“Why?” Tom had asked.
“Nitchak said that just before the komiteh left they fired the schoolhouse, supposedly with me still in it. He said they had ordered all foreigners out of the Zagros. Everyone - particularly us with our choppers, out by tomorrow night.”
Lochart was watching the land below, the base not far off, the village nearby. The afternoon sun was sliding off it, going behind the mountains. There was plenty of daylight left but no longer the sun to warm them. Just before he had left with Jesper for Rig Rosa and no one was near, Scot had told him really what happened. “I saw it all, Tom. I didn’t run off when I said I did. I haven’t dared tell anyone but I was watching out of the schoolhouse window, frightened to bloody death, and saw it all. Everything happened so fast. My God, you should’ve seen old Nitchak’s wife with the rifle, talk about a tigress. And tough! She shot a Green Band in the belly, then left him to scream a bit and… banggg! stopped it. I’ll bet she was the one who shot the first bastard, the leader, whoever the hell he was. Never seen such a woman, never’d believe she could be like that.” “What about Nasiri?”
“Nasiri never had a chance. He just ran off and they shot him. I’m sure they shot him just because he was a witness and not a villager. That got my wits working, and my legs, and I sneaked out of the window like I said, and when Nitchak came up here I pretended to believe his story. But I swear to God, Tom, all those komiteh bastards were dead before I left the village, so Nitchak must’ve ordered the schoolhouse burned.”
“Nitchak Khan wouldn’t do that, not with you in it. Someone must’ve seen you sneak out.”
“I hope to Christ you’re wrong because then I’m a living threat to the village - the only witness.”
Lochart landed and walked down to the village. He went alone. Nitchak Khan and the mullah were waiting for him in the coffeehouse as arranged. And many villagers, no women. The coffeehouse was the meeting house, a one-room hut made from logs and mud wattle with a sloping roof and crude chimney, the rafters black from years of the wood fire’s smoke. Rough carpets to sit on.
“Salaam, Kalandar, peace be upon you,” Lochart said, using the honorific title to imply that Nitchak Khan was also leader of the base. “Peace be upon you, Kalandar of the Hying Men,” the old man said politely. Lochart heard the slap and saw there was none of the friendliness of olden times within the eyes. “Please sit here in comfort. Your journey was beneficent?”
“As God wants. I missed my home here in the Zagros, and my friends of the Zagros. You are blessed by God, Kalandar.” Lochart sat on the uncomfortable carpet and exchanged the interminable pleasantries, waiting for Nitchak Khan to allow him to come to the point. The room was claustrophobic and smelled rancid, the air heavy with body odors and goat smells and sheep smells. The other men watched silently.
“What brings Your Excellency to our village?” Nitchak Khan said and a current of expectancy went through the closeness.
“I was shocked to hear that strangers came to our village and had the impertinence to lay evil hands on you.”
“As God wants.” Nitchak’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Strangers came to our village but they went away leaving our village as it has always been. Your camp, unfortunately, is not to be the same.”
“But why, Kalandar? We have been good for the village and employ many of your peo - ”
“It is not for me to question our government or these komitehs of our government or our Commander of the People, the Ayatollah himself. The young flier saw and heard, so there is nothing more to be said.” Lochart perceived the trap. “The young flier heard and saw only what happened in the schoolhouse, Kalandar. I ask that we, as old but known guests…” he chose the word carefully, “that we be allowed time to seek a change in a ruling that appears to go against the interests of the Zagros.” “The Zagros extends a thousand miles and crosses Kash’kai lands into Bakhtiari and the lands of a hundred other tribes. Yazdek is Yazdek,” Nitchak rasped, then quoted from the Rubáiyát, “‘Resign your body to fate and put up with pain,/Because what the Pen has written for you, /It will not unwrite.’”
“True, but did not Omar Khayyám also write: ‘The good and evil that are in man’s heart, /The joy and sorrow that are our fortune and destiny, Do not impugn them to the wheel of heaven because, in the light of reason, The wheel is a thousand times more helpless than you.’”
A rustle went through the villagers. The old mullah nodded, pleased, and said nothing. Nitchak Khan’s eyes smiled though his mouth did not and Lochart knew the meeting would be better now. He blessed Sharazad who had opened his ears and eyes and senses to the Rubáiyát that, in Farsi, was beyond elegance.
Everyone waited. Nitchak Khan scratched his beard, reached into his pocket, and found a pack of cigarettes. Lochart casually brought out the pishkesh, a gold-plated Dunhill lighter he had bought from Effer Jordon for just this purpose: “Effer, I’ll goddamn kill you if it doesn’t work first time!” He caressed the flint. The wick ignited and he breathed again. His hand was very steady as he leaned forward and held the light for the old man. Nitchak Khan hesitated, then puffed and took a deep drag of smoke. “Thank you.” His eyes narrowed as Lochart put the lighter on the carpet in front of him.
“Perhaps you would accept this gift from all of us in our camp who are grateful for your guidance and protection. After all, didn’t you break down the gates and take possession of the base in the name of the People? Didn’t you win the toboggan race, beating the best of us, through the quality of your courage?”
Another rustle in the room, everyone waited filled with delight as the contest stiffened, though all knew the Infidel had said only what was true. The silence grew, then the Khan reached over ana picked up the lighter and looked at it closely. His gnarled thumb clicked up the lid as he had seen others in the camp do. With hardly any motion it lit the very first time and everyone was as pleased as he was with the quality of the pishkesh. “What guidance does His Excellency need?”
“Nothing in particular, not really, Excellency Kalandar,” Lochart said deprecatingly, continuing the game according to ancient custom. “But there must be something that might make His Excellency’s lot better?” The old man stubbed his cigarette into the earth.
At length Lochart allowed himself to be persuaded. “Well, since Your Excellency has the magnanimity to ask, if Your Excellency would intercede for us with the komiteh to give us a little more time, I would be very grateful. Your Excellency, who knows these mountains like the inside of his own eating bowl, knows we cannot obey the orders of strangers who obviously don’t know we cannot clear the rigs of personnel, nor safeguard the rigs - the Zagros property of the illustrious Yazdek branch of the Kash’kai - nor take away our machines and spares by tomorrow sunset.”
“True, strangers know nothing,” Nitchak Khan said agreeably. Yes, he thought, strangers know nothing and those sons of dogs who dared to try to implant their filthy strangers’ ways were quickly punished by God. “Perhaps the komiteh would grant an extra day.”
“That would be more than I would dare ask. But, Kalandar, it would hardly be enough to show them how little they know about your Zagros. Perhaps they need to be taught a lesson. They should be told at least two weeks - after all, you are kalandar of Yazdek and of all eleven rigs and the whole Zagros knows of Nitchak Khan.”