Dust on the Paw

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘As a matter of fact, Harold, there is. Mabie mentioned it.’

  ‘Why then did you not tell me?’ cried Wahab.

  ‘Because, my dear fellow, you did not ask very politely.’

  ‘Is this true, Kansab?’

  ‘Certainly, Harold. An Englishwoman, called Johnstone. With gray hair.’

  ‘Ah, insults now!’ cried Wahab. ‘She is a young woman. How can she have gray hair?’

  Yet it was more than six months since he had seen her, and even then there had been traces of gray in her brown hair. Could love for him in his absence have turned her white? It was for a moment a thought for tears, and then for horror: a crippled foot was bad enough, without gray hair too. He had decided to give her age as twenty-eight. If she had turned gray every hair would scream that he was a liar.

  ‘This must be another Englishwoman,’ he said.

  ‘No, there’s only one. Her name on the passenger list is given as Miss Laura B. Johnstone.’

  The B. was for Baxter.

  ‘I suppose Mr Wahab couldn’t talk to her for a moment, Kansab?’ asked Harold. ‘Just to say “hello”?’

  As Kansab hesitated, Wahab burst out: ‘I do not wish to talk to this woman with gray hair. Please do not unite to make me a fool.’

  Then they heard the hum of the aeroplane.

  Kansab’s earphones crackled. He spoke in cheerful Urdu to the pilot.

  ‘Let’s get out and watch it coming in,’ said Harold.

  They hurried out.

  ‘She has not got gray hair, Harold. How could she have? She is younger than you.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you could find some gray hair in my head if you wanted to look that hard. But you’ll have to keep a grip on yourself, man. Look, there’s Naim. He’s come after all.’

  ‘Did I not tell you he would come?’ It was almost a scream. ‘You think I am a liar every time I open my mouth.’

  Harold smiled and caught his arm. ‘Keep calm, Wahab. I’d be excited too if it were Lan that was coming. But you’ll make a mess of her welcome if you can’t keep calmer than that. Remember she’ll be tired. She’s come a long way.’

  They approached their friends.

  ‘Does Mr Winfield know she is lame?’ asked Wahab.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t told him.’

  ‘He is a diplomat. He will hide his contempt.’

  ‘Contempt? For God’s sake!’

  ‘But Mrs Mossaour will not. She is a bitter, disappointed woman. She plots to poison Laura’s mind against me. Ah, but when she finds Laura is lame, it will be different. Mrs Mossaour will refuse to become her friend. That is good. That pleases me very much.’

  He was laughing in glee when they joined the others. He shook Prince Naim’s hand, and with his elbow gently nudged Mrs Mossaour’s soft bosom to plead with her to look up at the aeroplane, glinting in the sun as it turned to make its descent over the low houses and green fields. He bit at his own knuckles as he watched it land safely and then become lost in a cloud of golden dust.

  He became rather hysterical, insisting on shaking hands with Mrs Mossaour and appealing to her to be a good friend to Laura, whom in two or three minutes they would all see for the first time.

  The plane, visible again, came taxiing into view. Attendants were standing by with landing steps.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ cried Wahab. ‘I must run and meet her.’

  He ran on ahead; they followed slowly.

  ‘I hope he is not going to be disappointed,’ murmured Naim.

  ‘Why should he be?’ asked Harold.

  ‘Sometimes I have thought this woman Wahab has told us about does not exist. Oh yes, an Englishwoman called Johnstone does exist – she will come out of that aeroplane in one minute – but is she really the woman Wahab has spoken of?’

  ‘I don’t see why she shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Ah, but you will not see her through Afghan eyes, Harold.’

  Soldiers at the barrier were keeping Wahab back. He appealed to Naim.

  ‘Better wait here, Wahab,’ advised the Prince. ‘There is a good reason for these regulations, you know.’

  They watched the activity at the plane. First off were the two pilots, one wearing a red turban; then some men, one of whom stamped joyously on the firm ground; then a woman, who came very slowly down the steps, helped by an attendant.

  ‘Laura,’ cried Wahab, waving.

  But it wasn’t Laura, as he saw a moment later; this woman was slow because she was old.

  Next came two Afghan women, in shaddries, which they wore rebelliously. No doubt they had waited until the plane had landed before putting them on.

  After them, descending carefully as if she too were handicapped by a silken envelope, came the woman for whom they were waiting.

  ‘She seems to have hurt her foot,’ said Mrs Mossaour.

  ‘No, no,’ explained Wahab, in love. ‘She is lame. She is always lame.’

  ‘Lame?’

  ‘Yes, ever since childhood. A tragic illness.’

  ‘But I had no idea. Did you know, Lan?’

  Lan nodded.

  ‘Why wasn’t I told?’ Mrs Mossaour sounded strangely distressed. Her reflections upon Miss Johnstone would have been different had she known. Now, forced to cancel them, and with no time to replace them, she stood in agitation, squeezing her cheek cruelly.

  With a slow, patient, curious gracefulness Laura limped toward them.

  She is gray-haired, thought Harold.

  Goodness, she is as small as I am, thought Lan; I had the impression she was as tall as Maud.

  No, decided Naim, in anguished disappointment, she is not any more wonderful than any of them; her coming will make no difference at all.

  One thing’s certain, thought Howard Winfield, Wahab didn’t fall for her because of her prettiness, as Mohebzada evidently had for his red-haired, doll-faced wife.

  When she was about twenty yards away the soldiers withdrew their bayonets and Wahab, with a hoarse cry, rushed to meet her. At least he set out at a rush but, remembering where he was, in Afghanistan, where a man might greet another man affectionately in public, but not a woman, he slowed down to a rather stiff walk for the last few steps. They did not kiss, though it seemed to one or two of those watching that she held up her face in expectation, but they did take hands, awkward though it was for her, with her white raincoat over her arm, some magazines under it, and a small handbag in her other hand. He seemed, after the first endearments, to warn her about the people she would soon meet, for she took her eyes off him to stare at the others with what struck some of them as a challenge.

  Then he led her forward, with a mixture of love, defiance, and embarrassment.

  Harold saw that her hair was really brown, but fast turning gray. She was years older than in the photograph he had seen. But her brow was still as broad, and her eyes, though tired, were alert and intelligent. He imagined he could read her life in her face: much stanchly borne loneliness; inability to find male friends, more because of her own fastidiousness than of their revulsion to her being a cripple; inability to make women friends too; charitable work among the poor and the unhappy; ostentatious befriending of foreigners, especially if coloured. Not his kind of woman at all, but to feel pity for her would be an impertinence. She deserved better, though what it was exactly that she deserved and wanted he could not say.

  What a pity, thought Howard Winfield, that the two women meeting her should be, each in her own way, so striking and beautiful. Courageous and intelligent though Laura evidently was, beside Lan Moffatt she seemed obvious and commonplace; while contrasted with Maud Mossaour’s tall, fair-skinned, ample beauty, she was thin and sexually quite unexciting.

  Wahab, he thought, was making these comparisons too; and he felt sorry for him.

  Reserved with the rest of them, including Prince Naim, she was almost warm in her greeting of Lan.

  ‘I have thought a lot about you, Mrs Moffatt. I hope we are going to be friends.’<
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  Then she looked round and saw some Afghans watching.

  ‘Are those your people, Abdul?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no. They could not come. Later. You must come now and have your luggage inspected, and also your passport. I shall go with you.’

  He almost dragged her away.

  None of them at first was willing to speak.

  ‘Nothing in life,’ murmured Naim, ‘is what one hopes it will be. Please convey to Wahab my regrets. Tell him I am sorry I could not stay. I really must hurry back to my office.’ And off he went, almost running, like a man in grief.

  Mrs Mossaour laughed. ‘If we didn’t know our little prince,’ she said, ‘we might suspect that he had been looking forward to sleeping with Wahab’s future wife, as a reward for favours shown.’

  ‘Maud, please,’ said Lan.

  ‘Don’t be mealy-mouthed, Lan. We know it’s done; and my opinion of Wahab, indeed of every Afghan, is that, though the arrangement might offend his pride a little, he would readily enough agree to it, provided further advantages might be expected.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Maud.’

  ‘It is? What’s wrong with the arrangement, if the wife agrees? I doubt if in this case she will.’

  ‘I doubt if she’ll ever become his wife,’ said Howard Winfield. ‘And he’s the one who’ll decide against it.’

  ‘I was surprised to find she had a limp, though of course for self-pity’s sake he exaggerated it,’ said Mrs Mossaour. ‘But I was even more surprised to find her without, so far as I can judge, a vestige of sexual attraction. Do you agree, Howard?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And you, Harold?’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be my choice, but—’

  ‘Yet Wahab’s the kind of man who looks at a woman as if she had no clothes on. They all are, except the Prince, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh hell, Maud,’ said Harold. ‘We all are, if it comes to that. Give the poor devil a chance.’

  ‘And give her a chance too,’ said Lan. ‘She’s just arrived after a long journey. The country’s strange. We’re strange.’

  ‘And she’ll find him strangest of all,’ said Maud. ‘Howard’s right. They won’t get married, but it won’t be she who’ll back out. She’s the kind who’d go through with it out of a spirit of sacrifice. But Wahab will prefer some Afghan woman whose father’s got influence.’

  ‘That’s possible enough,’ agreed Harold. ‘Especially if the shaddry’s coming off this Jeshan, as he maintains. Have you heard anything about that, Howard?’

  ‘Only the usual rumours. Who’s his source of information? Naim?’

  ‘I expect so. And others of the pro-Russia clique. Wahab seems to have got well in with them.’

  ‘It won’t last,’ said Mrs Mossaour. ‘Look how Naim went away.’

  ‘Yes. He’s a kind of visionary, you know. He had some absurd idea that Laura was coming here not just to marry Wahab but also to give her blessing to the whole country. Don’t ask me in what way. I doubt if he could explain it himself. You saw how disillusioned he seemed to be.’

  ‘Yes, and Wahab too,’ said Maud.

  ‘Well, here they come. For God’s sake, let’s give them a chance. We’ll forget our clever ideas about them, and just help them to become whatever it is they want to become.’

  ‘Do you know,’ whispered Howard, as he watched Laura and Wahab approaching, ‘I’m disappointed myself, and I’m damned if I know why.’

  ‘Isn’t it simple?’ asked Maud. ‘Laura the oracle has been so unwise as to come out of her cave.’

  Two airport servants came behind Laura and Wahab carrying her luggage.

  ‘No trouble at the Customs,’ cried Wahab, laughing. ‘I explained who she was, and scribble went the chalk. We are really more civilized, you know, than you British. I had hours to wait and the young man was very rude. Here there are no smart uniforms, but there is courtesy. Where is Naim?’

  ‘He had to hurry back to his office,’ said Harold. ‘He asked us to convey his apologies. Of course you’re all coming to our house for lunch.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Maud, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t. My children are waiting for me.’

  ‘How many children have you, Mrs Mossaour?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Two.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Their father is Lebanese,’ said Maud. ‘Therefore they are dark.’

  Laura smiled, but what it meant no one there, including her fiancé, knew her well enough to say.

  ‘I would like to get a chance to speak to you about the school,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. There’s plenty of time. We are now on holiday.’

  Laura dabbed some sweat off her brow with a handkerchief. ‘In sunshine as hot as this,’ she murmured, ‘everyone must be dark.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to the Embassy, Harold,’ said Howard. ‘But I’ll be pleased to drop off Miss Johnstone’s luggage at your house. That’ll give you more room in your car.’

  ‘Will you give me a lift home, Howard?’ asked Maud.

  ‘With pleasure.’

  So that was the arrangement. Howard and Maud went on ahead in the former’s Land Rover, with Laura’s luggage; and the Moffatts in their Volkswagen followed behind, with Laura and Wahab in the back seat.

  She looked out eagerly, and asked quick questions.

  ‘There is no need to be impressed, Laura,’ said Wahab. ‘It is not impressive.’

  She was interested in the great arch under which they drove.

  ‘It isn’t always there, is it?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Harold. ‘Your fiancé was telling us he had it put up especially for your arrival.’

  She patted Wahab’s hand.

  ‘It was a joke,’ he muttered. ‘It is in honour of Mr Voroshilov, President of Russia.’

  ‘Yes; I heard on the plane that he’s expected. When?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow. It will be a great day for Afghanistan. I am bringing my schoolboys to the airport to cheer him.’

  ‘Why? Wouldn’t they go of their own accord?’

  ‘The intelligent ones would; the lazy and foolish ones wouldn’t. It is important that we are friendly with Russia. She is our neighbour, and she is the most advanced country in the world.’

  ‘Here’s one of her products coming towards us,’ remarked Harold.

  It was one of the small taxis supplied by the Russians. Even the Afghans scoffed at them as shoddy tin cans. Handles, however gently used, soon got wrenched off, so that passengers had to be tied in with string or wire. To sound his horn the driver as often as not had to touch the dashboard with a live wire.

  The taxi rattled past. Its hood clanged up and down. Much quieter and steadier was the turban of its driver, but he looked disgusted, as well he might, for the steering did not seem satisfactory.

  Laura laughed, to Wahab’s indignation.

  ‘No, do not laugh,’ he cried. ‘Remember that their sputnik is travelling around the earth.’

  ‘That’s what makes it so funny,’ said Harold. ‘You’d think a nation capable of sending up a sputnik would be ashamed of such rubbish. Compare it with the American cars.’

  ‘Be sure we do compare it with those, Harold. The Russians make cars for poor people who have little money; the Americans make them for the rich.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘It is not nonsense. And something else is not nonsense. It is not nonsense to point out that most of the American cars to be seen in Kabul, belonging to Americans of course, are set down as aid to Afghanistan! Did you know that?’

  ‘I had heard of it,’ said Harold, with a chuckle. At least fifty students had lectured him on it.

  ‘Laugh at the Russians as you wish,’ said Wahab. ‘You will see that the future lies with them.’

  ‘You didn’t always think that, Abdul,’ murmured Laura.

  Instead of answering her, he shouted: ‘Look at those unhygienic fools
!’ He pointed to two little dung-gatherers who crouched beside recent camel droppings, using their hands as shovels to throw the dung into the kerosene cans on their backs.

  ‘That must certainly be prohibited by law.’

  Laura was looking back at the small bare-legged boys in the beaded pill-box hats. ‘They’re charming,’ she said.

  ‘Charming! Oh, Laura, how can they be? They are picking up filth as if it were gold. It is not charming, it is degrading.’

  ‘They looked cheerful enough.’

  ‘The most cheerful people in the whole of Kabul,’ said Harold.

  ‘Would you, Harold,’ cried Wahab, ‘allow your children to do it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘And neither would I. And to every patriotic Afghan of today every child in want is his own child.’ As he said it passionately, he meant it; but he knew that tomorrow perhaps he might not mean it quite so much, and the day after that again he might feel he could not afford to mean it at all just then.

  Laura, however, appeared to think that the sentiment was as much a part of him as his love for her, and that it was therefore as permanent as the heart that felt it. She squeezed his hand, and gave him that public smile of loving approval which he remembered so well, and which now began that chilling retreat within him sooner than he had expected. Here was the danger, anticipated certainly, but not obviated. In patriotism and altruism, as in every other human activity, adaptability was essential: rigidity might so easily result in breakage or total loss. But Laura had always been a fanatic for principle. In spite of her quietness and physical smallness, he had often thought that under torture she would not yield by so much as a word to her enemies; whereas he – probably at the first prick of the knife under his fingernails – would scream withdrawal of everything he had ever said, even though deep in his heart he would hope later to scrape up a little courage to resume his beliefs, however inevitably modified. Here in Afghanistan she would have to be advised by him, just as in England he had let himself be advised by her. In the first place the mass of injustice was so much more enormous than in England that the humanitarianism effective enough there would be worse than useless here; and in the second place she was not really beautiful or regal enough to tell Dr Habbibullah, for example, to his big brutal intelligent face, that his concern for the poor was too tactical, and therefore insincere.