The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra Page B

a mufti in Kabul. He wasn’t an object of adulation, but hundreds of the faithful would gather to hear his Friday sermons. He lived in a big house with a garden and a wrought-iron gate, and sometimes it happened that he was invited to official ceremonies, where he received the same treatment as the notables. His sons were killed in the war against the Russians, a fact that elevated him in the esteem of the local authorities. He never seemed to complain about anything, and no one knew anybody who was his enemy. He lived a comparatively reserved life, moving from the mosque to his house, and from his house to the mosque. He read a great deal; his erudition commanded respect, even though he was seldom called upon to give his opinion. Then, without any warning, he was found one morning stalking along the avenues, wildly gesticulating, drooling, eyes bulging. The first diagnosis was that he was possessed; the exorcists, however, struggled with his demons in vain, and then he was sent for several months to an asylum. He will never return to full possession of his faculties, but sometimes, in moments of lucidity, he withdraws completely to hide his shame at what he’s become. He often sits outside his front door under a faded umbrella and looks with equal indifference upon the passing people and the passage of time.
    “Do you know what I’m going to do, Atiq?”
    “How could I? You never tell me anything.”
    Nazeesh listens carefully; then, certain that there’s no chance he’ll be overheard, he leans toward the jailer and says in a confiding whisper, “I’m going away.”
    “You’re going away where?”
    Nazeesh looks toward the door, holds his breath, pricks up his ears. Unsatisfied, he gets up and goes out into the street to make sure there’s no one around. When he returns, his pupils are sparkling with demented elation. “Damned if I know. I’m just going away, that’s all there is to it. I’ve got everything ready—my bag, my stick, and my money. As soon as my right foot is healed, I’m turning over my ration card and all the papers I’ve got and then I’m going away. No thank-yous, no good-byes. I’ll pick a road at random and follow it all the way to the ocean. And when I reach the shore, I’ll throw myself into the water. I’m never coming back to Kabul. It’s an accursed city. No one can be saved here. Too many people are dying, and the streets are full of widows and orphans.”
    “And Taliban, too.”
    Alarmed by the jailer’s remark, Nazeesh jerks his head around in the direction of the door; his scrawny arm sketches a gesture of disgust and his neck grows an inch longer when he mutters, “Ah, them. They’ll get theirs.”
    Atiq inclines his head in agreement. He picks up a slice of dried meat and examines it with a skeptical air. To prove to him that there’s no risk, Nazeesh gulps down two mouthfuls. Atiq sniffs at the morsel of dessicated flesh once again before laying it aside and selecting an apple, which he bites into hungrily. “So when will your foot be healed?”
    “In a week or two. And after that, without a word to anyone, I’m going to pack my things, and— poof!—I’ll be gone in a flash, never to be seen again. I’ll walk straight ahead until I keel over, without speaking to anyone, without even meeting anyone on the way. I’m going to walk and walk and walk till the soles of my feet merge with the soles of my shoes.”
    Atiq licks his lips, chooses another fruit, rubs it on his vest, and swallows it whole. “You’re always saying you’re going to leave, and you’re always here.”
    “I’ve got a bad foot.”
    “Before this, you had a bad hip. And before that, it was your back. And before your back, it was your eyes. You’ve been talking about leaving for months, and yet you’re always here. You were here yesterday; you’ll be here tomorrow. You’re not going anywhere, Nazeesh.”
    “Yes I am. I’m going away. And I’ll cover my tracks on every road I take.