Then one day Sultan sends a message that he will be home the next day. Mansur snaps out of his intoxication immediately. He has done none of the things his father asked him to do. Not catalogued the books, tidied the back room, made new order slips, fetched the book crates that by now have piled up at the transport depot. The matter of the carpenter and the investigations he has not even given a thought.
Sharifa fusses around him. ‘What is it, my boy, are you ill?’
‘Nothing,’ he hisses.
She continues to nag. ‘Keep your trap shut - go back to Pakistan,’ Mansur shouts. ‘Since you came everything has been shambolic.’
Sharifa starts to cry. ‘How could I have such boys? What wrong have I done when they don’t even want their mother around?’
Sharifa howls and yells at her children, Latifa starts to cry. Bibi Gul sways from side to side; Bulbula stares out into thin air. Sonya tries to soothe Latifa and Leila washes up. Mansur bangs the door into the room he shares with Yunus. Yunus is in bed snoring. He has hepatitis B and lies in bed all day swallowing medicine. His eyes are yellow and he looks paler and sadder than ever.
When Sultan returns the next day Mansur is so nervous that he avoids his sharp eyes. But he need not be so worried because Sultan is mostly preoccupied with Sonya. Only the following day, in the shop, does he ask his son if he has done all he asked him to do. Before Mansur has had time to answer the father is already issuing new instructions. Sultan’s trip to Iran was very successful. He has linked up again with his old business associate and soon crate upon crate of Persian books will arrive in Kabul. But one thing he has not forgotten: the carpenter.
‘Have you discovered nothing?’ Sultan regards his son in astonishment. ‘Are you undermining my work? Tomorrow you go to the police and report him. His father was going to give me the confession within a day and now a month has gone by! And if he’s not locked up by the time I return from Pakistan, you are not my son,’ he threatens. ‘Anyone found helping themselves to my property will not be happy,’ he says ominously.
The next morning, while it is still dark, two women carrying two children are found beating on the Khan family’s door. Leila opens up drowsily. The women cry and remonstrate and after a time Leila realises that it is the carpenter’s grandmother and aunt standing there with his children.
‘Please, forgive him, forgive him,’ they say. ‘Please, in God’s name,’ they cry. The old grandmother is close to ninety; small and wizened with a face like a mouse. She has a sharp, hairy chin. She is the mother of the carpenter’s father, who has been trying to beat the truth out of his son for the last weeks.
‘We have nothing to eat, we’re starving, look at the children. But we’ll pay back for the postcards.’
Leila asks them in. The little mousy grandmother throws herself at the feet of the women of the family who have been woken by the wailing and enter the room. They look deeply embarrassed at the misery, which has entered the room like a rush of cold air. The women have a two-year-old boy with them and one of the polio-stricken girls. The girl sits down on the floor with great difficulty. The stiff polio-leg with the splints sticks out beneath her. She sits solemnly and listens to the conversation.
Jalaluddin was not at home when the police came, so they took his father and uncle instead. They said they would come and get him the next morning. No one slept the whole night. Early in the morning, before the police came back, the two old women set off to beg Sultan for mercy and forgiveness on behalf of their relative.
‘If he stole anything it was to save his family. Look at them, look at the children, thin as rakes. No proper clothes, nothing to eat.’
The Mikrorayon hearts melt, but the visit leads to nothing but pity. When Sultan has decided upon something there is nothing the women in the Khan family can do. And especially not if it has any bearing on the shop.
‘We would love to help you, but we can do nothing. Sultan decides,’ they say. ‘And Sultan is not at home.’
The women continue to wail and cry. They know it is true but cannot afford to give up hope. Leila enters with fried eggs and fresh bread. She has boiled milk for the two children. When Mansur comes into the room, the two women rush over and kiss his feet. He kicks them away. They know that he, as his father’s oldest son, has power in his absence. But Mansur has decided to do what his father asked him to do.
‘Ever since Sultan confiscated his tools, he has not been able to work. We haven’t eaten for many weeks. We have forgotten the taste of sugar,’ the grandmother cries. ‘The rice we buy is nearly rotten. His children are getting thinner every day; look, they are all skin and bone. Jalaluddin is beaten up by his father every day. I never thought I would raise a thief,’ the grandmother says. The women in Mikrorayon promise to do their best to persuade Sultan, knowing all the time that nothing will help.
By the time the grandmother and the aunt have made their way back to the village with the two children, the police have already been to pick up Jalaluddin.
In the afternoon Mansur is called in as a witness. He sits on a stool by the chief constable’s table, legs crossed. Seven men listen to the chief’s interrogation. There are not enough chairs and two of them have to share one. The carpenter is squatting on the floor. They are a mixed bunch; some of the police wear thick, grey winter uniforms, some traditional clothes, others green MP uniforms. Nothing much happens at this station, so the postcard theft is an important matter. One of the policemen is standing by the door, without quite deciding whether he belongs in or out.
‘You must tell us who you sold them to, otherwise you’ll end up in the central prison,’ the chief constable says. The words central prison send a chill around the room. Central prison - that’s where all the real criminals go. The carpenter sags on the floor and looks hopeless. He is wringing his carpenter’s hands; they are full of thousands of tiny cuts, scars criss-crossing his hands. In the strong sunlight that shines through the window, gashes and incisions from knives, saws and awls are easily visible. It is as though his hands represent him, the carpenter, not his face, and it is they who are now dully watching the seven men in the room; as though the matter does not concern him. After a while they send him away, to the tiny metre-square cell. A cell where he cannot stand up, but only crouch, squat or lie doubled up.
Jalaluddin’s fate is in the hands of Mansur’s family. They can withdraw or uphold the complaint. If they choose to uphold the complaint, he will be passed on along the system and it will be too late to acquit him. Then the police decide. ‘We can hold him for seventy-two hours, then you’ll have to make up your minds,’ says the chief constable. He is of the opinion that Jalaluddin must be punished; poverty is no reason for stealing.
‘Many people are poor. If we do not punish crime, society will become completely immoral. It is important to set an example when the rules have been broken.’ The loud-spoken chief constable argues with Mansur, who has begun to question the whole affair. When he realises that Jalaluddin might be sent down for six years for the postcard theft, he starts thinking about his children, the hungry looks, the poor clothes. He thinks of his own life, how simple it is; he, who in one day can spend as much money as the carpenter’s family does in one month.
An enormous bouquet of artificial flowers takes up half the table. The flowers acquired a thick layer of dust ages ago, but nevertheless brighten up the room. The police at Deh Khudaidad’s police station obviously like colours; the walls are mint green, the lamp red, very red. On the wall hangs a picture of the war hero Massoud, as in all other official offices in Kabul.
‘Don’t forget, under the Taliban he would have had his hand cut off,’ the chief constable emphasises. ‘That happened to people who had committed lesser crimes than this one.’ The constable relates the story of a woman who became a single mother when her husband died. ‘She was very poor. The youngest son had no shoes and cold feet. It was winter and he could not go out of doors. The oldest son, scarcely a teenager, stole a pair of shoes for his little brother. He w
as caught red-handed, and his right hand was chopped off. That was taking it a bit too far,’ the constable thought. ‘But this carpenter has shown himself to be a bad lot. He’s stolen several times. If you steal in order to feed your children, you only steal once,’ he maintains.
The chief constable shows Mansur all the confiscated things lying in the cupboard behind him. Flick-knives, kitchen knives, pocket-knives, knives with large handles for hitting, pistols, torches, even a pack of cards have been collected. To gamble for money qualifies you for six months in prison. ‘The pack of cards was confiscated because the losing player floored the winner and stabbed him with this knife. They had been drinking so he was punished for stabbing, drinking and gambling,’ he laughs. ‘The other player was let off, because he was now an invalid and that’s punishment enough!’
‘What is the punishment for drinking?’ Mansur asks. He knows that according to Sharia law drinking is a gross sin and severely punished. The Koran recommends eighty lashes.
‘To be honest, I normally close my eyes to such things. When there is a wedding I tell them that this is a holiday, but that everything should be in moderation and kept within the family,’ says the chief constable.
‘What about infidelity?’
‘If they are married they will be killed by stoning. If they are unmarried the punishment is one hundred lashes, and they must marry. If one of them is married, and it is the man, and the woman is unmarried, he must take her for his second wife. If she is married and he is unmarried, the woman will be killed and the man whipped and put in prison,’ the constable says. ‘But I sometimes look through my fingers with that too. It might be widows, who need the money. Then I try to help them. Get them on an even keel again.’
‘Yes, you’re talking about prostitutes, but what about normal people?’
‘Once we surprised a couple in a car. We, or rather the parents, forced them to marry,’ he says. ‘That was fair, don’t you think? After all, we’re not the Taliban,’ says the constable. ‘We must try to avoid stoning people. The Afghans have suffered enough.’
Mansur leaves the police station deep in thought. The chief constable gave him a three-day deadline. He can still pardon the sinner, but if it goes further, it’ll be too late. Mansur is not in a mood to return to the shop, but goes home for lunch, a very rare occurrence. He throws himself down on a mat, and thank God, for the sake of peace, food is ready.
‘Take your shoes off,’ his mother says.
‘Go to hell,’ Mansur answers.
‘Mansur, you must obey your mother,’ Sharifa continues. Mansur does not answer but lies down on the floor, one foot in the air, crossed over the other. He keeps his shoes on. His mother pinches her mouth tight.
‘We must decide what to do with the carpenter,’ Mansur says. He lights a cigarette, and his mother starts to cry. Mansur would never, ever, light up in front of his father. But as soon as his father is out of the house, he not only takes pleasure in smoking but also in irritating his mother by smoking before, during and after the meal. The little room is thick with smoke. Bibi Gul has been complaining for a long time how impolite he is to his mother. But this time desire takes over, she stretches out her hand and whispers: ‘Can I have one?’
Silence descends. Is grandmother starting to smoke?
‘Mummy,’ Leila cries and tears the cigarette out of her hand. Mansur gives her another one and Leila leaves the room in protest. Bibi Gul sits happily puffing away, laughing quietly. She even stops the rocking to and fro and holds the cigarette high up in the air, inhaling deeply. ‘I’ll eat less,’ Bibi Gul explains.
‘Release him,’ she says after having enjoyed the cigarette. ‘He’s had his punishment, his father’s beating, the shame, and anyhow he gave the postcards back.’
‘Did you see his children? How are they going to manage without their father’s income?’ Sharifa supports her.
‘We might be responsible for his children’s death,’ says Leila who has returned once her mother has stubbed out the cigarette. ‘What if they get ill and cannot afford a doctor, then they’ll die because of us, or they might die of starvation,’ she says. ‘And anyhow, the carpenter might die in prison. Many never make it through the six years. It’s riddled with infection, tuberculosis and lots of other illnesses. ’
‘Show mercy,’ says Bibi Gul.
Mansur phones Sultan in Pakistan on his newly acquired mobile phone. He asks for permission to release the carpenter. The room is silent; everyone is listening to the conversation.
They hear Sultan’s voice shouting from Pakistan: ‘He wants to ruin my business, undermine prices. I paid him well. There was no need to steal. He’s a crook. He’s guilty and the truth will have to be beaten out of him. No one, but no one will get away with destroying my business.’
‘He might get six years! His children might be dead when he gets out,’ Mansur shouts back.
‘If he gets sixty years, I couldn’t care less. He is going to suffer until he tells me who he has sold the cards to.’
‘That’s something you can say because your tummy’s full,’ Mansur yells. ‘I cry when I think of those scraggy children of his. His family are finished.’
‘How dare you contradict your father!’ Sultan screams down the line. Everyone in the room knows his voice and knows that his face is puce with anger and his whole body shaking. ‘What sort of a son are you? You are to obey me in everything, everything. What’s wrong with you? Why are you rude to your father?’
Mansur’s face shows the inner battle he is fighting. He has never done anything but what his father demands of him. That is, of the things his father knows about. He has never faced him in open confrontation; he quite simply does not dare incite his father’s wrath.
‘All right,’ he says and puts the phone down. The family is silent. Mansur swears.
‘He has a heart of stone,’ Sharifa sighs. Sonya is silent.
Every morning and every evening the carpenter’s family arrives. Sometimes it’s the grandmother, other times the mother, the aunt or the wife. One or two of the children are always with them. They get the same answer each time. Sultan decides. When he gets home all will sort itself out. But they know that is not true; Sultan has already passed his verdict.
In the end they can take it no longer. They do not open the door but sit quietly, pretending they are not at home. Mansur goes to the local police station to ask for a postponement; he wants to wait for his father’s return; he will take care of it. But the chief constable cannot wait any longer. The metre-square cell cannot house prisoners for more than a few days. Once again they ask the carpenter to admit that he took more postcards and to tell them whom he sold them to, but he refuses. Jalaluddin is handcuffed and led out of the little mud hut.
As the local police station has no car, it falls on Mansur to drive the carpenter to the central police station in Kabul.
Outside are the carpenter’s father, son and grandmother. When Mansur arrives they approach him hesitatingly. Mansur hates every moment. In Sultan’s absence he is having to act as the callous judge.
‘I am only doing as my father has told me,’ he excuses himself, puts on his sunglasses and sits in the car. The grandmother and the little son return home. The father mounts his rickety bicycle and follows Mansur’s car. He is not giving up and wants to follow his son as far as he can. They see his upright silhouette disappear behind them.
Mansur drives slower than usual. It might be many years before the carpenter sees these streets again.
They reach the central police station. During the Taliban era this was one of the most hated buildings in Kabul. Here, at the Department for the Promotion of Virtue and Extermination of Sin, better known as the ministry of morality, the religious police had their headquarters. Men were brought here whose beards or trousers were too short, women who had walked down a street with men other than their relatives, women who had walked alone, women who wore make-up under the burka. For weeks on end they might languish in the ba
sements before being moved to other gaols, or acquitted. When the Taliban left, the remand cells were opened and the prisoners freed. Cables and canes were found which had been used as instruments of torture. The men were beaten naked; women could drape a sheet around themselves when being tortured. Before the Taliban, first the brutal Soviet intelligence service, then the chaotic police force of the Mujahedeen had occupied the building.
The carpenter mounts the massive steps to the fifth floor. He tries to walk beside Mansur and looks pleadingly at him. His eyes seem to have grown during the week he was incarcerated. The beseeching eyes seem to bulge out of his head. ‘Forgive me, forgive me. I’ll work for you for nothing for the rest of my life. Forgive me.’
Mansur looks straight ahead. He must not buckle now. Sultan has given his verdict and he cannot contradict Sultan. He might be disinherited, thrown out of the house. He feels already that his brother has become Sultan’s favourite. Eqbal can learn computing, Eqbal has been promised a bicycle. If Mansur opposes him now Sultan might sever all ties with him. However much he feels for the carpenter, he cannot risk that.
They wait for the interrogation and registration of the report. The system is that the person reported is imprisoned until innocence or guilt has been proved. Anyone can report anybody and have the person in question imprisoned.
Mansur puts his case to the interrogator. The carpenter squats on the floor. He has long, crooked toes and the nails have thick black edges. His waistcoat and jumper hang in shreds down his back. The trousers hang about his hips.
The interrogator behind the table carefully writes down the two declarations. He writes elegantly and uses carbon paper for a copy.
‘Why are you so keen on postcards from Afghanistan?’ the policeman laughs and finds the matter rather curious. But before the carpenter can answer he continues: ‘Tell me now whom you have sold them to; we all understand that you did not steal them to send to relatives.’
‘I only took two hundred, and Rasul gave me some,’ the carpenter starts tentatively.