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!”
So I dashed into the middle of the fracas, where I accomplished nothing until a north-of-the-Oxus Kazak broke loose with what was left of the goat and headed in my general direction. It was apparent that unless I stopped him, the game was over, so I tried to turn him back into the mob, but the Russian decided that he could scare me into yielding ground, so he drove directly at me, and so far as I was concerned his strategy would have worked, for I was willing to withdraw, but Moheb’s horse had been trained for just this kind of challenge and, ignoring my reins, leaped ahead seeking contact. We struck the Kazak with stunning force, spun him around and caused him to drop the goat, which to my surprise I caught.
But before I got started for the Russian goal, I caught a glimpse of Shakkur bearing down on me and in order to escape him tried evasive action. He anticipated my move and with his left arm clubbed me across the back so violently that I nearly pitched over my horse’s head. In attempting to regain control I exposed the goat, which Shakkur grabbed, literally tearing it from me. He rode off with the body; I was left with one leg.
Dazed from his blow, I started in pursuit, but the chase was fruitless, for Shakkur had a clear run for the goal, and even though one of his own Kazaks tried to knock him from his horse, the big sharif defended himself by clubbing the Kazak in the face with the bloody goat. Thus ended our game of polo, the sport of gentlemen.
Of the eighty players, more than half had substantial contusions and cuts, and of these, twenty-two were injured seriously enough to require help from Dr. Stiglitz, who set broken bones, pulled broken teeth and applied antiseptic to several square yards of flesh from which the skin had been abraded in sliding falls across the rocky field. This year, however, there had been no deaths.
As we finished treating the last of the cripples and listened to the sounds of festivity in the tents, where the game was being celebrated, I could not resist observing to Ellen, “Sort of like Saturday night after the Yale-Harvard game, isn’t it? Or the country club in Dorset after a golf match?”
She had a good answer for this, I’m sure, but she was prevented from giving it by the arrival of the old Hazara, who had come by to congratulate me: “Your play was a credit to Zulfiqar and he should be pleased. A year ago I warned him, ‘In 1946 I shall retire. If you act wisely you could be my successor.’ Well, everything he’s done this year has been correct and your presence and the young lady’s”—he smiled at Ellen approvingly—“has helped him very much.” He bade me farewell and rode back to the yurt.
When he was gone I saw that Ellen was trembling, partly from outrage, partly from apprehension. “He’s been plotting this for a whole year,” she muttered, her composure gone. “He’s used us most shamefully. I wonder what he’ll do now?”
I should have been sympathetic with her, but for some reason I wasn’t, and an irreverent thought possessed me, which I ungallantly shared: “Rather neat trick he pulled, picking you up at Qala Bist and keeping you on ice for ten months.”
She glared at me, but ignored the joke. “What do you think he’ll do’?” she asked nervously.
Toward me, at least, his friendship increased. The day after the polo we rode to see the Russians dismantling the administration yurt and watched as a colorful procession of Uzbek, Tajik and Hunza caravans wound slowly to the east, heading for the crevices of the Hindu Kush. A visible sadness seized the Kochi leader and he turned on his horse to say, “If they do die, these caravans …” He paused, then said quietly, “Who could believe Qabir if he had not seen it? Son”—he had never called me this before—“I wanted you to see this plain with four hundred caravans. I saw it when I was a boy … no, when I was an infant too young to see anything. This is how men should live.”
But each day we became more lonely. The Nuristanis next to us had departed and so had the Tajiks to the west, and a very real sense of doom enveloped our camp. I was constantly expecting retribution to overtake Ellen and Dr. Stiglitz, and I am sure they were too. In fact, I became so jittery that I began spotting where the guns were, and the knives, in case I was myself attacked, for it seemed to me that the brooding figure of Zulfiqar was everywhere.
Finally even Shakkur the Kirghiz departed with his eighty camels, and our caravan was alone on the high plateau. I overheard little Maftoon complaining to the other cameleers, “If we don’t start soon for Balkh, on the return trip the snows will trap us.”
“Zulfiqar will tell us when to move,” they assured him.
“He’s not thinking of the snows,” Maftoon lamented.
The next morning I heard a shouting at Zulfiqar’s tent and I rushed over to find him standing with dagger in hand, towering over Dr. Stiglitz, who was unarmed and terrified. In his baggy Afghan trousers and dirty turban Stiglitz made a pitiful contrast to the powerful Kochi.
“Give him a dagger,” Zulfiqar commanded, and when there was hesitation he shouted at Maftoon, “Give him yours. It killed a man in Rawalpindi.”
Fumbling, Maftoon placed his dagger into the trembling hands of the doctor, who knew no more how to use it now than he had that morning in the caravanserai: he held it in both hands, pointed out from his chest.
I fought my way to the front of the circle and shouted, “Zulfiqar! No!”
“You be still!” the huge Kochi roared, and men grabbed my arms.
At the doorway to the tent Racha and some women held Ellen Jaspar, and I looked beseechingly at Mira, who refused to look back at me. Then Ellen screamed and I saw Zulfiqar, with a quick lunge, dive at Stiglitz, who, in a response born of despair, managed to escape the flashing blade but took no steps to attack his adversary.
Zulfiqar w
hirled expertly and drove at Stiglitz from the opposite direction, but again Ellen screamed and the doctor jumped aside just in time. He was terrified and was obviously about to be killed, except that Ellen, who had convinced him that death was of no consequence, now shouted, “Otto! Protect yourself!” And with this cry the insignificant man wanted to live. He became wary.
What followed occurred with dreadful swiftness, but each motion was etched on my mind. I shall never forget. I thought: I hope Stiglitz wins. I despised him, both for what he had done and for what he represented, but now that he was close to death at the very moment he had found Ellen Jaspar to restore his life, I wanted him to survive. Dear God, I prayed, let the German live.
A roar went up as Zulfiqar made a savage lunge at Stiglitz, who drew himself in so that the Kochi dagger missed, then stabbed at Zulfiqar as the latter flashed by. Stiglitz had drawn blood and the crowd murmured in astonishment.
I never knew whether Zulfiqar realized he was hit or not, but with a roaring leap he struck his opponent with both boots and knocked him to the ground. Like a cat he pounced upon him and wrenched away his dagger. Applying his knees to the doctor’s arms, he stared down at the terrified face.
Ellen screamed as Zulfiqar’s dagger flashed in the air and I was caught with horror as I watched it speed downward. I heard the crowd sigh. Then I heard voices.
Zulfiqar had driven his dagger into the soft earth, less than an inch from the pudgy doctor’s neck. The powerful Kochi left it there as he pushed himself up, loomed over the fallen man and carefully spat in his face.
“Leave the caravan!” he cried in a terrifying voice.
He then stalked to the doorway of his tent and grabbed Ellen away from the women. With a cruel swipe of his hand he knocked her off her feet. Contemptuously he spat in her face and repeated his order: “Leave the caravan!”