by Atiq Rahimi
You answer involuntarily, 'Yes.'
He repeats the question. You look at him and nod 'yes', making him understand. The child falls silent again. Then he asks, 'So why am I alive?'
He buries his face under your clothes. As if he wants to put an ear to your chest to listen for some sound from within. He hears nothing and shuts his eyes. Inside himself everything must make a sound. If only you could enter inside him and tell him the story of Baba Kharkash . . .
Your wife's unsteady voice reaches your ears: 'Once upon a time there was a man named Baba Kharkash . . .'
You find yourself standing on the large branch of a jujube tree, stark naked. You've climbed up it to shake down jujubes for Yassin. At the base of the tree, Yassin is gathering the fruit. Without being able to help it, you start to urinate. Crying, Yassin moves away from the bottom of the tree and sits at the base of another. He empties the apples out of your scarf and replaces them with his jujubes, then ties up the bundle again. Digging into the ground with his small hands, he finds a door near the surface, secured with a big padlock. He opens the lock with a jujube stone and crawls underground.
'Yassin, where are you going? Wait! I'm coming down!'
Yassin doesn't hear your shouts and the door shuts behind him. You try to climb down from the tree, but the tree grows bigger and taller. You fall from the tree, but you don't hit the ground . . .
Your eyes are half-open. Your heart pounds in your ribcage. Yassin's head is still calmly buried under your clothes. Mirza Qadir is having a conversation with the guard beside the wooden hut. You try to open your eyes as wide as possible. You don't want to doze off again. You don't want to dream. But the heaviness of your eyes has crushed your will . . .
A woman's voice rings in your ears. 'Yassin! Yassin! Yassin!'
It's the voice of Zaynab, Yassin's mother. Her laughter echoes around your head. Her voice comes from somewhere far below. You step to the door that leads underground. It is closed. You call out for Zaynab but your voice reverberates on the other side of the door. Then the door opens and you see Fateh, the guard. He laughs and says, 'Welcome. Come in. I was waiting for you.'
You walk down into the ground. Fateh closes the door on you from the outside. From the other side of the door, the sound of his laughter rings in your ears.
'You've been wanting desperately to leave’ he says to you. 'Since the morning you've been driving me mad. So, go on!'
Underground it's cold and damp. You take in the smell of clay. There's a large garden, an empty garden, without flowers or vegetation, a garden with narrow paths covered in mud and lined with bare oak trees.
Zaynab sits naked under a tree, next to a little girl. You call out to her. Your voice doesn't seem to reach her. She lifts the little girl from the ground, wraps her in the apple-blossom scarf, kisses her on the cheek, then carries her away. Yassin is naked in a jujube tree. He says that the little girl is his sister, that he gave his mother his grandmother's apple-blossom scarf, the one you knotted into a bundle, so that she could put it around his sister because it's cold. But Yassin doesn't have a sister! A few days ago, Zaynab was only four months pregnant. How quickly she's given birth! How quickly her daughter has grown!
Yassin is shivering with cold. He wants to climb down from the tree, but he can't. The tree keeps growing bigger and taller. Yassin weeps.
You feel snowflakes land on your skin. The garden paths fill with snow.
Zaynab runs from one tree to the next. You call out to her again. She doesn't hear. She runs across the snow naked, the little girl in her arms. She laughs. Her feet leave no prints in the snow, but the sound of her steps echoes through the garden.
Yassin calls for his mother. His voice has become high-pitched like hers . . . You look at his body. It's the body of a young girl. In place of his small penis, there is a girl's vulva. You are overcome with panic. Without thinking, you call for Murad. Your voice is stuck in your throat. It reverberates in your chest. Your voice has become Yassin's - weak, confused, questioning:
'Murad. Murad! Murad?'
Someone grips your shoulders from behind. You turn around in horror. Mirza Qadir, smiling his habitual smile, says, 'Instead of the brains of our kids, Zohak's snakes are eating their pricks.'
Terror seizes you. You want to free your shoulders from Mirza Qadir's grip. But you don't have the strength.
You open your eyes. Your body is covered in sweat. Your hands tremble.
In front of you are two kind eyes:
'Father, get up. Your lift is here.'
Lift? For what? Where do you want to go? Where are you?
'Father, a vehicle headed to the mine.'
You recognize Mirza Qadir's voice and come back to your senses. Yassin sleeps quietly in your arms. You want to wake him.
Mirza Qadir says, 'Father, leave your grandson here. First, go there on your own, speak to your son in private. Then come back here. There's no room for both of you to spend the night at the mine. If your son sees his own child in this state, it'll be even worse . . .'
It's a good suggestion. Imagine what will happen when Yassin sees his father. He'll throw himself into his arms and, before you are able to say anything, he'll start shouting, 'Uncle's dead, Mummy's gone . . . Qader's dead, Grandma's dead! Grandfather cries . . .'
Murad's heart will stop when he hears Yassin. How could you make Yassin understand that he shouldn't say anything?
You accept Mirza Qadir's offer, but a sense of foreboding settles within you. How can you abandon your grandson, the only son of your only son, to someone you don't know? You've known Mirza Qadir for no more than two hours. What will Murad say?
'Old man, are you coming or not?'
It's the guard's voice. You remain silently where you are with Mirza Qadir, your eyes full of questions. What should you do? Yassin or Murad? Dastaguir, this is not the time for questions. Surrender Yassin to God and go to Murad.
'Old man, your lift's leaving.'
'I leave Yassin to you and God.'
Mirza Qadir's look and smile quell all your doubts and fears.
You take your bundle and head for the hut. A big truck awaits you. You greet the driver and climb in. The guard, who's standing in front of the hut - slouched, dusty, drowsy, dressed in a makeshift uniform, with the same half-smoked cigarette between his lips - lifts the wooden beam blocking the road and waves the driver through.
The driver exchanges a few words with you. The guard yells angrily, 'Shahmard! Are you going or not?'
Shahmard raises his hand in a gesture of apology and drives off.
The truck speeds onto the property of the mine. Through the rearview mirror, you watch the guard beside his hut disappear in a cloud of dust. You don't know why but his disappearance pleases you. Come on, the guard isn't a bad man. He's grief-stricken, that's all. You bless his father's soul. May he excuse you if you've thought ill of his son.
Your heart pounds in anticipation of visiting Murad. Your reunion is close now. This very road will take you to your son. Blessed be this road, a road that Murad has travelled many times. Would Shahmard stop the truck, so you could step down and prostrate yourself on this earth, before these stones, before these brambles that have kissed your son's feet? Blessed be the prints left by your feet, Murad!
'Did you wait long?'
Shahmard's question prevents you from kissing Murad's footprints.
'Since nine this morning.'
You both fall silent again.
Shahmard is a young man - about thirty years old, maybe even younger. But the blackened, smoked skin covering his bones and the lines and wrinkles on his face make him look older. An old astrakhan cap sits on his dirty hair. A black moustache covers his upper lip and yellow teeth. His head is pushed forward. His eyes, circled by black rings, dart about.
A partially-smoked cigarette rests behind his right ear. Its scent fills your nostrils. You imagine it is the smell of coal, the smell of the mine, the smell of Murad - the sight of whom at any moment n
ow will light up your eyes. You'll kiss his forehead. No, you'll kiss his feet. You'll kiss his eyes and his hands like a child reunited with his father. Yes, you will be Murad's son. He'll take you into his arms and console you. With his manly hands he'll hold your trembling ones and say, 'Dastaguir, my child!'
If only you were his son - his Yassin. Deaf like Yassin. You'd see Murad but you wouldn't hear him. You wouldn't hear him say, 'Why have you come?'
'Have you come to work in the mine?' Shahmard asks. 'No, I have come to see my son.'
Your eyes drift over the rolling hills of the valley. You take a deep breath and continue. 'I come to drive a dagger into my son's heart.'
Shahmard gives you a confused look, laughs and says, 'Dear God, I'm giving a ride to a swordsman.'
With your gaze still lost in the valley, in its black stones, its dust and its scrub, you say, 'No, brother, it's that I bear great sorrow and sorrow sometimes turns into a sword.'
'You sound like Mirza Qadir.'
'You know Mirza Qadir?'
'Who doesn't know him? In a way, he's a guide for us all.'
'He's a man with a great heart. I didn't know him, but I just spent two hours in his company. I was won over. What he says is right. He understands sorrow. From his first glance, he instills trust. You can tell him whatever lies in your heart... In our day, men like Mirza Qadir are rare. Where is he from? Why is he here?'
Shahmard takes the half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear, puts it between his dry lips and lights it. He inhales deeply and says, 'Mirza Qadir is from the Shorbazar district of Kabul. He has only had a shop here for a short time. He doesn't like to talk about himself. He says little to those he doesn't trust. It took me a year to find out where he came from and what brought him here.'
Shahmard falls silent again. But you want to know more about Mirza Qadir, the man to whom you've entrusted your grandson. Finally he continues: 'He had a shop in Shorbazar. In the daytime he'd work as a merchant and, in the evenings, as a storyteller. Each night a crowd would gather at the shop. He was a popular man who commanded great respect. One day his young son was called up to serve in the army. A year later he returned. He'd been made an officer and trained in Russia. This didn't please Mirza Qadir. He didn't want his son to have a military career. But the son liked the uniform, the money and the guns. He ran away. Mirza disowned him. The sorrow killed his wife. Mirza left Kabul. His home and shop remained behind. He came to the coal mine, where he worked for two years. With his first savings he set up that shop. From morning to evening he sits there, writing or reading. He's beholden to no one. If he likes you, he'll respect you, but if he doesn't like you, best not to let even your dog pass his shop . . . Some nights I stay with him till dawn. The whole night he reads stories and poems. He knows the Book of Kings by heart . . .'
Mirza Qadir's words ring in your tired ears. He spoke about Rostam and Sohrab, and of the Sohrabs of our day . . . The Sohrabs of today don't die, they kill.
You think about Murad. Your Murad isn't a Sohrab who would kill his own father. But you . . .
You are a Rostam. You'll go and drive the dagger of grief into your son's heart.
No, you don't want to be Rostam. You're Dastaguir, an unknown father, not a hero burdened with regret. Murad's your son, not a martyred hero. Let Rostam rest in his bed of words; let Sohrab lie in his shroud of paper. Return to your Murad, to the moment when you will hold his black hands in your trembling hands and your wet eyes will meet his exhausted eyes. When you will have to seek strength from Ali, asking for help in saying what you must say:
'Murad, your mother gave her life for you . . .'
No, why begin with his mother?
'Murad, your brother . . .'
No, why his brother?
But then with whom should you begin?
'Murad, my child, the house has been destroyed . . .'
'How?'
'Bombs . . .'
'Was anyone hurt?'
Silence.
'Where's Yassin?' 'He's alive.' 'Where's Zaynab?'
'Zaynab? . . . Zaynab's ... in the village.' 'And mother?'
Then you should say, 'Your mother gave her life for you . . .'
And Murad will start to weep.
'My son, be strong! These things happen to all men one day or another ... If she was your mother, she was also my wife. She's gone.
When Death comes, it makes no difference whether it is for a mother or a wife . . . My son. Death came to our village . . ‘
And then tell him about his wife, tell him about his brother . . . And then tell him that Yassin's alive, and that you have left him with Mirza Qadir because he was tired. He was sleeping . . . Don't say anything about his condition.
The noise of a truck coming from the opposite direction disrupts your conversation with Murad. It passes at high speed, raising clouds of dust. Dust erases the lines of the valley. Shahmard brakes.
'Will you spend the night with your son?' he asks.
'I don't know if there will be a place for me.' 'He'll find something.'
'Anyway, I have to get back. I left my grandson with Mirza Qadir.' 'Why didn't you take him with you?' 'I was afraid.' 'Of what?'
'Why should I upset you with all this, brother.'
'Don't worry about that. Tell me.' 'Alright, I'll tell you.'
Shahmard stays silent. As if he doesn't want to goad you. Maybe he thinks you don't want to talk. How could you not? When the village was destroyed, with whom could you sit and weep? With whom could you share your grief? With whom could you mourn? Everyone mourned their own dead. Your brother sat next to a pile of rubble, listening hopefully for a familiar voice to rise from beneath collapsed roofs and walls. Your maternal cousin, weeping, picked through the rubble for a piece of clothing or a scarf to use as a burial shroud. Your brother-in-law, lying next to a dead cow in the demolished barn, laughed as he suckled milk from its stiffened udder . . .
But you had Yassin. He couldn't hear your sobs, but he could see your grief. With whom did you sit? Whom did you comfort? You wanted to run from everybody. You were like an owl perched high on a ruin, or in an abandoned cemetery. If it weren't for Murad, if it weren't for Yassin, you would never have left that place. Thank God for Murad, for Yassin. You'd have stayed amid ruins till you turned to dust . . .
Dastaguir, where have you wandered off to this time? Shahmard wants you to explain why you didn't bring Yassin and you have drifted off into daydreams. Say something to him. Tell him about your people. Make an effort. They deserve some prayers. Who so far, apart from Mirza Qadir, has offered you their condolences? Who has prayed for the deliverance of their souls? Allow others to say the Fatiha prayer for your dead and to share your suffering. Say something!
And you speak. Speak of the ruins of your village, of your wife, your son, your two daughters-in-law, Yassin . . . And weep.
Shahmard is mute. His eyes dart, restlessly seeking appropriate words. He finds them. He whispers the Fatiha. He offers you his condolences and falls into silence again.
You continue. You speak of Murad. Of how to tell him about the death of his mother, his wife and his brother. Still Shahmard remains silent. What should he say? All of his rage at hearing your story has gone to his legs. His feet are heavy. You can tell from the speed of the truck.
You also fall silent.
The bouncing of the truck and the drone of the engine make you feel sick. You want to close your eyes for a while.
A military jeep appears behind the truck. It overtakes you, throwing up dark dust.
Within a black billow of dust, you see Murad's wife running naked in front of the truck. Her damp hair streams behind her, parting the dust - as if she were sweeping away the dust with her hair. Her white breasts dance on her chest. Drops of water fall from her skin like dew drops.
'Zaynab! Get out of the way of the truck!' you shout to her.
Your voice is confined to the truck. It doesn't reach outside. It reverberates endlessly around the cab. You want
to roll down the window and free your voice so it can reach Zaynab. But you don't have the strength. You feel heavy. Your bundle weighs on your knees. You want to lift it up and put it beside you. But you don't have the strength. You untie it. Inside the apples have become black, they've turned to coal . . . Coal-apples. You laugh to yourself. A bitter laugh. You want to ask Shahmard about the mystery of the coal-apples. In place of Shahmard, Murad sits at the wheel. You can't prevent yourself from crying out. You don't know if it's from fear, surprise or joy.
Murad doesn't look at you. He stares at the road, at Zaynab. You shout his name again. Still Murad doesn't hear. It's as if he too has gone deaf.
Zaynab continues to run in front of the truck. The dust gradually settles on her white, damp skin. A veil of black dust covers her body. She is no longer naked . . .
The jolts of the truck blur your view of Zaynab. She and the road disappear in a cloud of dark dust.
You take a deep breath and glance furtively towards the driver's seat. Murad isn't there. Thank God. You've woken up. You look around silently. Your bundle is at your side. An apple has rolled out on to the seat.
Nervously you look in front of the truck again. Zaynab is not there. Zaynab threw her naked body headlong into the fire. She was burned alive. She was burned naked. She left this world naked. She burned to death before your very eyes . . . How will you tell all this to Murad? Do you have to? No. Zaynab is simply dead. Like everyone else. There's nothing more to it. She died like all the others - in the house, beneath the bombs. She is bound for Paradise. We are the ones burning in the fires of Hell. The dead are more fortunate than the living.
What fine words you've learned, Dastaguir. But you know they're of no use. Murad's not the sort to ponder matters or withdraw calmly to a corner and cry. Murad is a man. He is Murad, son of Dastaguir. He's a mountain of fortitude, a vast land of pride. The smallest slight to his honour and he catches fire. Then he either burns himself or causes others to burn. The death of his own mother, wife and brother won't go unanswered. He'll seek vengeance. He has to take revenge . . .
