule him. They’re the ones who brought him here two years ago. They came with cannons and women and wagonloads of goods, they drove out our own Dost Mohammed Khan, and they put this vicious fool on his throne. This is a better king for you, they said.”

  “Better—? By what right!” ?” Ghulam Dastagir spluttered, “Who are they to say which king is best for us? Why do they even care who sits on our throne?”

  Hakim Shamsuddin permitted himself a pained smile. “It’s always about land and gold and women, my brother. Always. Such is the way of the world.”

  “Could I petition their own king?” Ibrahim asked. “Does he know what his kin are doing here to us? Are they at least Muslims, these people?”

  “You must be joking!” Abdul Haq exclaimed. “They worship idols!”

  “So they’re Hindus?”

  “Not Hindus exactly. Pagans, though. They worship one idol mainly … a naked man nailed to a stick. They carry statues of him around their necks They have his picture hanging in their mosques. And there in their mosques, they guzzle wine, people say. They feed on pig meat.”

  “Pig meat!” The village men recoiled from this repellant information. “Have you seen this with your own eyes?”

  “A friend of mine sells them wood. I’ve seen it with his eyes.”

  “Do they drink pig’s blood?” Karim squealed, rubbing his lips as if to rid himself of a foul smear, but also titillated by the scandalous news. “Do they eat pig shit? What do pigs look like?”


  “About the offal, I can’t tell you, but if they eat the flesh, why not the offal? Every part of a pig is equally filthy. Still, I wouldn’t swear to it. I only know they ride about the city like khans and dandle this king like a plaything of theirs.”

  “But what of the real king? What have they done with Dost Mohammed Khan?”

  The hat merchant shifted position, cleared his throat, changed the subject. “Are you fellows hungry? Let me get you some bread and cheese. Is the tea still hot?”

  “Thank you, bless your house. About the true king, though—where is he now?” Ibrahim persisted. “Is he dead? Did they kill him?”

  “Worse than dead,” Shamsuddin burst out, snorting as if relieved to say it finally. “He’s living in Hindustan, on Engrayzee charity, like a servant. They stuffed his mouth with gold and he yielded like a worm—after he beat them in battle too! Imagine! What the Engrayzee can’t shoot, they buy, that’s their way, but this king of ours! He dishonored us. He should have died in battle.”

  “It’s not true,” Abdul Haq pleaded, wringing his hands in miserable agitation. “His Majesty would never sell himself. He has a plan, Hakim-sahib. You know how I respect your every word, but you’re wrong about the Great King. His Majesty has a plan. When the time comes—you just wait. His forces will rise up everywhere! You’ll see. His son is here—young Akbar, mighty Akbar, seeing to it for him. There’s a plan! There is!” But the woodseller himself sounded depressed and unconvinced by his words.

  The hat merchant turned sad and baggy eyes on Ibrahim. “We live in shame,” he sighed, “but Allah knows best. You men, though: please! Consider my humble shop your home and refuge as long as you are in Kabul, as long as it takes you to accomplish what you’ve come to do. I would be honored to host the scribe of the great malang of Char Bagh.”

  31

  Ever since Rupert Oxley returned from Char Bagh, his status in the community seemed to have changed. One day his new orderly brought him a cream-colored envelope containing an invitation to dine with Colonel and Lady Baldwin. The Baldwins! He thought it must be some mistake, for the colonel and his lady kept an exclusive guest list, but no: there was his name on the envelope, and there it was again above a chatty paragraph penned by Harriet Baldwin, begging his attendance on Thursday evening at a dinner for a few dear friends.

  Of course he had met the woman; everyone eventually met everyone in Kabul, but he never dreamed she would include him in any group she described as her “few dear friends.” Puzzled and dazzled, he brushed his best coat that Thursday and set off. No sooner had he shed his outerwear at the Baldwins and greeted the brittle little Colonel Baldwin, then he saw the Envoy himself, Sir William Hay Macnaghten, standing by a window, deep in conversation with Colonel Oliver and with Rupert’s mentor, the wonderful Alexander Burnes. Elevated company indeed!

  Near them stood three younger men whom Rupert knew from cards: Captain Whitman, Captain Havelock, and the Envoy’s own nephew Lieutenant Connolly. He glanced around, pretending to feel at ease in this high atmosphere. There stood Lady Florentia Sale, wife of the eminent General Robert Sale, who had gone south recently to clear the passes of Ghilzai tribesmen. Harriet Baldwin came toward Rupert with her skinny arms outstretched, her small, round head bobbing like a sparrow’s. And then, just as she clasped his hand, he spotted Amanda Hartley framed in the far doorway and his heart went thump.

  But he tilted his head as if in merest greeting, an iron exercise in self-control. She smiled back, showing no hint of last summer’s disapproval. Had the wonderful Mr. Burnes interceded for him? Thank you, Alexander Burnes! Rupert willed himself to turn his back on Amanda and join the conversation of the men, glowingly aware of the cast on his arm, the badge of his great deed in Char Bagh.

  Drinks were served in a long drawing room that looked out upon a pretty yard blanketed with moonlit snow. On impulse, Rupert refused whiskey. It struck him suddenly that his conduct mattered. People saw something in him now, something worth admiring, and he must keep them seeing it. When questions were put to him, he answered with thoughtful restraint, suggesting that he knew more than he could say.

  When dinner was announced, Amanda came gliding alongside him as if by happenstance and asked if he would take the seat next to hers. Asked very casually but with a hiss of shy breath that gave her invitation a furtive flavor of romance. He thought the sudden thunder in his chest might startle the company, but no one noticed their exchange, the others being too engrossed in the conversation they carried with them from the drawing room: was Afghanistan growing less or more hospitable to the British? This was the question of the day and it raised a lively chatter at the table.

  “What do you think, Mr. Oxley?” Amanda lowered her voice to make theirs a private conversation. “You have seen so much of the country now.”

  “I defer to my elders,” he replied with grave good humor. “If Mr. Macnaghten says the situation improves, it must be so. And what is your opinion, Amanda?”

  She moistened her lips. He ignored the faint shadow of down above her mouth. “I feel insecure,” she faltered, “but then, just now, I am what you young men like to call … a field widow.”

  “Yes, I heard.” Amanda’s husband Major James Hartley was away with General Burnett on a diplomatic mission to the chiefs of Kohistan, up north. “Are you all alone, then, in your big house?”

  “I stay with Florentia mostly. We field widows must stick together. And when I am home I have my servants, so I’m not entirely alone.”

  Florentia overheard this. “What comfort are native servants?” she demanded in a loud harsh voice. Rupert saw two spots of color on her cheekbones and thought she might have taken too much wine until he noticed how the skin above her lips was worn red from blowing her nose too much: the poor woman must have been crying. “It’s those very servants make me anxious,” she complained. “I catch them whispering sometimes! Heaven only knows what they’re plotting.”

  “You mustn’t fret,” Harriet Baldwin counseled her. “We all feel a little frayed right now because of poor Sergeant Flannigan.”

  Tommy Flannigan had been stabbed in the face on a road near the palace. Rupert didn’t know the man very well but had seen him with his heavily bandaged head. The knife chipped his cheekbone, it was said.

  “That was banditry, pure and simple. It was not political,” the Lord Envoy declared. “The villain wanted a purse, and he didn’t care whom he struck, Englishman or Afghan. Overall, civility is gaining ground, I assure you. Take heart.”

  “You have such a sunny disposition, Sir William.” From other lips, those same words might have registered as praise, but the tremble in Lady Sale’s voice colored any intended flattery with reproach. “I wonder what it would take to convince you there is ever any cause for alarm.”

  The envoy made no immediate answer. Florentia was clearly in a state, and he, it seemed, would not risk breaking her fragile calm, but his silence plainly struck her as condescension, for she raised her voice again. “You tell us all is well, but every day brings a fresh incident, Sir William.” She sniffed as she spoke the word ‘incident.’

  The envoy cut his boiled lamb carefully into portions, then spoke with studied composure. “Every incident disturbs our emotions, that’s understood, Florentia. But if we let emotions rule us, we take alarm unduly. We think the sky is falling, we think the abyss yawns! The facts are not so cruel if you look at them coldly, as I must do. Every day, another village pledges allegiance to the king. Every day, his majesty’s army grows in discipline. Day by day, tax collection improves. Everywhere I look, I see progress. I say, by Christmas—”

  “Oh! You promised us Christmas last year!”

  “And last year, at this time, Lady Sale, we did pass a watershed. We took the Dost into custody. Ever since then, everything has—”

  “Yes. Tell us how wonderful ‘everything’ has been since then!”

  Several of the guests cleared their throats. Embarrassment clouded the air. Lady Baldwin’s hands
fluttered in helpless dismay. Lady Sale was spoiling the gaiety, but who could restrain her? Who could criticize? The woman was distraught. No telling what a woman in her state might say. Everyone shrank from her in spirit, hoping not to be the one who triggered her explosion.

  “Since then,” Macnaghten said with grim self-assurance, “there has been some increase in violence, but this was entirely to be expected. Entirely!” He gazed sternly about the table. Rupert held up under those cold eyes, but wondered why they seemed to linger on him particularly. Macnaghten took off his spectacles and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief. “Every time we apprehend another ringleader, the remaining rogues grow more desperate.” He spoke in the patient, level voice of a schoolmaster. “They shoot their bolts because they must. They know their time grows short. If the beast thrashes, Madame, it’s because we have it by the throat.”

  He put his spectacles back on and adjusted them on his nose, then returned to his meal. The rest of the company followed suit, glad of the distraction. Lady Sale seemed to know she had said too much and ate in chastened silence.

  Then Captain Whitman set down his fork, “Sir William is right. You are quite right, sir. The native warms to us, I can attest to it. Just the other evening, we were riding through the grand bazaar—Well, Havelock was there. Tell them, Havelock.”

  The bony captain waved a bony hand. “You tell.”

  “Well, the mood was cheerful, I can tell you that much,” Whitman said. “The people in the streets waved to us, called out greetings. There was friendly banter. It moves me, I must say, when English officers draw such smiles from the natives! And of course there was the usual call for baksheesh. I always dispense the coin lavishly when I am in the bazaar.”