A Fort of Nine Towers (14 page)

I kept my eyes tightly closed, trying to force what I had seen from my mind. Silence filled the room until Grandfather spoke in a strange voice.

“You have to find a way to survive. And the secret of survival is to open your eyes. Closed eyes can never see the path.” I slowly opened my eyes to see Grandfather down on one knee in front of me so that his face was level with mine. He looked very shaken. “If they kill me and keep you, you have to promise me to find your way home.”

“Why will they keep me and kill you, and why are you saying all these things? I’m not going anywhere without you,” I said defiantly.

“I’m old, and they don’t need me. But they will need you for work, or for their sexual pleasure,” my grandfather said.

He could see the confusion in my eyes. “I don’t have to tell you what that is, but when the time comes you’ll know it. They may use you for a while, but you must find an opportunity to escape. I’m sure you can do that. Don’t show them that you are smart. Always act stupid.”

“No, no, don’t tell me that you can’t come with me. Please stop,” I said. I never liked crying but was afraid I might start, and I did not want Grandfather to see that, because maybe he would call me “fountain eyes,” the way my older sister did to get back at me for saying the same thing about her.

“Just listen to me. We may not have another chance to talk again. If these people here make you very unhappy with your life, you may think that killing yourself is the best way to overcome all your sorrows. But believe me, it is not,” Grandfather sternly said. It was the first time he had ever spoken to me like that.

“You have to be a brave boy, and if they do kill you, accept the death with open arms, and never beg for your life, because in the end death gets us all one way or another.”

“Before they kill me, I want to see my family once more, I want to say goodbyes to them, and I want to tell them I love them,” I said. My voice choked as I spoke.

I started remembering my father’s jokes, my mother’s smile, and my sisters’ innocent looks. I remembered sitting around one tablecloth with my parents and sisters, eating breakfast and laughing.

He stared into my eyes for a moment, then said, “The past is like water that flows in a river, you can’t bring it back with a shovel. Let the past be in the past, and move on; you won’t lose anything. Remember all that I told you. Okay?”

“Yes, I shall remember,” I said. I was looking into his eyes, and they were getting watery. When he finished, he turned his face away and blew his nose with his pocket handkerchief. He looked at the walls and started reading what had been written on them. He said, “We need to leave our words, too.” He picked up a piece of charcoal on the floor and gave it to me. “Write, ‘Death only breaks the cage, but it does not hurt the bird.’ ”

It was a great relief to hear such a wise saying from him instead of these other despairing statements. I wanted to hug him, but his face was lost in his handkerchief.

The tall, thin guy unlocked the door and came in. He pointed his right hand at my grandfather. “Bring me four hundred thousand afghani, and I will let you go. But the boy will stay with us till you come back with the money,” he said.

“I’ll find you four hundred thousand afghani, but you will get none of it if you hurt my grandson!” Grandfather said.

“As long as you stand by your word, we won’t hurt the boy,” he said. Then he went out to talk to his friend, leaving the door open.

“How will you find the money?” I asked my grandfather.

“Don’t worry about money. It is not the issue. We have to get out of this situation,” Grandfather said.

“I think it is very good to be rich in such circumstances,” I mumbled.

“We were rich, and that is why we are here. Being rich from now on will be like cooking a sheep for dinner and inviting wild and hungry wolves with sharp teeth to join you. When the dinner is not enough for them, then they’ll invite themselves to eat you,” Grandfather said with a worried tone. “For now, we just have to keep them talking.”

The tall guy came back and pointed at my grandfather. “Are you Sunni or Shi’a?”

“Sunni and Shi’a are the two wings of one body, and thorns to enemies’ eyes. They are both believers in God and Mohammad, peace be upon him,” Grandfather said, his voice oddly relaxed. The separation of Sunni and Shi’a started with a dispute among those closest to the Prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him, over who would lead Islam in the years after his death. Both Sunni and Shi’a share the same Islamic beliefs and articles of faith.

The guy suddenly acted ashamed of his question and walked out, as if not sure what to say next.

The other guy, who had said nothing until now, came in and grabbed Grandfather’s collar and pulled at him. “I’m gonna make a deal with you. How much do you have to give us now?” Then he slapped my grandfather on the face. I stood up to defend Grandfather,
but the guy pushed me in the chest and knocked me backward. He rolled up his sleeves to make his hands ready for more slapping.

My grandfather recited in Arabic one of the Hadiths of the Prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him: “The Messenger of God, Mohammad, said, ‘He is not one of us who does not treat our young with compassion or acknowledge the dignity of elders.’ ”

He stared at my grandfather fiercely for a moment, hesitated, then left the room without saying anything more. His tall, thin friend came and locked the room, leaving Grandfather and me alone again.

I looked at Grandfather. His face was red, and I saw the print of four fingers on his left cheek. If my father had been there, he would have punched those two guys brutally and changed the geography of their faces.

Grandfather smiled at me. “That was an adventure.” Then he began pacing from one corner of the room to another.

I thought about my death. What if my family receives my body without my head? Will they put my body in the grave without it? What will be in the grave? Only earth under me and big stones on top of me. I would be covered with a white sheet. I thought about how lonely a grave must feel. That was even more frightening than looking at the heads and legs that I had seen in that ditch. At least the heads were together. They did not eat and chat with one another, but they were not alone.

Suddenly I wished for oblivion, to be at rest. I would drink a glass of poison if that would take away the sight of those heads and send me to sleep forever.

I heard footsteps in the courtyard. I saw a third Hazara man through the broken window of our room. He was not wearing a bandanna, or even carrying a gun except for the pistol in his belt. He was a couple of years older than the other two, but probably not more than his early thirties. He was very muscular. His little finger was halfway up his nostril.

The tall guy unlocked the door and shouted to us, “Come out and talk to our commander.”

We went out. The commander was standing at the edge of the ditch, staring at the severed heads. He did not seem to mind the bad
smell. He did not pay any attention to us for almost five minutes. The commander continued cleaning his nostrils, then rubbed his finger against his vest, which had little pockets and compartments for holding bullets and grenades. All his grenades had fuses hanging out. I thought for a moment of pulling one of those fuses and pushing him into the ditch.

He cleared his throat with a fake cough, still staring into the ditch, and asked my grandfather, “Do you know why I have kept all these heads here?”

“No,” Grandfather said.

“Do you want to know?” the commander asked.

“Do you want to tell me?” Grandfather replied.

“Do you want to know, young man?” the commander asked me.

“No. Because it is obvious. You are a killer,” I said sadly.

The commander turned toward us for the first time. He looked at me with dead eyes.

Grandfather squeezed my shoulder and hurriedly said, “He is a kid. He doesn’t know what he is saying.”

“Kids are honest, and they know exactly what they are saying. I like people who talk frankly. I also like to collect human skulls. Sometimes I plant flowers in them; they look beautiful that way. Do you want to have your skull become a nice pot for a rosebush?”

Grandfather said nothing.

“Your skull will turn to earth after a while anyway. Why not use it for something?” the commander asked with a smile. His little finger was still going in and out of his nose, searching for something. “A man should be happy to be turned into blossoms.”

Grandfather was watching the commander, who in turn was enjoying the sight of those heads. The other two guys watched us from the side of the garden.

“And do you know what rotten human flesh is good for?” the commander asked.

“Tell me,” Grandfather said.

“It makes good fertilizer. Didn’t you know that?”

“No. I didn’t know that,” my grandfather said, almost as if he were interested. But I could tell he was afraid.

“Yeah, me neither. I just found out a few months ago when I put some in one of my skull pots. That rose blossomed like crazy; it’s still in bloom. Maybe you would like to see it?” he said, smiling, and looked straight at my grandfather for the first time. He cleared his throat again. “In fact, why don’t you choose which kind of rose you would like to have growing in your own skull?”

“As you wish,” Grandfather said very softly. “But may I ask your permission to visit my house across the street one last time?”

The commander laughed, much too loudly. I looked at him and wondered what he found so funny. “That is not your house,” the commander said.

“Actually, it is,” Grandfather replied, as if he were making a point to a customer. “I built it. I lived there, and it was my hope to return to it when you all go back from where you came.”

The commander narrowed his eyes and looked at Grandfather with disgust. “I told you I like people who tell the truth. I know the owner of that house, and he is not you. He is my teacher. And my trainer. I went there every day to train in his gym.” He drew his pistol. “You are a dishonest man, like all these people with money.”

“Are you speaking of Abdul Basir?” Grandfather asked quietly.

“Of course! Abdul Basir is a man of honor, a man of respect.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Grandfather.

“That is his house, not yours!” The commander was shouting now. “Abdul Basir is my son,” Grandfather said.

The commander narrowed his eyes again. “Don’t try to fool with me.”

“He is my father,” I said emphatically. “If he were here and saw you talking to Grandfather like this, he would have broken your nose by now.”

The commander looked at me. “This boy doesn’t look like Abdul Basir. He looks like a Hazara, like us,” the commander said to Grandfather.

“From his mother’s side,” Grandfather replied. Was that true, I wondered? I had never heard that before.

“Tell me about your son. Where is he a teacher?” the commander shouted.

“At the Habibia High School. He is a boxing trainer, too. He had one gym there and one gym in our house, at the corner. He used to train two hundred people in Habibia High School every day, and fifty people in this gym at home. He has been in many international boxing matches, and won most of them,” Grandfather said. “What else do you want me to tell you about him? What he eats for breakfast, or what color he likes to wear, or what kind of motorbike he rides?” Grandfather was on the edge of sounding disdainful.

“Tell me about his motorbike,” the commander said edgily.

“English. Four cylinders. Fifteen hundred cc. It was noisy and big. Two years ago, a tourist from Denmark came to Kabul and bought it from him. Then he used the money to buy a Russian Volga.”

The commander’s face changed. A small amount of life seemed to have crept into his eyes, but only just a little. “You are right,” he said in a low voice. His whole body relaxed. Then he took my grandfather’s right hand and kissed it and touched his eyes to it several times. This is how we were taught to kiss the Holy Koran and a holy man’s hand as a sign of respect and honor.

I was not sure whether to be relieved, or more frightened. Everything that had been happening was so strange. Now, just by his having said my father’s name, it was becoming even stranger.

The commander led us out of the courtyard. He seemed very embarrassed. His two friends followed. When we got outside, he asked my grandfather whether his men had treated us badly. His behavior had totally changed. He was not a bully anymore. He was acting like a servant to a king.

“Ask them yourself,” Grandfather said.

“Did you treat them badly?” he asked his men with a harsh voice. They were standing behind him, staring at their feet. He asked them once again, but very quietly this time. They still did not answer. He slapped one of them so hard on the face that mucus exploded out of his nose and all over the commander’s left hand.

The guy started wiping his nose, and the commander beat him on his back with his heavy fists. And as he was beating him he was saying, “Snot-filled bastard, do you know who you are dealing with? This holy man is the father of my teacher. His son was very kind to
me. He has won more boxing matches than you have hair on your head!” The commander pummeled the man mercilessly, until he was on his knees wailing. The commander must have been a strong boxer.

Grandfather asked him to stop the beating.

The commander kicked his underling, then ordered the other to bring us tea. He asked my grandfather what type of tea he drank.

“Let me visit my house now; we will have tea another time,” my grandfather replied.

“I’m sorry; you can’t go to your house today.” His voice was much calmer when he talked to Grandfather. “Your house was the front line last week, and our guys put mines all around the courtyard.” Grandfather’s face fell. “They are fighting in Bamyan now but they’ll be back in a few days. By next week your yard will be fully cleaned, I promise!” the commander said.

Grandfather had just survived a near encounter with death, yet he was even more devastated to know that though our house was right in front of us, we could not go in. We walked into the street. We stood there and stared at our house and said nothing.