Earth and ashes Read online

  Atiq Rahimi

  Earth and Ashes

  TRANSLATED FROM DARI (AFGHANISTAN) BY Erdag M. Goknar

  VINTAGE

  Published by Vintage 2003

  2468 10 97531

  Copyright © P.O.L editcur, 2000 Translation copyright © Erdag M. Goknar, 2002 First published in Dari (Afghanistan) in 1999 By Editions Khavaran, France, Under the title Khakestar-o-khak

  Atiq Rahimi has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Chatto & Windus

  Vintage

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 0 09 944212 4

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  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Limited, Reading, Berkshire

  For my father, and other fathers who wept during the war

  The author and publisher would like to thank Sabrina Nouri for her editorial advice.

  A Note on the Text

  Reference is made in Earth and Ashes to the great eleventh-century Persian epic, the Book of Kings (Shahnama in Persian) by Ferdusi. This famous poem interweaves Persian myths, legends and historical events to tell the history of Iran and its neighbours from the creation of the world to the Arab conquest in the seventh century. Even today, storytellers can recount large parts of the Book of Kings from memory. The characters mentioned in Earth and Ashes are:

  ROSTAM, son of Zal, the great hero of the epic who, in a battle, kills his son, Sohrab, whose existence he did not know about.

  SOHRAB, son of Rostam, born from Rostam's secret union with Tahmina, daughter of the King of Samengan, who finds himself on the opposite side from his father in battle and is killed by him.

  ZOHAK, the legendary tyrant of the epic, who ruled with serpents who fed off the brains of the young men in his kingdom.

  He has a great heart, as great as his sorrow

  Rafaat Hosseini

  ‘I'm hungry.'

  You take an apple from the scarf you've tied into a bundle and wipe it on your dusty clothes. The apple just gets dirtier. You put it back in the bundle and pull out another, cleaner one, which you give to your grandson, Yassin, who is sitting next to you, his head resting on your tired arm. The child takes it in his small, dirty hands and brings it to his mouth. His front teeth haven't come through yet. He tries to bite with his canines. His hollow, chapped cheeks twitch. His narrow eyes become narrower. The apple is sour. He wrinkles up his small nose and gasps.

  With your back to the autumn sun, you are squatting against the iron railings of the bridge that links the two banks of the dry riverbed north of Pul-i-Khumri. The road connecting Northern Afghanistan to Kabul passes over this very bridge. If you turn left on the far side of the bridge, on to the dirt track that winds between the scrub-covered hills, you arrive at the Karkar coal mine . . .

  The sound of Yassin whimpering tears your thoughts away from the mine. Look, your grandson can't bite the apple. Where's that knife? You search your pockets and find it. Taking the apple from his hands, you cut it in half, then in half again and hand the pieces back to him. You put the knife in a pocket and fold your arms over your chest.

  You haven't had any naswar for a while. Where's the tin? You search your pockets again. Eventually you find it and put a pinch of naswar in your mouth. Before returning the tin to your pocket, you glance at your reflection in its mirrored lid. Your narrow eyes are set deep in their sockets. Time has left its mark on the surrounding skin, a web of sinuous lines like thirsty worms waiting round a hole. The turban on your head is unravelling. Its weight forces your head into your shoulders. It is covered in dust. Maybe it's the dust that makes it so heavy. Its original colour is no longer apparent. The sun and the dust have turned it grey . . .

  Put the box back. Think of something else. Look at something else.

  You put the tin back into one of your pockets. You draw your hand over your grey-streaked beard, then clasp your knees and stare at your tired shadow which merges with the orderly shadows cast by the railings of the bridge.

  An army truck, a red star on its door, passes over the bridge. It disturbs the stony sleep of the dry earth. The dust rises. It engulfs the bridge then settles. Silently it covers everything, dusting the apples, your turban, your eyelids . . . You put your hand over Yassin's apple to shield it.

  'Don't!' your grandson shouts. Your hand prevents him from eating.

  'You want to eat dust, child?'

  'Don't!'

  Leave him alone. Keep yourself to yourself. The dust fills your mouth and nostrils. You spit your naswar out next to five other small green plugs on the ground. With the loose flap of your turban, you cover your nose and mouth. You look over at the mouth of the bridge, at the road to the mine. At the black wooden hut of the guard posted at the road barrier. Wisps of smoke fly from its little window. After hesitating for several seconds you grip hold of one of the bridge's rusty railings with one hand and grab your bundle with the other. Pulling yourself to your feet, you shuffle in the direction of the hut. Yassin gets up too and follows you, clinging to your clothes. Together you approach the hut. You put your head through the small, paneless window. The hut is full of smoke and there's the smell of coal. The guard is in exactly the same position as he was before, his back against one of the walls, his eyes still closed. His cap might have been pulled slightly further down, but that's all. Everything else is just the same, even the half-smoked cigarette between his dry lips . . . Try coughing.

  Even you can't hear your cough, let alone the guard. Cough again, a bit louder. He doesn't hear that either. Let's hope the smoke hasn't suffocated him. You call out.

  'Brother

  'What do you want now, old man?' He can speak, thank goodness. He's alive. But he's still motionless, his eyes closed under his cap . . . Your tongue moves, preparing to say something. Don't interrupt him!

  '. . . You're killing me. I told you a hundred times. When a car comes past, I'll throw myself in its path, I'll beg them to take you to the mine. What else do you want? Till now have you seen any cars? No? You want someone else's word?'

  'I wouldn't dream of it, my good brother. I know there's been no car. But you never know . . . What if you were to forget us . . .'

  'How on earth do you expect me to forget, old man? If you want I can recite your life story. You told it to me enough times. Your son works at the mine, you are here with his son to see him.'

  'My God, you remember everything . . . It's me who's losing my memory. I thought I hadn't told you. Sometimes I think others forget the way I do. I'm sorry. I've bothered you . . .'

  The truth is, your heart is burdened. It's been a long time since a friend or even a stranger listened to you. A long time since a friend or
stranger warmed your heart with their words. You want to talk and to listen. Go on, speak to him! But you're unlikely to get a response. The guard won't listen to you. He is deep in his own thoughts. Preoccupied with himself. Let him be.

  You stand silently in front of the hut, gazing away from it at the pitch and roll of the valley. The valley is dried out, covered in thorn bushes - silent. And at the end of the valley is Murad, your son.

  You turn away from the valley and stare back inside the hut. You want to tell the guard that you're only waiting here like this for a vehicle to pass because of your grandson Yassin. If you were alone, you'd have set out on foot a long time ago. For you, walking four or five hours is nothing. Each and every day you're on your feet working for ten hours, or longer, working your land. You're a courageous man ... So what? Why tell the guard all this? What's it to him? Nothing. Then let him be. Sleep in peace, brother . . . We're off. We won't bother you again.

  But you don't go. You stand there quietly.

  The click of colliding stones at your feet draws your attention to Yassin. He is squatting down, crushing a piece of apple between two stones.

  'What are you doing? For God's sake! Eat your apple!'

  You grab Yassin by the shoulders and pull him to his feet. The child shouts:

  'Don't! Let me go . . . Why don't these stones make any noise?'

  The smell of smoke escaping from the hut mingles with the roar of the guard's voice:

  'You're killing me! Can't you keep your grandson quiet for one minute?'

  You don't have the chance to apologize, or rather, you can't face it. You take hold of Yassin's hand and drag him to the bridge. You drop back down to the ground against the iron railings, put the bundle by your side and, wrapping your arms around the little boy, scold him:

  'Will you behave!'

  To whom are you speaking? To Yassin? He can't even hear the sound of stones, let alone your feeble voice. Yassin's world is now another world, one of silence. He wasn't deaf. He became deaf. He doesn't realise this. He's surprised that nothing makes a sound anymore. Until a few days ago it wasn't this way.

  Just imagine. You're a child, Yassin, who heard perfectly well just a short time ago, a child who didn't even know what 'deafness' was. And then, one day, suddenly you can't hear a sound. Why? It would be idiotic to try and tell you it was deafness. You don't hear, you don't understand. You don't think it's you who can't hear; you think others have become mute. People have lost their voices; stones have lost their sound. The world is silent ... So then, why are people moving their mouths?

  Yassin hides his small, question-filled face under your clothes.

  Your gaze is drawn over the side of the bridge, to the dried-up river that has become a bed of black stones and scrub. You look above the riverbed to the rocky mountains in the distance. They merge with Murad's face.

  'Why have you come, Father? Is everything all right?' he asks.

  For more than a week now, this face with this question has haunted your days and your nights.

  Why have you come? The question gnaws at your bones. Can't that brain in your head find an answer? If only there were no such question. No such word as 'why'. You've come to see how your son's doing. That's all. After all, you're a father, you think about your son from time to time. Is it a sin? No. You know why you've really come.

  You look for your box of naswar, tip a little into the palm of your hand, and put it under your tongue. If only things were simple, full of pleasure - like naswar, like sleep . . . Your gaze rises above the summits of the mountains to the sky . . . But Murad's face still mingles with the mountains. The rocks are slowly becoming hot; they're turning red. It is as if they have become coal and the mountains are one great furnace. The coal catches fire, erupting from the mountain and flowing down the dry riverbed towards you. You are on one side of the river, Murad is on the other. Murad keeps asking, 'Why have you come? Why have you come alone with Yassin? Why have you given Yassin silent stones?'

  Then Murad starts to cross over to you.

  'Murad’ you shout, 'stay where you are, child! It's a river of fire. You'll get burned! Don't come!'

  You ask yourself who could believe such a thing: a river of flowing fire? Have you become a seer of visions? Look, Murad's wading through the river without getting burned. No, he must be getting burned, but he's not reacting. Murad is strong. He doesn't break down. Look at him. His body is covered in sweat.

  'Murad,' you shout again, 'Stop! The river's on fire!'

  But Murad continues to move towards you, asking, 'Why have you come? Why have you come?'

  From somewhere, you're not sure where, the voice of Murad's mother rises.

  'Dastaguir, tell him to stay there. You cross the river. Take my apple-blossom patterned scarf with you and go and wipe away his sweat. Take my scarf for Murad . . .'

  Your eyes open. You feel your skin covered in cold sweat. You're not able to sleep in peace. It's been a week now since you've had a restful sleep. As soon as you close your eyes, it's Murad and his mother or Yassin and his mother or fire and ash or shouts and wails . . . and you wake up again. Your eyes burn. They burn with sleeplessness. Your eyes don't see anymore. They're exhausted. Out of exhaustion and sleeplessness you keep falling into a half-sleep -a half-sleep filled with visions. It's as if you live only in these images and dreams. Images and dreams of what you've witnessed and wish you hadn't . . . maybe also what you yet must see, wishing you didn't have to.

  If only you slept like a child, like Yassin. Yassin?

  No, like any other child but Yassin, who whimpers and moans in his sleep. Maybe Yassin's sleep has become like yours, full of images, dirt, fire, screams, and tears . . . No, not like Yassin's. Like any other child's. Like a baby's. A sleep without images, memories -without dreams.

  If only it were possible to begin life again from the beginning, like a newborn baby. You'd like to live again, if only for a day, an hour, a minute, a second.

  You think for a moment about the time Murad left the village, when he walked out through the door. You too should have left the village with your wife and children and your grandchildren and gone to another village. You should've gone to Pul-i-Khumri. Never mind if you'd had no land, no crops, no work. May the land rot in Hell! You would have followed Murad. You would have worked in the mines, shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Then today, no one would be asking you why you've come.

  If only . . .

  Over the four years Murad has worked at the mine, you haven't had a single chance to visit him. It's been four years since he entrusted his young wife and his son Yassin to you and left for the mine to earn his living. The truth is, Murad wanted to flee the village and its inhabitants. He wanted to go far away. So he left . . . Thank God he left.

  Four years ago your neighbour Yaqub Shah's unworthy son made advances towards Murad's wife, and your daughter-in-law told Murad. Grabbing a spade, Murad ran to Yaqub Shah's house, demanded his son come out and, without asking questions or waiting for answers, brought the spade hard down on to the crown of his head. Yaqub Shah took his wounded son to the village council, and Murad was sentenced to six months in prison.

  After he was freed, Murad collected his things together and left for the mine. Since then he has only returned to the village four times. It hasn't even been a month since his last visit and now you're going to the mine to see him, holding his son by the hand. He'll definitely wonder why.

  'Water!'

  With Yassin's shout, your eyes drop from the mountains to the dry riverbed, and from the riverbed to the parched lips of your grandson.

  'From where should I get water, child?'

  You glance furtively towards the guard's wooden hut. You don't have the nerve to ask him for water again. This morning you took some from his jug for Yassin, and if you ask him again . . . No, this time he'll get angry and bring the jug down on your head . . . Better ask elsewhere.

  Shading your eyes with your hand, you scan the other end of the bridge. This morn
ing you stopped at a little makeshift shop there to ask the shopkeeper the way to the mine, and the man was kind. Go there again and ask him for water. You start to rise, but then remain nailed to the ground. If a vehicle goes past and the guard doesn't see you, all this waiting will have been for nothing. No, you'd better stay put. The guard isn't the sort of man to wait for you, or call out to you . . . No, Dastaguir, stay just where you are.

  'Water, Grandfather, water!'

  Yassin is sobbing. You kneel down, take an apple from your bundle and hold it out to him.

  'No, I want water, water!'

  You let the apple drop to the ground, heave yourself up, grab Yassin with one hand and the bundle with the other, and hurry off towards the shop.

  The shop is just a small wooden stand with three mud walls. At the front, four uneven planks form a window that is covered with plastic sheeting. Behind a small opening sits a black-bearded man. His shaven head is hidden by an embroidered cap and he wears a black waistcoat. A large pair of scales almost completely obscures his thin torso. He is bent over a book. At the sound of your footsteps, he raises his head and adjusts his spectacles on his nose. Despite his pensive expression, his eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, are strikingly bright.

  He greets you with a kind smile and asks, 'Back from the mine?'

  You spit your naswar on to the ground and respond meekly.

  'No, my good brother, we haven't gone to the mine yet. We're waiting for a vehicle to pass. My grandson is very thirsty. Would you be kind enough to give him a little water. . .'

  The shopkeeper pours some water from his jug into a copper cup. On the back wall of the shop there's a large painting: behind a large rock, a man holds the Devil fast by the arm. Both of them are watching an old man who has fallen into a deep pit.