I must have looked startled, for Nur explained, “Where do you suppose I worked before I worked with you? French embassy.” I thought: When the Afghans get hold of a good man they see he gets a practical education.
Dr. Stiglitz remarked, “You come back in three years, Herr Miller. Your man Nur will be speaking Russian.”
“Well,” Madame Nazrullah said with that hands-folded, businesslike way women can adopt, “I’ve been told why you’re here, Miller Sahib, and I wish I could help you. But I haven’t any idea where my husband’s other wife has gone.”
“Isn’t she with him?” I asked.
“I think not,” she said.
“And she’s not here?”
Madame Nazrullah laughed pleasantly. “No, we haven’t had any ferangi wives walled up here in Kandahar for weeks and weeks.”
“Forgive me,” I said.
“But I suppose if you went back a few years, you might find an example or two. So your suspicions are excusable.”
“Thank you.”
“I do want to assure you of one thing, and please believe me as a friend who would do neither you nor Ellen harm. She never fought with me. I never humiliated her. During the short time we shared a house in Kabul we behaved like sisters. She used to sing to my daughter.”
“Had she been warned—a second wife, I mean?”
“Of course!” the shrouded figure laughed. “On the day we met she kissed me and said, ‘You’re Karima. Nazrullah told me all about you.’”
“I can’t believe it,” I said flatly. “No American girl…”
Nur interrupted. “Don’t speak like that, Miller Sahib. Is what Karima says any more difficult to believe than other things we already know to be true?”
“No. I apologize.”
“I know how difficult it must be to understand my country,” Madame Nazrulla said softly. “But in your report cling to this fact, Miller Sahib. In Nazrullah’s home Ellen was treated with love and respect. She treated us in the same manner.”
“Does that include Nazrullah’s mother … and sisters?”
“For two hours each afternoon Ellen took lessons in Pashto from Nazrullah’s mother. She was an adorable girl and our family loved her … all of us.” She rose, bowed graciously and started to leave. Her orange drink remained untouched.
“One more question, please,” I pleaded. “Have you any guess, no matter how bizarre …”
“As to what happened? No. But I will assure you of this. Whatever Ellen did was an act of intelligence. She willed it to occur just as it did occur, for she was in possession of all her faculties and they were extraordinary. She was a brilliant, wonderful person, and if evil has come to her I am bereft, because there is one other thing you must know.” She hesitated and I believe she was crying, for she put her right hand to her mouth, or so I judged, for the chaderi masked her motions. “When Nazrullah brought her to Kandahar and left me behind in Kabul, it was Ellen who insisted that I rejoin them. When I arrived she met me and said, ‘I was so homesick for the little girl.’ Between us, Miller Sahib, there was only love.”
She left the room, then reconsidered and said from the door, “Possibly she asked me to come to Kandahar because she knew I could have children and apparently she couldn’t. Dr. Stiglitz will confirm that.”
The lady in the shroud, whatever her complexion or beauty, bowed and we saw her no more. When she had gone I said, “I expected a barefoot nomad from the Hindu Kush.”
“Her sister went to school in Bordeaux,” Nur observed.
I turned to Stiglitz and said, “About the matter of having children…”
In disgust Stiglitz barked something in German which I did not understand. He turned to leave the house, then snapped in Pashto, “Such matters are no concern of an embassy.” Abruptly he left us and stalked off, and I could see that he must have fled Germany for good reason. He was an honest, hard, opinionated man and for him life under the Nazis must have been hell.
Slyly Nur observed, “His way of confirming what Karima said.”
“Think so?”
“Include it in your report,” Nur advised. “You won’t be far wrong.”
That evening Nur and I missed Dr. Stiglitz at dinner, but after our nan and pilau we wandered across the square to watch the dancers and I told Nur, “You could take this troupe to New York right now and they’d be a sensation.”
“Is that true?” he asked skeptically.
“Of course. That lead dancer could fit into any ensemble I ever saw. Do you realize how good he is?”
“Look!” Nur chuckled during one of the intermissions. “Overcoat Sahib.” And there was the young man from Badakshar, still stupefied by the dancer who “without wings, he flies.”
My comment about the troupe saddened Nur, in a way I could not have predicted. “In many things we have great talent in Afghanistan. I’ve heard old men in the hills who could tell long stories better than most of the European novels I read. You say the dancers are good. Do you realize how miserable it is to grow up in a country where there’s no outlet for talent?” I felt it best not to comment on this, but Nur asked, “Is it true that in Russia they take dancing teams like this and sometimes give them medals and even send them to Paris?”
“Of course,” I replied. “All countries do. In the middle of the war I was in China, where they fought the Japanese all day and went to Chinese opera at night. The Chinese were no better dancers than these men.”
“Is that true?” Nur mused. Again, the idea depressed him.
But next morning we received another view of the dancing team, for while I was seated on the spare tires, shaving, I heard my name called in the courtyard. One of the armed guards who had been sleeping in our jeep was announcing that a visitor had come to see me, so I wrapped a towel around my neck and went to the slit window. The visitor was Dr. Stiglitz.
“Let him in!” I called in Pashto.
In a moment the German doctor joined us. “Want to see something unique? Probably nowhere else in the world to see it.”
“What’s up?”
“Didn’t you hear the commotion … about four this morning?”
“Yes,” Nur replied. “Fighting in the streets. I put it down as a brawl.”
“You were half right,” Stiglitz said. “It started as a brawl.”
“What about?” Nur asked.
“The usual. Men got to fighting over the dancing boys. Particularly the one Herr Miller admired.”
“The one I said could succeed in New York,” I reminded Nur.
“He succeeded last night,” Stiglitz said wryly. “Two men were fighting over him. It ended in murder.”
Nur Muhammad swore in Pashto. “Another of those?”
“Yes,” Stiglitz replied in Pashto. “I warned our American friend that this boy was evil … evil. You never understood, did you, Herr Miller?”
“I didn’t anticipate murder,” I admitted in Pashto, and for the remainder of the terrifying incident in which we were to participate we continued to speak that language.
Nur Muhammad must have guessed what we were about to witness, but I didn’t, for nothing in my reading about Afghanistan, nor even the grisly events in Ghazni, had prepared me for the public square in Kandahar that lovely spring morning. Dr. Stiglitz, having witnessed such an event in Herat, knew what was afoot, and on our short walk to the square asked us to stop by his office, where the armed guard admitted us to a doubly locked trunk from which Stiglitz produced a Leica camera. Testing it by snapping Nur and me in his consulting room, he slung the camera over his shoulder and put on a karakul cap. Then he led us to the square.
Where the dancers had performed the night before, a large group of men had gathered, but now the string of lights was gone and the bare earth glistened rock-like in the sun. To one side stood an elderly man, the focus of all attention. He seemed not to be a distinguished citizen, for his sandals and shirt were tattered and his vest was nearly in shreds, but he commanded attention if only because
of the noble manner in which he bore himself. He was surrounded by the mob, yet not a part of it, and all who came close to him offered deference, which he accepted as hereditary right. He was obviously one of the causes why the mob had gathered.
When the sun was well up, there was a beating of drums, not intended as the passionate accompaniment to dancing, for they were somber and of a different timbre, intended to announce the arrival of eight uniformed policemen, grim and forbidding in appearance. In pairs they marched to compass points previously marked by piles of pebbles, and then I saw that each pair had a mallet and a short stake, which was driven into the ground, leaving about eight inches showing.
The drums throbbed again, and from the alley that had been used as a dressing room appeared two mullahs, small, roundish men with clean-shaved faces, quite unlike the gaunt beak-nosed mullahs of the hills. They signaled the drums to cease, whereupon they prayed, first one, then the other. I did not catch all their words, but they seemed to be cleansing the minds of those who were about to participate in a time-honored rite. They also prayed that each of us, seeing this thing, would henceforth respect the commands of God and the precepts of His chosen Prophet. When their prayers ended, the drums beat again and a shackled man, obviously a prisoner, was led forth.
“It’s the young man with the coat!” I cried.
Nur said, “From Badakshar!” Then he cautioned me to remain silent, while Dr. Stiglitz busied himself taking photographs of the procession.
The young man from the hills was in a daze. I doubt that he understood what was happening or had happened. He had come to Kandahar with a year’s savings and had been engulfed in a whirlpool beyond his comprehension. The guards moved him about as if he were merely an animal.
“ls he the murderer?” I whispered to Nur.
A man to the left explained, “Last night, when the dancing ended, the prisoner tried to buy the dancing boy. But a policeman had already spoken for him. The mountain boy refused to understand that the dancer could not be his. In a blind fury he killed the policeman. Everyone saw him do it. There’s no question of guilt. Only of punishment.”
“What’s the punishment to be?” I asked.
“I wish you weren’t going to see it,” Nur replied.
“Are you staying?”
“What happens … I must report,” he said with resignation.
The two mullahs went to the bedazed mountain man and said, “You have committed murder.” The prisoner was unable to acknowledge the charge. I didn’t know what to expect next.
The mullahs moved to a man whom I had not seen before, a fat fellow with a karakul cap, and asked, “Does the government wish to assume control of this case?”
The fat official replied, “This is a crime of passion. The government is not concerned in any way with this case.” He nodded to the mullahs and departed.
Next the mullahs moved to the elderly man in the badly torn vest and announced, “Gul Majid, this prisoner has murdered your son. By the law of the Prophet, he is handed to you for punishment. Do you, Gul Majid, accept this responsibility?”
The old man stepped forward with great dignity, raised his eyes so that they stared directly at the young man, and announced in a clear voice, “I accept the prisoner.”
The mullahs said a final prayer, beseeching justice and mercy, and we saw them no more.
The men who had been guarding the prisoner shoved him forward until he was almost touching the old man, and it was now a matter solely between the young murderer and the elderly father of the murdered man, a morality play conceived by desert people thousands of years ago and honored by them through countless generations. State and church alike had withdrawn. It was the guilty and the bereaved, standing face to face, and the crowd, which formed a significant part in this reenactment of the passion play, remained tense and silent until the old man cried in a loud voice, “Let the prisoner be tied!”
At this the crowd broke into a shout of wild approval, and I heard Nur whispering in Pashto, “I wish to God that just once there could be mercy.” On this day there was to be vengeance, not mercy.
The young murderer was whisked to the stakes, stretched upon the ground face-up and lashed by ankles and wrists until he was spread-eagled in the manner of St. Andrew at his crucifixion. No further attempt was made to keep this a religious ceremony; we were about to participate in retribution, sure and implacable.
When the young man was securely tied, the guards who had done the job stepped away, to be replaced by a cordon of police, brother officers to the murdered man. They stood at intervals about the prisoner, close enough together to prevent a riot but far enough apart to provide everyone with a clear view. The crowd grew silent and men elbowed their way forward to find good spots from which to view the spectacle.
The father of the dead policeman now stepped forward and stood at the feet of the staked-out prisoner. He mumbled a short prayer, then shouted boldly, “Give me the scimitar.” I’m not sure you would translate his word as scimitar, but at least it wasn’t the word for sword, and from his band of associates a man stepped forward with a rusty old nineteenth-century bayonet. In a clear voice the old man shouted, “My grandfather captured this from the British at the siege of Kandahar.” The crowd cheered.
I looked down at the young man, who appeared not to comprehend what was happening, for his eyes were glassy and remained in the trance that he had entered at the time of the murder, when he was battling for the favors of the dancing boy. But when the old man’s address to the public ended and he knelt beside the young man’s head, the prisoner at last saw the rusty bayonet and began to scream.
It was a horrifying, animal scream that came from far back in the history of human development. It was, I thought, exactly the right kind of scream for such a scene, for it put us all solidly in the animal category. “No! No!” screamed the staked-out young man, but we had passed the time for words.
The old man steadied himself, twisted his left hand in the victim’s hair, and pulled his neck taut. With the rusty bayonet in his right hand he began sawing at his prisoner’s throat, and with each awful passage of the bayonet, the boy’s head twisted back and forth, while terrible screams emanated from the throat which had not yet been severed. I thought I would vomit.
Then, by the grace of God, a figure hurried out from the crowd and intervened with the old man. The insanity stopped. I breathed again.
The intruder was Dr. Stiglitz, and he argued with the old man in Pashto, but the impassioned executioner failed to comprehend and looked at the German in bewilderment. Then I saw Stiglitz point to the camera and say in a clear voice which I and the others could hear, “If you work from the other side, the light will be better.”
The old man shrugged his shoulders and Stiglitz asked harshly, “You want your picture taken, don’t you?” At last the executioner understood, and I watched aghast as he switched his position and started cutting from the other side. The sun was unobstructed.
With four powerful drags of the bayonet the old man slashed the victim’s throat and silenced the horrible cries. Then he continued bearing down until the cartilage and bone were severed, whereupon with some awkwardness and fatigue from his exertion he rose, keeping his left hand twisted in the victim’s hair, and marched triumphantly about the circle, showing each of us the death’s head.
When the old man came to me, I had to look away and found myself looking directly at the sodomite dancer whose alluring performance had launched the tragedy. His face was enraptured as he followed the passage of the severed head. His clothes were as neat as ever and he smelled of perfume. When he caught me staring at him with loathing he flashed his most ingratiating smile and whispered in Pashto, “It was horrible, wasn’t it?”
“Herr Miller!” I heard a voice calling. Dr. Stiglitz had seen the sybaritic dancer standing beside me and had come for a picture of us. He worked on the focus for a moment, while the dancer, accustomed to having his picture taken, assumed a dramatic pose and I look
ed astounded in my karakul cap. I still have the picture, and it serves to remind me that what I have described did happen.
Nur and I walked silently across the square to the restaurant, but I was too shocked to want food. Before long the doctor joined us and said, as if nothing had happened, “I’ll have a bottle of beer. Nur can’t join me because he’s Muslim and you don’t like beer.” When another of the precious bottles was produced, Stiglitz observed, “I’ll have two good reasons to get to Kabul eventually. You don’t have these public executions up there, but you do have German beer.”
“If the execution appalled you,” I asked weakly, “why did you photograph it so carefully?”
“I believe we should have a record,” he replied. “All historical processes should be recorded. In a few years what you saw today will vanish. Nur Muhammad will see to that.”
“But when you stopped the old man … Surely, you could have prevailed upon him.”
“Me?” Stiglitz cried. “They’d have killed me.”
“They would have,” Nur agreed.
“But to ask him to switch sides. God, it’s ghoulish.”
“I altered nothing,” he replied, carefully prying the cap off his bottle of beer.
I was choked with moral rage, and then I began laughing. Deep, gusty, cackling laughter overtook me, and although both Nur and Stiglitz tried to stop me, they couldn’t, for I was pointing across the restaurant to the public square, where the old man who had conducted the execution was marching home. In his right hand he held the historic bayonet which had avenged family dishonor, while in his left he held the hand of the sodomite dancer, who walked along bowing to the approval of the crowd. It was not this incongruous mating which had caused me to burst into uncontrolled laughter. At the scene of the execution the old man had discarded his sorely tattered vest and he was now wearing the dead man’s overcoat, that beautiful, torn and ravaged but still serviceable woman’s coat from Paris. It fitted his spare body well, and he actually looked dapper in his new garment.