thinking—Rassoul about the slow blade of his destiny, Jano about the targets of his stray bullets. They come to a
chai-khana
, and the young soldier invites Rassoul in. Why not? He feels like something to eat and drink, and more importantly getting to know Parwaiz’s crew, finding out whether or not they’ve found Nana Alia’s corpse. In brief, there are a thousand reasons to pursue this adventure instead of trying to find Sophia.
Inside they sit by a window, next to three armed men who immediately break off their conversation to stare.
Jano orders tea and bread. Apropos of nothing, he asks Rassoul: “Your landlord … do you know him well?” Yes, Rassoul nods sadly. Jano continues, “When we came into the house yesterday evening, just on patrol, he rushed over to tell us about his strange ex-communist tenant who had stopped paying his rent …” Rassoul’s persistent silence prevents Jano from continuing. He glances anxiously at their neighbors, who are still staring. How annoying. He takes a noisy gulp of tea and goes on.
“Your blade scratches your face. Ours is sharper, it injures our very souls!” He stuffs a piece of bread into his mouth. “I was only twelve when the war broke out. My father put a gun on my shoulder and sent me off to do jihad against the Red Army. The things I saw … If you were in my shoes, you wouldn’t want to hear a single word of Russian, my friend. They burned down our village. I found my family’s remains, burnt to ashes! Commandant Parwaiz adopted me. He gave me the strength and courage to fight to avenge my family. And while we were mourning our dead, the destruction of our villages, the humiliation of our sisters … you, you were having a grand old time in the arms of little blonde white girls, soft and lively as fish … isn’t that right?” Another gulp of scalding tea. “You never imagined that we starving, barefoot creatures could ever take power …” Rassoul painfully ingests both the bread and the words. Even the tea burns his throat, his tongue. He would like to respond that his life hasn’t been as peaceful as Jano might think. By telling him about his conflict with his communist father, he might make himself more sympathetic.
No guarantee of that. Jano would probably reproach him in much the same way as another mujahideen he’d spoken to recently: “That too is your Russian education.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not respecting your father is a Russian abomination!”
“But I didn’t want to follow my father’s ideology. I was against the invasion of my country by the Russians.”“If you were a good son, you would respect him and follow his path, his beliefs!”
“But what are you saying? How can one follow a father who is a war criminal?”
“That’s right, you must never betray your father, not even if he’s a murderer.”
“And if he’s an unbeliever?”
Silence.
Jano sips his tea, his chest puffed out. Rassoul watches him, holding on to his rage and his desire to crush it against this chest puffed up with arrogant, rotten pride, to destroy this cage stuffed with hollow power …
But why, Rassoul? What do you know about him? He hasn’t said anything. Leave the guy alone. He is happy. He is proud. He isn’t suffering as you are. Thank God that you can’t speak!
Drink your tea, eat your bread, and get out of here!
As Rassoul stands up, one of the armed men addresses Jano. “Excuse me, brother, aren’t you Jano?”
“Yes.”
The man walks up to him, smiling. “Don’t you recognize me? Momène, from Commandant Nawroz’s troop?”
Jano drops his glass of tea, startled. “Of course! How could I forget? You’ve changed a bit. Put on weight, definitely! That must be five or six years ago … or more?”
“Six years.”
They stand up, throw themselves into each other’sarms, embrace warmly, and sit back down together. The perfect chance for Rassoul to escape. He gets to his feet to shake Jano’s hand and
chai-khana
, and the young soldier invites Rassoul in. Why not? He feels like something to eat and drink, and more importantly getting to know Parwaiz’s crew, finding out whether or not they’ve found Nana Alia’s corpse. In brief, there are a thousand reasons to pursue this adventure instead of trying to find Sophia.
Inside they sit by a window, next to three armed men who immediately break off their conversation to stare.
Jano orders tea and bread. Apropos of nothing, he asks Rassoul: “Your landlord … do you know him well?” Yes, Rassoul nods sadly. Jano continues, “When we came into the house yesterday evening, just on patrol, he rushed over to tell us about his strange ex-communist tenant who had stopped paying his rent …” Rassoul’s persistent silence prevents Jano from continuing. He glances anxiously at their neighbors, who are still staring. How annoying. He takes a noisy gulp of tea and goes on.
“Your blade scratches your face. Ours is sharper, it injures our very souls!” He stuffs a piece of bread into his mouth. “I was only twelve when the war broke out. My father put a gun on my shoulder and sent me off to do jihad against the Red Army. The things I saw … If you were in my shoes, you wouldn’t want to hear a single word of Russian, my friend. They burned down our village. I found my family’s remains, burnt to ashes! Commandant Parwaiz adopted me. He gave me the strength and courage to fight to avenge my family. And while we were mourning our dead, the destruction of our villages, the humiliation of our sisters … you, you were having a grand old time in the arms of little blonde white girls, soft and lively as fish … isn’t that right?” Another gulp of scalding tea. “You never imagined that we starving, barefoot creatures could ever take power …” Rassoul painfully ingests both the bread and the words. Even the tea burns his throat, his tongue. He would like to respond that his life hasn’t been as peaceful as Jano might think. By telling him about his conflict with his communist father, he might make himself more sympathetic.
No guarantee of that. Jano would probably reproach him in much the same way as another mujahideen he’d spoken to recently: “That too is your Russian education.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not respecting your father is a Russian abomination!”
“But I didn’t want to follow my father’s ideology. I was against the invasion of my country by the Russians.”“If you were a good son, you would respect him and follow his path, his beliefs!”
“But what are you saying? How can one follow a father who is a war criminal?”
“That’s right, you must never betray your father, not even if he’s a murderer.”
“And if he’s an unbeliever?”
Silence.
Jano sips his tea, his chest puffed out. Rassoul watches him, holding on to his rage and his desire to crush it against this chest puffed up with arrogant, rotten pride, to destroy this cage stuffed with hollow power …
But why, Rassoul? What do you know about him? He hasn’t said anything. Leave the guy alone. He is happy. He is proud. He isn’t suffering as you are. Thank God that you can’t speak!
Drink your tea, eat your bread, and get out of here!
As Rassoul stands up, one of the armed men addresses Jano. “Excuse me, brother, aren’t you Jano?”
“Yes.”
The man walks up to him, smiling. “Don’t you recognize me? Momène, from Commandant Nawroz’s troop?”
Jano drops his glass of tea, startled. “Of course! How could I forget? You’ve changed a bit. Put on weight, definitely! That must be five or six years ago … or more?”
“Six years.”
They stand up, throw themselves into each other’sarms, embrace warmly, and sit back down together. The perfect chance for Rassoul to escape. He gets to his feet to shake Jano’s hand and
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