The Ink Bridge (35 page)

Over the lake, the
pir
's cave is oozing smoke. I remember the story of him diving down to save Omed when he was a boy. Did Omed ever learn to swim? He feared the water for so long, but now he lives beside it. I will ask him when he wakes.

I need to start the story. But where? I shut the journal and glance over my shoulder back at Omed's hut. He is in there sleeping. I should wake him and ask him. How does the story start? And where does it end?

Sooner or later I need to draw a line beneath the last word and say:
now this is the beginning of a new story
. The trick is knowing when to separate. When to make that cut.

Omed appears at the door. He walks down with his
chay
pot to the edge of the water. After he has filled it, he takes my journal and looks at what I have written. He smiles at me and shakes his head. On the same page, he writes:

In winter, the lake freezes. I cut a hole in the ice and fish. The mohi are cunning, but they taste good cooked over hot coals.

Pilgrims have heard of me and bring me gifts of flour and rice. It is curious they think my silence is holy.

I am lucky. This place is more beautiful than anywhere I have known. I am at peace. I am free.

I know what this peace means, how hard Omed has fought for it and what a huge victory it is after a life of restlessness and sorrow. It is not a perfect ending, but it is the best that could be done.

We breakfast on
naan
that Omed makes himself in a
tandoor
. The sparks cling to his moustache as they once did to Anwar's beard. The bread is good – soft and warm, with a fine crust and the odd fleck of ash. We share a cup of
chay
, breathing the steam off as we sit with our backs against the rock wall.

I know I must say goodbye. I shuffle the things around in my pack, looking for a parting gift. My hand falls on the journal that Dad gave me. I have only filled in twenty or so pages. How small my experience seems when written on the page. I think of the haiku I learned in school, how the Japanese masters could fold an entire world into three simple lines.

I tear out my pages and hand the book to Omed along with my pen. The ink will outlast the paper. I will have to send more from Australia.

Omed points out the path I must take. I mustn't backtrack. It is important to keep going forward.

I turn after a few minutes of walking to see Omed's silhouette against the burqa-blue flash of the lake. One hand is high, waving, the other grasps the journal and pen. He is the keeper of my story as I am of his.

I make the Shrine of Ali by lunch. I am so hungry I could eat a liver
kabob
. There is one
chaikhana
in the dusty street above the shrine. The sign reads:
CLEAN RESTAURANT
.
It has
Rooms and Delicious Food
. I am full of hope.

Under a flapping tarp I am served
qabli pulao
and a saucer of gristly lamb. I order a
naan
and pour myself yet another
chay
. I have no idea how I am going to get back to Bamiyan. As I am looking down the street, a mirage appears through the midday haze.

‘You didn't really think I'd leave you.' It is Arezu with Sameer in tow.

I try to downplay my smile. I try not to hug her in front of these people. I try to pretend that I would feel the same way if it was just Sameer who had stayed.
It is only relief,
I say to myself.

I write a new ending in the car on the way home on the backs of the pages I tore from my journal. Omed returns to Bamiyan and he marries a girl he has always known. Wasim becomes a writer and together with Omed they start a small printing company. They finally complete their father's work, documenting the legends and poems of the valley. Leyli marries Zakir; it turns out it was just a flesh wound. And if Zakir doesn't die, then Omed doesn't mess with the Taliban and he doesn't have to leave. He never meets the Snake. And the Taliban leave the valley forever. And everybody, lives happily ever after. The end.

But it's not a story. It has no tension. Nothing happens. And if life were that simple, what would we learn?

‘What are you stopping for, Sameer?' asks Arezu.

‘Checkpoint.'

‘There wasn't a checkpoint on the way in,' I say.

‘Keep driving, Sameer,' says Arezu. There is an edge in her voice.

‘There are rocks on the road.'

‘Drive over them, Sameer!' shouts Arezu.

It is a big ask for the little Toyota. And then I see the guns. And uniforms.

‘It's okay, Arezu,' I say. ‘It's the police.'

‘I have a bad feeling about this,' she says.

‘Relax, they just want to check our passports.'

We stop and a policeman comes to each side. They have Kalashnikovs. They shout something in Dari. ‘I don't understand,' I say.

‘Passpot. Passpot.' He jabs me with the muzzle of his gun.

I bring out my passport. He looks at it and hands it to a friend. I notice there are four other guys not wearing uniforms. This is bad.

The other guy in uniform is rattling Dari at Sameer. His hands are trembling on the wheel. If Sameer is afraid then I should be shitting myself.

My guy shines a torch in the back at Arezu. She pulls her veil over her face. ‘Passpot!' he screams at her.

He grabs her passport and hands it to his friend. ‘Amrikayi,' he says – American. He shoots some Dari at me.

‘I don't understand.'

‘He is asking if I am your wife,' Arezu hisses.

‘No. No!'

‘Ne?' says the man.

‘
Balē. Balē
,' says Arezu and then rattles off some more Dari.

He spits on the ground and his machine gun glares at her.

‘What is going on?' I ask.

‘He wants to know if I am a spy. Why do I speak Dari? Why do you say I am not your wife when I say I am? Why are Americans in this country?'

‘Are they Taliban?'

‘Talibaaaan.
Balē
,' says the cop, leering at me.

‘I don't think they are. They're just bandits.'

‘
Just
bandits?'

‘Well it gives us a better chance of living. They'll only shoot us if we don't give them money. If they were Taliban they'd take our money and then shoot us for being infidels.'

‘How do we tell what they are?'

‘Offer them some money. If they let us go then maybe they're not Talibs.'

‘Good plan.' I peel off fifteen hundred afghani and hand it to my man.

He shows it to his friends and laughs.

Arezu slaps my head. ‘Is that what you think our lives are worth – thirty bucks? These boys aren't playing, Hec.'

I give them the whole lot, minus the stash of dollars I have in my jacket. They get us out and make us lie face-down on the dirt. Sameer is crying. I am numb. This can't be happening to me. I am an Australian citizen. Surely, my embassy will save me.

They go through the car and get everything, including my jacket with its stash of greenbacks. Then they get us off the ground and start us walking. Every now and then I feel a gun between my shoulder blades. It is cold. My body is charged. I can feel fear in my root canals. A car starts and is driven away. We keep walking.

My mind fills the gaps.
They are taking us away to execute
us. Shut up! A knife is cheaper than a bullet. No, no! If they
shoot us and miss can I play dead? Are there rules to this?
Shut up, Hec! If I do play dead, will they notice? Will they
check our pulses?
And on and on like this.

It gets dark, but there are no stars. The night wedges in my lungs and I feel like retching. I feel like purging this valley, this country, from my body. It is a poison I have swallowed and now it is going to kill me.

At some point I can't feel the rifle at my back. I keep going for a minute because my legs don't know how to stop. Then I turn and stare into the dark. Into more and more dark. The only sound is the river, muttering Dari curses over rock.

‘Well I guess they weren't Taliban,' I say to Arezu and Sameer.

And we laugh. Not that it is funny. Not that any of it is funny. We laugh because we are alive. And at that moment nothing else matters.

‘Shall we go back for the car?' I ask.

‘Have you lost your mind?' says Arezu. ‘We got away once. Let's leave it at that.'

‘So what now?'

‘We walk until it gets light and then we hitch a ride.'

The ride appears in the guise of a rubble truck and we climb on top. The cloud lifts as we move down the valley. We are reborn.

AFTER DINNER, WE WALK TO Shahmama – the mother Buddha. Sparrows flood from the wheatfields, their beaks and bellies full of seed.

‘When my dad was young, they used to eat sparrows,' says Arezu. ‘His mother would bring them home on a string from the bazaar. They would roast them and eat them whole, crunching the bones.'

‘Yum.'

We cross the stream on a fallen tree and stand beneath the Buddha niche. Arezu reaches out and takes my hand.

If I were a Persian poet I would tell her that her lips are like sweet figs, her breath like musk. But in truth she is a drug, a ball of opium, slipped into milk.

We run back through the fields, laughing like children. Dogs nip at our heels and yellow-backed finches fly ahead of us.

We undress in our room. Her skin tastes of dust. Her dark hair is a waterfall. Moonlight crosses her body. She whispers in my ear. Something in Dari that I cannot understand.

How did we get to this point? I wonder. Is it just the closeness to death that makes me feel so alive
?