by Tamim Ansary
“I’ve got plenty,” Karim boasted. “Sakhi’s father goes up there with his donkey twice a week to haul away palace shit. He sells it to farmers for night soil.”
“So? So he hauls shit from the palace. So what?”
“He’s been inside, Pa. He’s seen stuff.”
“And he’s decided to tell you? Oh, sonny-boy, spare me the headache!”
“No. He told his wife. And Sakhi was listening and he told me.”
Ghulam Dastagir sat back frowning, because this sounded credible. “Well?” he demanded. “What did he say about the palace? Go on now.”
Bathed in his father’s interest, Karim swelled into pomposity. “It’s very grand up there. They call it Bala Hissar—”
“Everyone knows that!” his father scoffed.
“—and there’s only one road goes up to the palace and there’s five guard stations along the way and the guards are mostly Hindus and a few Pushtoons—none of our kind.”
“Just as I thought!” Ibrahim erupted. “None of our kind!”
“But lots of people go up anyway,” Karim went on. “To deliver stuff. Coal and stuff. Pistachios and stuff. Potatoes. Meat and stuff—lots of stuff.”
Ibrahim dismissed all this. “We can’t get in that way. The tradesmen must be known to the guards. No one knows us.”
“No, and besides, we have nothing to sell,” Ghulam Dastagir noted. “My boy, what you’ve learned weighs less than a fart.”
“No, uh uh!” Karim contested hotly. “There’s another way to get inside—that’s what I found out!” He broke off and peered around the shop, sniffing like a hound.
“Well?” his father prodded.
”What’s the other way?” Ibrahim coaxed.
“I’m hungry. I smell kebabs.”
“The kebabs are gone. You can have some bread. But first—get to the point.”
“I’m thirsty, too,” said the boy.
“You can get some water later. What’s this other way?”
“You pulled my ear.” The boy reproached his father. “I did good and you hurt me for it, Papa.”
Awkward silence filled the room. Then Ghulam Dastagir gruffed out, “I thought the Engrayzee had stolen you, son. They steal children. If you think I’m a hard man, you should have grown up in my father’s house. And the world is ten times tougher than your grandfather and me put together. Don’t you know why I’m hard on you? I’ll say this only once, so listen closely. You’re my heir! You’re precious to me! I don’t want the world to eat you alive, I want you to kick it in the teeth if it tries. And if something happens to you, I’ll burn the fucking world down in revenge. You hear me? Now, your Uncle Ibrahim has been good to you, and look how you’ve repaid him—worrying him half to death. You’ve been clever, though. Clever and brave. You’ve done the family proud. Now tell us what you found out, or I’ll beat you so hard you squeal. How do we get into the palace?”
The boy went on snuffling for a moment, but his father’s words mollified him. “Tell the guards you know about a plot against the king. As soon as you say that, they take you up to the palace.”
Ibrahim snapped his fingers. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Well, Hajji—possibly because we don’t know of any plots?” Ghulam Dastagir shrugged. .
“That doesn’t matter. The thing is to get inside. Tell somebody our story. Once they know what’s been done to us, up there in the palace, they’ll set the business right, I’m sure. I’ll go tomorrow and by night—inshallah—we’ll have the Malang back.”
* * *
The next morning, Ibrahim passed three times under the Quran held high by his friends and made his way out of the bazaar. The month of Aqrab was nearly over, and the sky was overcast. The grimy remnants of recent snow remained piled up against the cob walls flanking the road. Ibrahim had left his horse behind today: he couldn’t risk losing it, so he started up the royal road on foot.
At the first checkpoint, he saw five guards. They had a tea service set out on a small roadside table. They scrambled to their feet with clackety-clack alacrity to bar his way. One guard barked something, but Ibrahim missed what he said or didn’t know the language, so he kept on walking.
The guard switched to Farsi. “Where do you think you’re going?” He lowered his rifle until the knife tip pointed toward Ibrahim’s belly.
The headman forced a smile. “I’ve come to see the king.”
“You think any beggar gets to see the king?”
“I am no beggar, I’m the malik of Char Bagh.”
“Char Bagh?” the young man hooted. “What’s that, some dusty little village in some shitty little nowhere?” He winked at his fellows.
“I’ve come for justice. Is that such a joke? The great kings of olden times meted out justice. People say this king is their equal. Are you saying he’s not?”
The young man scowled and poked his bayonet against Ibrahim’s shirt. “Are you being insolent, peasant?”
“No, he’s being witty.” An older man in brown livery nudged the first guard aside. “What’s your business with his majesty?”
“A gang of ruffians assaulted an honest man in my district. They tied him up and hauled him away—”
“And you want the king to set him free? Are your own arms broken? Go get your comrade back, who’s stopping you! Are there no men in your village?”
“It’s not like that. You see, sir, these ruffians have been plotting against our king. I’ve come to report the plot. So that justice might be done. To the plotters.”
“A plot, huh? Well, we’ll send a messenger up and see if the big-shots want to hear from you. What’s your friend’s name?”
“He’s a great sheikh, revered in our parts.”
“Sheikh-Meikh, what’s his name? And what parts?”
“Sir, we are situated by a river called Sorkhab. Our village is Char Bagh. Our valley is Tarana Dara. We are located in the Khwadja Mohammed Mountains, two days journey east of Baghlan. Baghlan is four serais by donkey from—”
“I know where Baghlan is! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He nodded to the younger soldier. “Run up to the guard house and see if they want to speak to a man about plots in the Baghlan district. Tell them a fellow from Char Bagh has uncovered a bad business there, connected to some sheikh.”
The youngster grumbled at having to climb the hill, but he went. The older guard told Ibrahim to sit down and join the guards for tea. It was all very sociable, until the young guard came skidding back down. “Villager,” he panted. “Did you say ‘malang of Char Bagh?’ Is that who you came about?”
“I did!” Ibrahim felt thrilled to the bone. “Do they know about him even up here?”
The younger guard whispered to the old veteran who suddenly turned grim. “Show me your hands,” he ordered Ibrahim. “Both hands together, mister, out in front of you. Let me see your fingernails…”
Ibrahim stretched out his hands, bewildered. The guard flicked a rope around them and, with a few quick motions, bound his wrists together. “What are you doing?” Ibrahim yelped.
“Orders,” said the other. “We’re to bring you up to Bala Hissar.”
“You don’t have to drag me with a rope, brother. Up there is where I want to go.”
“You must be tied. It’s orders. Go with the boy.”
“I’m not a boy,” the younger guard pouted, but he yanked the rope attached to Ibrahim’s wrists. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
“Nor I,” Ibrahim grumbled, although this was not strictly true.
They marched up to the fortress and no one stopped at them at the next four stations. At the base of the mighty walls, Ibrahim felt like a bug. The gate alone loomed taller than two men standing one atop the other.
The guard called out and the gate swung a few feet open. The guard prodded him through, but did not himself follow. On the other side stood two new guards wearing Afghan clothes under heavy blue overcoats. It was st
arting to snow a little now. Icy flakes came dancing down. Ibrahim gawked at the world within the fortress walls. He was standing at the edge of a courtyard of flat gray stones edged with fallow flower beds. Beyond them stood rows of willow trees, and beyond the willow trees, walkways, and more bushes and more trees, and in the spaces between all the ornamental plants, Ibrahim caught glimpses of a beautiful building surfaced with blue and gold tile.
But the guards had no intention of taking him to that building. They prodded him along the base of the perimeter wall. He went where they pushed because escape was impossible and besides, his whole mission had been to get inside this fortress, so why should he resist? And why should he be frightened? No one had beaten or wounded him, no one had even insulted him much yet. He was tied up, but he might be untied once he made his business clear. He just had to talk to someone higher than a guard. So he marched compliantly into a smaller courtyard. Stone steps led to a narrow doorway in a stone building. The guards poked him through. The antechamber inside had one thin window facing the courtyard, but it didn’t let in much light on a day like this. The guards pressed Ibrahim down onto a stone bench and then fastened him quickly to a chain anchored in the wall. At that, Ibrahim tried to jerk his hand out of the cuff and looked about wildly. One of the guards said, “Calm down, they just want to ask you some questions. Answer truthfully and you may well see your family again today.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Shut up and trust Allah.”
The guards departed, leaving Ibrahim alone, but only for a moment. A door in the corner soon opened and out came four new guards. They released Ibrahim from his chains and said, “You’re wanted downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Ibrahim could not keep a quaver out of his voice, for these new guards had torches with flames dancing from the tops. They led him out of the room that faced daylight, down a narrow staircase, into a darkness lit only by torches. At that moment, Ibrahim felt a loss of control, a sudden unwillingness to be taken down into these depths, a fear that he would be left in blackest night, surrounded by stone, unable to know whether he was above ground or below. He stifled the urge to make a sound, fearful that any sound he made would shame him. He stifled the urge to ask questions, fearful that his panting breath would betray his inner cowardice.
They came to the bottom of the steps. About a half-dozen men were milling about at the other end of a long corridor. Ibrahim could not make out who they were at this distance. Prodded by guards, however, he moved toward them. Along the way, he realized that the corridor was lined with doors. Each one had a window cut out of it, but each windows had iron bars across it. These rooms were cages. He saw faces behind the bars. Was he going to be caged here too? Surely not! What had he done except to make polite inquiries? That was no crime. Surely, once he had a chance to explain…
The guards’ torches lit up faces in those little cells: luridly, fleetingly. None of the prisoners cried out or said anything distinct. Some of them may have been murmuring or muttering, but Ibrahim wasn’t sure. The rustle of his own clothes, the rasping of his own breath, and the tramping of the guards’ feet drowned out all peripheral sounds.
The end of the corridor enlarged into an actual room filled with the men Ibrahim had seen from a distance. Most were Afghans, but one was an Engrayzee wearing his arm in a cast. Ibrahim recognized the man with the little window attached to his face. He stared at Okusley with revulsion and dismay.
Okusley spoke in Engrayzee to one of the Afghans, who spoke to Ibrahim coldly in Farsi, “Mr. Oxley asks a favor of you.”
“A favor?”
“He has a man from your village here. He wants you to make the man talk.”
“What man? Is Malang-sahib here?” Ibrahim cried out. “What do you mean—make him talk?”
“He hasn’t said a word since he was brought to this place. All they want is the name of his contact. But don’t try that ‘Malang-sahib’ shit on me. I can’t be fooled, and I won’t pass on your trickery. We know what he really is. Just get the bastard to tell what he knows and you’ll be released. Agreed?”
“Take me to him,” Ibrahim shuddered. He could not help blurting out, “You’re an Afghan, you pimp! Why do you serve these infidels?”
The translator ripped a backhanded slap across Ibrahim’s face, knocking his head sideways and jarring his jawbone. Two guards instantly grabbed Ibrahim’s arms to keep him from striking back.
“Where do you think you are?” the translator snarled. “In your father’s cozy little house? You’re less than a worm here! We can plant your dead remains in a hole and no one will know what happened to you or even ask. Understand? Do you dare to question what I am doing here? Do you care to insult me again?”
Ibrahim kept his feelings clutched inside him, kept his eyes studiously dead. He saw shame behind the churn of anger in the translator’s red-rimmed eyes.
“Oh! Now this one won’t talk!” the translator sneered.
“Take me to Malang-sahib,” Ibrahim rasped out.
So they took him back into a dark corridor. Halfway down the length of this tunnel, they opened a door, which led down some steps into another corridor. A few paces into this tunnel, they stopped. The Afghan leading the way drew a clanking ring of keys out of a pocket in the draperies of his long shirt and opened a padlock. He pulled the door open, and they all entered, a guard gripping Ibrahim’s right arm.
The malang was sitting in the furthest corner, looking blankly toward the middle of the room. His lips were moving, and in moments of silence, Ibrahim could hear him saying: la illaha il-allahu wah Muhammadu' rasul-illah. Over and over. No God but God and Mohammed his messenger. No God but God and Muhammad his messenger. His clothes were in tatters, his hair disheveled, and when the torchlight fell on his face, Ibrahim saw that this dear sheikh, his mentor, his teacher, his intercessor with God was disfigured by cuts and discolored with bruises, his right eye swollen almost shut by a purple bump.
At that, Ibrahim exploded. In one leap, he buffeted Okusley to the ground. A hand clutched at him, but he flung it off. Someone smashed a club into his ribs, but he was falling backward, which mitigated the blow. He grabbed somebody’s head in a wrestling hold he had practiced as a boy, never with much success, but lost his balance. No success now either. Dragged down into a scrambling heap, he tussled right to the feet of the malang and back toward the middle of the room, while men kept trying to grab parts of him.
They were too many for him finally. The man he was holding by the neck got free, the others pinned his limbs. The two men not fully occupied in keeping Ibrahim restrained fell on him with their fists. He never stopped fighting. He broke free and scrambled to the corner but was too exhausted to stand and lay where he fell. The others got to their feet, panting. Someone kicked the door shut. Okusley shouted an order and all the men closed in on Ibrahim.
The translator leaned over him. “They were going to let you go, cretin! Now they can’t. You’ve doomed yourself. They’ll come back every day until you give them what they want. Make your friend talk or cough it up yourself—the Russian agent’s name. What is it? Who is he? What’s his disguise, who are his contacts in Kabul? You think you can hold it back? The Engrayzees are a bit squeamish, but we have no such qualms. We’ll pull your fingers off one by one until you scream for mercy. If the fingers don’t do it, we will start on your toes. Then your feet will go, your arms. Have you not heard about Dost Mohammed’s brother? Cut to pieces alive in public—his eyes open, watching his testicles suffer the knife? Do you think we’re joking? This is not entertainment? . Oh, we are serious men here, very serious men, and we will get to the bottom of these riots and murders. Believe me, we will hunt down every plotter in his lair. Whoever you are, we’ll find out your name, wherever you are, we’ll drag you into the light, we’ll kill every last one of you!” He showed his teeth and turned away.
The Engrayzee said something, and the translator turned back. “He says we took you for a simple villager, but tryin
g to kill an Engrayzee changes everything. Now we know there is more to you than meets the eye. It’s a good thing we executed the prisoner in the next cell this morning, it’s created a vacancy just for you. Spend the night next to your malang and let’s see how you feel about talking in the morning.”
Ibrahim could not postpone or escape his imprisonment, but he wouldn’t make their work easy. He kicked and struggled and tried to bite as they encircled him. Even so, it took only a few minutes. The malang ignored the commotion and went on with his meditative repetition of the Muslim’s fundamental testament: No God but God and Muhammad is his messenger, No God but God and Muhammad is his messenger, as the guards dragged Ibrahim into the neighboring cell and flung him against a corner. While he lay in a heap, the others hurried out and threw the bolt. Ibrahim recovered his senses just in time to rush across the cell and throw his weight against the door but only bruised his shoulder bone, for the door opened in, not out; and by the time he started pulling, it was bolted. Ibrahim gave up then and just stood, listening to the footsteps diminishing into the distance.
33
As the sounds dwindled, so did the light from the guard’s torches. Shadows jiggled and jumped on the irregular stone surfaces of the walls growing ever fainter until a distant door slammed shut, at which moment all the shadows merged into undiluted darkness. Ibrahim listened for voices, but if this block contained any other prisoners the uproar had stunned them all to silence. Then his eyes adjusted, and he realized that the darkness was not undiluted after all. A faint light was seeping through two horizontal slits in one wall, near the ceiling, slits just broad enough to slide his hand into. The bulk of this cell might be subterranean, but those slits were above ground. Otherwise, where would that light be coming from? And at least some air was entering the stone room. If he could peer through those slits, he might be able to see what lay outside this prison. But the slits were situated a little higher than Ibrahim could reach on tiptoe.
