Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [99]
Jane felt depressed, despite Ellis’s euphoria. I must stop brooding, she thought. Jean-Pierre has gone, and he isn’t coming back, and there’s no point in grieving. I should think positively. I should take an interest in other people’s lives.
“What about your conference?” she asked Ellis. “If all the guerrillas have gone away . . .”
“They all agreed,” Ellis said. “They were so euphoric, after the success of the ambush, that they were ready to say yes to anything. In a way the ambush proved what some of them had doubted: that Masud is a brilliant leader and that by uniting under him they can achieve great victories. It also established my macho credentials, which helped.”
“So you’ve succeeded.”
“Yes. I even have a treaty, signed by all the rebel leaders and witnessed by the mullah.”
“You must be proud.” She reached out and squeezed his arm, then withdrew her hand quickly. She was so glad he was here to keep her from being alone that she felt guilty about having been angry with him for such a long time. But she was afraid she might accidentally give him the mistaken impression that she still cared for him in the old way, which would be awkward.
She turned away from him and looked around the cave. The bandages and syringes were in their boxes and the drugs were in her bag. The wounded guerrillas were comfortable on rugs or blankets. They would stay in the cave all night: it was too difficult to move them all down the hill. They had water and a little bread, and two or three of them were well enough to get up and make tea. Mousa, the one-handed son of Mohammed, was squatting in the mouth of the cave, playing a mysterious game in the dust with the knife his father had given him: he would stay with the wounded men, and in the unlikely event that one of them should need medical attention during the night, the boy would run down the hill and fetch Jane.
Everything was in order. She wished them good night, patted Mousa on the head and went outside. Ellis followed. Jane felt a hint of cold in the evening breeze. It was the first sign of the end of summer. She looked up at the distant mountaintops of the Hindu Kush, from where the winter would come. The snowy peaks were pink with the reflection of the setting sun. This was a beautiful country: that was too easy to forget, especially on busy days. I’m glad I’ve seen it, she thought, even though I can’t wait to go home.
She walked down the hill with Ellis at her side. She glanced at him now and again. The sunset made his face appear bronzed and craggy. She realized that he probably had not slept much the night before. “You look tired,” she said.
“It’s a long time since I was in a real war,” he replied. “Peace makes you soft.”
He was very matter-of-fact about it. At least he did not relish the slaughter, as the Afghan men did. He had told her the bare fact that he had blown up the bridge at Darg, but one of the wounded guerrillas had given her the details, explaining how the timing of the explosion had turned the tide of the battle and graphically describing the carnage.
Down in the village of Banda, there was an air of celebration. Men and women stood talking animatedly in groups, instead of retiring to their courtyards. The children were playing noisy war games, ambushing imaginary Russians in imitation of their older brothers. Somewhere a man was singing to the beat of a drum. The thought of spending the evening alone suddenly seemed unbearably dreary to Jane, and on impulse she said to Ellis: “Come and have tea with me—if you don’t mind my feeding Chantal.”
“I’d like that,” he said.
The baby was crying as they entered the house, and as always Jane’s body responded: one of her breasts sprang a sudden leak. She said hurriedly: “Sit down, and Fara will bring you some tea.” Then she darted into the other room before Ellis could see the embarrassing stain on her shirt. She undid her buttons quickly and picked up the baby. There was the usual moment of blind panic as Chantal sought the nipple, then she began