Earth and Ashes - Atiq Rahimi [10]
Your heart pounds in anticipation of visiting Murad. Your reunion is close now. This very road will take you to your son. Blessed be this road, a road that Murad has traveled many times. Would Shahmard stop the truck, so you could step down and prostrate yourself on this earth, before these stones, before these brambles that have kissed your son’s feet? Blessed be the prints left by your feet, Murad!
“Did you wait long?”
Shahmard’s question prevents you from kissing Murad’s footprints.
“Since nine this morning.”
You both fall silent again.
Shahmard is a young man—about thirty years old, maybe even younger. But the blackened, smoked skin covering his bones and the lines and wrinkles on his face make him look older. An old astrakhan cap sits on his dirty hair. A black moustache covers his upper lip and yellow teeth. His head is pushed forward. His eyes, circled by black rings, dart about.
A partially smoked cigarette rests behind his right ear. Its scent fills your nostrils. You imagine it is the smell of coal, the smell of the mine, the smell of Murad—the sight of whom at any moment now will light up your eyes. You’ll kiss his forehead. No, you’ll kiss his feet. You’ll kiss his eyes and his hands like a child reunited with his father. Yes, you will be Murad’s son. He’ll take you into his arms and console you. With his manly hands he’ll hold your trembling ones and say, “Dastaguir, my child!”
If only you were his son—his Yassin. Deaf like Yassin. You’d see Murad but you wouldn’t hear him. You wouldn’t hear him say, “Why have you come?”
“Have you come to work in the mine?” Shahmard asks.
“No, I have come to see my son.”
Your eyes drift over the rolling hills of the valley. You take a deep breath and continue.
“I come to drive a dagger into my son’s heart.”
Shahmard gives you a confused look, laughs, and says, “Dear God, I’m giving a ride to a swordsman.”
With your gaze still lost in the valley, in its black stones, its dust and its scrub, you say, “No, brother, it’s that I bear great sorrow and sorrow sometimes turns into a sword.”
“You sound like Mirza Qadir.”
“You know Mirza Qadir?”
“Who doesn’t know him? In a way, he’s a guide for us all.”
“He’s a man with a great heart. I didn’t know him, but I just spent two hours in his company. I was won over. What he says is right. He understands sorrow. From his first glance, he instills trust. You can tell him whatever lies in your heart … In our day, men like Mirza Qadir are rare. Where is he from? Why is he here?”
Shahmard takes the half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear, puts it between his dry lips and lights it. He inhales deeply and says, “Mirza Qadir is from the Shorbazar district of Kabul. He has only had a shop here for a short time. He doesn’t like to talk about himself. He says little to those he doesn’t trust. It took me a year to find out where he came from and what brought him here.”
Shahmard falls silent again. But you want to know more about Mirza Qadir, the man to whom you’ve entrusted your grandson. Finally he continues:
“He had a shop in Shorbazar. In the daytime he’d work as a merchant and, in the evenings, as a storyteller. Each night a crowd would gather at the shop. He was a popular man who commanded great respect. One day his young son was called up to serve in the army. A year later he returned. He’d been made an officer and trained in Russia. This didn’t please Mirza Qadir. He didn’t want his son to have a military career. But the son liked the uniform, the money, and the guns. He ran away. Mirza disowned him. The sorrow killed his wife. Mirza left Kabul. His home and shop remained behind. He came to the coal mine, where he worked for two years. With his first savings he set up that shop. From morning to evening he sits there, writing or reading. He’s