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Authors: Atiq Rahimi
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take his leave. But the soldier won’t have it. He invites him to drink another tea with these old friends.
“Sit down!” He turns toward the other men. “Last night we beat this brother during a patrol, and today we’re drinking tea together! Who says we don’t want peace!” He snorts with laughter, tugging at Rassoul to sit down.
And Rassoul complies.
They order more tea. And smoke cigarettes. Momène starts telling his friends about “Our unforgettable operation! Six years ago …”
“Yes, six years ago,” confirms Jano nostalgically. He turns to Rassoul. “It was summertime. A summer evening. We were on our way to attack a Soviet location. We’d been told that Commandant Nawroz would be in charge of this operation. Commandant Nawroz and our Commandant Parwaiz didn’t get on at all, but they decided to attack the Russians together anyway. We would take the prisoners, and they would get the guns …” Interrupted by a laugh from Momène, he takes a gulp of tea then continues. “Anyway, as soon as night fell we attacked!” This time he’s interrupted by his own laughter, and it is Momène who takes up the story.
“In our regiment there was a mujahideen by the name of Shirdel. A brave man and a good Muslim, but witha soft spot for the boys! So we nicknamed him
Kirdel—
lover of cock.” At this, everybody fell about laughing. “When our troop silently and carefully attacked the weapons depot, our
bradar
Shirdel came across a young Russian soldier taking a shit!” Their loud laughter silences everyone in the tearoom. They start listening, too. Jano is laughing so hard there are tears streaming down his face. Momène continues: “Imagine our Shirdel in such a situation! His heart was beating a hundred miles an hour; he didn’t know what to do; he was trembling with fear that a mujahideen would shoot this dreamy creature with the smooth white buttocks! Anyway, he captured him and, once the operation had been carried out successfully, took him to Commandant Nawroz, who ordered that he be given to Commandant Parwaiz. But who was he telling! Shirdel immediately handcuffed himself to the pretty boy and swallowed the key!”
They all roar with laughter. Rassoul does too, but deep inside. When the laughter quiets down, Jano continues: “Commandant Parwaiz took them both. He talked to Shirdel at great length, but he wouldn’t listen. He had changed. It was all over for him—jihad, prayer … They walked around together from morning till night, hand in hand. Shirdel sang for him, taught him our language … And then one night, they disappeared.” He turns to Momène. “You never saw them again?”
“No, never,” replies Momène, wiping away his tears. “What a time!”
“Exactly, what a time! We may not have seen eye to eye, but against the Russians we were united!”
“We were!”
“And now look, these days we’re fighting each other. Why?”
“Ask Commandant Nawroz!”
“And you, ask your Commandant Parwaiz!”
The laughter stops.
A silent hatred invades the
chai-khana
.
Rassoul stands up, gestures quietly at Jano—who waves goodbye—and makes a speedy exit.
He has barely reached the end of the road when he is startled by two gunshots, fired not far behind.
In the
chai-khana?
Perhaps.
He stops, turns around.
Let them kill each other!
He continues on his way to Sophia’s house.
H E KNOCKS at the gate and waits. The fearful voice of Sophia’s mother: “Who is it?” Hearing no response, she repeats her question. “It’s Rassoul!” cries Sophia’s brother, Dawoud, who is perched on the roof of the house.
The mother opens the gate, sees Rassoul’s cut face, and shivers. “What happened to you?” Nothing, I just cut myself shaving, that’s all, he would have liked to reply, not bothering to elaborate on the blade of destiny. But he just mimes what happened and comes inside, as the mother complains: “You were supposed to come yesterday evening. I didn’t
“Sit down!” He turns toward the other men. “Last night we beat this brother during a patrol, and today we’re drinking tea together! Who says we don’t want peace!” He snorts with laughter, tugging at Rassoul to sit down.
And Rassoul complies.
They order more tea. And smoke cigarettes. Momène starts telling his friends about “Our unforgettable operation! Six years ago …”
“Yes, six years ago,” confirms Jano nostalgically. He turns to Rassoul. “It was summertime. A summer evening. We were on our way to attack a Soviet location. We’d been told that Commandant Nawroz would be in charge of this operation. Commandant Nawroz and our Commandant Parwaiz didn’t get on at all, but they decided to attack the Russians together anyway. We would take the prisoners, and they would get the guns …” Interrupted by a laugh from Momène, he takes a gulp of tea then continues. “Anyway, as soon as night fell we attacked!” This time he’s interrupted by his own laughter, and it is Momène who takes up the story.
“In our regiment there was a mujahideen by the name of Shirdel. A brave man and a good Muslim, but witha soft spot for the boys! So we nicknamed him
Kirdel—
lover of cock.” At this, everybody fell about laughing. “When our troop silently and carefully attacked the weapons depot, our
bradar
Shirdel came across a young Russian soldier taking a shit!” Their loud laughter silences everyone in the tearoom. They start listening, too. Jano is laughing so hard there are tears streaming down his face. Momène continues: “Imagine our Shirdel in such a situation! His heart was beating a hundred miles an hour; he didn’t know what to do; he was trembling with fear that a mujahideen would shoot this dreamy creature with the smooth white buttocks! Anyway, he captured him and, once the operation had been carried out successfully, took him to Commandant Nawroz, who ordered that he be given to Commandant Parwaiz. But who was he telling! Shirdel immediately handcuffed himself to the pretty boy and swallowed the key!”
They all roar with laughter. Rassoul does too, but deep inside. When the laughter quiets down, Jano continues: “Commandant Parwaiz took them both. He talked to Shirdel at great length, but he wouldn’t listen. He had changed. It was all over for him—jihad, prayer … They walked around together from morning till night, hand in hand. Shirdel sang for him, taught him our language … And then one night, they disappeared.” He turns to Momène. “You never saw them again?”
“No, never,” replies Momène, wiping away his tears. “What a time!”
“Exactly, what a time! We may not have seen eye to eye, but against the Russians we were united!”
“We were!”
“And now look, these days we’re fighting each other. Why?”
“Ask Commandant Nawroz!”
“And you, ask your Commandant Parwaiz!”
The laughter stops.
A silent hatred invades the
chai-khana
.
Rassoul stands up, gestures quietly at Jano—who waves goodbye—and makes a speedy exit.
He has barely reached the end of the road when he is startled by two gunshots, fired not far behind.
In the
chai-khana?
Perhaps.
He stops, turns around.
Let them kill each other!
He continues on his way to Sophia’s house.
H E KNOCKS at the gate and waits. The fearful voice of Sophia’s mother: “Who is it?” Hearing no response, she repeats her question. “It’s Rassoul!” cries Sophia’s brother, Dawoud, who is perched on the roof of the house.
The mother opens the gate, sees Rassoul’s cut face, and shivers. “What happened to you?” Nothing, I just cut myself shaving, that’s all, he would have liked to reply, not bothering to elaborate on the blade of destiny. But he just mimes what happened and comes inside, as the mother complains: “You were supposed to come yesterday evening. I didn’t
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