He couldn’t look.
Yes he could.
Up, up, there in the center, just below another straggly, sticky bush matted with something brown, and something white.
He could not look.
He switched his light off.
He was the one being violated. Angrily, he turned to demand of Fatah: Who did everyone think he was? A damn puppet?
But Fatah was still with Muhammad Shah, who was handing him something like a wheel. In his own hands, Muhammad Shah held a knot of wires. A third man fiddled with a switch.
‘He looked! He looked!’ Another squealed. It was the one who’d shone the torch in the captive’s eyes. ‘He opened them! I swear he did!’ Then he frowned, ‘You did, you bastard, admit it!’ He began kicking him.
‘Shut up, mouse. If you keep on we’ll wire this all wrong and what good will that do our friend?’ They laughed.
The man by the switch said, ‘Try it now.’
Muhammad Shah pressed a button. Everyone cheered. ‘All right, strap it on.’
There was resistance now. Hands with broken thumbs fought men that slipped the ring around the head. The head that Salaamat now saw closely. The narrow dome with scars and bald patches, finally opening its eyes. Red eyes, with an expression he’d never known in a human face. Like burning metal. Yes, if his bus had had eyes, it would have looked out at the world like that. It would have looked left at the torch lighting the pictures of the glittery golden fish. ‘Don’t touch!’ it would scream. ‘That’s mine!’ It would look right at the forest of lofty trees, where the preening parrots were set ablaze. It would look out of a ring-of-fire and keep looking till the eyes had burned. But before that, it would look at him.
Salaamat flinched. A moan moved up from his guts and pealed through the darkness. It was not a moan, it was vomit, and it was stuck in his nose. A drunk man was punching his stomach while another struck his head. He dropped to his knees. Three feet away, a turtle was done laying her eggs. He was being dragged to the sea. He was vomiting oyster-white albumen, blood, and something green.
In the room flickering with torchlight, the stun belt was now firmly around the captive who’d shut his eyes again. Salaamat saw the laughter; he didn’t hear it. It was as if the room had sunk underwater. When men moved, they moved slowly. When they talked, he heard waves. Muhammad Shah pressed a switch on a square slab of black plastic. A current shot through the captive’s sides and his head and torso jerked. The hands flew. The legs in iron danced. If the shackles jingled he didn’t hear them. He was swimming away. He tasted salt and then he felt a shell. The captive was in his arms.
Ride, ride, Salaamat said to him.
Ri-bit came the reply.
The room stank and the men held their noses. They passed the switch around like a tube of oxygen. Soon it was his turn to take a hit. He held it but did nothing. The man still convulsed.
Why do you twitch when I have not yet shocked you? he asked.
Ri-bit.
Well then, if I do shock you what is the difference?
The man was still thrusting.
Should I try?
Ri-bit.
He moved the switch just barely, pretending to strike it.
The man jerked even more furiously, writhing in his own shit.
Pretend. Jerk. Pretend. Jerk.
The men were laughing soundlessly. Clapping too. Splashing him from head to toe. Smacking his back. Only the thumps never landed, because you could never thump someone underwater. Pretend. Jerk.
He passed the button to the next man, who silently congratulated him on fulfilling his purpose. Nobody knew he hadn’t done a thing. Not even the captive.
3
Fate
‘You know I run faster than you,’ called Fatah. ‘Stop trying to outdo me.’ He caught up with Salaamat, who turned and ducked into a cramped bed of pine needles. ‘I thought the Chief gave you fair marks but you’re failing the after-test.’ He plunked down, squeezing beside him.
Salaamat sucked on a cigarette and passed it to Fatah who smoked, like the Chief, by pulling on his fist. A kingfisher perched in the fissure of a rock, then dived out of sight, into the river. He surfaced again, his wings a span of jet black and brilliant white. The tuft around his forehead fanned out in the wind, like a lily.
It was good Fatah came after him but he wished to be alone.
‘You didn’t even look at me at practice this morning,’ Fatah complained. ‘And why didn’t you wait before coming up here?’
He said nothing.
‘Oh my Rani.’ Fatah tickled him. ‘What blue, blue eyes you have!’
Salaamat slid free, pressing deeper into the rocks cupping them.
‘You’re very boring today,’ he frowned. ‘Acha listen, answer my riddle. What’s the best sex the Commander ever had?’
Salaamat lit another cigarette and exhaled in a slow tunnel.
‘When he brushed his wife’s teeth with keekar!’ He plucked a pine needle from the floor and rolled over Salaamat, prying his mouth open, forcing the stick inside.
Salaamat threw him off. ‘Stop it!’
Fatah’s temper rose. ‘You’re a bitch, you know that? A good-for-nothing cowardly bitch.’
‘Why do you make fun of the Commander when you’re just the same?’ Salaamat snapped suddenly.
‘Me? I would do a much better job.’
‘So that’s it. You want to be the one who gets to stand in the shade, shining the Winchester?’
Fatah reached for his kurta collar but before he could strike, Salaamat leaped over the rock. In the chase, Salaamat found he’d finally become the swifter one. He raced up massive boulders without needing any footholds, running through thorns fearlessly. He felt exhilarated.
‘See?’ Fatah yelled from below. ‘You’re running away. Just like a coward. Come down and fight!’
Salaamat panted. There were no trees at this height. The sun blazed down and he felt a sting under his right ear. Touching it, he saw blood. But he was on top of the world. They’d never been this far up before. He called down, ‘If you were commander, what would you say to your men every morning?’
There was no answer. The barbed mesquite blocked his view. Maybe Fatah was drawing closer. He pushed on.
Then he heard: ‘I’d tell them if it weren’t for the Chief they’d be nothing. That we can be anything we want, and get anything we want, all because of him. And I’m telling you you’ve got a second test coming up so don’t be stupid.’
Salaamat paused again, barely even able to remember his meeting with the Chief afterwards. He’d felt none of Fatah’s wonder in the presence of the nondescript man seated on a takht, leaning on satin pillows. Half a dozen men surrounded him with fans and refreshments. All carried machine guns. A young boy, perhaps twelve, hunkered at the Chief’s feet, pressing his calves. Another stood behind the takht massaging his shoulders. There was a trial underway. A quarrel in a village. He hadn’t listened to the details, but there was a woman sobbing, and an elderly man pleading for protection and justice. He presented a gift, which Salaamat remembered well: a rocket-launching missile wreathed in a garland of pink flowers.
‘So this is your group’s best shot?’ The Chief pointed at Salaamat when he was introduced.
‘It is indeed,’ Fatah bowed. ‘Kneel!’ he hissed at Salaamat.
He knelt.
While details of the torture were graphically presented, the Chief examined Salaamat. There were sounds from another room. Plates banging. Women talking. The boy at the Chief’s feet lit an imported cigarette and passed it to him. He cupped his fist, inhaling loudly.
Salaamat remembered little after that. Just that his eyes went from the sad, tattered old man to the gift to the Chief and the sickness he’d felt in the cell transformed to hate, especially when the Chief concluded, ‘Well done,’ and swiftly dismissed them.
And when blindfolded again in the jeep, he’d been grateful for the chance to shut his eyes. That’s all he wanted to do
: shut his eyes. Sleep for days.
Now he looked about him. The river appeared motionless from here, a sheet of blue tranquility, with yellow glitter bubbling down. The air smelled wholesome. They’d eat carp for dinner. This was all good.
He called out to Fatah, ‘And what if I don’t want to take it?’
The answer was swift and came from nearer. ‘Who says you have a choice?’
‘I thought we could get anything we wanted?’
‘Depends on who’s giving it.’
Still higher. There were green dots on the shore and black specks rolling in and out of them like peppercorns. He felt he could scoop them all into a jar and toss the lot into the Indus.
He said, ‘What if I don’t need anyone to give me anything?’
‘You’d be killed.’
Salaamat stopped. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘It’s the rule.’
Fatah was too close now. ‘And no one changes the rules?’
‘You’ve learned well. No one but the Chief.’
He could see him now, behind a dense bush. His thick, bristly hair was a mess and he cursed while trying to leap across the thorns. Salaamat lowered his voice. ‘How long had that man been locked up?’
Fatah looked up, plucking thistles from his sleeve. ‘I don’t remember. Who can recognize any of them after the first week? There were many cells you know, all of them occupied, so relax.’
He could tell Fatah’s humor had changed. He let him catch up with him. Three feet away, he bent at the waist, breathing like he’d just climbed Rakaposhi. It was his turn to say nothing; he was exhausted.
‘What’s happened to you?’ Salaamat snarled. ‘The Commander could climb faster. I should have placed a bet. Won back all my cigarettes.’ He lit another one. Then: ‘When you see those men, don’t you wonder what it would be like to live in your own shit?’
Fatah had collapsed on a rock. When he got his breath back he shook his head. ‘I wish I’d known how stupid you were before I climbed all the way up here. Live in my own shit? I have lived in my own shit. And as long as I give my land to everyone else, I’ll continue living in it.’
‘You live in it because you talk shit,’ Salaamat spat.
Fatah threw his head back and laughed. ‘This country is a sister-fucking urinal, my foolish friend. Who hasn’t pissed in it? Have you gone to the mountains? Those fools are so cocky because they think they’re descended from Alexander! They’re proud his army raped their women because now they have white skin and eyes even bluer than yours. And what about the British? The Afghans? How much do we have to share with those bloody Pathans because of their war? How many of us will the General keep sending, so we don’t see who we really have to fight? Even the Gulf Arabs fart here. Taking our children, taking our workforce. You know what my brother did when he went there? They told him he could work on their jets, but what did he do? He cleaned air toilets! And the Amreekans, why should we work for them? Why do our leaders wag their fat bottoms in their face, begging, Pat me! Rub your slime all over me! Pah! Everyone in this country is a lapdog of someone who isn’t from here.’
‘You’re a lapdog too.’
‘I’m the lapdog of someone who represents my land. You can either be faithful, or you can be a traitor. There is no other way.’
Salaamat folded his arms. His gaze drifted down Fatah’s long broad nose, always a little oily. When he was worked up, especially during target practice, he’d wipe the grease with the back of his right thumb and smear it on his chest. He did that now.
Salaamat sighed. ‘You can belong to the land, instead of forcing it to belong to you …’ He was beginning to sound stupid even to himself.
Fatah spat another laugh. It sounded like, Chuff! Then he did it again. Chuff! ‘You’re just a no-good dreamer. The Koreans took your sea, but you learned nothing. The Punjabis took your sweat, still you learned nothing. The Urdu-speakers burned your bus: nothing. The Pathans took your first pay: nothing again. It’s not just land and sea they all want. They want the air we breathe. And what does this country do? It begs them to take it. It says, please, please, stick millions of dollars into our fat bottoms and own us all! Just let me keep my car, my house, my job. But I promise I won’t let those who’ve lived here for thousands of years have any of it!’ Fatah jabbed the air with his rectangular chin and pronounced, ‘No. If you don’t control them, they control you.’
Salaamat looked away. ‘That man yesterday was controlling no one. Not even himself.’ He wondered for the millionth time: was anyone else in there only pretending to push the button?
‘If we’d let him go he’d be part of the system that controls us.’
‘If you’d let him go you’d never even see him again.’
‘You’re wrong. He’d be the one to take my car, house, and job. He’d be in my space and I would see him everywhere. With every man I kill, I make a little more room for my people. For us.’
They stared at each other. Fatah’s sunken eyes were not angry now. They were cold and set. If Salaamat weren’t on his side, he’d also be in his way.
But he wanted neither. He just wanted to be here, at the top of the world.
Fatah continued, ‘He’s nearing the end, anyway. If we don’t destroy him, someone or something else will. And if it’s not him, it’s someone else. See? The Commander is wrong. We don’t have to target the bullet. No, we have to let it fly. Fate takes care of the rest. I wouldn’t be a freedom fighter if I weren’t meant to be. That man wouldn’t be in our cell if he weren’t meant to be. See? There’s a bigger force on our side. Everything is clear and simple.’
‘One day it’ll fly at you.’
‘I know. And I’ll embrace it proudly.’ He tossed his head. ‘If I were commander, that’s what I’d tell my men every morning.’
Salaamat shook his head. ‘I’m wasting my time talking to you. Leave me now.’
‘Your time? Your time belongs to us.’ Then he looked around him. ‘I bet no one down there’s ever climbed so high. Look at them! Smaller than rabbit dung!’
The peppercorn-men still mulled around on the shore and now there were two bread loaves whirring through the sand. Jeeps. The men had returned from the Chief’s. They’d speak of him later tonight, as they ate by the campfire. Maybe they’d brought supplies. They were running low on cigarettes and sugar.
He shut his eyes: the burning metal eyes of yesterday’s captive now lived behind his own. They said: the fat, drunk poacher with the woman waiting in the hut, the one who’d nearly killed him years ago in his village, Salaamat had become him.
What if he could erase yesterday? What were a few hours in an entire lifetime? That’s all they were: a few hours. Efface them! Be gone!
Pretend. Jerk. Pretend. Jerk.
He cringed.
Did the man even have a mind somewhere inside that convulsing body? Could he have had a single thought left in him?
And what would his last thought have been?
He couldn’t know, but he could see it. It would look like Handsome’s favorite dish: brain. He cursed his own for bringing the picture to him. Little slimy noodles in a wet pulp. That was what sat in the writhing man’s skull. The button was a benign black circle, soft to the touch. And each time it went down, those little slimy noodles flared out, out, out, a sea anemone yawning. Slow, graceful undulations. Soft, powdery hues. Out, out, out, only there was nowhere to go so they started moving down, and around, and soon there were knots, and the knots were angry because there was no space, and then they just shot off. One by one, each noodle burst out into nothingness, and there was a terrific fight between the remaining knots because they each saw now what would happen to them, and even when it didn’t happen, it did. So off they went. Panic in the sea. Mayhem in the seat. One little noodle left screaming, Oh please God, help me. Just wipe off my shit.
He turned around and began to scramble down, on the other side. Why was he torturing himself? Why wasn’t Fatah?
Fatah foll
owed him down a precipice. ‘Leave me,’ Salaamat pleaded.
‘I will not.’ Fatah had got his old speed back and skipped beside him, whistling. Then he broke into song, ‘On your red lips, if only once, my name would fall…’
Salaamat shut it out. He never knew love could surge with a hatred this fierce.
The rocks were gashed in places by deep gullies that pitched dangerously. Salaamat carefully maneuvered the ridges, feeling deftly for notches, and even Fatah held his breath. But eventually, the slopes flattened closer to the angle of the riverbank. Salaamat hurried on, stepping at last into a leafy path. Then, all of a sudden, a few feet below, he spotted a small field of a flowering crop.
‘Well imagine this!’ Fatah halted. ‘There must be an underground spring nearby. Let’s go see.’ They jumped down the last incline and were level with the shore. Fatah turned into the field, tearing a handful of blossoms. ‘Smell. Sweet as honey!’ He slid the bouquet into Salaamat’s hand.
Salaamat took it sadly.
Fatah stopped, astonished. ‘I know where we are! This is the closest Mohana village to us. Who knew it could be accessed from here? Takes for ever by road. Look,’ he pointed to a row of orange trees. ‘I bet we can fill up on tangerine torture!’
There was a small thatched hut and in the distance, the kind of Mohana boathouse sometimes seen drifting down the river past their campsite: flat-bottomed with a high prow and a canopy of reeds. The boats were big, often with two or three families in residence. This one was about ten feet long – nothing resembling the smaller, canoe-shaped boats of his village. Fatah was right about the spring: an ox turned the wheels of a water pump.
Salaamat was wondering how they’d got the huge animal all the way here when Fatah gently tugged his sleeve. ‘Sit with me a while before we go any further. Here, in this beautiful bower.’ He pulled him into the shade of an orange tree, and reclined his head on Salaamat’s shoulder. He was the shorter one so when they lay with feet together, his hair brushed Salaamat’s ear. He kissed it loudly. The ear started ringing.
Trespassing Page 29
