Dust on the Paw Read online

  Lan had stopped and was chatting with some Afghan children in their brightly coloured pyjamas. He watched for a few moments and then hurried into the house where every article of furniture, because of its association with her, increased his confusion and anguish.

  He drove slowly on his way to the Ministry and chose the wide, tree-lined avenue that took him past the Chinese Embassy. Its diplomats never mixed socially with the rest of the foreign community, and of course from its official functions the representatives of most other countries, following the lead of America, stayed away. He and Lan were always invited, and always went. Lan refused to call herself a Communist, but considered the capital of her country to be Peking. Moffatt had enjoyed those occasions and he had been pleased that Lan was given the chance to meet, even if only at official level, some of her countrywomen, and speak with them in her native language. Now as he drove past the gate, with the Afghan policeman yawning outside his little striped box, he recalled those conversations and realized how inadequate they must have been to a woman so spontaneously friendly as Lan. Yet their polite exclusion of her would not hurt her nearly so much as the one he himself was deliberately imposing on her. The price of their admitting her as one of themselves would merely mean her surrender to their ideological beliefs; the price he was demanding was much higher. To satisfy him, she must assist in his scheme to keep Laura Johnstone from coming to Kabul, and she must accept his motives as humanitarian and just. She must also accept their own marriage as it stood now, with no further blossoming, and so, inevitably, with a kind of withering ahead, which compassion for each other would not help to disguise but might, in his own case anyway, make tolerable. She need not become different, she need only degenerate to a level that, being human, she had in her; she would find him there. Everywhere married people were being forced into such necessary restrictions of their happiness, either by the pressure of outside circumstances or by their own personal weaknesses. There were many too, such as the Langfords, who had not been able by their ruthless pruning of marriage to save it; these continued to live on with their hopes dead in flower and root.

  It would, he thought, make a poem; and as he drove past the armed soldier at the gate, into the courtyard of the Ministry, he was already seeking phrases. ‘The slant-eyed penny mercenary; the bright Russian rifle and the Afghan rags; the clerks huddled over their desks, with their bicycles padlocked beside them; the corridor with its mud-brick floor; the murmured greetings: “Salaam Alekhom”; and the hoarse sudden shout of treachery, like this camel’s, far away in the mind’s desert.’

  He kept thinking of the irony of that greeting: ‘God be with you.’ Here, he wondered, at the Minister’s door; here, on the red carpet leading to the desk, here in the soft handshakes, first with the tall hook-nosed sad-eyed Minister, and second with Mojedaji, the important mullah, with snowy turban and plump, lewd thighs.

  The Minister had formerly been headmaster of one of the four high schools and had been shot up to his present eminence by the Prime Minister himself, whose portrait, bald and saturnine, hung on the wall alongside the King, with a dusty flag between.

  Mojedaji’s eyes glittered behind his spectacles, with a peculiar kind of derision. Moffatt had seen it once before, in the eyes of an old white-bearded mullah seated at the entrance to the famous blue mosque at Mazar in the north. Moffatt had asked if he might be allowed to enter; a shake of the head and that glitter had let him know that there, where God was for them, he wasn’t welcome. He had the same feeling now, though Mojedaji was smiling and chatting amiably. His family, all of them mullahs, was one of the most powerful in the country; even the Prime Minister, it was said, had to be careful not to offend them. Mojedaji himself was in charge of the religious education in the schools but he was known to be more influential than the Minister in many matters. Certainly it was the latter who showed nervousness and diffidence.

  ‘I happened to mention this matter to Mr Mojedaji,’ he said, ‘and he expressed interest. So I suggested he should join us in our discussion.’

  Moffatt smiled and nodded. He felt himself trembling at this stroke of luck; whether good or bad he could not yet say. On the subject of the respective merits of foreign diplomas Mojedaji’s opinion might not be of much consequence, though his decision would be; but on the subject of Wahab’s intended marriage with a feringhee he would be able to speak with vindictive authority.

  ‘Please explain, Mr Moffatt,’ said the Minister.

  Briefly Moffatt did so. ‘I don’t want to belittle the diplomas and certificates of other countries,’ he said. ‘All I want to do is to give you a true estimate of the value of those awarded by British colleges.’

  The mullah had listened with urbane attention. One fat, ringed hand kept caressing a thin ankle clad in a green silk sock; the other, black with hairs, stroked his thigh.

  ‘Do you British still maintain,’ he asked, ‘that your educational system is the best in the world?’

  ‘I don’t. I’m satisfied with saying that it’s as good as any other.’

  ‘As good as that of the Soviet Union?’

  ‘On the whole, yes.’

  ‘But I read that the Soviet system is turning out many times more scientists every year. However, this is by the way. What exactly is your own personal interest in this matter, Mr Moffatt?’

  ‘I’ll be frank. Some holders of British diplomas have been coming to me and asking my help to get them recognized at their proper value.’

  ‘You mean, of course, Afghans?’ said the Minister.

  ‘Yes, Excellency.’

  ‘May we inquire who they were?’ asked Mojedaji.

  ‘I’m sorry. They came to me in confidence.’

  ‘Ah yes, I was forgetting the British code of honour; a promise must not be broken. But of course there is another way of looking at it. Were these men ashamed to let their names be known?’

  Moffatt smiled. ‘Perhaps.’ No need to say they were far more afraid than ashamed. The two men at the other side of the desk knew that better than he.

  ‘We know their names,’ said the Minister.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Mojedaji reached out the hand that had been cuddling his ankle to pick up a sheet of paper on which was written, in Persian script, a list of names. ‘All of these gentlemen are the holders of British diplomas or certificates. As you see, it is quite long. Shall I read you a few?’ Sure enough, Mir Abdul Rahman’s was among the half dozen he read out. Wahab’s, though, wasn’t.

  A curious lisp had come into the mullah’s voice; it struck Moffatt as malevolent. ‘We all know, Mr Moffatt, that you and your beautiful wife are among the best friends we Afghans have.’

  ‘We hope so.’

  ‘But everyone knows it. All of your students at the University praise you enthusiastically. We are grateful. Not only do you teach English well, but you also inculcate a spirit of independence which is truly admirable. I can assure you that your efforts are appreciated, not by the students only but also by the authorities. Nevertheless, you will agree that in this small matter of which diplomas to consider of higher value than others, we must be allowed our own opinion, even if we do make mistakes. Among us are men educated in various countries. I myself, for instance, spent two years in Germany. His Excellency here studied for a year and a half in France, and as you no doubt know he has recently returned from an inspection of the educational system of the Soviet Union. Others have acquaintance with America, Great Britain, Italy, and Scandinavia. You are not to think that we spend all our lives among these bleak mountains of Genghis Khan.’

  Moffatt smiled at his fellow phrasemaker. How great the distance, he wondered, from Genghis Khan to Abdul Wahab?

  ‘So, Mr Moffatt, His Excellency has decided not to make any changes at present.’

  ‘I shall keep the matter in mind,’ said the Minister.

  ‘Does that satisfy you, Mr Moffatt?’

  ‘It will have to, I am afraid.’

  ‘But there is something else you would l
ike to mention? I have seen it several times on the tip of your tongue. I think His Excellency and I could spare a few more minutes.’

  The Minister glanced at his large gold wrist watch. ‘Of course,’ he muttered.

  Then both of them waited, contemptuously, so it seemed to Moffatt. He was again trembling, and his throat was dry. Glancing at the white turban he remembered the rose in Lan’s hair.

  ‘I believe there’s a teacher of science at Isban College,’ he said.

  The King in the portrait looked suddenly very like his son Naim, Moffatt’s friend.

  ‘That is so,’ replied Mojedaji. ‘I know him. I visit that school frequently. His name is Abdul Wahab. Is he the same man?’

  ‘Yes. Please understand, I know nothing at all to this man’s discredit.’

  ‘I’m sure no one does,’ murmured the mullah. ‘Wahab is a very serious young man, and a most conscientious teacher. I may say he is a fervent advocate of English methods.’

  ‘Yes, he’s not long back from England. That’s really what I want to talk about.’

  They waited.

  ‘He met a young woman there.’

  ‘One?’ Mojedaji laughed. ‘I thought England was much more hospitable than that.’

  ‘This was more than a passing acquaintanceship.’

  ‘They fell in love?’

  How lewd the expression sounded under those glittering eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose you could put it that way. He would have married her and remained in England, if that had been possible. It wasn’t, so he came back to Kabul. She was to come after him. They were to be married here. That was their plan.’

  Again they waited.

  ‘I think, from our point of view, it would be a mistake if they were to marry.’

  ‘Whose point of view, Mr Moffatt?’

  ‘I meant, from the point of view of the English.’

  Mojedaji shook his head; his eyes appealed to the Minister. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Do you, Excellency?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t mean of course that the Afghan way of life is inferior to the English. But it is different, and I know from my own experience that they don’t mix successfully.’

  ‘From your own experience, Mr Moffatt? I did not know you were married to an Afghan.’

  ‘I meant, from the experience of people I know personally.’

  ‘I see. Your own wife of course is of Chinese origin?’

  ‘Yes. So I have written to this woman advising her not to come.’

  ‘Well then, surely she will take your advice? I mean, being a poet, you would be able to paint a truly terrifying picture of our primitiveness. An admirable race, the Chinese, so industrious, so shrewd at business very unlike us lazy backward inefficient Afghans.’

  Moffatt thought it might be safer to stop; but he could not. ‘If she were refused a visa she could not come.’

  ‘I am surprised, Mr Moffatt. A poet trying to place obstacles in the path of true love.’

  Mojedaji giggled, but the Minister’s smile was sour.

  ‘Why are you so certain that the two ways of life will not mix?’ asked the Minister. ‘Men are men, are they not, and women are women?’

  ‘Ah, but Excellency,’ chuckled Mojedaji, ‘perhaps Mr Moffatt thinks that children are half-castes. Do you?’

  Moffatt nodded. ‘It’s not a matter of opinion. It’s a fact.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear you say so, all the same,’ said Mojedaji. ‘We thought of you as a man of progressive outlook.’

  ‘Progressive enough,’ said Moffatt dourly, ‘not to like shaddries.’

  Mojedaji’s family, he knew, was powerful among those who favoured the retention of the shaddry.

  ‘Foreign women are exempt, as you should know,’ said the Minister.

  ‘Even if married to an Afghan?’

  ‘Yes. You know instances yourself.’

  ‘Of course, Excellency, Mr Moffatt has his tongue in his cheek when he uses the shaddry as an excuse. He has much stronger objections to this marriage that he hasn’t yet divulged.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked the Minister coldly.

  ‘I’m well aware that many Afghans would make good husbands for Western wives. But this one wouldn’t.’

  ‘Wahab?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why do you say so?’

  ‘I have heard that he meddles dangerously.’

  ‘Did you not say at the beginning that you wished to say nothing to this young man’s discredit?’ The Minister’s smile grew sourer.

  ‘I am sure,’ whispered Mojedaji, ‘that Mr Moffatt wishes only to speak the truth. In what does Wahab meddle dangerously?’

  ‘I am only saying what I have heard. He’s supposed to be communistically inclined. It’s none of my business, I know, but it is my business to try and save this Englishwoman from a life which might be full of hardship and misery.’

  Mojedaji rubbed his hands together. ‘Communistically inclined? What does that mean exactly, Mr Moffatt?’

  ‘Even a rough-and-ready explanation would help,’ said the Minister.

  It occurred to Moffatt that perhaps Wahab was a remote relation of the Minister’s. ‘He sympathizes with Russia,’ he said.

  Mojedaji laughed. ‘Do you, Mr Moffatt?’

  ‘In some ways.’

  ‘So do I. So does His Excellency. So does the Prime Minister. So does His Majesty. Russia is our neighbour. It is good to sympathize with one’s neighbour. As a matter of fact, Mr Voroshilov, President of the Soviet Union, is paying us a State visit soon. Thousands will cheer him, among them Mr Wahab no doubt.’

  Laugh as you like, thought Moffatt, but the bait and the hook both are stuck in your throats.

  ‘Will you stop her visa?’ he asked.

  ‘Really, that is surely a most impertinent thing to ask,’ said the Minister. ‘We have authorities to consider such things.’

  Mojedaji turned to him. ‘Perhaps we ought to see to it that the lady does get one, Excellency, because how better to tame a wild revolutionary than to get him safely married?’

  The Minister suddenly got up and held out his hand. ‘It was good of you to call, Mr Moffatt. We shall certainly consider this matter of the diplomas. Good afternoon.’

  Mojedaji, with great cordiality, accompanied Moffatt to the door, holding his hand moistly all the way.

  ‘And the lady’s visa,’ he whispered. ‘It will be kept in mind too. A country is lucky when its friends act voluntarily as its spies. Good afternoon, sir.’

  Sick at heart, Moffatt tried to grin; and as he went along the corridor he pretended to slink like a spy. But in the midst of the game he stopped, muttered ‘Oh Christ!’ and pressed his mouth against the filthy wall. If Wahab disappeared, transported to some camp of correction in the barren north, or imprisoned in some dungeon here in the city, with marks of brutality on his face and body, he himself would be the chief guard and torturer. There would be no way now of escaping that responsibility.

  The soldier with the fixed bayonet and string for bootlaces gave him a cheerful gap-toothed, slant-eyed grin, and somehow, despite his uncouthness, looked very like Lan and would look even more like her as he ripped his bayonet into Wahab’s belly.

  He sat in his car for almost ten minutes, trying to convince himself that his imagination was exaggerating what could happen to an Afghan suspected of political subversion. There were many rumours in Kabul, but no one knew the truth. The walls of the room in the prison where criminals were interrogated were said to be splattered with blood. Not so long ago the Minister of Finance had been caught smuggling large sums into other countries in his own name. No one was sure what had happened to him; but in all the embassies and legations were horrified whispers of his having been seen with all his teeth missing and his wits askew. Mojedaji had not mentioned Genghis Khan for nothing.

  When at last he drove out of the gate he turned right and headed, not back home, but out into the cou
ntry, past the Embassy with the Union Jack fluttering above the Residence, where a few weeks ago the Judas trees had been in blossom, and past the holy man’s cave where Afghan travellers always took care to fling down a few coins to win his blessing. Moffatt too flung some down and looked back to see the ragged, skinny, bearded hermit come creeping out of his hole and scramble about in the dust.

  About half an hour later he stopped beside the river, at a spot that was a favourite of his, or had been previously. There the wide water sparkled shallowly over a multitude of round smooth pebbles that chimed against one another, as if the river indeed was singing. On the banks were hundreds of young poplars with silvery trunks and green leaves that glittered and rustled in the breeze as the stones did in the water. From there the city could not be seen, only desert with one village in the distance; far beyond, across the great plain of shimmering sunshine, were the high mountains where he had gone climbing a year ago.

  Close to the water was a large, warm boulder, dappled like a seal. Here Moffatt usually sat, and Lan too, when she came with him to paint. As he did so this afternoon, the feeling that had been growing stronger every minute now became an illusion: he was not alone, and his companion, though he had been thinking about her all the time, was not Lan, nor Wahab whom he had so recently betrayed, but rather someone whom he had seen killed thirteen years ago in a Burmese jungle. Then twenty-two years old, Moffatt had been a lieutenant in the army, in charge of a patrol of which this man had been a member. But though Richardson had been killed, machine-gunned from an aeroplane, and had been buried, inadequately in a great hurry not far from a river, there seemed no reason why, such a long time after, he should now undergo this peculiar resurrection by this river in a country so dissimilar, thousands of miles away. He had not been an outstanding personality, or at least Moffatt had not known him to be; he had done what he had to do in that quiet, dogged, self-preserving way which among soldiers makes for anonymity. He had laughed, cracked a joke, and grumbled like the others. Why then should it be he who seemed to be standing here beside the dappled stone? The reason could not be that it was his having been so suddenly killed; others whom Moffatt had known better had been killed too, even more bloodily, and so were also eligible for resurrection. He did not think he had ever wronged Richardson or even done him any special service. Certainly they had never saved each other’s lives, and though he had been very near Richardson when the aeroplane had swooped he could never have been held responsible, not even by Richardson’s wife. Nor had there been anything unusual about her, either. She had not been, for instance, foreign or even noticeably pretty. She would never have been looked at twice in any street in Liverpool where she had come from and where no doubt she was still living. There had been a photograph of her in Richardson’s wallet, which Moffatt had had to look through. There had been blood all over her, and she had been holding a baby.