Caravans (32 page)

We gathered about the white rug as the two sharifs discussed the matter, and I realized that no nation exercised any sovereignty over this congregation of seventy or eighty thousand people. By consent these two sharifs, one a gunrunner and the other an outcast, enjoyed absolute control. If they now decided to execute the trembling Tajik, they could, but after a short consultation Shakkur the Kirghiz announced the verdict: the right hand to be cut off.

I gasped at the severity of the judgment and impulsively stepped forward. In Pashto I offered to
pay the value of the goods stolen, but the old Hazara pointed out that my gesture made no sense. “The goods have already been recovered. What we try to accomplish is not punishment of this poor thief but prevention of further stealing. Carry out the order.”

The Tajik began to whimper, but attendants whom I had often seen in the yurt and had taken as mere loungers grabbed the thief and whisked him outside. There was a pitiful scream, after which an Uzbek returned with a red dagger and the man’s right hand.

The Hazara sharif, seeing that I was shaken to the point of sickness, took me aside and said, “We must be harsh. I’ve been sharif here for many years and this is the last cruel judgment I shall make. Don’t think unkindly of me.”

“Are you retiring?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” he replied with no regrets, “and there are many who think that your friend Zulfiqar should be the next sharif.”

Then it became clear! Zulfiqar, having shrewdly guessed the old Hazara’s intention to step down, had been conniving for twelve months to be his successor. He had used Ellen, Stiglitz and me exactly as he would have used us had he been bucking for a promotion at the General Motors office in Pontiac, Michigan. In a perverse way I was delighted with my discovery of Zulfiqar’s frailty, for it proved that my view of the world was correct and not Ellen Jaspar’s. Men everywhere behaved pretty much like her father in Pennsylvania; they had the same banal ambitions, which they expressed in the same banal phrases. But no sooner had I reached
this conclusion than a chilling thought possessed me: This isn’t Pennsylvania, and there are differences. If Zulfiqar tolerated Ellen’s common-law adultery only because he wanted to achieve a goal here in Qabir, what will he do to Ellen and Stiglitz when he’s through using them? Then an even more disburbing thought: For that matter, what will he do to me? Because as sharif of the camp he could order anyone destroyed, and who would halt him?

In this gloomy frame of mind I returned to our tents and hurried to see Dr. Stiglitz. “A dreadful thing happened at the yurt,” I began, but my news was unnecessary, for in the glow of a lamp Ellen stood holding the right arm of the Tajik thief while Dr. Stiglitz cauterized the wound.

“How did this occur?” Stiglitz asked.

“In this camp two sharifs hold absolute power. Half an hour ago this Tajik was caught stealing; his trial took about four minutes. This is the clean-cut primitive life you wanted, Ellen.”

The sight of the bloody stump, plus my news of how the camp was run, became too much for Ellen, and she started to faint, but the Tajik, sensing that she was about to fall, tried instinctively to catch her, and his bloody right arm tore across her burnoose, lacerating the nerve ends so that he screamed with pain. His cries brought Ellen to her senses and she gripped the table. The sight of her ashen face dispelled any sense of triumph I might have had. Afghanistan was much different from Pennsylvania and I wondered how this beautiful woman was going to extricate herself from the complications into which she had so willingly marched.

The next day Zulfiquar shaved with special care and asked me to accompany him to the yurt, where I entered a formal meeting in time to hear the old Hazara karakul merchant announce that he wished to relinquish his duty as sharif. He said, “You must choose a younger man, who can be depended upon to serve you for many years.”

I never knew whether Zulfiqar had the meeting rigged or not, but as soon as the old Hazara sat down, a young Kirghiz who had frequented our tent rose and said, “Since one of our sharifs is my clansman Shakkur from north of the Oxus, I think it proper that the new man come from the south.” I considered this a rather nice tactic, for the retiring Hazara did not come from the south; as a matter of fact, he came from about as far north in Afghanistan as one could and still remain in the country.

But the trick worked, and an Uzbek who had frequently shared our hospitality asked, “Why should we not select the Kochi, Zulfiqar? He’s reliable.”

There were no cheers, but there was quiet discussion, and by a process which I did not understand, my caravan leader Zulfiqar was elected sharif of the great encampment. It was a moment of triumph. Those who could speak Pashto told me, “We supported your friend because we were impressed with the way he shared his medical services … free.” When I left, Zulfiqar was surrounded by the leaders he had been so assiduously wooing in the preceding weeks.

I rode out to camp and broke in upon Stiglitz and Ellen. “Heard the news?” I cried.

“What?” the German asked, as he tended an elderly Uzbek woman.

“Zulfiqar’s been elected sharif of the encampment.”

“What does it mean?” Ellen asked.

“You saw the Tajik thief … no right hand. It means power.” She blanched.

It was Stiglitz who first acknowledged the implications of this election. Slowly he pieced together his conclusions: “Zulfiqar’s been plotting this for months … must have guessed there’d be an election … knew he could impress the caravans with me as a doctor … Ellen for entertaining … Miller for the money. Damn! He used every one of us.”

Ellen protested. “You’re making it sound too pat.”

Stiglitz continued, “So as long as he needed us for the election …” He looked at me and I nodded approval of his analysis.

“I’d leave camp,” I added. “Right now.”

“No!” Ellen cried. “Miller, you must not spread panic. We will not run away. Otto and I believe what I told you in the caves at Bamian. If this is the way it’s to end, it’s better than anything I ever anticipated.”

She kissed Stiglitz and the two lovers renewed their determination to act as planned. I should have been impressed by Ellen’s noble sentiment, but I wasn’t; for in recent weeks whenever she had made one of her high-sounding speeches I had remembered my conclusion on the road to Bamian: I
have to respect Ellen's sincerity, but not her logic.
Now, for some subtle reason which I could not explain
—perhaps because of her casual dismissal of Mira or her willingness to hurt Nazrullah and Zulfiqar— I was beginning to doubt not only her logic but also her sincerity.

In the days that followed, Zulfiqar treated me as a son-in-law. I cannot believe that he knew I had been commissioned by our embassy to spy out Qabir, but he could not have been more helpful had he been my assistant. He said, “In the camp we hear many rumors that this is the last year the Russians will permit their nomads to cross the Oxus, and that was one reason why I wanted the job of sharif. If next year Shakkur the Kirghiz cannot return …”

Thus he exposed his final tactic. He suspected that Shakkur might have to relinquish his job as sharif, which would leave him, Zulfiqar, as leading sharif if not the only one. I asked him why the Russians were threatening to close the border and he replied, “When India becomes a free nation, shell close her borders, too. The day is coming when Kochis will have to stay home.”

“What will you do then?” I asked.

“That’s why Racha banks our money in Jhelum,” he confided. “We’re collecting what funds we can and in a few years we’ll buy land.” He hesitated, then spoke to me as he would have to a son: “I was discussing this with Moheb Khan when we met in Kabul. When the new irrigation dam is built, there will be much new land available at the edge of the desert.”

“And you applied for some—to settle down?”

“A winter base,” he replied. “We’ll go to India no longer. In the spring, of course, we’ll bring our
goods to Qabir, but only a few of us. The rest will stay home to tend the fields.”

“Do the others know?”

“They wouldn’t believe it,” he laughed, “but Racha and I have about decided. Soon it will happen.”

It was a moment when the sweep of time stood exposed, and I thought of the arguments Ellen and I had conducted on this very problem. “Remember the morning when the villagers thought we were kidnapers?” I asked. “Ellen argued that Afghanistan must go back to the caravan and I argued that the caravan must go forward to the village?” I stopped. It was a hollow triumph. “God,” I cried, “how exciting it was to march through those dreary villages at your side. Will your village be any better?”

“When you have known freedom,” Zulfiqar said, “there’s always a chance.”

“Why are you stopping now?” I asked.

“Because the old freedom is slipping away from us. They’re sending troops to check us at the borders … tax collectors. Next they’ll inspect our tents. Qabir … how many more years will we assemble here?”

I looked at the sprawling tents where I had been so happy and said, “They’ll be here when you and I are forgotten.”

“No,” he corrected. “The black tents are doomed.”

“Does Ellen know you think this way?”

“She may have guessed. Perhaps that’s why …” He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he gave me his professional laugh and said, “People
like Ellen always have fixed ideas about how nomads should live … and think. We aren’t like that, and I’m sorry if we are disappointing.”

“But you worked so hard to become sharif. If the black tents are doomed, why did you do it?”

“The tents will go, but the trade will continue.”

“And you want to become a trader? An important man like the old Hazara?”

“In ten years few of the tents we see today will be here. Just a handful of men like me and the Hazara and Shakkur … bringing camels and a few servants to load them. We’ll trade twice the goods—five times as much. It’s clear, Millair, that four-fifths of this camp is unnecessary. The women and children accomplish nothing.”

“Do the others agree?”

“All of us in the big yurt… especially the Russians.” Then he surprised me by using the phrase that Stiglitz had spoken: “The caravans move on. They move to a distant horizon.”

The time had now come for disbanding the camp and I discovered that this event was traditionally marked by a game of Afghan polo. Early one morning Zulfiqar sent Maftoon to find me and the cameleer asked, “You like to play polo?”

I said, “Tell Zulfiqar I know nothing about polo,” but Mira clapped her hands and cried, “Tell Zulfiqar he’ll play.” But when I saddled up she checked the lashings and warned, “Better tie everything twice. This game can get rough.”

I joined Zulfiqar and we rode to a field east of the confluence, where children waited, chattering with excitement, and the women of the camp, who made a place for Ellen and Mira. The field was
crowded with horsemen clustering about the old Hazara, who was trying to establish some rough-and-ready rules. He did not ride his horse well, for under his left arm he held a white goat who struggled to get free, but the old man did succeed in showing us the two goal lines, about two hundred yards apart. Then he cried, “Shakkur, have your men pass out the arm bands,” and the big Kirghiz gave the signal.

Shakkur gave me a white arm band and said, “Fight well.”

It was to be south-of-the-Oxus versus north-of-the-Oxus, the Shakkur kept on his team the Uzbeks, Tajiks, Kazaks and Kirghizes, while Zulfiqar had riders from Afghanistan, India, China and Persia. There were about forty to a side, but for reasons which became apparent to me later on, no one bothered to insure that we were evenly matched.

Zulfiqar’s White team lined up to defend the eastern goal and the Russians opposed us. In the center the old Hazara held aloft the goat by his rear legs while an Uzbek whipped out a knife and cut off the animal’s head. With a savage cry the umpire threw the goat’s body high in the air and left the field, not to interfere again. Before the goat, spurting blood, could land, a Tajik horseman swept in, caught the animal and raised it over his head in a mad gallop toward our goal line. He had covered only a few yards when he was hit from three sides by our riders, who tackled, grabbed, gouged and beat him. Finally one of our Turkomans leaped almost clear of his horse, grabbed the goat and wrenched it away from the
battered Tajik, who was now bleeding from the mouth.

Our Turkoman set off boldly for the Russian goal, but a force of shouting Uzbeks and Kirghizes slammed into him and not only stole the goat but also knocked down his horse, so that he catapulted across the rocky playing field. No one stopped to see if he was hurt, and after a while he recovered his horse and rejoined the game. Meanwhile, one of our Afghans drew even with the Uzbek who had captured the goat and literally threw himself at his opponent, knocking the Russian rider right out of the saddle, but before the goat touched earth, Shakkur the Kirghiz sped in, caught it by one leg and fought his way through the mob to find himself with a clear path to our goal. The polo game was over, for no White rider could possibly catch him.

At this point, the essential feature of Afghan polo was made clear. When the victorious Russian team saw that their captain was about to score they regretted that the game was ending, so one of their own men, a fiery Uzbek set forth in hot pursuit and just as the baldheaded sharif was about to cross our line, this Uzbek teammate came up from behind, gave him a wallop across the back of his neck, grabbed the goat and brought it back into play. Both sides applauded, and the game continued. Thereafter, when any player threatened to score, his own teammates slugged him, gouged him and tried to knock him from his horse. It was always one rider fighting forty of the enemy plus thirty-nine of his friends, and sometimes it was the latter who did the worst damage.

For nearly sixty bruising minutes we played without my distinguishing myself—it seemed that half the other riders were bleeding from the mouth —when I happened to gallop past the children of our caravan and heard them shout, “Get in the game.” I saw Ellen, and she looked a bit stunned by the brutality of the sport, but little Mira was furious. “Why did I get you the horse?” she shouted. “Do something!”