Free The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra Page A

they’ll use, someday soon, to lynch their country’s last hope of salvation.
    Whenever Atiq sees these children, he feels a deep uneasiness. They’re invading the city inexorably, like the packs of dogs that turn up out of nowhere, feed in rubbish dumps and garbage cans, eventually colonize whole neighborhoods, and keep the citizenry at bay. The innumerable madrassas , the religious schools that spring up like mushrooms on every street corner, no longer suffice to hold all the children. Every day, their numbers increase and their threat grows, and no one in Kabul cares. All his adult life, Atiq has regretted that God never gave him any children; but now that the streets teem with them, he considers himself lucky. What good does it do to burden your life with a pack of brats, just so you can watch them croak little by little or wind up as cannon fodder in a war so endemic, so endless, that it has become part of the national identity?
    Persuaded that his sterility is a blessing, Atiq slaps his thigh with his whip and walks toward the center of the city.
    Nazeesh is dozing in the shade of his umbrella, his neck strangely twisted to one side. He’s probably spent the night there, in front of his door, sitting on the ground like a fakir. When he sees Atiq coming, he pretends to be asleep. Atiq passes in front of him without saying a word. He strides on for about thirty paces, then stops, weighs the pros and cons, and retraces his steps. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Nazeesh clenches his fists and scoots a little deeper into his corner. Atiq plants himself in front of him and crosses his arms high against his chest; then he squats down and begins drawing geometric shapes in the dirt with his fingertip. “I was rude to you last night,” he acknowledges.
    To enhance his impression of a beaten dog, Nazeesh presses his lips together, then says, “And I hadn’t done anything to you.”
    “Please forgive me.”
    “Bah!”
    “Yes, I insist. I behaved very badly toward you, Nazeesh. I was mean, and unfair, and stupid.”
    “But no, you were just a tiny bit disagreeable.”
    “I blame myself.”
    “That’s not necessary.”
    “Do you forgive me?”
    “Come on, of course I do. And besides, to tell the truth, some of it was my fault. I should have thought for a minute before disturbing you. There you are, in an empty jail, looking for a little peace and quiet so you can sort out your problems. And here I come, I drop in on you unannounced and talk to you about things that don’t concern you. I’m the one to blame. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
    “It’s true that I needed to be alone.”
    “So it’s up to you to forgive me. ”
    Atiq extends his hand. Nazeesh seizes it eagerly and holds on to it for a long time. Without letting go, he looks all around to be sure it’s safe for him to speak. Then he clears his throat, but his emotion is so great that his voice comes out in an almost inaudible quaver: “Do you think we’ll ever be able to hear music in Kabul one day?”
    “Who knows?”
    The old man strengthens his grip, extending his skinny neck as he prolongs his lamentations. “I’d like to hear a song. You can’t imagine how much I’d like to hear a song. A song with instrumental accompaniment, sung in a voice that shakes you from head to foot. Do you think one day—or one night—we’ll be able to turn on the radio and listen to the bands getting together again and playing until they pass out?”
    “God alone is omniscient.”
    A momentary confusion clouds the old man’s eyes; then they begin to glitter with an aching brightness that seems to rise up from the center of his being. “Music is the true breath of life. We eat so we won’t starve to death. We sing so we can hear ourselves live. Do you understand, Atiq?”
    “I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.”
    “When I was a child, it often happened that I didn’t get enough to eat. It didn’t matter, though. All I had to do