The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  ‘Uncle …’ Karim began.

  Javed stopped mid-sip and stared long and hard. Then he handed his glass to the nearest boy and stepped down off the rugs. The look on his face was one of bewilderment.

  ‘Allah be praised!’ Javed exclaimed suddenly, and signalled to one of his boys. ‘Get fresh tea. Quickly!’ He hurried to Karim and embraced him. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘So did I, many times.’

  ‘I mean, I grieved for you. I sent people to Mazar looking …’ He trailed off, then took a deep breath. ‘I can’t believe this.’ He turned to Hassan, who was standing back, uncertain what to do. ‘And you? Are you a ghost too?’

  Hassan stood dumbly, shaking his head.

  ‘This is Hassan. He and his father saved my life. I owe them a debt beyond measure.’

  Javed’s face broke into a broad smile as he reached over and tousled Hassan’s hair.

  ‘Then we shall have to pay it in instalments.’

  The boy flinched then grinned nervously.

  ‘His father is outside waiting in his truck. I promised I would pay him for the fuel.’

  ‘We shall do that and more,’ Javed said. ‘But we shall fill his stomach before we fill his tank.’ He turned to the young man hovering behind him holding his chai glass and instructed him to go with Hassan to fetch Taher from the truck. ‘And stay and guard it,’ he added, and turned back to Karim. ‘My neighbours would steal the wheels from it and be gone before it hits the ground.’

  He watched as the two boys left the shop then took Karim’s hand, his face drawn and sad. ‘I was wounded by the news of what happened to Saara, Danyal and Halma. I am so sorry.’

  Karim shook his head as if to free himself of pent-up pain. He had buried his sorrow so deep for so long now and yet he had known that coming here would mean it would have to be brought out and discussed. ‘They shall be avenged. As will my father’s death.’

  ‘What?’

  Javed looked so startled that it flashed into Karim’s head that he didn’t know. Surely the news of Ahmed Mazari’s death had reached Peshawar?

  ‘Uncle, he died in the market in Mazar.’

  But Javed was shaking his head with a look of disbelief on his face.

  ‘Oh, Karim. Of course you could not have heard —’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Ahmed is alive.’

  ‘Did you miss me?’

  Her hand was drawn to the book, its pages yellowed and stiff as old bones. The spine was cracked from much use — a loved artefact in what now felt like a mausoleum. Years before, when she was making her first pilgrimage in search of her hero Faiz, she had purchased it in Lahore, and had carried it with her ever since. Now it sat waiting for her to return with the patience of an old lover.

  Layla had been on the computer for three hours, answering emails, covering her tracks by posting through a blind re-mailer. But her search for old friends was still frustratingly unproductive. The messages she had posted on noticeboards remained unanswered. She had switched everything off and was about to leave the room when the book caught her eye.

  ‘I missed you,’ she said softly, reaching out and taking the book, letting it fall open as it always did at ‘When Autumn Comes’. Her fingers traced the calligraphy, feeling rather than seeing the messages buried beneath the artistry. ‘Should I dig you out?’ she asked, her voice whispering and hollow. ‘I can do that, you know. You won’t escape me for ever …’

  The urge grew in her to let go her present quest for her own past and return to the safety of the poetry that waited faithfully for her. She scanned down Faiz’s flowing lines, mouthing the words silently. So easy to slide back into the mystery … She reached the ‘songster birds of dreams’ and slipped into English. The line had always tripped her up, its many layered meanings and possibilities buried in an understanding too deep for her to plumb. ‘The birds that bring dreams …’

  A shiver ran up her spine, scalp tingling … it could work; but two lines down — ‘when they had lost their songs’ — brought her back to earth. She was still missing the point. It was about action. It was about fulfilling the promise; answering the call for help.

  Seeking an understanding beyond translation, she had delved into the language, dug beneath its skin, sucked at its marrow. Not in some blinding epiphany or cathartic moment was she undone, but by a slow abandonment. There was a space she could not enter because she had not accepted responsibility. She had tried to hear the songster without becoming the song. She had attempted to walk a road without her feet upon the ground, and when she accepted the challenge and lowered her foot so tentatively into the dust of reality, she had sunk.

  Yet thousands had gathered at the mushai’ra to hear Faiz Ahmed Faiz read his poems and not been plunged into despair. Why, she pondered. What antidote did they possess that they could take his words and not descend into this place as she had done?

  One line. It had been just a single line. And she, who had translated so many lines before, suddenly saw her translation as false.

  In such a way did autumn come to trees.

  For her, it was a reality beyond her grasp. For those who came to hear the poet, connection was in the air they breathed, the water they drank and the stones beneath their feet. And she, protected no more by intellect, grew to realise that understanding came not from within the walls of universities, but cowering on your knees in the dirt of a football stadium. Cold steel pressing through the pale blue cloth upon your head; nailed to the spot by the eyes of the crowd. That was the poem.

  ‘I’m keeping the promise,’ she said now and closed the book.

  In the kitchen she checked the stove. God knows where Fossey had got to. He had phoned to say he’d be a little while, but that had been over two hours ago. For a couple of weeks after their return to Brisbane she had thought that, having quit his job, he would be home more often. It was probably a good thing he was keeping himself busy though; after all it wasn’t as if he was the only one out so much these days. And nights — another night, another meeting. Helping a friend set up house, was the reply to her query about what he was doing. She liked that side of Fossey. If you set aside his politics — a subject she avoided now, rather than confronted — he was still the same kind, funny man she’d married. For a second she felt guilty about the secrets she was keeping from him, but even as she felt the guilt she rationalised it. Keeping her secrets kept him safe. Don’t, whatever you do, compromise your husband by letting him know what you’re doing, she had been warned. Well, she thought, I’m keeping that promise too.

  Layla scrawled Fossey a note about the stew in the pot, hurried to the door and let herself out into the warm night.

  Karim was stunned. He looked for some sign, some clue in his uncle’s face.

  ‘Alive? He can’t be. I saw him go down …’

  Javed straightened up and took Karim firmly by the shoulders.

  ‘I swear to you he’s alive. He was wounded and fell unconscious but he wasn’t dead. The Talibs carried his body away with many others and dumped them outside the cemetery at Dasht-e-Shour.’

  ‘But I saw him with my own eyes. His head …’

  ‘It is true, Karim. He regained consciousness during the night and managed to make his way to a friend’s house. The friend tended his wounds. Then, realising they were both on the list of those marked for execution, they fled. This time last year he was standing where you stand now.’

  ‘But … but — why didn’t I know …?’

  Javed shook his head. ‘We sent people looking for you. We wanted to bring you out. But the news that came back told of the slaughter going on, and the worst thing … the murder of your family. It broke your father’s heart. If he’d had his way he would have gone back and killed Taliban until they killed him. It was all I could do to stop him.’

  ‘He is alive,’ Karim said quietly. He sounded the words to himself but they didn’t ring true. They were empty of meaning. Hollow. He said it again but he didn’t
believe it.

  ‘When the Talib supporters here started causing trouble I put your father in touch with a friend. They were using boats then —’

  Karim turned, his eyes alight. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He has gone. He will be safe by now.’

  ‘Where, Uncle? Where is my father?’

  ‘He has left Pakistan and gone overseas.’

  Karim shook himself free of his uncle’s embrace. ‘Where?’ He was suddenly weary and feeling cheated. It seemed so cruel that in one moment his father had been brought back from the dead, and in the next, been taken away again. ‘Gone where?’

  Javed looked him straight in the eye and said firmly, ‘Australia. He has gone to Australia.’

  After eating together Javed insisted that Karim rest. For two hours Karim had talked, filling in the detail of what had transpired since the fateful day in Mazar-i Sharif. Now he had fallen silent, his face pale and drained.

  ‘You look dreadful and I want a doctor to take a look at your wound.’

  Karim protested, but he was tired and so he gave in to his uncle and went upstairs to lie down. Over and over he replayed the scene in the market in Mazar, trying to remember if there had been any sign of life from his father, and castigating himself for not reaching him, pulling him free. Though logically he knew there was nothing he could have done, he could not stop the guilt. And now, Australia. It seemed a strange destination. Had his father chosen the country? Had he had a choice? Australia was a part of the world he had little knowledge of. It was flat; he seemed to remember seeing that on television in England. Kangaroos, other peculiar animals, and a race of people with no name, it seemed, other than the generic ‘aboriginal’. Cricket — that he remembered. He had played it at boarding school, and his friends at university had taken him to see a cricket match where England had been thrashed by Australia. His only real memory was the feeling that the Australians had been gracious in victory. Good sports, his English friends had conceded grudgingly.

  Australia. He could find no reason why his father would have decided to become a refugee in that far-away continent. America or England he could have understood. Even Canada …

  His musings were interrupted by the appearance of Javed’s doctor, who took a quick look at his head and announced sagely that he was in dire threat of living a long and healthy existence. He added that Karim was extremely lucky to be alive. A few millimetres deeper and his brain would have been exposed or damaged. The doctor gave him a small tumbler of medicine to drink. ‘It will help you rest,’ he said.

  The medicine was fast-acting and Karim felt himself relax. A wave of light-headed euphoria swept over him and he wondered just how legal the drug was. Within minutes he was deeply asleep.

  Javed closed the shop early, pulling down the steel shutters and leaving the guard, Mohammed, to sleep in the warehouse. Earlier he had pressed some money into Taher’s hands, secured their truck, and given him and his son a room on the second floor for as long as they needed it. After some haggling Javed had promised the man that he would be employed to make regular delivery trips to Islamabad. Taher was obviously pleased by the offer but had cautioned that his truck was far from reliable and would need some work done on it. He was quickly assured that Karim had the necessary skills and that the truck repairs would be his pleasure.

  Young Hassan’s delight at being promised work in the shop was only slightly dampened by Javed’s insistence that he attend school. Having placated the boy with a boiled sweet, he handed him a cup of kawa and sent him off to wake Karim. Then he cleaned his hookah, filled it with fresh water and took it up to the top of the house and out onto the verandah overlooking the city. It was a magnificent view, but over the years he had grown accustomed to it. He greeted it like an old friend then turned his attention to the scene below. In all his years in Peshawar he had never tired of watching the extraordinary mix of people who walked its streets.

  It was early evening when Karim awoke to find Hassan squatting beside the bed with a glass of kawa and the news that his uncle was awaiting him out on the top verandah. Karim sat up and stretched groggily. Whatever the doctor had given him was lingering. The boy remained beside the bed, waiting with wide brown eyes like an expectant puppy. Karim yawned and sipped the sweet green tea.

  ‘Is it true what Mr Mazari says?’

  Karim, aware that the boy had developed an affection for him, made an effort to concentrate. ‘What does he say, Hassan?’

  ‘He says that in his shop is a flying carpet that can take you anywhere in the world.’

  ‘How old are you now, Hassan?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘I think that I must have been almost exactly the same age when he told me that story.’

  ‘But is it true, Karim?’

  He put down his tea and studied the boy. This child was blessed. There were millions like him who would never have the chances that lay in front of Hassan now. Karim wondered if the boy knew just how kind Allah had been. Probably not. From here on, though, he would have to make his own fortune. The boy’s ancient eyes worried Karim. As an adult he found the brutality he had witnessed disturbing; what must it have done to a child? Maybe it was time for a little magic.

  ‘Of course it is true.’

  ‘Then which one is it?’ The boy’s face was suddenly alive with excitement.

  ‘I asked him that a long time ago and do you know what he told me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said that the magic carpet was the one carpet that remained when you had sold all the others.’ Karim watched as the boy digested this.

  ‘Sell all of them?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But what if you sell the magic one by mistake?’ Hassan’s face was creased with concentration.

  ‘You can’t,’ Karim assured him. ‘I think what Javed is saying is that if you work hard you will find you make your own magic.’

  ‘I thought it was about hard work …’

  ‘Work hard and go to school and study hard as well.’

  Hassan looked disappointed. ‘That’s what Mr Mazari said too.’

  ‘Then it must be true, Hassan.’ Karim reached out and patted his arm. ‘Tell him I will be there in a few minutes.’

  It was a beautiful early spring evening. In contrast to the living graveyard that was Jalozai out on the cold and windswept plain, the weather in the Old City was balmy, the still air redolent with the smells of the markets. For a long time the two men sat and watched the fascinating parade of Pashtuns, Afghans and Chitralis on the street below, strolling to the constant accompaniment of the tapping and hammering that emanated in a staccato timpani from the workshops of the copper and brass merchants. Javed had been one of the few rug dealers in the area in the days when it was the heart of the bird market. Now, with all the birds gone, Javed remained outnumbered, but his decision to stay in the one location had paid off. Over the years other rug dealers had come and gone, but he had prospered.

  For a long time they talked about all that had happened since they last met. Karim went slowly over his story again, sharing every detail, no matter how painful. Javed listened intently, only occasionally asking a question or making a comment. When Karim had finished speaking they sat in silence for a while, no longer looking down at the thinning crowd but up to the clear night sky where a sickle moon was etched on black velvet.

  ‘The view could be improved with wire cutters,’ Javed observed, indicating the tangled spaghetti of electricity and telephone cables that straddled the street in every direction.

  To Karim’s trained eye it appeared that either Peshawar had poorly skilled electricians or a lot of enterprising people were getting their electricity for free. ‘The world is getting closer every day,’ he said, pointing to the roofline opposite where several satellite dishes were aimed, strangely he thought, in different directions.

  ‘Your father said almost the same thing. He said the world was crowding in and he wanted to go as far away as possible.
He said he had heard the centre of Australia was uninhabited, and that hard-working people could make a living there.’

  ‘So he chose Australia?’

  ‘No. He wanted to go to the United States, but there was no possibility. There were no boats going there. So fate chose Australia for him.’

  ‘A strange place,’ Karim said, reflecting on his thoughts earlier in the day. ‘I would never have thought of Australia.’

  Javed proceeded to pack moist, golden-coloured tobacco into the clay bowl of his hookah. ‘Your father had also heard that in the early days in Australia they welcomed our people as camel drivers and that now Australia has many fine camels.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘If the television doesn’t lie.’ Javed grinned. ‘I saw it myself. White people on camels. Tourists pay for such things there.’

  ‘And they still welcome our people?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ He laughed and picked up a small lump of charcoal in some tongs. Using his free hand as a shield against the breeze rising from the street, he struck a match and held it under the charcoal. It took a second match before the coal was glowing. He lowered it onto the tobacco, placed the hookah’s mouthpiece between his teeth and sucked strongly. Javed sighed contentedly as he was rewarded with the sweet taste of the smoke bubbling up through the hookah. ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to follow your father to the end of the earth?’

  ‘My father thinks I am dead. I would hate him to die not knowing.’

  ‘Yes.’ Javed took another mouthful of smoke and laid the mouthpiece on the seat between them.

  ‘Then I shall go to Australia and join him.’

  Javed smiled and looked out over the skyline. ‘It is not an easy journey. And once you get there, it is difficult to get permission to stay. I didn’t tell you one thing about your father …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I heard that he had arrived and that he was applying for political asylum. Since then nothing. There is some disturbing news that says Australia has built huge camps and, instead of letting refugees in, they are locking them up in remote areas, far from the cities.’