Dust on the Paw

by Robin Jenkins

  The voice sounded worried. ‘No. I shall merely tell them you will be there. Good-bye.’

  ‘Cowards,’ muttered Wahab and became slowly aware of the responsibilities and probable consequences of bravery. In the past, secret societies had often flourished in Kabul and had spilled blood with relish. The stab in the dark appealed to the Afghan mentality more than the calm, wise word in the sunlight; or at least had done so formerly. It could very well be that this latest society, the Brotherhood, really did employ skulkers with knives, and in a day or two he would be waylaid by three or four of these in some lonely spot at night and would suffer, not just a ripping of his tires, but also of his belly and throat. He would have died a martyr, but no one would know it. A hundred reasons would be put forward for his murder, but among them would assuredly not be the true one of martyrdom. Neighbours would say he had seduced someone’s sister. The newspapers would print that he had died from heart failure. The police authorities, if they were not in league with the Brotherhood, would suppose he had been killed by robbers. What version the British Embassy would choose to send to Laura he could not say, but that they would send one, however false, was indicated by this invitation which he had received and which was, in its way, as disquieting as the summons by the Brotherhood.

  Were the new and old forces, tug-o’-warring for his country’s soul, using him as a rope? Often these days he did feel as if he were being pulled apart.

  There was a soft knock on the door. In slipped the Principal, alone. ‘Finished, Mr Wahab?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Principal drew near. ‘I know the call was from the Brotherhood.’

  Wahab sniffed.

  ‘Who is its leader, Mr Wahab?’

  Another sniff. ‘Who cares?’

  The Principal nodded, in admiration of such an astute reply. ‘Some say it may be the Prime Minister himself.’

  ‘Why not the King?’

  ‘Ah, indeed.’

  ‘Or Prince Naim?’

  The Principal nodded. ‘Yes, yes. All of them. Of course.’

  Wahab had not heard from Naim since the evening at Moffatt’s house, but that silence did not prevent him now, in a characteristic plunge from selfless idealism to cunning self-interest, from indulging in another dream of power and wealth. The Principal’s face, littered with the relics of discarded ambition, inspired him. All his acquaintances regarded him as a man of ordinary abilities and qualities. Most of the time he was inclined to agree with them; but there were other times, admittedly rare, when he felt that he was only waiting for a suitable opportunity to throw aside his disguise of mediocrity and stand revealed as Afghanistan’s twentieth-century man of destiny, who by sheer brilliance of intellect and steel-like strength of character had been chosen as his country’s saviour. He it would be whom, some Independence Day, the army with its Russian tanks, guns, lorries, and armoured cars would march past, and whom too the MIG’s would salute at eight hundred miles an hour. Yes, and the day after, he it would be who would issue an order rejecting all those instruments of murder. Tanks, guns, lorries, armoured cars, and aeroplanes would be sold back to the Russians. The money received would be spent on many irrigation schemes to improve the country’s agriculture. Schools would be opened in remotest villages. Teachers would be adequately paid everywhere. The shaddry, and all the other disadvantages at present dishonouring women, would be flung contemptuously aside. Men, who now walked through the streets of the country with roses in their hands and frustration in their hearts, would then find the flowers symbols of hope as well as of beauty.

  He awoke from his dream to find on the Principal’s face, with its overlarge nose, cunning, typical Afghan cunning, that tried hard to reassemble those fragments of ambition and piece them together in a smile that had hope in it too, but corrupt hope, and ignoble expectation, of the kind that would keep Afghanistan a desert, with oases only for the unscrupulous few.

  The Principal was whispering: ‘There has been talk, Mr Wahab, that I am not competent. My ears are not made of stone. You know that I have a wife and child, and other dependants. You know also that I am not entered as Principal, but merely as Acting-Principal, the difference in salary being three hundred afghanis per month. It is not difficult to remove a Principal; to remove an Acting-Principal is as easy as blowing a dead fly off a cake. I do not sleep well. For more than five years I have not slept well. I do not wish to be made Inspector-General of Secondary Schools, though some weeks ago my name was mentioned in connection with that post, which is still vacant. All I want is to be established as Principal here, and perhaps to have an office of my own, with a proper W.C. for the convenience of guests and distinguished colleagues like yourself.’

  Even while accumulating anger at this selfish and sarcastic request, Wahab suddenly was flooded with love for his foolish countryman. Though powerless, that love was not absurd; what only mattered was that it was genuine and had him looking at the Principal as one man ought always to look at another, with tolerance and sympathy. The Principal’s face was not handsome, with its big nose, its slightly bloodshot eyes, and its hollow cheeks, but it was human and therefore precious. In it Wahab saw Laura’s, so much more beautiful, and also every face that had ever looked kindly upon him since the moment when, a brown baby on a red cushion, he had distinguished his mother’s face from the many blurs that up to then had represented the outside world.

  In his joy he embraced the Principal, who laughed too, though anxiously.

  ‘But, my dear Hussein,’ cried Wahab, ‘I am a person of no importance. I am a hindrance to myself. How can I help another to advancement?’

  ‘It does not matter,’ cried the Principal. ‘Do whatever you can. I have an old uncle – he lives with us and eats twice as much as other old men – who always cries, with his mouth full of food: “We are God’s children”.’

  ‘I do not think I believe in God.’

  ‘Sometimes I too have difficulty. And I shall make a confession to you, which I have never made to anyone before. When I try to imagine God’s face, whose do you think I see? It is terrible, I know, and blasphemous, but I cannot help it. I see Mojedaji’s gold tooth and all.’

  Wahab laughed too; and his laughter, like the Principal’s, had weeping in it.

  ‘Do not be afraid of Mojedaji,’ he cried. ‘Do not be afraid of any man.’

  ‘Ah, before I was married, Wahab, I was not afraid. I used to dream of sitting under a tree and letting myself starve to death, in silence and dignity. People would come from miles around to watch and be impressed. The King would send witnesses. There would be consultations at high level, and in the end they would decide that I could not be allowed to rebuke them all with my peaceful but valiant dying in front of them. So in the night their emissaries came, with money, and the title-deeds of an estate in the country, presented to me by the King himself.’

  ‘I too have had such a dream,’ cried Wahab. ‘Only in mine I was dead when the emissaries came.’

  They drew back a little so that they could stare into each other’s eyes. Each saw that the other had been, not lying, though what they had said was not quite true, but bravely defying with their dreams the poverty not only of themselves but of their whole country, and the injustice which such poverty surely represented.

  At that moment the door opened and in walked Mojedaji, frowning, and looking so like God that the Principal’s hilarity and faith instantly degenerated into cringing fear.

  ‘I was congratulating Wahab,’ he muttered. ‘He has been sent an invitation to the big party at the British Embassy.’

  Mojedaji looked surprised. With godlike disdain he took from his folio case under his arm his own invitation card.

  Looking from one card to the other the Principal felt more than ever his own exclusion, not from the British Embassy garden, beautiful though that was said to be, but from paradise itself where God bestowed on those, like Mojedaji who impersonated Him, and others, like Wahab, who were not afraid of Him, favours eternall
y denied His timid believers.

  Fifteen

  IN THE AFTERNOONS Wahab worked as a clerk for the Bus Company. The work was such simple drudgery, the salary so tiny, and the office so like a hovel with its mud floor and walls and its thousands of flies, alive and dead, that often during those hours from three o’clock to six his ambitions both for himself and his country crumbled into dust which choked his mind as the real dust, drifting in through the broken window from the sun-baked streets, choked his throat. His colleague was a thin consumptive youth called Aziz, whose frequent coughing kept blowing the tickets off the table and bespattering them with germs whose deadliness no one knew better than Wahab, master of microscopes. Yet Aziz was most of the time cheerful and laughed as often as he coughed. Indeed, it was laughter that sometimes brought on the coughing. Wahab was quite shocked by his dying colleague’s levity; besides, for Laura’s sake, he had to try to protect himself from the disease. This was not easy, in such a small dirty room, with both of them so close together and so many flies buzzing from lip to lip, but he learned to tell when a bout of coughing was about to begin, and had his own handkerchief out, as if in sympathy, but really to cover his mouth and nose. Once, though, when Aziz had been unable to find the coloured rag he usually used, Wahab, with a kind of tragic generosity, had lent his. ‘If I could, my poor Aziz,’ he had cried, ‘I would lend you my lungs too.’ Of course he had insisted many times that Aziz should consult a doctor, go into a sanitorium, rest there for six months or a year, eat wholesome food, and come out again, cured and strong. But though there were plenty of doctors, all of whom in Aziz’s case good at shrugging their shoulders, there were no sanatoria, wholesome food, cure, new strength. Sometimes he saw Aziz dying of a curable disease as the embodiment of Afghanistan, and that vision of despair had his eyes warm with angry tears.

  Therefore that evening about seven o’clock when he cycled off the tarred main street along the mud track that led to the carpet serai, on his way to the meeting with the Council of the Brotherhood, he felt more indignation on Aziz’s behalf than fear on his own. He supposed they were displeased with him for proposing to marry a feringhee or perhaps for having had whisky thrown in his face in a foreigner’s house, thus bringing ridicule upon the whole nation. But surely, if they really were patriots sworn to purify their country and protect it from disgrace, it was far more important that they should use whatever wealth or power they had to help Aziz and the many intelligent, admirable young men like him doomed to suffering and early death?

  At that hour the serai was deserted. The moonlight lay where during daylight the red carpets were spread out for customers to examine and walk on. Those carpets, thought Wahab, with their beautiful traditional designs were the best artistic achievement of his country. Besides, so indelible the dyes and durable the wool, the more they were used the better they became. Thus they too might symbolize Afghanistan but far more hopefully than poor Aziz did.

  The shutters were down at Raouf’s bazaar, but no sooner had he arrived there than from around the corner slunk two large men, with turbans on their heads and their faces hidden to the eyes by blankets, under which no doubt they clutched knives. Yet he did not feel afraid. One snarled, asking what he wanted. He answered with a coolness that astonished himself and impressed the two thugs, one of whom began to knock on the door with what looked like the handle of a knife. In a moment a similar knocking was heard from within.

  Wahab was not impressed – neither by this mystery nor by his own danger. Indeed, as he grunted scornfully, he wondered if they could have drunk any whisky within the last few minutes: this exalted feeling of fearlessness was almost the same as the one he had felt seconds before Moffatt had flung the whisky in his face. Yet he had had nothing to drink for hours, except a few drops of polluted water at the office; and he had had nothing to eat, either. Could hunger produce this balloonlike effect of soaring above earthly fears and anxieties? Yes, because it was hunger not only of the belly but also of the soul. He wanted to yell, louder and more confidently than the muezzin from the minaret of the mosque: ‘I am Wahab, scientist and idealist. In my lungs millions of Aziz’s germs are already at work. I have many other enemies also unseen. But I am not afraid. I dare not be afraid, because, let me warn you, Brotherhood that skulks in darkness behind assassins’ knives, if Wahab yields, if he goes down on his knees to you and begs for mercy, then for our country, for our unhappy beloved Afghanistan, there can be no hope. I, Wahab, humbly proclaim that I represent the last hope. Do not forget that. Drag me away, beat me, kill me, strew my bones over the desert; I shall not once whine, but in the distance you will hear the noise of a great lamentation. Do not wonder what it may be; it will be the soul of our country mourning.’

  The door had opened. Someone within pulled him, one of the muffled guards outside pushed, but respectfully, and in he stumbled. The room was thickly carpeted; at least half a dozen of Raouf’s carpets were spread out on top of one another. It was lit by one electric bulb, shaded with green paper. Several men, green-looking, sat on the floor and gazed up at him. They had scarves draped over their hats and turbans, screening their faces. He sniffed, but there was no smell of hashish; he stooped, but no cards or money were on the carpet; he peered into corners, but the bundles lying or standing there were not women, but rolled carpets. This was not a den of ordinary human vice. Here murder was not done, but merely planned; or much more likely here silly dreams were dreamed.

  He heard a scornful laugh, and realized, from the startled swingings of the scarves, that it had come from himself. He knew it would be more discreet to restrain himself, but instead he cried: ‘Good evening, gentlemen. I am Abdul Wahab, at your service. You see, I have come; but not because I am a slave to be summoned. I am an Afghan.’

  The man who had opened the door for him spoke in what was meant to be a disguised voice, but Wahab at once recognized it as the one on the telephone.

  ‘Hush,’ muttered this man, scandalized. ‘Remember in whose presence you are. Are you drunk again?’

  ‘Sir, you are mistaken. I may be hungry, but I am not drunk. Sometimes I go deliberately hungry. Do you know why? It is to remind myself that millions of my countrymen are frequently hungry.’

  That was a lie, or at least an exaggeration. As he said, he remembered a feast he and Laura had had at Christmas with some friends. There had been turkey, mince pies, Christmas puddings, wine. He had eaten and drunk the most. Everyone had laughed.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the official was murmuring. ‘Do not speak so loudly. The Council is in the next room. We know about our people’s hunger. It is one of the things we are pledged to remove.’

  As if to prove that claim, one of those seated on the floor felt under his wrappings and produced a slab of nan, which he held up to Wahab. Without hesitation, the latter took it, calmly broke off a piece, and returned the rest with a dignified word of thanks. He felt the whole action was symbolical, and he performed it therefore with a dignity that brought a lump to his own throat and surely also to the throats of these benevolent murderers.

  Meanwhile the man in command had rapped on an inner door, had been bidden to enter, and had gone in. Before Wahab had finished the piece of bread, which he found particularly delicious, the other was back again, whispering: ‘They are ready. Please be respectful. I assure you these men are important.’

  Men, thought Wahab, in astonishment and disgust, as he boldly entered the inner room. Behind a table there sat three forms, shrouded in shaddries; one, in the middle, the chairman, was as small as any woman, and his voice was almost squeaky enough to be feminine. Yet it sounded familiar.

  ‘Please be seated, Mr Wahab,’ he said, courteously. ‘We are glad to welcome you.’

  ‘I shall be frank, sir,’ said Wahab passionately, as he sat down on the chair at the opposite side of the table. ‘I do not know yet if I am glad to be here. I do not approve of secrecy. It is, moreover, my belief that the shaddry should be abolished, and yet I find you, and your collea
gues, hiding within them.’

  The man on the right, big and burly, spoke in a deep harsh voice. ‘It is not for you to instruct us. Please remember your proper station.’

  ‘My station is that of a free-born Afghan.’

  ‘You are a teacher; that is all. Your father is a mere clerk. You are in the presence of your superiors. Please conduct yourself accordingly.’

  Somehow Wahab felt that patriotic boldness was still the best policy. ‘No man who has to hide his face in my presence is my superior,’ he said. ‘He is not even my equal.’

  Again he wondered where on earth he got the nerve to speak so audaciously. Usually he took care to avoid such provocative boasting. Then, in the midst of his amazement that the present reckless boaster was himself, he realized that the small man, the one in the middle, the fidgety leader, was without doubt Prince Naim. The silent one on the left might be Mojedaji. Perhaps the massive deep-voiced one was an Army general.

  Once for a whole day Wahab had worn his sister’s shaddry in the house. As a male Afghan, he had wanted to experience for himself the ignominy and discomfort that he and his like were guilty of inflicting on their womenfolk. He would never forget how his spectacles had immediately clouded over with his imprisoned breath, how the cloth at his mouth had become infantilely wet, how his body all over had sweated and itched, how slow and difficult scratching had been, and how, at the end of the day, he had hardly known who he was or cared to know, identity, personality, and pride being all darkened and smothered.

  No doubt something of the kind was being felt by the three men in front of him. Did not the Prince wear spectacles? Would not the big man sweat a lot?

  Coolly Wahab considered how best to exploit his own advantage.

  ‘It is not time for us to reveal ourselves,’ muttered Naim.

  The big man, the General, said suddenly: ‘We are considering the case of the Englishman, Moffatt. Last week in his house he insulted you, and so the whole nation, by throwing whisky in your face. Is this true?’