Caravans (27 page)

I think Mira must have sensed my sadness, for she kissed me ardently, but the moment was spoiled by the sharp voice of Ellen, who said, “You’d better join the others, Mira.”

When the little nomad left the valley, Ellen said with some asperity, “You be careful what you do with that girl. One day in India a camel attacked her and in rage she nearly killed it. She takes nothing lightly, and remember … she is the chieftain’s daughter.” Then she added, “She’s also much smarter than most of the girls I knew in college.”

“Why don’t you teach her to read?”

“You be careful what you teach her,” she warned.

It was after this intrusion that I first began to notice that Ellen was also becoming involved in matters which could lead to dangerous conclusions, and that when she warned me about Mira she was perhaps thinking not of me but of herself. For example, on the trail she most often walked with Dr. Stiglitz, ahead of the camels; and under the canopy,
when we gathered in the afternoons, she took her seat beside him. One of the reasons why Ellen sought out Stiglitz was that at Bryn Mawr she had studied German and French and could thus converse with him in four different languages, and they maintained long discussions on philosophical matters.

I wondered if Zulfiqar took umbrage at this, for I had read in many books that men of the desert were subject to ungovernable passions where their women were concerned, and certainly in normal Afghan life the chaderi and the high wall topped by broken glass proved that the books were right; and I began to fear that my affection for Mira might get me involved in these nomad rages; but the more I watched Zulfiqar the more confused I became, for he certainly did not act like the vengeful, romanticized sheik of fiction. On the contrary, when Ellen and Stiglitz were hiking together, Zulfiqar often rode by on his brown horse, kicking its ribs expertly, and he would occasionally stop to talk but more often he continued past, according them his professional smile, and I got the clear impression that instead of being jealous of Stiglitz, he was somewhat relieved to have in the caravan a man who had spare time for arguing with his second woman.

With me the problem was somewhat different, for Mira was his daughter. I was sure that once or twice he had seen us kissing, and he must have noticed how we always sat together at the tent or at meals, yet he treated Mira and me much as he did the others: infrequent conversation, inevitable smile.

On the night before we reached Kabul, the Ko chis prepared a farewell feast for me. Maftoon impressed some men who formed a noisy orchestra for nomad dancing and songs from many trails in Asia. I tried to keep away from Mira, for leaving her was proving to be extremely difficult, and several times I caught myself staring at Stiglitz and Ellen, thinking: They’re the lucky ones. Together all the way to Balkh.

That night as I crept into my sleeping bag I asked Stiglitz, “Have you told Ellen what you told me … at the pillar?”

“I’ve told her I can’t leave Afghanistan.”

“Have you told her why?”

“Sooner or later everyone knows everything,” he replied. “The timetable of discovery is not significant.”

“That’s not true. When I discovered your history … in the caravanserai … I might have killed you.”

“It would have been of no consequence,” he said fatalistically.

“How do you feel about me now … as a Jew?” I asked.

He considered this for some minutes, while the camels moved about behind us, and at first I thought he had fallen asleep. Then he replied in evasive fashion, “I’ve given up my home, my family …”

“You called her your filthy wife,” I reminded him.

“I was speaking of my children,” he corrected. “They were different. I surrendered everything … profession, opera, a city I loved … so in a
sense, Herr Miller, I’m a dead man, and dead men have no further responsibility for passing judgments.”

I made no comment to this and he continued, “To the Jews I did terrible things. You’re a Jew. Believe it or not, Herr Miller, the two facts are completely unrelated. Toward you as a Jew I have no feeling whatsoever. Toward you as a man … I’d like to be your friend, Herr Miller.”

“Would you stop calling me Herr Miller?” I asked.

“I’m very thoughtless,” he said, reaching out from his sleeping bag to grasp my arm. “Please forgive me,” he begged, and a cesspool of bitterness began to drain away.

After a long silence he asked, “Do you remember how our discussion at the pillar started? No, I thought not. You were berating me for not having amputated Pritchard’s leg at Chahar. I tried to tell you that there are factors in life which go beyond medical comprehension, and I equated Pritchard’s determination to die with Sem Levin’s determination to live. The point is this, I’m sick with shame and grief over what I did to Sem Levin, because I acted against his will, but I haven’t the slightest regret over the case of John Pritchard, because I acted in furtherance of his will. One way or other he had commanded himself to die.”

“I’m beginning to see what you’re talking about,” I admitted.

“With me it’s the same way,” he added. “I’m dead. If the Russians hang me it’s no matter. They’re hanging a dead man. But if I’m allowed to live, I have willed myself to be reborn. When you
saw me in Kandahar I was a walking corpse, concerned only with my bottle of beer. Now I shall be a human being.”

I asked, “Has Ellen accomplished this?”

“Yes,” he confessed. “But don’t forget, Miller, when you leave us in Kabul you’ll be a living man too.” He allowed this to sink in, then asked, “Have you ever made love to a woman?”

“Certainly,” I lied, counting some frenzied moments in war as qualifiers.

“Well, leaving this nomad girl is going to be a different experience from what you imagine. I am wondering what you will do after Mira vanishes. What will you do, Miller?”

“I’ll go back to the embassy,” I said brashly. “Pick up where I left off.”

“With the smell of camels haunting you? Don’t be stupid.” He turned over and went to sleep.

From the caravanserai to Kabul had been a distance of some three hundred and fifty miles, which required twenty-five days of marching, but since we occasionally held camp for two or three days at sites with adequate forage, it was not until the middle of May that we came over a pass and saw below us the sprawling capital whose center was filled by the low mountain. I stood with Mira and explained, “My house is over there … to the north of that mountain. Tomorrow I’ll be sleeping there.”

The nomad girl rejected my prediction and took my face in her hands. She kissed me warmly and whispered, “Oh, no, Miller! Tomorrow night you won’t be sleeping there.”

Few Kochi caravans ever entered Kabul with the
advance excitement caused by ours, and as soon as we pitched our black tents in the traditional nomad area some miles west and south of the British embassy, we were visited by three important emissaries. First Moheb Khan, trim and polished in a new Chevrolet, drove out to investigate my report that Ellen Jaspar was traveling with the Kochis, and he consulted lengthily with Zulfiqar and Ellen while Mira and I lingered outside the tent trying to eavesdrop. I remember her asking me, “Who is this Moheb Khan?” I explained that he was an important official who could do her father much harm if he was made angry and she agreed: “He does look very important.”

I avoided seeing Moheb, because I did not want to talk with him at that moment, dressed as I was in Afghan clothes; but after he had gone, a lesser official reported to see Dr. Stiglitz, and they sat in a corner of our tent conversing in German, so I did not understand what they were saying, but the upshot was that Stiglitz was not to be arrested or sent back to Kandahar.

Now came my turn, for Richardson of Intelligence drove out after lunch at the British embassy, lit his pipe with infuriating care, stroked his mustache and said in his deep voice, “Miller, I’m afraid there’s hell to pay over that jeep.” He watched the effect on me and added, “Going to cost you … say … six hundred dollars. Miller, they stole everything but the name in front. Nazrullah had to make two trips across that desert.”

I threw myself on his mercy: “It was stupid, and I know it. But I did feel that Verbruggen would understand.”

“The ambassador is raising hell,” Richardson confided, and I could feel the boom being lowered.

“What’s the bad word?” I asked.

“Well, you saved your neck by that report from Musa Darul. We notified Washington and at least the senator from Pennsylvania’s mollified. But the girl’s parents! Why doesn’t she write to them?”

“She has written … several times. I sat over her while she did the last one. But there’s so much to explain she tears the letters up. I’ve drafted this letter, which we can send them, and this complete report.”

“Good, and I don’t think you need worry too much about the ambassador. Washington’s rather pleased that you rescued Miss Jaspar.”

“Rescued her? She’s never been happier in her life.”

“You mean she’s staying with the Kochis?” Richardson gasped.

I thought: If I try to explain everything … Zulfiqar, Stiglitz, Islam … he’ll get all balled up. So I said, “I didn’t rescue her. She rescued me.”

“Now what the hell do you mean by that?” he asked huffily, drawing on his pipe.

“I’ll explain in the office tomorrow.”

“Now wait a minute,” he protested. Then he changed his mind and asked quietly, “Could we take a walk?”

“Why not? I’ve just walked three hundred and fifty miles.”

“Don’t you ride the camels?” he asked, and I looked at him with scorn.

When we were far from the tents he said, “Maybe you won’t be in the office tomorrow.”

“They sending me home?” I asked with a sort of sick feeling.

“No. Washington’s come up with a peculiar idea.” He paused to let the drama sink in, then sucked his pipe and studied me. “You ever heard of Qabir?”

“No.” Then I reflected. Where had I heard that name? I corrected myself: “I’ve heard the name but I forget where.”

“It’s an important meeting place of the nomads,” he said. “Somewhere in the Hindu Kush.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t show on the map.”

“Did you ask the British? They know these areas.”

“They know it only as a name,” he said. “Qabir. Qabir. Does it mean anything at all to you?”

Then I remembered. “One night the chief was ticking off the route of the caravan. Musa Darul, Balkh. And he said he’d be able to use Dr. Stiglitz at Qabir.”

“In what capacity?”

“He didn’t say.”

Richardson walked away from me and kicked pebbles for some time. Then he asked bluntly, “Miller, could you manage some way to stay with the Kochis till they get to Qabir?”

“Why?”

“It’s damned important that our side have someone who’s been there. We’ve no information about it except that every summer the nomads gather there, and we think that Russians, Chinese, Tajiks, Uzbeks… the lot …”

“Supposing I could get there, what do you want me to do?”

“Just look. Find out who the Russians send and how they get across the Oxus.”

“I’d stand out like a sore thumb,” I protested.

“That may be an advantage,” he said. “Think you can arrange to stay with the caravan?”

“Possibly,” I evaded, trying not to show the joy I felt at the reprieve.

“If you could,” he said cautiously, “I think we’d forget about the jeep.”

I said, “I’m not keen on Qabir. Sounds dull. But I’ve always wanted to see Balkh. Can I come in tonight for some fresh gear?”

“No. We don’t want you around the embassy, Tell me what you need and I’ll get it”

“Some money, a few vitamin pills, some nose drops … boy, your nose dries out … and some note pads.”

“Don’t take any notes on Qabir,” he warned.

“I haven’t said I could get there,” I cautioned. “If there is such a place.”

Late that afternoon, while Mira was scrounging the Kabul bazaars, Richardson returned with my gear and a batch of mail, and in a gesture unprecedented for him shook my hand warmly and said with feeling, “Miller, do you even dimly comprehend the opportunity you have? For seven years we’ve been trying to get to Qabir. So have the British. For God’s sake, keep your eyes open.”

“What did the ambassador say?”

“He said, ‘Imagine such a job going to such a squirt.’” Richardson left, and I swore to myself: Somehow or other, I’m getting to Qabir.

I sat at the edge of my tent in the twilight and wondered what trick I could use for staying with
the Kochis, and as I pondered the problem I realized that I wasn’t much interested in Richardson’s Russians but I was keenly concerned about continuing with Mira. With no plans at all, I felt: Something’s bound to work out.

I turned to my mail. Girls had replied to my letters, but now I couldn’t even remember their faces. A letter from my father sounded as if Mr. Jaspar were arguing incomprehensibly with Ellen, and provincial Boston matters which had once been of significance were now tedious. How could a group of Kochi women gathering camel dung seem more important than my aunts in Boston? How could my adventures with a gang of nomads and a mixed-up girl from Pennsylvania preoccupy my thoughts? More particularly, how could I manage to stay with Mira?

My problem was unexpectedly solved by Zulfiqar. Accompanied by Dr. Stiglitz he came to my tent and said half apologetically, “The doctor has official permission to stay with us. He’s coming to Qabir.”

“Where’s that?” I asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Where the nomads meet each summer. In the Hindu Kush.”

“Hope you have a good trip,” I said to Stiglitz. “Sounds a long way off.”

“It is,” the German agreed. “But what we wanted to discuss with you … we need a lot of medicine.”

I put on a serious face and said, “I suppose you could buy what you need in the bazaar.”

“Yes …” Zulfiqar said, “if we had the money.”

This time I have no jeep,” I reminded him.

“But the American officer … when he came, did he give you any money?”

“Yes,” I replied, and waited.

“We were wondering,” Stiglitz proposed, “Would you buy us the medicine if …”

“If what?” I asked cautiously.