Dust on the Paw

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘Really, I should be asking you that,’ he said huffily. ‘I have not said I dislike him at all.’

  ‘You do not have to speak, darling, for me to understand what you are thinking and feeling. You are transparent. What did he do to you? I like her. Yes, I think she’s good-hearted and honourable, but like many another woman she’s had to subvert her own decency in order to humour him. She’s beautiful, in rather a fragile way; but it was quite degrading to see how all the time she was in horror of displeasing him. Their relationship struck me as very precarious. I think I know his kind: on paper and in speech, no one could be more enlightened; but in action, especially where he is affected personally, how evasive and cowardly. For a time, I suppose, it flattered him to have this beautiful little yellow creature from Indonesia as his wife: a poet’s gesture, you might say; but now she’s pregnant and he’s suddenly realized he’s going to be the father of a little slant-eyed, yellow-skinned brat. The poetry has gone out of the situation; now it’s merely grotesque and shameful.’

  Wahab had listened with a grin of admiration, although he felt sure she was wrong.

  For some reason his grin irritated her. ‘What was it he did to you?’ she said very sharply, as if to indicate that this nonsense of evasion must stop.

  Out of annoyance this time he tried to advance his hand again, but utterly without success; in fact, if anything, he lost ground.

  ‘Had it anything to do with me?’ she asked. ‘I suppose it must have.’

  All of a sudden her resistance seemed not quite so determined; or perhaps her hand was growing tired.

  ‘He went to the authorities and tried to get them to refuse you a visa.’

  ‘And yet,’ she said, ‘he’s the kind you’ll hear saying that visas ought to be done away with.’

  She showed her contempt by pressing her lips tightly together, and also, so he imagined, by loosening still more that grip of her hand on his; at any rate, he was able to gain at least another inch.

  ‘But that wasn’t all, Abdul?’

  ‘No. He also flung some whisky in my face.’

  At that her hand flew away altogether, so that his own, astonished, remained where it was.

  ‘The fat arrogant beast!’ she whispered. ‘Where did it happen?’

  He noticed her thigh, like the rest of her, was trembling with indignation. ‘Don’t let it trouble you, dear,’ he said.

  ‘It is known, and talked about?’

  ‘Oh, I should think so. Everyone in Kabul knows about it.’

  She seemed almost to have stopped breathing. The look in her eyes was as frightening as a dead woman’s.

  He found himself patting her knee. ‘It’s all right, my dear. He put himself in my power, although he doesn’t know it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Brotherhood wanted to have him expelled from the country.’

  ‘Does it have the power to do so?’

  ‘Oh yes. Naim is a member, and Dr Habbibullah, and other very important men. I advised them, not yet.’

  ‘Why did you? Sometimes forgiveness is neither wise nor admirable.’

  ‘I do not think I have forgiven him. Yet I do not hate him.’

  ‘Your trouble, Abdul, is that you can hate no one.’

  He reflected. ‘I believe that is true,’ he agreed ruefully. ‘I do wicked things to people thinking I hate them; but I do not.’ It was certainly, as she implied, a deficiency. Maftoon, now, could hate as easily as a child could suck a sweet. Consequently, who in a few years’ time would have risen, and who fallen?

  ‘To have Moffatt expelled would not be a wicked thing,’ she said. ‘How dare he do such a thing to an Afghan in his own country!’

  ‘Yes, that is really how to look at it. But, do you know, Laura, sometimes I think he was not flinging it in my face at all, but rather into the face of his own misery. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘No, I do not. Abdul, he must go. I could not live in the same country with such a man.’

  He smiled, and squeezed her knee. How many far more wicked men than Moffatt were there in England, where she had lived for thirty-three years; and if Moffatt left Afghanistan, now or later, would there not be many liars, cheats, adulterers, and murderers left?

  ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘What were you talking about at the time?’

  ‘His children.’

  ‘But he has none.’

  ‘Yes. I think perhaps that was why he was so upset. Some doctor has told him that Mrs Moffatt can never have any children.’

  It was her turn to grip his knee, and she did it painfully. ‘That cannot be true,’ she cried. ‘Mrs Moffatt is pregnant.’

  Thereupon both looked back at their hostess at lunch. Wahab could remember no swelling of belly or breasts: such symptoms would be very noticeable in so dainty a woman. Laura, more subtle, remembered the darknesses under the eyes, the secretive smiles, and especially the fond timid glances toward the sulky inseminator.

  The taxi now turned off the tarred street down a road shaded with trees and corrugated with great ruts in the sun-hardened mud.

  It rocked and lurched, so that Wahab’s hand, now quite free of its jailer, slid up and down her thigh. Suddenly, startling him and knocking his hat askew, she flung herself upon him and kissed him madly. It was, he suspected, as much a blow against Moffatt as an affectionate gesture towards him; and it was outrageously indiscreet, with the taxi stopped and the driver staring round, with lewd scowl.

  Wahab was so disconcerted and embarrassed that he paid the fare demanded, though it was double what it should have been.

  ‘This is the house,’ he said, rather peevishly. ‘Do not judge it by the state of the road. All these heaps of mud will be levelled. The ditch will be cleaned. This rubbish will be removed.’

  Amidst the rubbish he saw a cockerel’s head, with open eyes and brilliant red feathers.

  ‘You see, the house has been empty for some time, so servants from the other houses dump their rubbish here. This is not Manchester: no garbage trucks come round every second day. But we shall have our revenge when we get a servant, for he will go and dump our rubbish outside those other gates.’

  As he said it he realized how primitive his attitude was, and how dishonoured his country was by it. ‘I am joking,’ he added, sadly.

  But she was still thinking about the Moffatts. ‘I cannot live with them,’ she said.

  He was trying to turn the key in the lock of the gate.

  ‘I shall go to a hotel.’

  ‘There is only one, and it is not suitable.’

  ‘Then I shall go and live with your people.’

  ‘No, no. That is not possible.’

  ‘Why isn’t it, Abdul?’ She seized his arm. ‘You never speak about them. Why? Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘The key will not turn. It is very stiff.’

  ‘I meant, with your people and me.’

  He stopped trying to turn the key, and faced her with the same kind of sneer he had shown at the lunch table. But now it seemed to be at her expense.

  ‘I must ask you, Laura, not to concern yourself with my people.’

  ‘But why, Abdul? If we get married they will be my people too.’

  ‘If! Always you say if. And in the taxi, were you not saying it with your hand? I am a man of flesh and blood, Laura.’

  She ignored that panted reproof and appeal. ‘I shall try very hard to make your people approve of me. If it is necessary, I shall become a Moslem.’

  He let out a little groan. Clever woman though she was, she seemed to think that a few minutes’ intelligent, well-meaning conversation could undo the prejudices of a thousand years.

  ‘We cannot talk here in the public road,’ she said, and taking the key from him unlocked the gate.

  It was of course luck, yet it was typical of her. Oh yes, he must very soon show her that he was the male, the dominant partner.

  The gate shut behind them; they stared at the garden.


  ‘I’m afraid it has been neglected,’ he had to mutter.

  Yet how beautiful it had seemed when he had come here the first time, a young husband to be seeking a nest for his bride and future sons. Now with that bride frowning beside him he saw how long the grass was, how weedy the path, unkempt the flower beds, and rank the roses. Nor were the mountains after all any more marvellous than when seen from Moffatt’s terrace. They were nearer, but that only made more obvious their stony barrenness. No doubt the carvings of the swans on the bedroom ceiling would also be a disappointment. He remembered too, with an inward moan of dismay, that on a previous visit when he had lovingly pulled the lavatory chain to test it, it had come away in his hand. But, for God’s sake, had it been a fault to see the house as the beautiful home of his love?

  Holding him by the arm, Laura turned from the garden to the house. In her eyes he saw all the shabbiness and dilapidation which his own so pusillanimously had pretended not to notice.

  ‘It needs whitewashing,’ she said, ‘and a few windows put in.’

  A rat moved among the rose bushes.

  She saw it, but went on: ‘I’m sure we can make it into a beautiful home.’ Yes, despite Moffatt, despite this hot mountain sunshine which was making her slightly dizzy and squeamish, despite Abdul’s refusal to let her meet his people, and despite his incessant fidgetings of desire which were confusing her. She wanted to sit down somewhere in the shade and discuss all these matters responsibly, so that a reasonable understanding might be arrived at as to how their three-month experiment might best be conducted. She wanted to know too how Abdul had obtained his promotion, and what he had meant, on the way from the airport, when he had referred so favourably to the Russians. But resolution kept melting with her very flesh in this fierce dazzling sun. Under her armpits was dark with sweat, and she could feel it trickle between her breasts. The greasy rice, too, as she had feared it would, was turning sour in her stomach.

  She dabbed her brow and eyes with her handkerchief. She had been warned to take Vioform tablets but had refused, believing that her stomach, like the rest of her, must learn to accept Afghanistan. With an effort she smiled fondly at Abdul. He was cool, handsome, and still desirous. She loved him. He seemed to be hoping that her strangeness was caused by desire for him. Perhaps it was.

  He took her by the hand and led her toward the house.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not now, Laura; but it will be. A man and a woman in love can turn a hovel into a beautiful home. But this is far from being a hovel. It belongs to a friend of Prince Naim’s, an important man in the Brotherhood. He is letting me have it for a very low rent.’

  She made an effort to stop the drift of her mind. ‘What is this Brotherhood, dear? Is it some kind of society? I hope it is not reactionary, or Communist.’

  By this time they were in the house out of the sun. It was much cooler. She felt better, but not yet clear-headed enough to admire the pale Afghan furniture and the red carpets, as he led her quickly through the drawing room into the bedroom. She noticed the lampshade there was strange, in the shape of silk wings and that the blue quilt on the bed was embroidered with great butterflies in red and black. The window was opaque with dust; in a corner of it hung a big cobweb with at least a dozen dead flies and insects. For a moment she was filled with pity, but whether for the flies or for herself, she was never to know; next moment she was whirled off her feet on to the bed, with Abdul on top of her, his breath reeking sourly of rice.

  She seemed not to be a participant, but an observer, watching from somewhere near the cobweb.

  ‘My dress, please,’ she said.

  ‘You mean,’ he panted, ‘you wish to take it off?’

  How mistaken he had been in her! So reluctant in the taxi, so willing now. Yet such swift changes were unfair to him. Surely at her age she ought to know that if a man’s passion was played with like this, then at the crucial moment it might be found extinguished, and no amount of fanning could rouse it until hours afterwards.

  ‘It is new. I do not want it crushed.’

  ‘Then it will be better to take it off. I shall help you.’

  The observer in the corner laughed. No attempt was made to prevent the removal of the dress; on the contrary, arms were held up, and shoulders wriggled. His help was eager but gentle. He unhooked the brassiere too.

  ‘This is madness,’ remarked the observer.

  ‘No, no. I love you, Laura. I have waited for years. Do you wish me to wait forever? This is our house, our bed, darling; our children will be born here.’

  ‘We are not married yet.’

  ‘But we will be. Nothing could be surer. Haven’t I suffered for you, Laura my dear? Wasn’t whisky flung into these eyes? I thought I would never see you again. Did they not all despise me at the Club? Except Mr Gillie, the Consul, whose wife wants us to be married in the American Church. But at the Garden Party, who shook my hand? Yes, the Prime Minister himself; and the Ambassador and his wife spoke to me. Yet my invitation was false. But then, do I not often have the feeling that I am here in life itself with a false invitation? Your love, Laura, should convince me I am wrong.’

  During this panting and tearful speech, the observer had come over, was bending down, whispering: ‘So this is love? This is what is called consummation. This is what you have dreamed of, feared, longed for. Do you not find it merely much pain, shameful muddle, outrage, and the worst disappointment of your life? If you do, do not be too surprised or appalled. It is the same with most women, though few will confess it.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ wept the participator.

  Wahab could not forgive that sobbed affirmation; with it went absolutely no physical encouragement or assistance. He was left shocked and unappeased. It was not his first attempt at intercourse, but it was by far the least successful; prostitutes had been kinder and more co-operative than this woman who was to be his wife and the mother of his sons. All during the act, besides sobbing ‘yes, yes, yes,’ she had lain and twitched like an animal stricken to death. Small wonder his own performance had been that of a debilitated Indian clerk, rather than that of a bearded Afghan warrior.

  When, afterward, he turned his head to look first at her naked but parsimonious breasts, and then further up at her face twisted unrecognizably, he could not help considering the excellent reasons for not marrying her. In the first place, it would need far too much courage and resolution to make love to her again; in the second place, when she recovered her wits, she would without doubt use them to upbraid him coldly, as if the fiasco had been his fault; and in the third place, when the shaddry was abolished as it would be next week, the streets of Kabul would be thronged with girls younger, plumper, more beautiful, and far more enterprising in the making of love.

  Thus three or four minutes passed.

  ‘Please leave me,’ she said, at last.

  He got up with a snort of hurt pride that quickly degenerated into a sigh of self-pity.

  ‘I just want to get dressed,’ she explained, with a softening of her voice that, in spite of all his resolves, instantly softened his heart. As he stood looking down at her she bravely opened her eyes and just as bravely made no attempt to cover her body with her arms. She even smiled, and he found himself smiling back.

  When he went out on to the terrace and stood, trembling, watching the rat still playing under the rose bush, he realized that, yes, despite her skinniness, her ignorance of and lack of enthusiasm for love, her wrinkles, and her dismissal of him as if she were some kind of princess and he a gardener brought in for a minute or two to serve her, despite these faults, and many others which he could have enumerated as surely as he could have plucked off those mildewy rose-petals, he still had a great fondness for her, and would have all their lives, even if his was spent here in Afghanistan and hers in far-off Manchester.

  He heard her at his back. The familiar, slight scraping of her left foot awoke memories of their happiness together in England. That would
have been best, after all: to have remained in England. She had urged that it was his duty to return to his country and help in its advancement; he had consented, with misgivings that now, after his recent successes, were stronger than ever.

  She stood behind him and put her hand into his. Each felt the other tremble. She spoke humbly.

  ‘You mustn’t look for too much in me, Abdul. You know the kind of life I’ve led. I’m thirty-three, and I’ve been deceiving myself for the past twenty years. But if you still want me, I’ll be a different woman; or, more truthfully, I’ll do my best to be.’

  He tried too to keep his voice humble, but it kept rising, in a kind of haughtiness: ‘It was my fault, I’m afraid. I brought you here with the intention of making love to you. I had it planned.’ He suddenly realized, in awe at his own innocence, that he had neither looked up at the carved swans himself nor urged her to look up at them.

  ‘I knew it,’ she replied. ‘I thought I would have enough resistance for both of us.’

  No wonder then, he thought indignantly, I found the experience not only unenjoyable, but difficult.

  ‘Is it possible,’ she asked, so wistfully he hardly recognized her voice, ‘I could have conceived?’

  ‘It is not likely.’

  ‘I hope I have. I want to have a child. Whether we get married or not, I want to have one.’

  Yes, she was the kind of woman who, if he deserted her, would take back his dark-faced child to England with her, and cherish him nobly all her life. She was too good for him, he decided. Next moment he saw that in that admission lay his most honourable way out.

  ‘You are too good for me, Laura.’

  ‘I am not good, Abdul. I am untried, that’s all. Do you know what I have been thinking?’

  He was more concerned with not losing his own train of thought.

  ‘I’ve been thinking I was too harsh in judging Mr Moffatt.’

  ‘And not harsh enough, I am afraid, in judging me, Laura. You must not marry me. For your own sake.’

  ‘There’s nothing I want more in the world. I see this house and garden, not now, but in ten years’ time. I see our children playing on the grass there.’