‘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 was 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.