Dust on the Paw

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘I am very sorry, Mr Mohebzada,’ said the Prince. ‘I did not know your child was ill. If I had known I would not have asked you to come. Why were you at your work? I should have thought you would have been at home.’

  But Wahab knew why Mohebzada had preferred to go to his work. At home the sick child would cry, and its demented mother would scream.

  ‘You should have told me,’ said the Prince.

  ‘Sir, when you said you wished me to meet this gentleman who is contemplating marrying an Englishwoman, then I felt it was my duty to come. You see, I did not require to speak. All he needed to do was to look at my tears.’

  The first stirring of rebellion was felt in Wahab’s impulsive breast. Why should he be so ready to drown his own happiness in this little man’s too copious, craven tears? What kind of woman was this Mrs Mohebzada anyway, who hated her husband and half wished that her only child would die? He did not wish to judge her because it was obvious she must have suffered greatly in her mind, but there was also no need for him to think her as brave, unselfish, and determined as Laura. When he had been in England, other girls had tried to make friends with him, thinking at first, thanks partly to his own silly boasts (uttered on his country’s behalf, rather than on his own) that he was a wealthy man’s son; but when they had found out, which they had been embarrassingly skilful at doing, that he was much poorer than themselves, they had dropped him like a hot potato. Indeed, there had been a time, just before he had met Laura, when he had bitterly called himself ‘the hot potato’; after all, had there not been a similarity in colour? He did not wish to be unjust to Mrs Mohebzada, about whom he knew nothing except what her husband had just said, but it did not seem unlikely that she too had been one of those scheming for luxury and riches. To some extent, therefore, this disappointment had been deserved; but still, confident that Laura’s attitude was altogether nobler, he felt he could afford pity.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Mohebzada,’ he said, ‘for you and your wife.’

  Mohebzada had been looking at Wahab with what now struck the latter, to his amazement, as intense malice. Suddenly he said: ‘If you are rich, Mr Wahab . . .’

  Ought not a man drenched in grief to have sympathy for all human beings, themselves also mortal and liable to disaster?

  ‘As you can see, I am not rich,’ replied Wahab calmly.

  The malice remained. It merely changed direction. ‘Perhaps your family is not old-fashioned in its outlook?’

  ‘My family, I should say, is typically traditional in its views.’ That was an understatement, in the case of his mother; she was almost reactionary.

  ‘Will your mother object if your wife does not wear the shaddry in the street?’

  Trembling, Wahab reflected. ‘She may.’ The truth was, she vehemently would.

  ‘In your home do they eat with knives and forks, or with their hands?’

  ‘Frequently with their hands.’

  ‘Will you be able to afford a house for yourself and your wife, apart from your family?’

  Wahab smiled. ‘I think so. Laura, you see, is a trained teacher. She has been promised employment here in the International School.’

  ‘How much will she earn?’

  No Afghan could be offended by that question. On the contrary, Wahab welcomed it. ‘I understand, about five thousand afghanis per month.’

  Mohebzada’s eyes almost dried instantly, so warm was his astonishment. ‘Five thousand!’

  ‘Five thousand.’ Wahab’s lips were of silk. Within, his heart sang. There was no doubt those five thousand afghanis would be like five thousand horsemen galloping to his and Laura’s rescue.

  Mohebzada tried again. ‘Will your people allow her to go out and work for feringhees?’

  It had not of course been discussed. How could it have been, since Laura’s coming had not been discussed. Her mere existence had once been briefly mentioned.

  ‘They may object, but, though I am a believer in filial loyalty, I do not think I can allow their disapproval to stand in my way. They know I am a scientist, with forward-looking views. I have informed them repeatedly that my vocation is to help bring about improvements in our country. They must therefore expect some unorthodoxy in my own personal life. I would remind you, Mr Mohebzada, this is the twentieth century.’

  ‘How old is this woman?’

  Not only anger at the rudeness of the question, but also fear at having to answer it truthfully caused Wahab to speak with a rather shrill voice. ‘You mean, my future wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wahab found himself rubbing his finger tips together. Why should he do that? Did he wish he had some holy beads? Was he appealing to God?

  ‘Is she old?’

  ‘Old? Don’t be ridiculous, my dear fellow. Of course she is not old. She is only thirty-two.’ Though his tongue stumbled over that ‘only’ he got it out challengingly enough. Yet it was a lie. Laura was thirty-three

  Mohebzada’s sneer was radiant. ‘But you yourself are younger than that?’

  ‘Three years. A trifle.’

  ‘My wife is only twenty-one now. She was nineteen when we got married.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Mohebzada, I was wondering if that could have been partly the explanation of your present trouble. Surely your wife, for a Western woman, was too young and inexperienced to face so drastic a change?’

  ‘My brother married a girl of fourteen. They are very happy.’

  ‘Because she does everything she is bid, like a slave? A girl of fourteen is a child.’

  ‘A wife should obey. It is the law of nature.’

  It was obvious that Mrs Mohebzada did not respect that law, as her husband thought she should.

  ‘I see. Mr Mohebzada, I am grateful to you for having come here specifically to warn me. I appreciate that your motives are, to some extent at least, altruistic. But I love Laura, and am more than ever resolved to marry her, though the whole world should queue up to shout reasons why I should not. Others have given me the same advice as you, and no doubt it will be given again. I hope, however, that after we are married such advice will cease. But let me say this, in all sincerity: If Mrs Mohebzada is still in Kabul when Laura comes, I would like them to meet and become friends. Laura is wise and mature. She could comfort and advise your wife.’

  The Prince then, like a wise referee, decided the contest had gone on long enough. He made the verdict a draw.

  ‘Mr Mohebzada,’ he said, briskly, ‘you will wish to get home to your wife and child. If you let me know where you live I shall see to it that the best doctor in Kabul, the one who attends my father, goes to your house and does everything he can for your child.’

  ‘Is he an Afghan?’ asked Wahab.

  ‘No. A German.’

  ‘I thought so. Some day it will be different.’

  Mohebzada described where he lived (no streets in the city had names or numbers) and the Prince noted it down.

  ‘As for you, Mr Wahab, I can always get into touch with you at the school.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Highness.’

  Thereafter it was all done with such expert courtesy that in less than three minutes they were both outside, mounting their bicycles and riding away.

  Meanwhile the Prince had gone straight to the telephone. It was Lan who answered.

  ‘Is Harold at home?’

  ‘Yes, Naim, he is. He’s just going off to a Club committee meeting. Just a moment, please.’

  During that moment Naim thought of her. She reminded him always of the water lilies in the pond at his country house. He would sit there alone for hours, staring at them and thinking about her. Nevertheless he was quite sure that he himself would never marry. That she and Harold loved each other he had no doubt; but sometimes he had felt that between them was an antagonism as tragic as that between poor Mohebzada and his silly little wife.

  ‘Hello, Naim. Harold speaking.’

  Yes, and speaking too as if on the defensive. He is my friend, thought the Prince, and I know
he is a good man; but Wahab is my countryman and he is in this instance the one betrayed. ‘You remember our conversation at Istalif about Abdul Wahab? Josh Bolton was there.’

  ‘Yes. What about it?’

  ‘Well, I thought, my dear fellow, you were going to play fair.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  Had his voice been lowered so that Lan would not hear? Or had shame lowered it? Naim was sure that she had had no part in her husband’s rather mean and treacherous attempt to stop Miss Johnstone’s visa and get poor Wahab into trouble.

  ‘Didn’t we decide that this marriage between Wahab and his Laura was going to be a kind of experiment?’

  ‘You and Josh may have had that idea, Naim. I certainly didn’t. You know my views. I take a much more serious view of it.’

  ‘Didn’t you use to have contempt for those who put ideas before people? Harold, Wahab and his Laura are people.’

  ‘You never heard me say people never made a mess of their lives. I’m trying to save Miss Johnstone from making a mess of hers.’

  ‘Does Lan agree with you?’

  ‘I’d rather we kept her out of it.’

  ‘Why? You used to say you would put her judgment before anyone else’s. You were right, too. I still believe it. If Lan assures me she thinks Miss Johnstone ought not to come then I shall personally see to it that no visa is issued.’

  ‘No. I want Lan kept out of it.’

  ‘Does she wish to be kept out of it?’

  Moffatt was silent.

  ‘All right, Harold. I had a telephone call from Siddiq, the Minister of Education.’

  ‘Well?’

  This fellow forgets, thought the Prince in a spasm of indignation, that my father is the King of this country where he is a guest and employee.

  ‘He told me you had been to see him, Harold.’

  ‘So I had.’

  ‘I understand Mojedaji was also present.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know he would be.’

  ‘But Harold, my dear chap, the truth about Wahab is simply that he’s a true Afghan. A bit of an ass, and like the rest of us too full of enthusiasms that shoot up like rockets, are beautiful for a few seconds, and then leave the heart darker than ever. You may therefore be right in trying to save Miss Johnstone from him.’

  ‘I know I am.’

  ‘Yes, but for the wrong reasons. Good God, man, don’t you know that men have disappeared without trace who had the misfortune to displease Mojedaji and his friends? Was it really your wish to have poor Wahab transferred to some school in the northern desert?’

  ‘Don’t they need education there too?’

  ‘You know what I meant, Harold. I was speaking euphemistically.’

  ‘You mean he might be dragged off some dark night to spend the next twenty years making a road across the desert?’

  ‘I can’t commit myself, old man.’

  ‘Such things do happen, Naim. I agree. And it strikes me as all the more reason why I should try to save Miss Johnstone from them, or at any rate from their effects.’

  ‘You’re puffing against the wind, Harold. She’ll come in spite of you.’

  ‘She may. But it doesn’t mean she’ll marry him.’

  ‘You know nothing about the woman, Harold.’

  ‘None of us does, Naim; not even Wahab.’

  ‘Oh, come now. There’s no need to question the sincerity of the poor fellow’s love for her.’

  ‘Naim, you must dream your own dreams. I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going to happen to Afghanistan.’

  ‘Please remember you are speaking on the telephone.’

  ‘I remember all right. It’s going to fall into the clutches of the Russians. They’ll build you mosques with minarets that stay up.’

  ‘Well, supposing that is what happens, couldn’t Wahab and his Laura, and their children, find happiness together in such a country? You’re not one of those, I hope, who think that everyone in Russia cringes about in terror from morning till night.’

  ‘I wish to Christ, Naim, you wouldn’t keep saying: Wahab and his Laura. It sounds obscene to me. But you’re right: this isn’t a conversation for the telephone. So if you don’t mind, I’ll ring off.’

  And he did, leaving Naim gazing in dismay at the instrument left crackling in his royal hand.

  People, thought the Prince as he put it down, are always disappointing in the end. I would have sworn that Harold Moffatt would have been enthusiastic in helping a man like Wahab; instead of which he seems to hate him, revengefully. Yet what conceivable harm can Wahab have done him? Always there was this disappointment – he had experienced it in all kinds of men, from servants to cabinet ministers, and of course in women too. As likely as not Wahab’s Laura was coming to Afghanistan with the same kind of expectations as those which had lured Mrs Mohebzada. She was older and so more crafty; therefore she was coming unmarried, to take a look first. She wouldn’t need a very long one, if her ambitions were materialistic. Before she was in the country a week Wahab would get his ring back. Why was Harold Moffatt, the renegade poet, so concerned? Didn’t he realize that greed and selfishness and the brittleness of human affections were his most mighty allies? Having Lan as his wife might delay that realization, but couldn’t prevent it altogether.

  His heart heavy, Naim went out to try and lighten it by walking among his flowers. There, however, he saw old Ahmad and the boy picking some up from the grass.

  He rushed across, furious. ‘What has happened? Who has been destroying the flowers?’

  They bowed before him. Ahmad’s white beard almost touched the ground.

  ‘I did not see it happen, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘The boy did.’

  The boy was no more than ten. Some of the flowers were taller.

  ‘Well?’ cried Naim.

  ‘It was the man with the spectacles, Highness,’ he whispered.

  ‘Wahab?’

  ‘I do not know his name, Your Highness. He came first to the house.’

  ‘But why did he pick the flowers?’

  The boy could not say, and Naim, seeking reasons, found one that was ridiculous; Wahab had wanted to take the flowers to some shrine that he had at home, dedicated to his Laura.

  ‘Did he do it before or after his visit to me?’

  ‘Before, Highness.’

  ‘Before?’ That was inexplicable. If they had been intended for Laura, though she was thousands of miles away, how coolly impudent of Wahab to pluck them before his visit; but surely such cool impudence was quite uncharacteristic of the fellow? And impudence would never have left its fruits lie ungathered. No, there must be another explanation. Could it be that this strange wanton pulling of the beautiful flowers by Wahab was in some mysterious way symbolic and prophetic? Was Laura coming, not as Wahab’s inspiration and counsellor, but as his destroyer?

  In his sadness at that thought he remembered his promise to Mohebzada.

  ‘Tie the flowers together,’ he said. ‘Make them into a bouquet and have them ready. I shall send them to someone who is ill.’

  He rushed in and telephoned Dr Steeb. He found him at the hospital about to perform an operation.

  The doctor mentioned, not too meekly, that the patient was lying unconscious on the table.

  ‘Yes, yes, Steeb. I’m very sorry. I want you, as soon as you are finished, to go to a friend’s house.’ He described its whereabouts. ‘His baby is very ill.’

  ‘But, Your Highness, this operation may take hours.’

  ‘As soon as you are finished. I shall send my car to take you straight there.’

  There was some loud peeved Teutonic breathing. ‘Very well, Your Highness.’

  ‘Thank you, Steeb. You see, I gave my word.’

  The doctor grunted and said good-bye.

  Naim rang for a servant. While waiting for him to come he thought that he himself would go with Steeb and see Mohebzada’s wife and child, but he remembered that Steeb had said the operation might take hours. Besides, had
not his mother warned him not to rush into anything indiscreetly? Perhaps it would be more judicious if he let the flowers convey his sympathy.

  He was not deceived. Worse than finding disappointment in others was finding it in oneself. There was a map of the world on the wall, in a silver frame. He had had Afghanistan proudly coloured bright red so that no one would guess his real purpose in having the map there in his drawing room. This was to stand in front of it, in moments of depression, and wonder to what country he should exile himself. Usually England was his favourite, but this time, as he stood and gazed, he did not wish to go there. Germany perhaps, in honour of Steeb at that moment slicing with saviour’s hands into the entrails of some Afghan. Or Switzerland, home of neutrals. Or South Africa, where the darkness of his skin would cause him to be persecuted, for the good of his soul.

  As always his eyes, dim with emotion, returned to that small bright redness, like a blot of his own heart’s blood. He believed that, like his grandfather, he would die in serving his country; but in his case it was not likely to be an assassin’s bullet that would kill him, but a broken heart.

  Twelve

  PEOPLE often dropped into the Moffatts’ before going on to some party or other. It was looked upon as one of the most hospitable houses in Kabul, with a hostess everyone admired, and a host who, diligent at handing out whiskies to his guests, still managed always to have a companionable glass in his own hand. The sing songs there were celebrated, with most of the singers seated on the carpets. Moffatt himself, and Bill Lawson, were the leaders and seemed to know every song, sad or comic or serious or bawdy, that anybody wanted sung. The Embassy people, in from their ghetto three miles away, as Katharine Winn called it, were especially grateful. Often members of the junior or non-diplomatic staff awoke there in the dawn to find themselves lying in armchairs or on the floor or in charpoys in the garden, amid the debris of empty bottles and dirty glasses. With a last toast, drunk out of imaginary glasses, to their sleeping host and hostess, they would rise and stagger off home.