the angels ... at the djinn . . . 'Yahya, come inside!'
Where have I been? Perhaps I've lost my memory! It's not unknown for someone to suffer from amnesia after an accident and to have no idea of who he is or where he comes from. To completely forget his wife, his children and his home ... his mind a blank sheet, wiped clean of any familiar names or identifying details . . .
'Yes ... I was out late. After curfew. I was on my way home ... I've caused you so much trouble . . . I really should be going now.'
'Farhad ... I just wanted to say that I have no desire to put your life in danger . . .'
I wish that Mahnaz - for all her extraordinary kindness and generosity - were merely a dream. I wish that when I open my eyes, I'd find myself in my room at home, watching dawn break on my mother's lined face as she whispers a prayer above my head, while she wafts the fresh morning air over me ... I wish she were holding me tight . . .
I trawl the blank white walls of the room searching for a photograph of his father. On the windowsill, next to the candle-stub, are two large books with gold inlaid covers. I take down both of them. One is Haft Paikar and the other Khosraw el Sheerin. I put them back on the windowsill.
The child has caught me in his dream. I am a dream-creature. I am an imaginary father, an imaginary husband ... So why bother going back to my life?
'I have no idea! I keep asking myself that, too. All night I've been thinking about everything I've done in the past couple of days - and nothing can explain it. I'm no rebel; I've got no connection to the resistance, to Jihad, or to revolution ... I was hanging out with a friend who was having to get out of Kabul. After we parted I was simply walking back home. Sure, it was late, well after curfew, and the night patrol caught me. But it was nothing, nothing serious . . . The only thing I can think of is that I made the mistake of calling an ordinary officer "Commander" - and that he thought maybe I was making a fool of him . . .'
I'd gone to the university library to take out the Book of Shams, but the librarian told me someone else was reading it. So I borrowed another book and, having given it a quick glance, sat down. At the far end of the table was a young man wearing a pair of dark glasses. His head was buried in a book and he looked as though he wanted to devour every word. Since it happened to be the one I was after, I sidled up to him and coughed, so politely that even I could barely hear myself.
The same day, in the university cafe, I found the scribe of the Book of Shams. We chatted together over a cup of tea. His name was Enayat.
At the mention of my name, as always, Safdar's brother stops kneading the dough, and his sweet voice calls from the far end of the bakery, ' Last night the sound of Farhad's chisel never reached us from Mount Beysitoun . . . It's into the dreams of Sheerin that Farhad now has gone . . .'
If Enayat's brother hadn't killed himself, maybe he'd have turned out like Yahya's uncle. A young man with no youth. With no soul. A body suspended between two arches. I do not want to see what Enayat's brother and Yahya's uncle have seen. No! I do not want my mother to put her breast in my dry mouth for me to suck her blood; or like Enayat's mother, to cry over her own son's empty grave ... I want to stay alive. 'My mother's here!'
'One day grandmother said that you had died in Pul-e-Charkhi ... but she can't say that any more, can she,
Where have I been? Perhaps I've lost my memory! It's not unknown for someone to suffer from amnesia after an accident and to have no idea of who he is or where he comes from. To completely forget his wife, his children and his home ... his mind a blank sheet, wiped clean of any familiar names or identifying details . . .
'Yes ... I was out late. After curfew. I was on my way home ... I've caused you so much trouble . . . I really should be going now.'
'Farhad ... I just wanted to say that I have no desire to put your life in danger . . .'
I wish that Mahnaz - for all her extraordinary kindness and generosity - were merely a dream. I wish that when I open my eyes, I'd find myself in my room at home, watching dawn break on my mother's lined face as she whispers a prayer above my head, while she wafts the fresh morning air over me ... I wish she were holding me tight . . .
I trawl the blank white walls of the room searching for a photograph of his father. On the windowsill, next to the candle-stub, are two large books with gold inlaid covers. I take down both of them. One is Haft Paikar and the other Khosraw el Sheerin. I put them back on the windowsill.
The child has caught me in his dream. I am a dream-creature. I am an imaginary father, an imaginary husband ... So why bother going back to my life?
'I have no idea! I keep asking myself that, too. All night I've been thinking about everything I've done in the past couple of days - and nothing can explain it. I'm no rebel; I've got no connection to the resistance, to Jihad, or to revolution ... I was hanging out with a friend who was having to get out of Kabul. After we parted I was simply walking back home. Sure, it was late, well after curfew, and the night patrol caught me. But it was nothing, nothing serious . . . The only thing I can think of is that I made the mistake of calling an ordinary officer "Commander" - and that he thought maybe I was making a fool of him . . .'
I'd gone to the university library to take out the Book of Shams, but the librarian told me someone else was reading it. So I borrowed another book and, having given it a quick glance, sat down. At the far end of the table was a young man wearing a pair of dark glasses. His head was buried in a book and he looked as though he wanted to devour every word. Since it happened to be the one I was after, I sidled up to him and coughed, so politely that even I could barely hear myself.
The same day, in the university cafe, I found the scribe of the Book of Shams. We chatted together over a cup of tea. His name was Enayat.
At the mention of my name, as always, Safdar's brother stops kneading the dough, and his sweet voice calls from the far end of the bakery, ' Last night the sound of Farhad's chisel never reached us from Mount Beysitoun . . . It's into the dreams of Sheerin that Farhad now has gone . . .'
If Enayat's brother hadn't killed himself, maybe he'd have turned out like Yahya's uncle. A young man with no youth. With no soul. A body suspended between two arches. I do not want to see what Enayat's brother and Yahya's uncle have seen. No! I do not want my mother to put her breast in my dry mouth for me to suck her blood; or like Enayat's mother, to cry over her own son's empty grave ... I want to stay alive. 'My mother's here!'
'One day grandmother said that you had died in Pul-e-Charkhi ... but she can't say that any more, can she,
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