Dust on the Paw

by Robin Jenkins

  Twenty

  IN THE cold shower Laura reviewed her first impressions of Afghanistan.

  As she watched the water stream down between her breasts, zigzag across her belly, and pour off her knees to gurgle down the hole in the dark-tiled floor where she had already seen a cockroach skulking, she warned herself how important it was, when assessing the present, not to let the past and future sentimentalize it.

  Scrutinizing her small body, still virginal after thirty-three and three quarter years, juiceless therefore and prudish in every nerve, she attempted once again to see it through the eyes of a man whose sexual appetite was above average but well below bestiality. Abdul’s peculiar, longing look at Mrs Mossaour’s voluptuous bosom that morning had not been lost on her, and she remembered his every single glance in England at an attractive waitress or shop girl. Ultimately she had not blamed him for that interest; prude though she knew she was, she still did not think she would care to marry a man without it. Once they were married she never doubted she could compel him by methods still uninvestigated not only to confine his amorousness to her but also to restrict it within the limits of decency. Indeed, now, in the shower, her heart missed a beat or two, and she smiled as she realized how near might be those shores of sexual discovery. Intrepidly, and with proper explorer’s scepticism, she had studied several books on sex, and after much self-analysis was convinced that she did not really suffer from frigidity as she had once suspected, and as Abdul, she knew, still feared. She was not sure that she would ever enjoy what was rather repulsively called making love, because no matter how conducted, with all the finesse and affection possible, it must still by its very froglike nature lack dignity; but secrecy and moderation could make the best of it.

  They would have children. Against the top of her thigh, the whitest and smoothest part of her body, she held the golden sponge with which she had been dabbing herself. With luck her children might be such a beautiful colour, somewhere between her own pallor and his tan; but without luck, as apparently in Mrs Mossaour’s case, they might be almost black. All during her long spinsterhood she had been in the habit of reading, sometimes twice, those articles in women’s magazines which gave advice on mothercraft, but she had never come across any which advised on this particular problem. If there had been one no doubt its advice would have been as sensible, and as difficult to follow, as if she had written it herself. What she needed was to escape from the prison of her own intelligence, where everything was always in order and surprise was not allowed to enter until, as it were, it had wiped its feet. Afghanistan itself, marriage to Abdul even, might not be enough to drive her out; but having dark-skinned children of her own to cherish and protect probably would.

  The question was, would she, like Mrs Mossaour, merely love her children in an environment of bitterness, or would she, because of her love for them, love every other child, whatever its colour?

  She considered the glimpses she had got of Kabul on her way from the airport to the house. The sight of the women hidden in shaddries had caused her bowels to quake with a great anger and shame. She had listened without reply to Abdul’s explanation that the mullahs, as well as old people, believed that with its removal rape and indecent assaults and sexual murders would break out, but she had thought, better those, than this tame and sordid degradation. They had passed a ghoddy-driver whose horse was being recalcitrant; it would not move and he had begun to kick it in its belly. She had wanted the car stopped and the driver reprimanded but both Moffatt and Abdul had assured her that interference, especially by a woman, and a Christian feringhee at that, would only have made matters worse for the horse. Besides, Abdul had added, with that confidence new to him, if the horse refused to work, the driver would earn nothing; no one would eat, neither himself, his family, nor the horse itself. She had not argued, but she had made up her mind that if she became an Afghan she would devote a good part of her life to persuading her countrymen to show kindness to animals.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Instinctively, even when she recognized Abdul’s voice whispering her name, she pulled a towel round her.

  ‘Are you all right, Laura?’

  ‘Yes, of course, dear. Why shouldn’t I be? Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘No, no.’ He giggled. ‘It’s just that you are being a very long time. Our hosts are waiting to serve lunch.’ He pushed at the door, gently but with force.

  As she watched the small brass bolt hold, she felt a proper relief but also, what surely was not proper, a kind of disappointment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He chuckled. ‘Remember in Afghanistan in August you do not need so many clothes as you do in England.’

  She had laid out on her bed her white dress, brassiere, and panties. Had he seen them on his way through the house to the bathroom? She imagined him handling them.

  ‘Do you think, Laura,’ he asked then, in a whisper so intimate he might have been making love, ‘it is a nice bathroom? For Afghanistan, I mean? For so primitive a country?’

  It was adequate, that was all. It lacked a bath, except for the large zinc one propped against the wall. There was a W.C., but the hinges on the seat were loose, and though the cistern did flush, after some persevering tugs, it did so with a sudden roar like a wounded animal, and thereafter subsided through snarls and groans to low quiet sobs. The window looked out on a yard in front of the servants’ quarters, which included a dry lavatory. Along the window ledge, inside and out, hundreds of tiny ants were pompously and incessantly busy. No doubt also in the drain that huge cockroach had playmates. Perhaps scorpions paid visits.

  ‘Yes, it is quite nice,’ she said.

  ‘A surprise?’

  ‘Yes, a surprise. But not so big a one as the garden.’

  She had been delighted by the garden. The gate in the high compound wall had opened, and a sudden vividness of green and of red roses had struck her like joy. When she had turned to smile at Abdul she knew that in him, as indeed in every human being, there were in the midst of so much everyday dreariness visions of joy like this to be seen, but in many cases the door was hard to open.

  ‘Yes, it is quite a nice garden,’ he said. ‘From the terrace you can see the mountains.’

  She had flown over those mountains, indeed among them, for often the red pinnacles had soared above on either side. She had been afraid, not of the bumping and rocking, but of their fantastic strangeness. They had not been like a part of the familiar earth at all, but of some other planet where the customs of the inhabitants must be different from those at home to which, after years of painful rebellion, she had learned at last to conform. It might be that in Afghanistan things would be so ordered that she could quickly and joyfully accept them, but she did not think it likely. So she had thought in the aeroplane. Now she knew that cruelty, lust, jealousy, anguish, and all the rest of the mixture existed here too, beyond the strange mountains. She did not feel disheartened.

  Abdul seemed to be stroking the door, as if it were her body. Neither she nor her body knew whether to be affronted or shamelessly thrilled.

  ‘But our house,’ he whispered, ‘has a nicer bathroom, and a nicer garden, and from its terrace you have a better view of the mountains.’

  ‘Our house, dear?’

  ‘Yes. When we are married.’

  ‘But, Abdul, you must not forget our arrangement. I am to live here for three months, before we decide. It is as much for your sake as for mine.’

  ‘Yes. But you are forgetting something, Laura.’

  She smiled, trying to recall. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I am not a poor assistant teacher any more. I am the Principal. You saw that Prince Naim was at the airport. I am also the friend of Dr Habbibullah, the Minister of Justice; he is a very important man. I was publicly presented to His Excellency the Prime Minister at the British garden party. Last week I was made a member of the Brotherhood.’

  Hearing the pride in his
voice, she was proud too. Often in England she had wondered if his bitter tales of poverty at home were true; she had thought that he might be testing her love.

  ‘It is very likely I shall have a distinguished career,’ he said. ‘Many people tell me so. With you to advise me, I could in time become a Minister.’

  Again she felt thrilled, but she said: ‘I shall always think of you as my poor student, who liked fish and chips.’

  They both laughed, fondly.

  ‘But I am ready to come out now, dear,’ she said. ‘Please run away.’

  There was silence. ‘Very well, if you wish.’

  As she dressed quickly, she vowed not to be the kind of wife who would humiliate her husband by refusing his advances when they were most ardent, and by encouraging them when his hurt pride made them reluctant. It did not occur to her to wonder how she knew of such wives.

  At lunch she was particularly gentle with Abdul. When she remarked that cruelty to animals seemed to be prevalent in Afghanistan, he protested passionately. Bits of food spurted from his mouth. She saw them alight on the tablecloth, and felt at least one on her face. Yet she kept smiling, with pity and fondness.

  ‘But, Abdul dear, you used to tell me so yourself. In any case, please don’t let’s discuss it now. Mr and Mrs Moffatt aren’t interested. Do let’s change the subject. Yes, Abdul, please.’

  At that familiar sharpness in her voice, he had to swallow his indignation, pride, and food in one big gulp, which brought tears to his eyes. She saw them, stared with her own eyes a little hard, and then turned quickly to her host and hostess, whose relations with each other she wished to examine. Moffatt she already considered a fat, conceited, intellectual oaf; she had been surprised to learn he wrote poetry.

  ‘How long have you been in Kabul, Mrs Moffatt?’ she asked.

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘But you are really Chinese? Is this a Chinese dish, by the way? It is delicious.’ Really she thought the rice too greasy, the lumps of mutton too fat.

  ‘No. It’s pilau. An Afghan dish.’

  ‘Some people eat it with their fists,’ said Wahab, rather morosely.

  She smiled at him as a headmistress might at a small boy interrupting her conversation with one of the staff.

  ‘Do you think you will be here long?’ she asked. ‘You must forgive my asking. I want you to be here. I would like very much to have you as my interpreter of things Afghan.’

  She noticed them exchange glances. Abdul had mentioned in a letter that he thought their marriage troubled by the lack of children. She now believed he was right. But why had they none? Was one of them sterile? Or did his poet’s pride recoil from fathering a half-caste? From his present glowers she thought this more likely.

  ‘We hope to be here for another year at any rate,’ said Mrs Moffatt.

  ‘I see. I expect it will depend upon the renewal of a contract, or something like that.’

  ‘Mr Moffatt is much appreciated by his students,’ said Abdul, with a sneer that she decided to question afterwards, in private.

  ‘You teach them English, Mr Moffatt?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I expect you find them apt pupils?’

  ‘Very.’

  He suspects I am probing, she thought. Look how he scowls. How he would like to tell me to mind my own business.

  Then she had to turn from him for a moment to raise her brows in affectionate reproof at Abdul who, absent-mindedly, was scooping up food from his plate with a piece of bread.

  ‘What is the Afghan attitude to children?’ she asked.

  Mrs Moffatt smiled carefully down at her plate. Her husband let his knife clatter. The question had shaken their defences.

  It was Abdul who foolishly answered. ‘But Laura, what could be our attitude?’ he asked, with a grin. ‘Do you think we eat them?’

  She accepted the joke. ‘What I meant was, does it not have an effect on them to see their mothers’ faces covered in public?’

  ‘They get used to it. That is what is wonderful about children. They get used to anything.’

  ‘In a way that is true, Abdul. Is it the case that Mrs Mossaour’s children are very dark?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I have never seen them.’

  She had not asked him. The two she had asked, still repairing the damage her first question had caused, were slow in answering.

  She waited.

  ‘They are rather dark,’ said Lan, at last.

  ‘So the children have just been very unlucky?’ she asked. ‘I believe that happens often. I’m afraid I’m very unscientific, but it’s got something to do with genes.’

  ‘No one here considers them unlucky,’ said Lan. ‘They are healthy, beautiful children.’

  ‘In what way is it unlucky to be dark-skinned?’ asked Moffatt.

  ‘I should have made it clear,’ she murmured, ‘that I was of course not expressing my own opinion, but rather that of the world. The world would consider such children unlucky.’

  ‘Only that part which is white-skinned.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Moffatt. The part too which is dark-skinned. We must not think that it is only the white races who look down upon those who are so ridiculously called half-castes. I believe the dark races are even more prejudiced against them.’

  Abdul was staring at her, open-mouthed. Mrs Moffatt’s pale-lemon left cheek was twitching. Moffatt, though, was grinning viciously.

  ‘If Abdul and I get married,’ she added, ‘our own children will be called half-castes.’

  ‘Please do not use the word, Laura,’ said Abdul. ‘It is detestable.’

  ‘It is. But we must face up to it. No doubt it is thought oftener than it is spoken. Ultimately all races will commingle. It is inevitable, as the species reaches maturity.’

  ‘You do not think it is mature now?’ asked Moffatt.

  ‘Goodness, no. Far from it. Childish rather, in so many ways.’

  ‘Laura and I are going this afternoon to look over our house,’ said Abdul.

  She smiled at him. If they did get married that was one lesson he would have to be taught: never to change the subject, if she had initiated it.

  ‘Dear Abdul is so precipitate,’ she murmured. ‘He keeps forgetting that if I marry him, I marry Afghanistan also.’

  ‘And what is wrong with that?’ he cried.

  ‘There might be a lot wrong with it, dear. I might not be worthy. Consider Mrs Mohebzada.’

  ‘But she hates Afghanistan, Laura!’

  ‘With good reason,’ said Moffatt.

  Again she noticed Abdul’s peculiar sneer. ‘From what I have gathered,’ she said, ‘she’s very young and – shallow.’ She deliberately hesitated, as if careful to choose a word accurate enough but not too unkind.

  ‘Her love for her child’s as deep as any,’ burst out Moffatt.

  He looked foolish after saying it, as well he might. Laura laughed.

  ‘I wouldn’t doubt that for a moment,’ she said. ‘Maternal fondness is universal throughout the entire animal kingdom.’

  Caught in a trap, Moffatt could find no answer. He scowled with desperate love at his wife, but she, trapped too, could not help him to escape.

  What the precise nature of that trap was, thought Laura, could soon enough be discovered, but she was in no hurry. In the meantime it was sufficient to know that it had to do with children. Was it because Mrs Moffatt was pregnant? As, smiling, she inspected the other woman for any signs, she found herself hoping there would be none.

  Twenty-One

  IN THE taxi on the way to inspect their house Wahab decided that if he did not assert his maleness very soon he probably never would. He had been proud of Laura’s performance at lunch; it had been so typically feminine, in its ruthless inquisitiveness; and he had looked on it as an instalment in his own revenge upon Moffatt. But if she was going to continue to be useful in that way, it was necessary that she should act under his control, and be seen to do so
. Emancipation was being granted to Afghan women shortly, but it would be ludicrous, and indeed treacherous, for him to allow Laura to wrap him in a mental shaddry. He owed it to his nation and his sex to subdue her.

  To try to convince her by persuasion and argument was not quite useless, but almost so; she was much too opinionated and resourceful, not to mention cold-bloodedly patient. Action was needed, and the more direct the better. So, while she was gazing out at the thronged, decorated street along which the taxi was honking and zigzagging, he shot out his hand and firmly planted it on her bare knee. That knee instantly stiffened, and a small fierce hand dropped like a hawk on his, not pulling or tearing away, but holding captive. All his efforts to travel further up were restrained. Yet she continued to gaze out and ask interested questions about what she saw.

  He tried hard not to let his heart sink too low in discouragement and humiliation. It might just be that she felt this very public part of the street, with camel drivers peering in, was hardly the proper place for premarital caresses. Perhaps this small hand with the remarkable strength was really counselling patience until they reached the privacy of the house. He had already told her about the carvings on the ceilings, especially of the bedroom. She had pressed his hand then, too.

  ‘The men,’ she remarked, ‘have magnificent faces, especially those with beards.’

  ‘Those are ignorant tribesmen, uncouth and barbarous. They do not respect law and civilization. They hold Afghanistan firmly in the past.’

  ‘Almost any one could act the part of Christ.’

  ‘Laura, you would be surprised to know how rife syphilis is in their villages.’

  ‘If the women are as beautiful, Abdul, I can see I shall have to keep a very close eye on you, once the shaddries are removed.’

  She laughed, and he thought it a good time to try again; but it wasn’t, for he gained not a quarter of an inch.

  ‘Why do you dislike Moffatt so much?’ she asked.