Qassim’s reminiscences fill his eyes with a distant shimmer. He purses his lips and stops talking. He’s not sad; rather, he’s disappointed, as if his memories have unexpectedly upset him. After a long silence, he clears his throat, turns his whole body around to the left, and adds, “Maybe she was a saint. Why not, after all? She heard no evil and spoke no evil.”
“So she was blessed.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. She was a placid person, she had no enemies, and she led an uneventful life. For me, the epitome of her was her smile, which was always the same, except that it was bigger when she was contented and smaller when she was upset. If I left home too young, that was surely the reason. Talking to her was like talking to a wall.”
The driver leans his head out of the window and spits. His saliva whirls in the flying dust before landing on his beard, which he wipes with the back of his hand. Then, in a curiously cheerful tone, he says, “I never knew my mother. She died giving birth to me. She was fourteen. My old man, who had barely reached puberty himself, was grazing the flock a few steps away, a bit lost in childish daydreams. When my mother started groaning, he didn’t panic. Instead of going to fetch the neighbors, he tried to take care of her himself. Like a grown-up. Things went wrong very fast. He kept trying, and here I am. He doesn’t know how I survived and, what’s worse, he can’t understand why my mother died on him. It still preys on his mind, after so many years and four marriages. . My mother suffered a lot before she passed away. I never knew her, but she’s always there at my side. I swear to you, sometimes I can feel her breath on my face. I’m on my third marriage in less than a year.”
“Because of her?”
“No, my first two wives were disobedient. They weren’t very energetic, and they asked too many questions.”
Qassim fails to see the connection. He rests his head on the back of his seat and stares up at the interior light. Another curve, and then — Kabul! Huddled amid the wreckage of her avenues, she seems at best a tragic joke, but in the background, like a raptor waiting for its quarry, looms the sinister prison of Pul-e-Sharki. Qassim’s eyes gleam with a peculiar light. If he never misses an opportunity to accompany condemned wretches to the foot of the scaffold, it’s precisely because he wishes to draw the mullahs’ attention to himself. He was an exceptional combat soldier, and he has gained a commendable reputation as a militiaman. One day, his perseverance and dedication will induce the decision makers to appoint him commander of that fortress, the largest and most important penal institution in the country. This position will allow him to rise in status, become one of the notables, establish connections, and go into business. Then and only then will he know peace and rest from his exertions.
“So she must be in Paradise right now?”
Qassim jumps. “Who?”
“Your mother.”
Qassim stares at the driver, who seems not wholly in his right mind. The young man smiles at him while steering through the middle of a web of ruts. At that instant, the road curves, they turn their backs to the city, and the fortress of Pul-e-Sharki vanishes behind a sandstone quarry.
Below them, far below them, down there where the bottom of the valley sinks beneath the deceptive waters of a mirage, a contingent of camels is climbing up the slope. Lower still, on his feet in the middle of a cemetery, Mohsen Ramat looks up at the mountainside, where the lights of a big 4 × 4 are streaking along the road.
Every morning, Mohsen comes here to look up at the taciturn peaks; he does not, however, dare to climb them. Zunaira has withdrawn into an overwhelming silence, and ever since then, Mohsen can no longer bear to go among crowds of people. When he leaves his house, he hastens to the old cemetery, where he spends hours and hours alone, far from the bazaars and their infestation of bawling vendors and armed zealots. Nevertheless, he knows that he won’t draw much profit from his ascetic meditations. There’s nothing to see, except for utter dereliction, and nothing to hope for. And all around him, there’s the exceedingly arid landscape. It’s as though the land has despoiled itself in order to heighten the distress of those who live there, trapped between the rocks and the blazing heat. The sparse strips of greenery that deign to show themselves here and there make no promise of blooming; the blades of the baked grass crumble at the least quiver. Like gigantic dehydrated hydras, the streams languish in their undone beds, with nothing but their stony bowels to offer to the sunstroke gods. What has he come looking for among these grotesque tombs, at the foot of these taciturn mountains?
Leading an impressive cloud of dust, the big 4 × 4 rolls through the cemetery. Qassim glances at the dejected young man wandering among the dead. It’s the same fellow he caught a glimpse of this morning, when he left for his native village. Qassim looks at him carefully for a moment, wondering what he could be doing all day long in a deserted cemetery under the scorching sun.
The driver relaxes, easing up on the accelerator as he turns into the first narrow streets of the city. The sight of groups of kids at play and clusters of old men gathered in the shade of garden fences cheers him up. He’s glad to be going home. “That sure was a hell of a trip,” he remarks, waving at an acquaintance in the crowd. “We spent hours jolting our vertebrae loose on bad roads, and we ate all sorts of horrible food.”
“Stop whining,” Qassim growls.
“After I turn off the engine, and not before,” the driver says stubbornly, pulling a comical face. “What are we going to do? Shall I drop you off at home?”
“Not just yet. I need to take my mind off things. Since you won’t stop griping about how I’m starving you, what do you say we go to Khorsan’s and nibble on some kabob? My treat.”
“I warn you, I can eat enough for four.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You’re a prince, boss. Thanks to you, I’m going to stuff myself until I’m sick.”
Khorsan’s eating place stands at one corner of a ravaged public garden, across from a bus stop. In the little square, the fumes of barbecued meat compete for the rare breezes with the clouds of smoke raised by the passing vehicles. A few customers — among them the jailer, Atiq — are sitting at the crude tables squeezed against one another under a wicker canopy. Indifferent to the sun and the squadrons of flies, the diners bestir themselves only to drive away the hungry street urchins. These children have been overexcited by the aromas coming from the grill, where Khorsan himself, his belly hanging to his knees and his beard to his navel, waves a fan to revive his coals. With the other hand, he turns the slabs of meat; when he determines that they’re done, he licks his chops. The 4 × 4 that squeals to a stop ten feet away does nothing to disconcert him. Without taking his eye off the sizzling cutlets, he merely turns his fan toward the cloud of dust that begins to envelop his person. Qassim shows him four fingers and takes a seat on a worm-eaten wooden bench; Khorsan acknowledges the order with a movement of his head and continues his ritual with renewed application.