Just then the office light went out. I waited. A figure emerged from behind the wrecked cars, but I couldn’t tell if it was a guard or an office worker. As he came closer, I could see that it was an old man in a cap — clearly the guard.
“Good evening,” I called.
“Good evening,” he said with an Afghan accent. No doubt one of the thousands of Afghan refugees who had fled to our country.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“No. A couple of months ago I took a stencil machine out of the shed. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need it any more, so I brought it back, but the gate was locked. I’ve got it out in the car. I live far away, so I’d rather not make another trip. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me put it in the shed.”
He thought it over.
“Who let you have the machine?”
“A friend of mine arranged it. He said I could just take it out of the shed. It’s an old machine that should actually be scrapped. That’s why I’ve brought it back.”
“OK, go and get it. But you can’t take it to the shed — it’s too dark back there. Just put it down here. I’ll bring it to the shed myself tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you.”
I hurriedly opened the trunk, hauled out the stencil machine and lowered it to the ground. Then I dragged it in its blanket over to the gate and left it just inside.
“More coffee?” the café owner asked.
“Yes, thanks. It’s good coffee.”
“Are you keeping a journal?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I suppose it’s a kind of journal.”
“You write fast. Have you lived in Holland for long?”
“I may write fast, but I make lots of mistakes. When I go back home, I’ll have to go through it all again and correct it.”
“Your Dutch is good. Where do you come from?”
“Iran. Persia.”
“No kidding! Look, I’ve got Persian carpets on my tables. Not real ones, of course, but nice all the same. They brighten up the place, make it look smarter. Well, I won’t disturb you any more. I expect you’re staying at the campground.”
“Yes, I’m here with my family.”
The fog had lifted. The villagers were walking down the main street in festive clothes. A group of older men, about my father’s age, came into the café. They greeted the owner, then started talking loudly to each other in dialect. It made the café a lot more cheerful.
The owner brought me a fresh cup of coffee and said, “I suppose you won’t be able to write any more with all the—”
“No problem. I’ll manage.”
Now that I’d disposed of the stencil machine, my instructions were to park the car somewhere and abandon it.
You agree to follow instructions like these without realising you might actually have to carry them out one day.
I had to do as I was told. Otherwise I could endanger the lives of others. I knew a lot about the party and I knew where a number of my comrades lived. If I were arrested, the police would drag the information out of me, bit by bit. This was no time for hesitation. A deal was a deal. I had to dump the car.
Without a car, though, how was I going to get around? And what were my next instructions?
As I drove through the darkness, I had a brilliant idea: I could park the car at my father’s house. No, that was no good. It might sit there for months. What about behind the shop? There was a tiny plot of land where nobody ever went. It would be perfectly normal for a car to be parked there for a long time. Spare parts were so hard to find during the war that people often left their broken-down cars outside their homes.
I turned the car around and took the road to Senejan. I’d arrive in the middle of the night, which was good, because my father would be at home and the streets would be deserted.
• • •
It was almost quarter to one when I reached the city. I drove to my old neighbourhood. I saw a dog sniffing at a dustbin, but when he heard the car, he crept back into the darkness. I drove past my parents’ house. The curtains were drawn as usual, but the lights were on. Were they still awake? Tina’s silhouette suddenly moved across the curtains. She’s up, I thought. What’s going on? I felt a sudden urge to stop, but the house was off-limits. Whatever was going on behind the curtains was no longer my concern. And yet, I thought, it ought to be possible to drop in for a moment, say hello and leave.
I parked the car and was just about to get out when I saw my father’s silhouette on the curtains. He threw up his hands and disappeared.
I had no right to know what was happening in their lives. I’d better go — I had come here for another reason. I started the car and drove to my father’s shop.
I was used to seeing a light on in the window. This time it was dark. I drove slowly past the shop, then turned right at the corner so I could park behind it. Because I didn’t want to wake the neighbours, I stopped, switched off the engine, got out and tried to push the car the rest of the way. It wasn’t easy, but I finally managed to push it under an old tree. Suddenly there was a flicker of light in the window of the lean-to where we’d once hid Jamileh.
I thought I must be mistaken, that my imagination was playing tricks on me.
I took out the vehicle registration papers and locked the car doors. What should I do with the papers and the key? I probably wouldn’t need them for a long time. Maybe never. I went over to the lean-to so I could slide the key and the papers through a crack in the window frame.
Tomorrow, when my father saw the car behind the shop, he’d realise what had happened. Eventually he’d also find the key and the vehicle registration papers in his lean-to.
The papers slipped easily through the crack, but the key wouldn’t fit. Since the window frame was rotten, I gouged out a hole with the key, then pushed it through. As the key fell to the ground, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure inside. “Don’t worry,” I whispered quickly, to calm whoever it was. “It’s OK. Everything’s all right.”
Who could it be? Golden Bell? A friend of hers? Did my father know? I had no idea and it was none of my business. I was the stranger here. I needed to disappear, to get away from my father’s shop.
I’d left my flat, got rid of the stencil machine, and abandoned the car. Next I had to dispose of myself. I’d never expected to be in a situation like this. Since I realised that the police might pick me up if I headed into town, I started walking in the opposite direction.
An hour’s walk put the city behind me. I saw the mountains, then the snowy peak of Saffron Mountain. I felt like an apple that had fallen from the bough. It could never be put back. My only option was to follow the path to the other side of Saffron Mountain. Flee my country? I’d never given it a moment’s thought.
How could I leave my father, my mother and my sisters? I hadn’t even said goodbye to my wife and daughter. No, the least I could do was to call Safa and let her know I’d be gone for a few months — maybe more, maybe less.
I retraced my steps to my old neighbourhood, where there was a phone box. I dialled the number of Safa’s grandmother. My wife would know immediately that it was me. Who else would call in the middle of the night? She picked up the phone after only a few rings.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said hurriedly. “How are you? How’s Nilufar? Listen, I’ve only got a couple of coins. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going away for a while.”
“Going away?” she said sleepily. “For how long? Where?”
“I don’t know. But I have to go. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m safe. Say hello to Grandma for me. I love you.”
“Me, too. Good luck.”
Reality was cruel. We had to keep the conversation short — she knew that. You had to put your emotions on hold. Political activists weren’t allowed to make long phone calls. You were supposed to deliver your message in a few short words, then hang up.