Read Online The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra - Free Book Online
Authors: Yasmina Khadra
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No one will know where I’ve gone, and even if I should want to return, I won’t be able to find my way back.”
“Nonsense,” says Atiq. He obviously means to be disagreeable, as if frustrating the poor devil could be a way of getting revenge for his own disappointments. “You’ll never leave. You’re going to stay planted in the middle of the neighborhood like a tree. It’s not that your roots are holding you back, it’s that people like you aren’t capable of venturing farther than you can see. They fantasize about distant lands, endless highways, and incredible adventures because they’ll never be able to make them real.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“You can’t know what tomorrow has in store for us, Atiq. God alone is omniscient.”
“You don’t need a crystal ball to predict what the beggars are going to do tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sun comes up, you’ll find them in the same place, holding out their hands and whinnying, exactly as they did yesterday and the day before that.”
“I’m not a beggar.”
“In Kabul, we’re all beggars. As for you, Nazeesh, tomorrow you’ll be on your doorstep, sitting in the shade of that shitty old umbrella of yours and waiting for your daughters to bring you your wretched meal, which you’ll eat at street level.”
Nazeesh is upset. After all, the step he’s proposed to take is one that a considerable number of people have already taken; it’s happened many times over. He doesn’t understand why the jailer refuses to believe that he, Nazeesh, is capable of taking it, too, and he doesn’t know how to convince him otherwise. Nazeesh observes a period of silence, at the end of which he gathers up his little bundle, a sign that in his estimation the jailer is no longer worthy of his generosity.
Atiq sniggers, deliberately plucks away a third apple, and puts it aside.
“Before, when I spoke, people used to believe me,” Nazeesh says.
“Before, you were in your right mind,” replies the inflexible jailer.
“And now you think I’m cracked?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
Nazeesh shakes his chin in consternation. His hand is a little unsure as he lifts his bundle, but then he rises to his feet. “I’m going home,” he says.
“Excellent idea.”
With a heavy heart, he slouches to the door. Before disappearing, he confesses in a toneless voice, “It’s true. Every night I say I’m going to leave, and every day I’m still here. I wonder what can be holding me back.”
After Nazeesh has left, Atiq lies down on the cot again and joins his hands under his head. The ceiling in the little prison fails to inspire him with any escape fantasies, so he sits back up and clasps his face. A wave of anger mounts up to his eyeballs. With clenched fists and jaws, he rises and heads for home. If his wife persists in her role of sacrificial victim, he vows, he’s going to stop treating her so gently.
Six
THE PAST NIGHT, it seems, has mellowed Zunaira’s mood. This morning, she got up early, apparently reassured, and her eyes were more captivating than ever. She’s forgotten our misunderstanding, Mohsen thought; soon she’ll remember it and start sulking again. But Zunaira hasn’t forgotten; she’s simply understood that her husband is distraught, and that he needs her. To harbor ill will against him for having performed a primitive, barbarous, revolting, insane act, an act not only absurd in itself but also symptomatic of the current state of Afghanistan, an atrocious act that he regrets and suffers from as from a wound in his conscience, would only serve to render him more fragile than he already is. Things in Kabul are going from bad to worse, sliding into ruin, sweeping along men and mores. It’s a chaos within chaos, a disaster enclosed in disaster, and woe to those who are careless. An isolated person is doomed beyond remedy. The other day, there was a madman in the neighborhood, screaming at the
“Nonsense,” says Atiq. He obviously means to be disagreeable, as if frustrating the poor devil could be a way of getting revenge for his own disappointments. “You’ll never leave. You’re going to stay planted in the middle of the neighborhood like a tree. It’s not that your roots are holding you back, it’s that people like you aren’t capable of venturing farther than you can see. They fantasize about distant lands, endless highways, and incredible adventures because they’ll never be able to make them real.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“You can’t know what tomorrow has in store for us, Atiq. God alone is omniscient.”
“You don’t need a crystal ball to predict what the beggars are going to do tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sun comes up, you’ll find them in the same place, holding out their hands and whinnying, exactly as they did yesterday and the day before that.”
“I’m not a beggar.”
“In Kabul, we’re all beggars. As for you, Nazeesh, tomorrow you’ll be on your doorstep, sitting in the shade of that shitty old umbrella of yours and waiting for your daughters to bring you your wretched meal, which you’ll eat at street level.”
Nazeesh is upset. After all, the step he’s proposed to take is one that a considerable number of people have already taken; it’s happened many times over. He doesn’t understand why the jailer refuses to believe that he, Nazeesh, is capable of taking it, too, and he doesn’t know how to convince him otherwise. Nazeesh observes a period of silence, at the end of which he gathers up his little bundle, a sign that in his estimation the jailer is no longer worthy of his generosity.
Atiq sniggers, deliberately plucks away a third apple, and puts it aside.
“Before, when I spoke, people used to believe me,” Nazeesh says.
“Before, you were in your right mind,” replies the inflexible jailer.
“And now you think I’m cracked?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
Nazeesh shakes his chin in consternation. His hand is a little unsure as he lifts his bundle, but then he rises to his feet. “I’m going home,” he says.
“Excellent idea.”
With a heavy heart, he slouches to the door. Before disappearing, he confesses in a toneless voice, “It’s true. Every night I say I’m going to leave, and every day I’m still here. I wonder what can be holding me back.”
After Nazeesh has left, Atiq lies down on the cot again and joins his hands under his head. The ceiling in the little prison fails to inspire him with any escape fantasies, so he sits back up and clasps his face. A wave of anger mounts up to his eyeballs. With clenched fists and jaws, he rises and heads for home. If his wife persists in her role of sacrificial victim, he vows, he’s going to stop treating her so gently.
Six
THE PAST NIGHT, it seems, has mellowed Zunaira’s mood. This morning, she got up early, apparently reassured, and her eyes were more captivating than ever. She’s forgotten our misunderstanding, Mohsen thought; soon she’ll remember it and start sulking again. But Zunaira hasn’t forgotten; she’s simply understood that her husband is distraught, and that he needs her. To harbor ill will against him for having performed a primitive, barbarous, revolting, insane act, an act not only absurd in itself but also symptomatic of the current state of Afghanistan, an atrocious act that he regrets and suffers from as from a wound in his conscience, would only serve to render him more fragile than he already is. Things in Kabul are going from bad to worse, sliding into ruin, sweeping along men and mores. It’s a chaos within chaos, a disaster enclosed in disaster, and woe to those who are careless. An isolated person is doomed beyond remedy. The other day, there was a madman in the neighborhood, screaming at the
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