Four
THE SUN PREPARES to withdraw. Its beams no longer ricochet with such fury off the hillsides. But the heat-stunned old men, even as they sit in their doorways and wait impatiently for evening, know that the night will be as torrid as the day. Confined inside the vast steam room formed by its stony mountains, Kabul is suffocating. It’s as though a window to hell has partially opened in the sky. The rare puffs of wind, far from refreshing or regenerating the impoverished air, mischievously fill it with eye-irritating, throat-parching dust. Atiq Shaukat observes that his shadow has lengthened inordinately; soon the muezzin will call the faithful to the Maghreb prayer. Atiq slides his whip under his belt and directs his languid steps to the neighborhood mosque, an immense, chastely whitewashed hall with a skeletal ceiling and a minaret disfigured by a bombardment.
Taliban militiamen are patrolling the perimeter of the sanctuary in packs, seizing men who are passing by and forcing them manu militari to join the assembled faithful.
The interior of the sanctuary is a humming furnace. The first arrivals have stormed and occupied the worn rugs scattered on the floor near the minbar, the pulpit where a mullah is eruditely perusing a religious book. The less privileged are obliged to dispute the few ragged mats that are being hawked as though they were made of eiderdown. The rest of the congregation, only too happy to be out of the sun and safe from the militiamen’s whips, make do with the floor, whose rugged surface makes deep imprints in their behinds.
Atiq knees aside a cluster of old men, growls at the eldest of them to flatten himself more thoroughly against the wall, and sits down with his back against a column. Once again, he glares a sullen threat at the old man, warning him to keep himself as small as possible.
Atiq Shaukat hates the elderly, especially the old folks in this part of town. Most of them are putrid untouchables, exhausted by beggary and insignificance, who spend their days chanting funereal litanies and tugging at people’s clothing. In the evening, in the places where a few charitable souls put out bowls of rice for widows and orphans, these ancients forgather like ravenous dogs awaiting the signal to consume their quarry, and they feel no compunctions about making spectacles of themselves in order to cadge a few mouthfuls. Above all else, Atiq loathes them for that. Every time he sees one of them in his row at the mosque, his prayers are tinged with disgust. He dislikes the moans they emit as they grovel; he abhors their sickly drowsiness during the sermons. As far as he’s concerned, they’re nothing but cadavers, pestilential remains that the gravediggers have unconscionably neglected, carcasses with rheumy eyes, shattered mouths, and the stench of dying animals. .
Astaghfirullah, he says to himself. My poor Atiq, how your heart fills with venom even in the house of the Lord. Come on, pull yourself together. Forget about making a spectacle of your private life just now and try not to let the Evil One contaminate your thoughts.
He presses his hands to his temples and tries to empty his mind; then he tucks his chin into the hollow of his throat, obstinately keeping his eyes on the floor lest the sight of the old men disturb his contemplation.
The muezzin goes into his alcove to call the people to prayer. In one anarchically coordinated movement, the faithful rise and start forming rows. A small individual with pointy ears and an elvish look pulls Atiq by the end of his vest and asks him to align himself with the others. Irritated by this impudence, the jailer grabs the other’s wrist and twists it discreetly against his side. At first, the surprised little man tries to pull his hand out of the vise that’s threatening to crush it; then, having failed in the attempt, he sags, on the verge of collapsing from sheer pain. Atiq maintains the pressure for a few seconds. When he’s certain that his victim is just about to start howling, he lets him go. The dwarf clutches his burning wrist before slipping it under his armpit. Then, unable to assimilate the idea that a believer could behave like this inside a mosque, he makes his way to a place in the row in front of them and doesn’t turn around again.
Astaghfirullah, Atiq says to himself once more. What’s happening to me? I can’t bear the dark, I can’t bear the light, I don’t like standing up or sitting down, I can’t tolerate old people or children, I hate it when anybody looks at me or touches me. In fact, I can hardly stand myself. Am I going stark raving mad?
After the prayer, he decides to wait at the mosque for the muezzin’s next call. Whatever happens, he doesn’t feel ready to go home and face his unmade bed, the dirty dishes forgotten in the foul-smelling basins, and his wife, lying in a corner of the room with her knees pulled up to her chin, a filthy scarf on her head, and purple blotches on her face. .
The congregation breaks up. Some go home, others stand in front of the mosque, conversing. The old people and the other beggars, their hands already extended, crowd around the entrance to the sanctuary. Atiq goes up to a group of disabled veterans who are swapping war stories. The biggest of them, a kind of Goliath entangled in his beard, is drawing some lines in the dust with a swollen finger. The others, sitting around him like so many dervishes, observe him in silence. Each man is missing at least an arm or a leg, and one of them, stationed slightly to the rear, has lost both legs. He sits in a heap inside a custom-made barrow designed to serve as a wheelchair. The Goliath is one-eyed, and half his face is mutilated. He finishes his drawing, leans on his hands, and tells his story.
“The lay of the land was just about like that,” he says. His piping voice clashes violently with his herculean size. “There was a mountain here, a cliff there, and the two hills you see right here. A river flowed here and skirted the mountain to the north. The Soviets occupied the high ground, and their positions overlooked ours all along the line. For two days, they kept us boxed up tight. We couldn’t retreat because of the mountain. It was bare, and the helicopters would’ve had no problem cutting us to pieces. On this side, the cliff fell away into a precipice. The river was deep and wide, and it had us blocked on this other side. The only place to cross it was here, where there was supposed to be a ford, and the Russians left it open to us on purpose. The truth is, it was just a big trap. Once we sank down in there, we were done for, like drowning rats. But we couldn’t stay in our position very much longer. We were low on ammunition, and there wasn’t a lot to eat. Besides, the enemy had called in reinforcements, including artillery, and his guns were harassing us night and day. There was no way to get even a minute’s sleep. We were in a sorry state. We couldn’t even bury our dead, and they were starting to stink abominably. . ”
The legless man, deeply offended, interrupts him. “Our dead never smelled bad,” he declares. “I remember when a shell caught us by surprise and killed fourteen mujahideen at once. That’s how I got my legs blown off. We were surrounded, too, just like you. We stayed in our hole for eight days. And our dead didn’t even decompose. Their bodies were sprawled all around, wherever the explosion had thrown them, and they didn’t smell bad, either. Their faces were serene. In spite of their wounds and the pools of blood they were lying in, you would’ve thought they were only sleeping.”
“It was winter,” the Goliath suggests.
“It wasn’t winter. We were in the middle of summer. It was so hot, you could fry eggs on the rocks.”