The Miernik Dossier - Charles McCarry [69]
It was a remarkable display of shooting. And a remarkable breakdown in self-control. “Well,” said Collins. “Isn’t that interesting?” Kalash took off his sunglasses and watched Miernik’s thick figure tramping up the little hill that separated us from the camp. “If I were you, Nigel,” he said, “I’d be very careful about creeping into Ilona’s bed while that Communist is about.”
We have been eating well out of the cans. Ilona is an inventive cook and a very efficient one, a circumstance that gives me one more opportunity to mention that appearances can be deceiving. Zofia, who shines with domesticity, exhausted her kitchen lore when she made tea in the Czech farmhouse and sliced all that bread and cheese and salami for Kirnov and me: she cannot open an egg without breaking the yolk. Whereas Ilona, whom the Marquis de Sade would have picked out of the crowd across a football stadium (if Ilona didn’t spot him first), is a treasure. “I like to wife about,” Ilona will say, stirring up a sauce béchamel over the camp stove, or sewing on buttons for Miernik. She complains, as we all do, that Kalash will allow us no wine. “How can I make sauces without Chablis?” Ilona demands.
“I won’t have you ruining the desert with your filthy Christian ways,” says Kalash. “Once your liver is cleaned out, your disposition will improve, Ilona. You’ve always been a most agreeable girl, but your thoughts are muddy. You stumble in your speech. Wine, my dear, wine is what does it.”
After dinner, while Ilona sat on the ground, scratching Kalash’s feet (his father, the Amir, has a concubine who is the most accomplished foot-scratcher in Islam), Miernik got out a notebook and interviewed Kalash about his ancestry. What was his exact relationship to the Prophet? “One doesn’t go about reciting these pedigrees, Miernik. Put away your pen and enjoy the evening.” Miernik persisted. “Very well,” said Kalash. “I am of the sons of Mohammed and his wife Kadija, who was the Prophet’s first convert, and who died after the Prophet was besieged in Mecca.”
Miernik was impressed. “I had no idea,” he said, scribbling on his pad. “Well,” Kalash said, “no one else has, either. The family has scrolls with the genealogy all marked down. But is it true? What is true at the point where the Holy Koran leaves off? The Khatar family always had a lot of weak blood, younger sons who didn’t like to lop off heads and testicles as the line of the elder sons to which I belong always enjoyed doing. They sat about in our mountain strongholds, watering the family tree. Not exactly objective scholarship, but good enough for my ancestors. From what the Koran says I think the Prophet must have been a good deal like my father—a big strong fellow who knew how to enjoy this world while waiting for the ineffable pleasures of the next. He started the custom of using the sword on those who were reluctant to believe in the heaven of Islam. Showed the beggars how wrong they’d been. Before their heads had rolled to a stop they found themselves in outer darkness, regretting they hadn’t listened to one of my forebears. My family have always been enthusiastic missionaries. I learned how to handle a sword before I could talk. Very important skill in a world teeming with infidels. Can you handle a sword, Miernik?”
A full moon was shining. The air over the desert was so clear that you could see the lunar craters and mountains and seas with the naked eye. Zofia and I went for a walk; the sea was not