Free The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra Page B

was climb a tree, sit on a branch, and play my flute, and that drowned out my growling stomach. And when I sang—you don’t have to believe me, but when I sang, I stopped feeling hungry.”
    The two men look at each other. Their faces are as tense as a cramp. Finally, Atiq withdraws his hand and stands up. “I’ll see you later, Nazeesh.”
    The old man nods in agreement. Just as the jailer turns to go on his way, Nazeesh grabs his shirttail and holds him back. “Did you mean what you said yesterday, Atiq? Do you really think I’ll never leave? Do you think I’m going to stay here, planted like a tree, and I’ll never see the ocean or far-off lands or the edge of the horizon?”
    “You’re asking me too much.”
    “I want you to say it to my face. You’re not a hypocrite; you don’t care how sensitive people may be when you tell them the truth about themselves. I’m not afraid, and I won’t hold it against you, but I have to know, once and for all. Do you think that I won’t ever leave this city?”
    “Sure you will—feetfirst. No doubt about it,” Atiq says, whereupon he walks away, slapping his whip against his side.
    I could have been gentler with the old man, he thinks. I could have assured him that hope is legitimate even when it’s impossible. Atiq doesn’t understand what came over him all of a sudden; he can’t figure out why the malicious pleasure of stoking the poor devil’s distress suddenly seemed more delightful than anything else. He’s worried about his irresistible impulse to spoil with two words what he’s spent a hundred begging for. But it’s like an itch: Even if he scratched himself bloody, he wouldn’t want to be rid of it altogether. . . .
    Yesterday, when he went home, he found Musarrat drowsing. Without understanding why, he purposely knocked over a stool, banged the shutters, and recited several long verses aloud before finally going to bed. When he woke up this morning, he realized what a boor he’d been. Nevertheless, he’s sure he’ll act the same way tonight if he goes home and finds his wife asleep.
    He wasn’t like this before, not Atiq. It’s true, he never passed for an affable person, but he wasn’t evil-tempered, either. Too poor to be generous, he prudently chose to abstain from giving, thus deliberately sparing others the duty of returning the favor. In this way, never requiring anything from anyone, he felt neither indebted nor obliged. In a country where cemeteries and wastelands compete with one another for territory, where funeral processions prolong the military convoys, war has taught him not to get too attached to anybody whom a simple caprice, a change of mood, may take away from him. Atiq has consciously enclosed himself in a cocoon, where he’s exempt from making futile efforts. Acknowledging that he’s seen enough of those to be moved by the plight of his fellowman, he’s wary of his tendency toward sentimentality, which he looks upon as a sort of ringworm, and he limits the sorrow of the world to his own suffering. Recently, however, he’s found that he’s no longer content to ignore those who are close to him. Although he’s made a vow to mind his own business exclusively, here he is, of all people, intentionally drawing on others’ disappointments for the inspiration to master his own. Without realizing it, he’s developed a strange aggressiveness, imperious and unfathomable, which seems to fit his moods. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore, face-to-face with adversity; or rather, he’s trying to prove to himself that burdening others will make him better able to bear the weight of his own misfortunes. Perfectly aware that he’s doing Nazeesh harm, and far from feeling any remorse, he relishes his assaults as though they prove his prowess. Is that what’s called “malicious pleasure”? No matter; it suits him, and even if it does him no practical good, at least he can be sure he’s coming out on top. It’s as though he were