‘Dastaguir, what have you done with my scarf?’
It’s Murad’s mother. You see your wife at the base of the hills, running at the same pace as the truck. You untie the bundle and let the coal-apples fall out. Then you let the scarf blow out of the window. The cloth dances through the air. Murad’s mother runs after it, dancing as she goes.
‘We’ve arrived.’
The image of Murad’s mother reflected in the pools of your pupils is lost to the ripples of Shahmard’s voice.
You open your wet eyes. The truck is nearing the mine. You sense that Murad is close. Your chest tightens, your heart swells, your veins constrict, your blood freezes… Your tongue has become a piece of wood, a charred piece, half-burned, an ember, a silent piece of coal… Your throat is dry. Water! You swallow your naswar. The smell of ash fills your nostrils. You take a deep breath. You smell Murad. You fill your lungs to their utmost with his scent. For the first time, you realize how small your lungs are and how big your heart is – as big as your sorrow…
Shahmard slows the truck and turns to the left. He comes to a halt at the entrance to the mine. A guard appears from a wooden hut, just like the one at the start of the road. He asks for papers from Shahmard, looks over them and begins a conversation. You sit silently. You don’t move a muscle. Actually, you wouldn’t have the strength to do so if you wanted to. You hold your breath. For a few moments, you’re nothing but a hollow shell. Your lifeless gaze falls through the grille of the mine’s large iron gate. You sense that Murad is waiting for you beyond the gate. Murad, don’t ask Dastaguir why he has come.
The truck passes through the gate and enters the grounds of the mine. At the foot of a large hill lies a line of concrete workers’ quarters. Which of them is Murad’s? Men with blackened faces, wearing metal construction helmets, come down the hill as others climb up. You don’t see Murad among them. The truck heads towards the small concrete buildings and stops in front of one. Shamard suggests you get out and ask the mine’s foreman about your son.
You experience a moment of confusion and don’t react. There isn’t enough strength in your hand to open the door. You are like a child who doesn’t want to be separated from his father. You ask Shahmard, ‘Is my son here?’
‘Of course, but you’ll have to ask the foreman where.’
‘Where is the foreman?’
Shamard points out a building to the right of the truck.
Your weak, trembling hand has difficulty opening the truck door. You put your feet on the ground. Your legs are of no use. They don’t have the strength to hold you up. But your body is not heavy. It’s the heaviness of the air that’s pressing down on your body. The air is weighty and thick. You rest your hand on your waist. Shahmard passes your bundle through the window and says, ‘Father, I’m heading back to town between five and six. If you want to come, wait for me at the gate.’
Bless you. You say this to yourself. To him you only nod. Your tongue doesn’t have the strength to move. Words, like the air, have become heavy… The truck moves off. You remain nailed to the ground in a cloud of dust. A few black-faced miners walk by. Murad? No, Murad’s not among them. Come on, go to the foreman and ask.
You try to move. Your legs are still tired and weak. It’s as if they are sunk into the depths of the earth, all the way down to its molten centre… Your feet burn inside your shoes. Wait a while. Take a deep breath. Calm down. Move your legs. You can walk. So walk.
You reach the foreman’s building and stop outside the door. It’s an imposing door. Like the entrance to a fortress. What might be on the other side? Probably a mineshaft. One that is long and deep, that goes right down to the depths of the earth, all the way down to furnaces of molten rock…
You place your hand on the doorknob. It is burning hot.
Dastaguir, what are you doing? Are you going to plunge a dagger into the chest of Murad, your only remaining child? Can’t you keep your troubles to yourself? Leave Murad alone! One day he’ll find out. It’s better if he hears it from someone else’s lips.
What should you do then? Go and disappear from his life? No! What, then? You can’t tell him today, you’re exhausted, turn back! You’ll come back tomorrow. Tomorrow? But tomorrow it’ll be the same story, the same anguish. Knock on this door then! Your hands have become heavy. You step back.
Where are you going, Dastaguir? Can’t you decide? Don’t abandon Murad. Take the hand of your son like a father and teach him about life.
You walk up to the door. You knock. The door creaks loudly. The shaven head of a young man peers out. He is blind in his right eye. A fine web of red blood vessels worms over the white of the eye. With a gesture of his head he asks you what you want. Gathering your resolve, you say, ‘Salaam. Murad, the son of Dastaguir, is my child. I have come to see him.’
The man opens the door wider. The inquiring expression has left his face. Taken aback, he turns his head to a man who sits writing at a large desk at the far end of the room.
‘Foreman sir, Murad’s father is here.’
On hearing these words, the foreman freezes. His pen drops on to his desk. His eyes bore into yours. A weighty silence fills the space between you. With all your strength, you draw yourself up and enter the room. But the silence and the strange expression of the foreman gradually burden your shoulders. Your legs tremble. Your body begins to stoop again. Dastaguir, what have you done? You have asked for Murad. You are going to kill Murad… No, may all be well. You won’t speak to him. If he asks you why you’ve come, you’ll say something else, an excuse. You’ll say that his uncle visited the village, and you returned together by car to Pul-i-Khumri. Taking advantage of the opportunity, you came to the mine to get news of Murad. That’s all. Afterwards you’re returning to the village… Stay well, Murad!
The foreman stands and limps towards you. He places his heavy hand on your tired shoulder. It’s as if the mine, with its big hill, its coal and its square cement buildings, rests there on your shoulders. Your body stoops even further. The foreman circles around you. He’s very tall. It’s his left leg that makes him limp. He is a mountain next to you. His mouth is open. As if he’s about to devour you. His big black teeth are concealed under a dirty moustache. He smells of coal.
‘Welcome, brother. You must be tired. Sit down.’
He directs you towards the wooden chair in front of his desk and then limps back to his place on the other side of the table. You sit down, keeping your bundle pressed against you. On the wall in front of you, just above the foreman’s chair, hangs a large framed portrait of him. He wears a military uniform and, under his black moustache, a victorious smile.
The foreman, sitting in his chair again, starts to speak, slowly and carefully.
‘Murad is down the mine. It’s his shift now. Would you like tea?’
In a quavering voice, you reply, ‘God protect you, sir.’
The foreman calls to the man who led you inside and sends him for two cups of tea.
You are relieved that Murad isn’t available right away. It’ll give you some time to come up with coherent answers and words of comfort. Maybe the foreman can help you. You ask, ‘When will he be off work?’
‘At about eight this evening.’
Eight this evening? Shahmard will be returning at six. Where will you go till eight? What will you do? Could you spend the night here? And what about Yassin?
‘Good brother, Murad is fine. He has received news of the incident that has stricken his family. May God absolve them and give their souls peace…’
You don’t hear the rest of the foreman’s words. Murad has received news? You repeat the words to yourself a few times. As if you don’t understand what they mean. Or you didn’t hear correctly. After all, at your age one grows hard of hearing and misunderstands.