Nazeesh is upset. After all, the step he’s proposed to take is one that a considerable number of people have already taken; it’s happened many times over. He doesn’t understand why the jailer refuses to believe that he, Nazeesh, is capable of taking it, too, and he doesn’t know how to convince him otherwise. Nazeesh observes a period of silence, at the end of which he gathers up his little bundle, a sign that in his estimation the jailer is no longer worthy of his generosity.
Atiq sniggers, deliberately plucks away a third apple, and puts it aside.
“Before, when I spoke, people used to believe me,” Nazeesh says.
“Before, you were in your right mind,” replies the inflexible jailer.
“And now you think I’m cracked?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
Nazeesh shakes his chin in consternation. His hand is a little unsure as he lifts his bundle, but then he rises to his feet. “I’m going home,” he says.
“Excellent idea.”
With a heavy heart, he slouches to the door. Before disappearing, he confesses in a toneless voice, “It’s true. Every night I say I’m going to leave, and every day I’m still here. I wonder what can be holding me back.”
After Nazeesh has left, Atiq lies down on the cot again and joins his hands under his head. The ceiling in the little prison fails to inspire him with any escape fantasies, so he sits back up and clasps his face. A wave of anger mounts up to his eyeballs. With clenched fists and jaws, he rises and heads for home. If his wife persists in her role of sacrificial victim, he vows, he’s going to stop treating her so gently.
Six
THE PAST NIGHT, it seems, has mellowed Zunaira’s mood. This morning, she got up early, apparently reassured, and her eyes were more captivating than ever. She’s forgotten our misunderstanding, Mohsen thought; soon she’ll remember it and start sulking again. But Zunaira hasn’t forgotten; she’s simply understood that her husband is distraught, and that he needs her. To harbor ill will against him for having performed a primitive, barbarous, revolting, insane act, an act not only absurd in itself but also symptomatic of the current state of Afghanistan, an atrocious act that he regrets and suffers from as from a wound in his conscience, would only serve to render him more fragile than he already is. Things in Kabul are going from bad to worse, sliding into ruin, sweeping along men and mores. It’s a chaos within chaos, a disaster enclosed in disaster, and woe to those who are careless. An isolated person is doomed beyond remedy. The other day, there was a madman in the neighborhood, screaming at the top of his lungs that God had failed. From all indications, this poor soul knew neither where he was nor how he had lost his wits. But the uncompromising Taliban, seeing no extenuating circumstances in his madness, had him blindfolded, gagged, and whipped to death in the public square.
Zunaira is no Taliban, and her husband’s not mad; if he lost his way in a moment of collective hysteria, that’s because the horrors of everyday life are sufficiently powerful to overwhelm all defenses, and human degeneracy is deeper than any abyss. Mohsen is behaving like other people, recognizing his distress in theirs, identifying with their degradation. His deed provides proof that everything can change, without warning and beyond recognition.
It was a long night for both of them. Petrified by his anguish, Mohsen remained outside, sitting on his stone step, until the muezzin’s call. Zunaira didn’t sleep a wink, either. Curled up on her mat, she sought refuge in memories of long ago, of the days when children sang in public squares now besmirched by dirt and disfigured by gallows. Not every day was a holiday, but there were no fanatics shouting “Sacrilege!” when kites fluttered in the air. Of course, Mohsen would take a certain number of precautions before allowing his hand to brush against the hand of his beloved, but such prudence only intensified the passion they felt for each other. Traditions were traditions; one had to live with them. The necessity of discretion, far from frustrating the lovers, preserved their romance from prying eyes and increased the profound thrill they felt whenever their fingers escaped notice long enough for a magical, ecstatic touch.
They had met at the university. He was the son of a middle-class family; she was the daughter of a prominent man. Mohsen was studying political science and looking forward to a diplomatic career; Zunaira’s ambition was to become a magistrate. He was a straightforward, decent, moderately religious young man; as an enlightened Muslim, she wore assertive head scarves and modest dresses, sometimes over loose trousers, and actively campaigned for the emancipation of women. Her zeal was unmatched, save by the praises heaped upon her. She was a brilliant girl, and her beauty lifted every heart. The boys never tired of devouring her with their eyes. All of them dreamed of marrying her, but Mohsen was her choice; she fell in love with him at first sight. He was courteous, and he blushed like a maiden when she smiled at him. They married very young and very quickly, as if they sensed that the worst, though yet to come to them, was already at the gates of the city.
Now Mohsen makes no effort to conceal his relief. He even tries to display it in all its fullness to his wife, so that she may judge how he languishes for her when she turns her back on him. He can’t bear her not speaking to him; she’s the last link that still connects him to anything in this world.
Zunaira says nothing, but her smile is eloquent. It’s not the same smile her husband is used to seeing on her face; it is, however, more than enough to make him happy.
She serves him his breakfast and sits down on an ottoman, resting her folded hands on her knees. Her houri’s eyes follow a wisp of smoke, then fasten on her husband’s. “You got up very early,” she says.
Mohsen flinches, surprised to hear her speaking to him as though nothing has happened. Her voice is gentle, almost maternal, and he deduces from it that the page has been turned.
He swallows a mouthful of bread so hastily it nearly strangles him. Wiping his lips with a handkerchief, he says, “I went to the mosque.”
She knits her eyebrows. “At three o’clock in the morning?”
He swallows again, clears his throat, searches for a plausible explanation, and tries this: “I wasn’t sleepy, so I went outside to get some fresh air.”
“It really was very hot last night.”
They mutually acknowledge that the humidity and the mosquitoes have been particularly disagreeable for the last few days. Mohsen adds that most of their neighbors also resorted to the street last night, escaping their baking hovels, and that some of them didn’t return home until dawn. The conversation revolves around the pitiless season, the drought that has ravaged Afghanistan for years, and the diseases that are swooping down like maddened hawks on entire families. They talk about everything and nothing, without ever alluding to last night’s misunderstanding or to the public executions, which are becoming more and more common.
Then Mohsen suggests, “How about taking a walk to the market?”
“We’re completely broke.”
“We don’t have to buy anything. We can admire the heaps of old rubbish the merchants are trying to pass off as antiques.”
“What will we get out of that?”
“Not much, but it’s an excuse for walking.”
Zunaira laughs softly, amused by her husband’s pathetic sense of humor. “You don’t like it here?”
Mohsen suspects a trap. With a gesture of embarrassment, he scratches the wispy hairs on his cheeks and pouts a little. “That’s hardly the point. I feel like going out with you. They way we used to in the good old days.”