He remains standing in the doorway, smiling indecisively, waiting for a sign from the jailer before he advances or retreats. “I saw a light,” he explains. “I said, Good old Atiq, he’s not doing very well, I should go and keep him company. But I haven’t come with empty hands. I brought a little dried meat and some crab apples.”
Atiq considers, then shrugs and points to a sheepskin on the floor. All too glad to have been granted admission, Nazeesh sits down in the indicated spot, opens a little bundle, and spreads out his bounty at the jailer’s feet.
“I said to myself, Atiq was too nervous to stay home. He wouldn’t come to the jail when there aren’t any prisoners, not at this time of night, unless he needed to relieve his mind. Me, too, I’m the same way. I’m not comfortable at home. My hundred-year-old father won’t let up. He’s lost most of his sight, he’s lost the use of his legs, but his capacity for endless grousing remains intact. He’s always bitching about something. Before, we could give him something to eat to shut him up. These days, we don’t have very much food to sink our teeth into, and since he’s lost his, there’s nothing in the way of his tongue. Sometimes he starts by demanding silence, and then he’s the one who can’t stop talking. Two days ago, he wouldn’t wake up. My daughters shook him and sprinkled water on him; he didn’t move. I felt his wrist — no pulse. I put my ear against his chest — no breathing. I said, Okay, he’s dead; we’ll notify the family and give him a fine funeral. I left the house to tell the neighbors the news; then I went around to cousins, nephews, other relatives, and friends and announced the passing of the eldest member of the tribe. I spent the morning receiving condolences and demonstrations of sympathy. Around noon, I go back home, and who do I find in the courtyard, bitching at everybody? My father, in flesh and blood, very much alive and kicking. His mouth was open so wide, I could see his gums— they’re kind of a sickly white. I think he’s lost his mind. It’s impossible to sit down to eat or even to go to bed with him in the house. As soon as he sees someone passing, he pounces and starts growling out insults and reproaches. Sometimes I lose my head, too, and I start yelling back at him. The neighbors join in, and they all believe that I’m sinning in the face of God by not being patient with my venerable sire. So in order to avoid upsetting God, I spend most of my time outside. I even take my meals in the street.”
Atiq hangs his head. Sadly, Nazeesh isn’t the same anymore, either. Atiq met Nazeesh a decade ago, when he was a mufti in Kabul. He wasn’t an object of adulation, but hundreds of the faithful would gather to hear his Friday sermons. He lived in a big house with a garden and a wrought-iron gate, and sometimes it happened that he was invited to official ceremonies, where he received the same treatment as the notables. His sons were killed in the war against the Russians, a fact that elevated him in the esteem of the local authorities. He never seemed to complain about anything, and no one knew anybody who was his enemy. He lived a comparatively reserved life, moving from the mosque to his house, and from his house to the mosque. He read a great deal; his erudition commanded respect, even though he was seldom called upon to give his opinion. Then, without any warning, he was found one morning stalking along the avenues, wildly gesticulating, drooling, eyes bulging. The first diagnosis was that he was possessed; the exorcists, however, struggled with his demons in vain, and then he was sent for several months to an asylum. He will never return to full possession of his faculties, but sometimes, in moments of lucidity, he withdraws completely to hide his shame at what he’s become. He often sits outside his front door under a faded umbrella and looks with equal indifference upon the passing people and the passage of time.
“Do you know what I’m going to do, Atiq?”
“How could I? You never tell me anything.”
Nazeesh listens carefully; then, certain that there’s no chance he’ll be overheard, he leans toward the jailer and says in a confiding whisper, “I’m going away.”
“You’re going away where?”
Nazeesh looks toward the door, holds his breath, pricks up his ears. Unsatisfied, he gets up and goes out into the street to make sure there’s no one around. When he returns, his pupils are sparkling with demented elation. “Damned if I know. I’m just going away, that’s all there is to it. I’ve got everything ready — my bag, my stick, and my money. As soon as my right foot is healed, I’m turning over my ration card and all the papers I’ve got and then I’m going away. No thank-yous, no good-byes. I’ll pick a road at random and follow it all the way to the ocean. And when I reach the shore, I’ll throw myself into the water. I’m never coming back to Kabul. It’s an accursed city. No one can be saved here. Too many people are dying, and the streets are full of widows and orphans.”
“And Taliban, too.”
Alarmed by the jailer’s remark, Nazeesh jerks his head around in the direction of the door; his scrawny arm sketches a gesture of disgust and his neck grows an inch longer when he mutters, “Ah, them. They’ll get theirs.”
Atiq inclines his head in agreement. He picks up a slice of dried meat and examines it with a skeptical air. To prove to him that there’s no risk, Nazeesh gulps down two mouthfuls. Atiq sniffs at the morsel of dessicated flesh once again before laying it aside and selecting an apple, which he bites into hungrily. “So when will your foot be healed?”
“In a week or two. And after that, without a word to anyone, I’m going to pack my things, and— poof! — I’ll be gone in a flash, never to be seen again. I’ll walk straight ahead until I keel over, without speaking to anyone, without even meeting anyone on the way. I’m going to walk and walk and walk till the soles of my feet merge with the soles of my shoes.”
Atiq licks his lips, chooses another fruit, rubs it on his vest, and swallows it whole. “You’re always saying you’re going to leave, and you’re always here.”
“I’ve got a bad foot.”
“Before this, you had a bad hip. And before that, it was your back. And before your back, it was your eyes. You’ve been talking about leaving for months, and yet you’re always here. You were here yesterday; you’ll be here tomorrow. You’re not going anywhere, Nazeesh.”
“Yes I am. I’m going away. And I’ll cover my tracks on every road I take. No one will know where I’ve gone, and even if I should want to return, I won’t be able to find my way back.”
“Nonsense,” says Atiq. He obviously means to be disagreeable, as if frustrating the poor devil could be a way of getting revenge for his own disappointments. “You’ll never leave. You’re going to stay planted in the middle of the neighborhood like a tree. It’s not that your roots are holding you back, it’s that people like you aren’t capable of venturing farther than you can see. They fantasize about distant lands, endless highways, and incredible adventures because they’ll never be able to make them real.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“You can’t know what tomorrow has in store for us, Atiq. God alone is omniscient.”
“You don’t need a crystal ball to predict what the beggars are going to do tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sun comes up, you’ll find them in the same place, holding out their hands and whinnying, exactly as they did yesterday and the day before that.”
“I’m not a beggar.”
“In Kabul, we’re all beggars. As for you, Nazeesh, tomorrow you’ll be on your doorstep, sitting in the shade of that shitty old umbrella of yours and waiting for your daughters to bring you your wretched meal, which you’ll eat at street level.”