Read Online The Patience Stone by Atiq Rahimi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Atiq Rahimi
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outside, through the holes in the curtain, and is filled with despair. A tear-soaked cry bursts from her chest, “Protect us, God!”
She sits against the wall between the two windows, just beneath the khanjar and the photo of her mocking man.
She is groaning, quietly.
Somebody shoots right next to the house. He is probably inside the courtyard, posted behind the wall. The woman chokes back her tears, her breath. She lifts the bottom of the curtain. Seeing a shape shooting toward the street, she moves sharply back, and cautiously makes her way to the door.
In the passage, the silhouette of an armed man makes her freeze. “Get back in the room!” She goes back into the room. “Sit down and don’t move!” She sitsdown where her man used to lie, and does not move. The man emerges from the dark passage, wearing a turban, with a length of it concealing half his face. He fills the doorway, and dominates the room. Through the narrow gap in his turban his dark gaze sweeps the space. Without a word, he moves over to the window and glances out toward the street, where shots are still being fired. He turns back toward the woman to reassure her: “Don’t be afraid, sister. I will protect you.” Once again, he surveys his surroundings. She is not afraid, just desperate. And yet she manages to act serene, sure of herself.
Sitting between the two men, one hidden by a black turban, the other by a green curtain, her eyes flicker with nerves.
The armed man crouches on his heels, his finger on the trigger.
Still suspicious and on edge, he looks away from the curtains toward the woman, and asks her, “Are you alone?” In a calm voice—too calm—she replies, “No.” Pauses a moment, then continues fervently, “Allahis with me,” pauses again, and glances at the green curtain.
The man is silent. He is glaring at the woman.
Outside, the shooting has stopped. All that can be heard, in the distance, is the dull roar of the tank leaving.
The room, the courtyard, and the street sink into a heavy, smoky silence.
The sound of footsteps makes the man jump and he turns his gun on her, gesturing to her not to move. He peers through a hole in the curtain. His tensed shoulders relax. He is relieved. He lifts the curtain a fraction and hisses a code in a low voice. The steps pause. The man whispers, “Hey, it’s me. Come in!”
The other man enters the room. He too is wearing a turban, with a part of it hiding his face. His thin, lanky body is wrapped in a
patou—
a long, heavy woolen shawl. Surprised by the woman’s presence, he crouches down next to his companion, who asks him, “So?” The second man’s eyes are fixed on thewoman as he replies, “It’s ok-ok-okay, th-the there’s a c-c-ceasefire!” stammering, his voice a teenager’s in the process of breaking.
“Until when?”
“I … I … d-d-d-don’t know!” he replies, still distracted by the woman’s presence.
“Okay, now get out of here and keep watch! We’re staying here tonight.”
The young man doesn’t protest. Still staring at the woman, he asks for “a c-c-c-cigarette,” which the first man chucks over to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Then, having completely uncovered his bearded face, he lights up himself.
The boy darts a final stunned glance at the woman from the doorway, and reluctantly disappears down the passage.
The woman stays where she is. She observes the man’s every movement with a distrust she is still attempting to hide. “Are you not afraid of being all alone?” the man asks, exhaling smoke. She shrugs her shoulders. “Do I have any choice?” After another long drag, the man asks, “Don’t you have anyone to look after you?” The woman glances at the green curtain. “No, I’m a widow!”
“Which side?”
“Yours, I presume.”
The man doesn’t push it. He takes another deep drag, and asks, “Have you any children?”
“Yes. Two … two girls.”
“Where are they?”
“With my aunt.”
“And
She sits against the wall between the two windows, just beneath the khanjar and the photo of her mocking man.
She is groaning, quietly.
Somebody shoots right next to the house. He is probably inside the courtyard, posted behind the wall. The woman chokes back her tears, her breath. She lifts the bottom of the curtain. Seeing a shape shooting toward the street, she moves sharply back, and cautiously makes her way to the door.
In the passage, the silhouette of an armed man makes her freeze. “Get back in the room!” She goes back into the room. “Sit down and don’t move!” She sitsdown where her man used to lie, and does not move. The man emerges from the dark passage, wearing a turban, with a length of it concealing half his face. He fills the doorway, and dominates the room. Through the narrow gap in his turban his dark gaze sweeps the space. Without a word, he moves over to the window and glances out toward the street, where shots are still being fired. He turns back toward the woman to reassure her: “Don’t be afraid, sister. I will protect you.” Once again, he surveys his surroundings. She is not afraid, just desperate. And yet she manages to act serene, sure of herself.
Sitting between the two men, one hidden by a black turban, the other by a green curtain, her eyes flicker with nerves.
The armed man crouches on his heels, his finger on the trigger.
Still suspicious and on edge, he looks away from the curtains toward the woman, and asks her, “Are you alone?” In a calm voice—too calm—she replies, “No.” Pauses a moment, then continues fervently, “Allahis with me,” pauses again, and glances at the green curtain.
The man is silent. He is glaring at the woman.
Outside, the shooting has stopped. All that can be heard, in the distance, is the dull roar of the tank leaving.
The room, the courtyard, and the street sink into a heavy, smoky silence.
The sound of footsteps makes the man jump and he turns his gun on her, gesturing to her not to move. He peers through a hole in the curtain. His tensed shoulders relax. He is relieved. He lifts the curtain a fraction and hisses a code in a low voice. The steps pause. The man whispers, “Hey, it’s me. Come in!”
The other man enters the room. He too is wearing a turban, with a part of it hiding his face. His thin, lanky body is wrapped in a
patou—
a long, heavy woolen shawl. Surprised by the woman’s presence, he crouches down next to his companion, who asks him, “So?” The second man’s eyes are fixed on thewoman as he replies, “It’s ok-ok-okay, th-the there’s a c-c-ceasefire!” stammering, his voice a teenager’s in the process of breaking.
“Until when?”
“I … I … d-d-d-don’t know!” he replies, still distracted by the woman’s presence.
“Okay, now get out of here and keep watch! We’re staying here tonight.”
The young man doesn’t protest. Still staring at the woman, he asks for “a c-c-c-cigarette,” which the first man chucks over to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Then, having completely uncovered his bearded face, he lights up himself.
The boy darts a final stunned glance at the woman from the doorway, and reluctantly disappears down the passage.
The woman stays where she is. She observes the man’s every movement with a distrust she is still attempting to hide. “Are you not afraid of being all alone?” the man asks, exhaling smoke. She shrugs her shoulders. “Do I have any choice?” After another long drag, the man asks, “Don’t you have anyone to look after you?” The woman glances at the green curtain. “No, I’m a widow!”
“Which side?”
“Yours, I presume.”
The man doesn’t push it. He takes another deep drag, and asks, “Have you any children?”
“Yes. Two … two girls.”
“Where are they?”
“With my aunt.”
“And
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