The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra Page A

riveted to the ceiling. Every time his thoughts bring him face-to-face with Musarrat again, he kicks out a foot as though trying to shake them off. His anger returns, flows over him in successive waves, making his blood throb inside his temples and compressing his chest. He’s angry at himself for not having dared to lance the abscess once and for all, for not having pointed out a few hard truths to his wife, who should consider herself privileged in comparison to the depraved women haunting the streets of Kabul. Musarrat is taking advantage of his patience. Her illness no longer counts as an extenuating circumstance; she has to learn how to deal with it. . . .
    A huge shadow darkens the wall. Atiq gives a start and grabs his whip.
    “It’s only me, Nazeesh,” a trembling voice reassures him.
    “Nobody ever taught you to knock before you come in?” growls Atiq, furious.
    “My hands are full. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    Atiq shines the lamp on his visitor. He’s a man of about sixty, as tall as a mast, with stooped shoulders, a grotesque neck, and a swirl of wild hair topped by a shapeless head covering. His emaciated face tapers to his chin, which is prolonged by a hoary goatee, and his bulging eyes seem to spring out of his face, as though he were in the grip of some unspeakable pain.
    He remains standing in the doorway, smiling indecisively, waiting for a sign from the jailer before he advances or retreats. “I saw a light,” he explains. “I said, Good old Atiq, he’s not doing very well, I should go and keep him company. But I haven’t come with empty hands. I brought a little dried meat and some crab apples.”
    Atiq considers, then shrugs and points to a sheepskin on the floor. All too glad to have been granted admission, Nazeesh sits down in the indicated spot, opens a little bundle, and spreads out his bounty at the jailer’s feet.
    “I said to myself, Atiq was too nervous to stay home. He wouldn’t come to the jail when there aren’t any prisoners, not at this time of night, unless he needed to relieve his mind. Me, too, I’m the same way. I’m not comfortable at home. My hundred-year-old father won’t let up. He’s lost most of his sight, he’s lost the use of his legs, but his capacity for endless grousing remains intact. He’s always bitching about something. Before, we could give him something to eat to shut him up. These days, we don’t have very much food to sink our teeth into, and since he’s lost his, there’s nothing in the way of his tongue. Sometimes he starts by demanding silence, and then he’s the one who can’t stop talking. Two days ago, he wouldn’t wake up. My daughters shook him and sprinkled water on him; he didn’t move. I felt his wrist—no pulse. I put my ear against his chest—no breathing. I said, Okay, he’s dead; we’ll notify the family and give him a fine funeral. I left the house to tell the neighbors the news; then I went around to cousins, nephews, other relatives, and friends and announced the passing of the eldest member of the tribe. I spent the morning receiving condolences and demonstrations of sympathy. Around noon, I go back home, and who do I find in the courtyard, bitching at everybody? My father, in flesh and blood, very much alive and kicking. His mouth was open so wide, I could see his gums— they’re kind of a sickly white. I think he’s lost his mind. It’s impossible to sit down to eat or even to go to bed with him in the house. As soon as he sees someone passing, he pounces and starts growling out insults and reproaches. Sometimes I lose my head, too, and I start yelling back at him. The neighbors join in, and they all believe that I’m sinning in the face of God by not being patient with my venerable sire. So in order to avoid upsetting God, I spend most of my time outside. I even take my meals in the street.”
    Atiq hangs his head. Sadly, Nazeesh isn’t the same anymore, either. Atiq met Nazeesh a decade ago, when he was