The Wasted Vigil (36 page)

Apart from anything else he is afraid of their leaving, David sees now. The fear of being alone is on that hidden face.

Lara goes to sit beside him.

David moves towards the window. Towards free air. He can hear their muffled distressed words to each other behind him. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been told. Had he found out about it independently—away from Marcus, at another point in time—he would have kept it from her, he’s sure. But she had wanted to know, and he has been quick, sparing her any unnecessary details.
Wouldn’t you wish to learn what happened to Jonathan in Vietnam?
A different war—but maybe at some level it was the same war. Just as tomorrow’s wars might be begotten by today’s wars, a continuation of them. Rivers of lava emerging onto the surface after flowing many out-of-sight miles underground. James Palantine is the age David was when he was here fighting America’s enemy.

The sons of the fathers.

Here in this room the three of them are, the old ones. Four if Zameen’s ghost is included. And out there are the children. Dunia. Casa. James. The planet’s future.

A
NGELS CONSTANTLY PRAISE
allah for having created beards for men and long hair for women.

Reciting the Koranic verse against vanity, he looks into the water of the lake.

Locating his reflection he raises his hand to the cheek where she had smeared kohl yesterday. His face. The most important instruction of the Uzbek trainer, who taught him how to carry out a martyrdom attack, was to bend the head downwards when he exploded himself. The head must be destroyed completely or he will enter Paradise with his body decapitated.

Is he thinking of her? If she kept her maddening face and hair concealed he wouldn’t be distracted.

If her face had been veiled he wouldn’t have been able to see that she was close to tears because of him yesterday, at the thought of possible harm to him.

When they poured wine into a goblet the ordinary goblet shone like a red jewel. And so he saw her looking into a mirror, and walking past it later he realised that without her reflection it was nothing but a piece of glass.

He is thinking of her. No, he can’t see why he should feel responsible because her well-being has been jeopardised because of him, because of what happened on the night of the Night Letter. He has no time for such worldly matters.

At certain times of day a small swarm of hornets comes to drink water from this part of the lake’s margin. He stops to watch them as they begin their descent, then continues his walk along the edge. So precious are the ingredients used in some perfumes, said the Englishman yesterday, that instead of metal weights a small berry is used to measure them out. The bodies of these small hornets could be used for that purpose too, he’s sure, given how very small they are. Something could also weigh as much as one of those red beetles that have black spots on their backs. He’s seen them painted in several places inside the house. Yesterday she was saying her prayers beside a vine leaf that held one.

Allah in his compassion understands what he is experiencing. By the time only six generations of Adam’s children had passed, corruption and other consequences of temptation were widespread on earth, and the fears the angels had expressed to Allah at the time of Adam’s creation began to seem legitimate to them. When the angels repeated their complaints regarding mankind’s weakness, He responded, “If I had sent you to live on earth and instilled in you what I have instilled in them—a passionate nature—you would have acted as they have.”

The martyrdom mission camp was near Kazha Panga village, just where the Durand Line separated the Azam Warsak town of South Waziristan from Afghanistan’s Paktika province. There were hundreds of other recruits. Though no girls or young women—it was thought their modesty might be compromised when they exploded themselves and certain body parts came to lie scattered in full view.

Some of the recruits had been brought there from schools, against the wishes of their infidel-in-all-but-name parents, who didn’t care that U.S. and other Western forces were occupying Afghanistan. Didn’t realise how important it was for Muslims to rise up in revolt against them, unleash a planet-wide lightning storm. The recruiters would arrive at the schools and the children, after listening to their speeches and being shown DVDs of holy wars, would offer themselves up readily for martyrdom instruction. Gun battles often broke out, however, when the principals of the schools sought police assistance, or prevented the children from boarding the buses and vans bound for the secret camps. Once there, they were told to adopt the hairstyle of the jihadis—combed back from the brow and cut straight at the nape of the neck as Muhammad, peace be upon him, is said to have worn it. In addition to the Koran they were taught three books published in Pakistan.

Rehbar ki Shanakhat—
“The Mark of the Leader” when translated into Pashto for those who didn’t speak Urdu.

Fidayee Hamlay—
“Martyrdom Attacks.”

Tareekh-e-Shiagaan—
“A History of the Shias.”

All three volumes had been acquired from ordinary bookshops in the Street of Storytellers in Peshawar, fortunately in bulk because—at the behest of the Americans—the Pakistani government had recently banned such inspirational literature. After training they were told to go home and wait to be contacted, Casa being exempt from this because he came back to Nabi Khan in Jalalabad, who intended to use him himself, asking Casa to shorten his hair and also trim his beard to a stubble so as not to appear even remotely conspicuous.

He walks along the water’s edge. He had wished to be away from the house as soon as he saw the two young Americans arrive earlier.

He looks up, wondering—as he used to when he was a child—how high Paradise is. Back then when he’d also wonder if his parents had ever been born, had ever existed.

The most truthful dreams occur during the time of year when flowers blossom on the branches, like now. And always at dawn. The prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, had told his followers that after he was gone prophecy would come only through true dreams, the angels bringing them to the sleepers, creating likenesses and images in their minds to give tidings. At dawn yesterday he had dreamt about being inside the sacred precinct of the Kaaba, taking milk from a gazelle. Waking up he remembered that according to the dream manuals of the believers suckling augured imprisonment. It probably was a false dream, brought on by his encounter with the Americans a day earlier. In any case that was the reason why he had begun scratching away the figure of the deer from the wall as he waited for her to finish praying yesterday. Absentmindedly. He thought he had stopped himself just in time, sweeping the flakes under an armchair, but obviously she had noticed.

Allah is testing the depth of his belief through all this, placing the Americans and the girl in orbit close to him. On which of the two would he focus his truest attention? He mustn’t waver from his devotion or all will be lost. A pious man, someone who had spent his entire life praying, once lived above a dissolute wretch who drank wine and listened to music and indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. One night the upstairs man had the urge to examine the revelries downstairs, while at the same time the downstairs man decided to see what his neighbour was doing. They both died at the stairs. The one on his way down was sent to Hell by Allah. The one going up admitted to Paradise.

Taking the dust path that eventually enters the Englishman’s orchard from this part of the lake, he stops on seeing Dunia and the American man James.

Two minutes on this path would lead to where the landmine lies buried.

They are talking. She’s presenting her report to him, telling him what Casa revealed to her yesterday when his guard was down briefly. And the story about being persecuted over the knock on her window? A lie to be able to extend her stay at the house?

If it’s so then he can only marvel at their shrewdness and elaborate designs. They’ll steal the lines from the palm while shaking hands with someone. But really how could he not notice that the devotion she has been displaying to gain his confidence is fake. She who thinks Allah accepts prayers offered within rooms painted with images of living things. That He accepts prayers from a woman in a veil through which her hair can be seen.

Instead of turning around and leaving, he takes a few more steps towards them because they have become aware of him. As he draws near, another American comes into view from behind the rosewood tree—he had arrived with James earlier.

“I am a little tired of having to prove who I am,” Dunia is saying to James in Pashto. “Didn’t I tell you who I was when I was on my way here yesterday?”

James points to the other American. “He wasn’t at the cordon yesterday morning, so he didn’t know who you were when he saw you just now. That’s all.”

The other white man makes a conciliatory gesture with his hands, saying something in English.

This is just so much play for Casa’s benefit, surely, their way of changing the subject because he has just walked in on their conversation about him.

“We are not your enemy,” says James.

“He was extremely discourteous. I am glad you weren’t too far behind.”

Or is this authentic? It’s something Casa has in common with her, then, being harassed by this group of invaders, these occupiers.

“He has apologised and I do too. You must appreciate how difficult the situation is for us as well. What can we do?”

Submit. Die.

“We are here to help your country. We came to get rid of the Taliban for you . . .”

“Please stop,” she tells him. “The Taliban regime had been in place for years and no one was particularly bothered about getting rid of it. You are not here because you wanted to destroy the Taliban for us, you are here because you wanted retribution for what happened to you in 2001. I am glad they are gone but let’s not confuse the facts.”

The Americans throw glances at Casa from time to time. A rush of delight in him that she is confronting them bravely. The sight is thrilling. Even if she is speaking disrespectfully yet again of the Taliban.

“You can’t expect a country to function like a charity,” James says.

“Then why pretend that it is?”

“I am sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“No, I am glad it got said. At last we are on the same page—without illusions.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” There is regret in the voice. “Our government and thousands of other American organisations do plenty of good work around the planet.”

“Did I say they don’t?”

Now Casa sees that her features are in turmoil. These men have distressed her, as though she needs anyone else adding to her consternation and panic. She must already feel like an exhausted and cornered animal, having had to flee Usha.

A brother, a cousin, a lover, he takes a step towards her to signal to them and to her that she is not alone.
Two of their buildings fell down and they think they know about the world’s darkness, about how unsafe a place it is capable of being!

“All I ask is that you do not scare or humiliate me the next time you need to stop me,” she says; and pointing to Casa—looking at him for the second time during all this, and just as cursorily as the first—she adds:

“You are as bad as he is.”

It is as though she has struck him hard in the face.

She leaves, and the Americans too begin to walk away, James raising a quick hand towards Casa—in belated greeting—which Casa doesn’t acknowledge, his entire body shaking and gone cold at what she just did. Only seconds after an animal’s throat was cut, even as he knelt there pinning down the death throes with his weight, he could feel its body warmth ebbing away, feel it begin to grow cold.

“She has nothing to do with your enemies,” he hears himself say plainly and in a clear voice to the retreating backs of the Americans.

He squares himself but they don’t even stop, let alone turn around.

“You sound very sure,” says James, continuing. “You know someone who
might
?” With his index finger he traces two quick loops around his head. Casa’s bandages.

L
YING BESIDE THE STONE FACE
he moves his fingers absently on the floor, where the few remaining panels of a stained-glass window are casting discs of coloured sunlight from above, the red with more heat dissolved in it than the blue. Then darkness falls and he climbs up and sits motionlessly on the bunched-up hair at the top of the Buddha’s head, the bun that sticks out sideways because the head is horizontal. His feet dangling in empty air. What did he expect? What other thoughts did he think would arise in her mind towards him, after his hostility towards her yesterday? She has shown him who he is. He doesn’t want to be that. He jumps down and takes a notebook and pen from the alcove. Climbing back up with them he opens the book in the middle. Two large empty pages. A faint scent from them as when someone has cut into a fruit near by. He waits until the darkness is perfect around him and then, having also removed his clothes and cast them onto the floor, he begins to write, beginning at the top right-hand corner of the right page and intending to stop upon getting to the bottom left of the facing page. Sentences about himself. The truth. He can only say it in the dark. Even his eyes are closed as he arranges the small words on the paper. But it is difficult to write like this, and so, after only half a dozen lines, he moves towards the lamp that rests higher up, against the top rim of the large stone ear. When he lights it he sees that the pages are still blank, that for some reason the pen had held on to its ink. He knows the reason. Allah doesn’t want him to. Nothing but indentations can be seen in the yellow light. He moves his fingertips over the phantom words. This is the second sign, the dream of the gazelle being the first. Or is it the third? Hadn’t Allah arranged for her to spend last night in the house, the night he needed to embrace a female, the final touch in his preparations for martyrdom? Allah is telling him what is expected of him. He knows not to flick or shake the pen to get the ink flowing. He continues to write however—no pigment, just pressure—until both pages are filled and several more. Finishing, he rips them out and folds them carefully—thinking as he goes that the Englishman would not be able to do this as easily with his one hand—and not knowing what else to do with them he drops them into the stone pit of the ear and extinguishes the flame. Words that can’t be seen. A silent cry, and an ear that can’t hear. Nothing but the maelstrom of his breathing in the darkness now.