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Authors: Saul David
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you have said and soon make a decision. But I have one final question. If I let you go and, by the grace of Allah, you recover the cloak, prevent an uprising and avert a British invasion, what then? What will you do with the cloak?'
George hesitated. The cloak was of great spiritual and cultural import to the Afghans and they would not take kindly to its removal, yet his mother desperately needed the money he would earn if he delivered it to London. He was in a quandary and, for the moment, decided to lie. 'It will be kept safe until the country has settled down and Yakub's rule is secure. Only then will it be returned to its special casket in the shrine of Kharka Sharif in Kandahar.'
'I'm not a devout man, but this cloak belongs to we Afghans and must not leave the country. If you can swear to me now, on the life of your mother, that you will neither harm nor remove it, I will grant you your freedom.'
'I swear,' said George. If he kept his word it would cost him two thousand pounds.
'Good. Now let us--'
'Malik, think what you do!' implored Gul Shah, waving his pistol. 'How can you trust a Feringhee?'
'Quiet, I say!' snapped Abdulla. 'If this man can keep the mullah from power and the British outside our borders, then the risk will have been worth taking. And my nose tells me this Feringhee speaks the truth.'
'If that is so,' Gul scowled, 'he will be the first.'
'Maybe so,' said Abdulla, 'but he has already done me a service by returning my son to me.' He turned to Ilderim. 'Promise that you'll never disobey me again. If you can do that, the past is forgotten.'
Ilderim, eyes filled with tears, took a step forward. 'I promise, Father.'
'Then embrace me,' said Abdulla, arms outstretched.
The two huge men stood locked together as Gul glowered and George breathed a sigh of relief, marvelling at the speed with which an Afghan could change his mind.
'Come inside and eat,' said Abdulla, having released his son. 'You must all be hungry.'
They ate in the eastern style, lying on cushions and bolsters, and using their fingers to scoop lamb and rice from wooden bowls. Abdulla was affable now, telling George of when his son had won the tribal wrestling competition, the proudest moment of his life. 'Six months later he left home without a word. But he is here now,' he said, smiling at Ilderim across the room, 'and all is well. A man is nothing without a son to lean on, and a son without the advice of a grey-bearded father is like a pilgrim lost in the desert. Wouldn't you agree, Feringhee?'
'Heartily,' replied George. He gulped his sherbet drink 'I have never met my father. He abandoned me as a child, though he paid for my upkeep and has set aside a substantial sum of money for me if I achieve certain goals.'
'What kind of man abandons his child?' demanded Abdulla.
'I asked my mother that very question. Her answer? "The sort that's married" - he already had a wife.'
'May an Englishman not take many wives?'
'No - it's against the law. And because of this I've never had a father's advice, though there were times when I would have been glad of it,' he said ruefully.
'All sons need direction. But you said your father set you tasks. What are they?'
'To marry well, reach a high military rank and win the Victoria Cross, our highest gallantry award, before the age of twenty-eight.'
'And what age are you now?'
'Almost twenty.'
'Then you have more than enough time. It seems, Feringhee, that even in his absence your father shapes your life.'
'He tries to. And the money would be useful - but for my mother not me. I have no aspirations to be rich.'
'Yet you are bold enough, at nineteen, to come to a foreign country to steal a sacred treasure.'
'I had no choice.'
'Perhaps not, but if your father knew of it he would surely applaud you. It takes much courage even to try such a thing.'
'That and stupidity. I seem to have plenty of the latter.'
With the meal over and the evening entertainment about to begin, Abdulla leant close
George hesitated. The cloak was of great spiritual and cultural import to the Afghans and they would not take kindly to its removal, yet his mother desperately needed the money he would earn if he delivered it to London. He was in a quandary and, for the moment, decided to lie. 'It will be kept safe until the country has settled down and Yakub's rule is secure. Only then will it be returned to its special casket in the shrine of Kharka Sharif in Kandahar.'
'I'm not a devout man, but this cloak belongs to we Afghans and must not leave the country. If you can swear to me now, on the life of your mother, that you will neither harm nor remove it, I will grant you your freedom.'
'I swear,' said George. If he kept his word it would cost him two thousand pounds.
'Good. Now let us--'
'Malik, think what you do!' implored Gul Shah, waving his pistol. 'How can you trust a Feringhee?'
'Quiet, I say!' snapped Abdulla. 'If this man can keep the mullah from power and the British outside our borders, then the risk will have been worth taking. And my nose tells me this Feringhee speaks the truth.'
'If that is so,' Gul scowled, 'he will be the first.'
'Maybe so,' said Abdulla, 'but he has already done me a service by returning my son to me.' He turned to Ilderim. 'Promise that you'll never disobey me again. If you can do that, the past is forgotten.'
Ilderim, eyes filled with tears, took a step forward. 'I promise, Father.'
'Then embrace me,' said Abdulla, arms outstretched.
The two huge men stood locked together as Gul glowered and George breathed a sigh of relief, marvelling at the speed with which an Afghan could change his mind.
'Come inside and eat,' said Abdulla, having released his son. 'You must all be hungry.'
They ate in the eastern style, lying on cushions and bolsters, and using their fingers to scoop lamb and rice from wooden bowls. Abdulla was affable now, telling George of when his son had won the tribal wrestling competition, the proudest moment of his life. 'Six months later he left home without a word. But he is here now,' he said, smiling at Ilderim across the room, 'and all is well. A man is nothing without a son to lean on, and a son without the advice of a grey-bearded father is like a pilgrim lost in the desert. Wouldn't you agree, Feringhee?'
'Heartily,' replied George. He gulped his sherbet drink 'I have never met my father. He abandoned me as a child, though he paid for my upkeep and has set aside a substantial sum of money for me if I achieve certain goals.'
'What kind of man abandons his child?' demanded Abdulla.
'I asked my mother that very question. Her answer? "The sort that's married" - he already had a wife.'
'May an Englishman not take many wives?'
'No - it's against the law. And because of this I've never had a father's advice, though there were times when I would have been glad of it,' he said ruefully.
'All sons need direction. But you said your father set you tasks. What are they?'
'To marry well, reach a high military rank and win the Victoria Cross, our highest gallantry award, before the age of twenty-eight.'
'And what age are you now?'
'Almost twenty.'
'Then you have more than enough time. It seems, Feringhee, that even in his absence your father shapes your life.'
'He tries to. And the money would be useful - but for my mother not me. I have no aspirations to be rich.'
'Yet you are bold enough, at nineteen, to come to a foreign country to steal a sacred treasure.'
'I had no choice.'
'Perhaps not, but if your father knew of it he would surely applaud you. It takes much courage even to try such a thing.'
'That and stupidity. I seem to have plenty of the latter.'
With the meal over and the evening entertainment about to begin, Abdulla leant close
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