Part 18 (2/2)

”It's a shame that you're not interested in your family history,” says Obaid, then probably remembers my family history and doesn't wait for an answer. ”It's out of this world.” He stands with his nose to the gla.s.s.

We sit in front of the fireplace and look at the stars outside the windows. They hang low and burn bright. The mountains sleep like giants who have lost their way.

”The night is different here,” says Obaid.

”I know. It's very quiet. No traffic.”

”No. It arrives suddenly. Then it travels at a slow pace. It's like a boat that moves across the valley. Listen, you can hear it move, you can hear it row. The gentle splash of water...”

”That's the river below in the valley. It doesn't sleep at night. But I am sleepy,” I say.

The day arrives like somebody giving you a friendly thump on the shoulder. The sun is a mirror playing hide-and-seek with the snow-covered peaks; one moment a silver disc ablaze in its own white fire, the next moment veiled in a dark wisp of cloud. Obaid stands in front of the window, contemplating a cloud that is gently nudging at the gla.s.s. ”Can I let it in? Can I?” Obaid asks me as if borrowing my favourite toy.

”Go ahead.”

He struggles with the window latches. By the time he slides the door open the cloud has dissolved into a puff, leaving behind a fine mist.

”What should we cook today?” Obaid shouts from the kitchen. It wouldn't have occurred to me but Obaid had bought a month's worth of groceries on our way here.

Colonel s.h.i.+gri stays out of my dreams. Obaid doesn't ask me about his last night in the house. He doesn't ask me where and how I found him. I think he knows.

The study is unlocked but I stay away from it. Obaid wants to see the pictures. They are all there on the wall, all mixed up, out of order, as if Colonel s.h.i.+gri's career progressed at random: General Akhtar and Colonel s.h.i.+gri surrounded by Afghan mujahideen commanders with shawls and rocket launchers draped around their shoulders; Colonel s.h.i.+gri with his bearded ISI officers in civvies holding the bits from the wreckage of a Soviet helicopter like trophies; Colonel s.h.i.+gri with Bill Casey's arm around his shoulder, looking over the Khyber Pa.s.s. Then the earlier pictures: his fellow officers are thin, moustaches clipped, medals scarce and not a beard in sight.

”A comrade in uniform is potentially the deadweight that you'll have to carry one day.” Colonel s.h.i.+gri had sipped slowly at his whisky, twelve hours before he was found hanging from the ceiling fan. He had returned from another of his duty trips with a coffin-sized Samsonite and was teaching me Pakistan's military history through its falling fitness standards. ”You owe it to your fellow soldiers to stay fit, to keep your weight down because one day you'll take a hit in battle and somebody will have to carry you on his back. That's what one soldier owes to another; the dignity of being carried back to one's own bunker even if near-dead. h.e.l.l, even if dead.” His voice rose and then he went quiet for a moment. ”But look at them now, look at their bloated bodies. Do you know why they let themselves go?”

I stared at him. I stared at the suitcase and wondered what he had brought home this time.

”Because they know they are not going to be fighting battles any more. No, sir, they are drawing-room soldiers, sitting on their comfy sofas and getting fat. That is the first thing they think of-that they will never have to be in a battle again. But they also know in their heart of hearts that even if they were to end up in a battle, even if they got hit, n.o.body is going to carry them back to their bunkers. Do you understand?”

I didn't. ”Why wouldn't anyone carry them back?”

”Because they are too G.o.ddam fat to carry.”

I had carried Obaid on my back during our jungle survival course after a mock ambush. He dug his heels into my thighs, his arms around my neck kept getting tighter. I flung him down to the ground when he nibbled at my earlobe.

”Cadet Obaid. The first rule of survival is that you shall not screw your saviour.”

”Not even if it feels so good?” he had asked with his eyes half closed.

On our last night in the house Obaid discovers a half-empty bottle of Black Label in the kitchen. I stare at him. I don't tell him that I found the bottle in his study the morning the Colonel was found hanging from the ceiling fan.

We drink it with large quant.i.ties of water. ”It's very bitter,” says Obaid, pulling a face. ”Can I put some sugar in it?”

”That would be disgusting.”

He takes a sip, makes a face as if somebody has punched him in the stomach.

He likes it after the second gla.s.s. ”It doesn't taste that bad, actually,” he says. ”It's like drinking liquid fire.”

One more drink and there are tears in his eyes and truth on his drunk lips.

”I gave them your name. I told them about you. I told them you were practising with the sword.”

I take his hand into my hands. ”I would have done the same thing.”

I don't tell him that I did did do the same thing. do the same thing.

”Why did they let you go then?” he mumbles.

”The same reason they let you go.”

Stars start to go out one by one as if G.o.d has decided to close His parlour for the night.

”They were never interested in what we were going to do and why. They just wanted our names on their files,” says Obaid, insightful like only a first-time drunk can be. ”We were General Akhtar's suspects, General Beg will find his own.”

”What if they actually liked my plan?” I say, draining the last dregs from the bottle. ”What if they just wanted to see if I could carry it out?”

”Are you saying that the people who are supposed to protect him are trying to kill him? Are they setting free people like us? Are you drunk? The army itself?”

”Who else can do it, Baby O? Do you think these b.l.o.o.d.y civilians can do it?”

Colonel s.h.i.+gri had kept talking even after his sixth drink. I had tried to interrupt him in the middle of a long story about his latest trip behind the enemy lines in Afghanistan. He had asked me to start a fire in the living room but seemed to have forgotten about it. ”We don't have any ice.”

”Water would do,” he said and continued. ”There are people out there fighting the fight and there are people sitting here in Islamabad counting their money. People in uniform.” He paused for a moment and, through his bloodshot and blurry eyes, tried to focus on my face.

”You must think I am drunk.”

I looked at the gla.s.s in his hand and moved my head in a halfhearted denial. How do you talk to someone who has only known you through your public-school report cards and suddenly wants to tell you their life story over a bottle of whisky?

He tried to hold my gaze, but his eyes were already drooping with the burden of honesty.

For the first and the last time in his life he talked to me about his day job.

”I had gone to pick up one of my officers, who'd lost a leg planting anti-personnel mines. Then I get this message that I should forget the officer and bring this thing back. This thing.” He pointed to the suitcase as if he had been ordered to carry a dead pig. ”Blast your way back, they told me.”

I think he noticed some interest in my eyes.

”I didn't kill anyone.” He looked at me and then laughed a slurred laugh. ”I mean this time. You know it's my job,” he shrugged. ”The thing about these Afghans is that they are not in it for the killing. They fight but they want to make sure that they are alive after the fighting is over. They are not in the business of killing. They are in the business of fighting. Americans are in it for winning. And us?”

He realised that he was going off on a tangent and mumbled something under his breath which sounded like 'pimps and prost.i.tutes'.

”How is the fire, young man?” He was suddenly practical. Drunk practical. As if I had taken him for a drunkard and was trying to fool him.

”Let's go then, young man. Let's do our duty.”

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