Earth and Ashes (7 page)

The servant wants you to release him. Confused, you place your bundle on the ground. You explore your pockets. You take out your box of naswar, hand it to the servant and request that he give it to Murad. He grabs the box and rushes away.

Murad will recognize your box of naswar. After all, he gave it to you himself, the first time he was paid. As soon as he sees the box, he’ll know you’re alive. If he comes after you, you’ll know Murad is your Murad. If he doesn’t, you will have no Murad anymore. Go, get Yassin and return to the village. Wait there a few days.

You quicken your step toward the exit of the mine. You reach the gate. Without waiting for Shahmard, you walk toward the hills. A sob constricts your throat. You close your eyes and weep quietly within. Dastaguir, be strong! A man doesn’t weep. Why not?! Let your heart’s sorrow overflow!

You wind around the side of the first hill. You want naswar. You have none. Maybe the box of naswar is already in Murad’s hands.

You slow your pace. You stop. You bend down. You take a pinch of gray earth between your fingertips and place it under your tongue. Then you continue on … Your hands are clasped behind your back, holding tightly the bundle you tied from the apple-blossom scarf.

The author and publisher would like to thank Sabrina Nouri for her editorial advice
.

TRANSLATED FROM DARI BY
SARAH MAGUIRE AND YAMA YARI

I can feel hands stroking my head. They are warm and tender. They are nervous; they tremble.

“Mother, is that you?”

A lock of my mother’s hair caresses my face. So soft and gentle.

“Brother, are you awake?”

That’s not my mother. Who is it?

Despite all the pain, I force my eyes open. I can’t tell whether the blackness I see is her hair or the night. I move my head a fraction. Beneath the dark hair is a woman I do not know. To one side of her, I can make out the face of a child, who says, “Father!”

His hand is stroking my hair.

“Father! You woke up! You came back! Get up!”

Are these the same voices I heard before, the same faces? No, I’m still asleep. I’d better close my eyes again. I close them.

“Stop!”

I stopped. No, I didn’t just stop, I froze to the spot. I froze at the sight of a soldier aiming his Kalashnikov right at my head. The soldier was standing in front of a jeep. Its headlights shone straight in my eyes. I put up my hand to stop myself being blinded.

“Stop! Hands behind your head!”

I froze to the spot while the soldier, the gun, and the jeep spun round and round in front of my eyes. Then, at the sound of a gun being cocked, everything suddenly lurched to a halt and I turned to stone. Another soldier came around the side of the jeep. His Kalashnikov ready, he walked right up to me and said:

“Password?”

And I said:

“No idea.”

“What’s the password?” the soldier behind him shouted.

“But what time is it?” I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of my watch.

“Don’t move!”

I felt the butt of a Kalashnikov ram into my guts. My mouth filled with blood and I spat out the words:

“The password for the curfew? Sorry, no, I’ve forgotten.”

I tried to lean close to the soldier so I could tell him I’d been drinking, that I was too drunk to remember the password. But the terror of being picked up by the soldiers and then whacked in the stomach by a Kalashnikov was too much for me. Everything went black.

“Down on your knees!”

Those hands that stroked my forehead, that hair brushing against my face, that child who called me “Father,” were they really real? Strange how, when you’re dreaming, the dream-reality always seems to be more real than reality itself. This is what we are like: our dreams seem more plausible than our lives. But if they didn’t, all those revolutions, those wars, those religions and ideologies, could never have been dreamed up …

“Brother, can you stand?”

Even though I’m terrified, I open my eyes. Nothing has changed. The same woman, the same child …

Morning never comes. Night is an eternity. That woman is here. I am dead. The woman—or angel—is dragging me away. Where is she taking me? To the abyss? How far to the bottom?

My breath stinks of booze, my mouth tastes disgusting. I have sinned. I can feel the wounds to my body
that were given to me by Nakir and Munkar as punishment for my sins.

“Dear angel, pardon me! Oh God, have mercy! Save me!”

Which one of hell’s doors are we going through?

Why do the djinn close the door behind us?

“Let go of me, Angel …”

The angel lets go of me. I float in midair. I tumble to the ground. I hear nothing but silence.

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM OTHER PRESS
ATIQ RAHIMI’S PRIX-GONCOURT WINNING NOVEL
,

the patience stone
translated by Polly McLean
with an introduction by Khaled Hosseini

“In spare, unflinching prose, Atiq Rahimi gives us Afghanistan’s terrible legacy in the story of one woman’s suffering. Anyone seeking to understand why Afghanistan is difficult and what decades of violence have done to its people should read Atiq Rahimi. He is a superb guide to a hard and complex land.”

—
RYAN CROCKER
, former U.S. ambassador to Pakistan and Iraq, and U.S. envoy to Afghanistan

“
The
Patience Stone
is perfectly written: spare, close to the bone, sometimes bloody, with a constant echo, like a single mistake that repeats itself over and over and over.”

—
Los Angeles Times

“This story from an Afghan-born author is a powerful one, giving voice to the historically downtrodden Afghan woman … truly an expansive work of literature.”

—
New York Post

“[A] clever novel … readers get a glimpse of daily life in a country terrorized by conflict and religious fundamentalism. Rahimi paints this picture with nuance and subtlety … [His] sparse prose complements his simple yet powerful storytelling prowess. This unique story is both enthralling and disturbing.”

—
San
Francisco Chronicle

Born in Kabul in 1962, ATIQ RAHIMI was seventeen years old when the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. He fled to Pakistan during the war and was eventually granted political asylum in France in 1984. He later enrolled at the Sorbonne and received a doctorate in audio-visual communications. After the fall of the Taliban in 2002, Rahimi returned to Afghanistan, where he filmed an adaptation of
Earth and Ashes
. There he has become renowned as a maker of documentary and feature films, and as a writer. The film of
Earth and Ashes
was in the Official Selection at Cannes in 2004 and won a number of prizes. Since 2002 Rahimi has returned to Afghanistan a number of times to set up a Writers’ House in Kabul and offer support and training to young writers and filmmakers. His novel
The Patience Stone
(Other Press) won the Prix Goncourt in 2008.