An Afghanistan Picture Show: Or, How I Saved the World by William T. Vollmann Read Free Book Online

sad.”
    “I’ll send it,” he said.
    “We will write to you letter. You will please to answer our letter? You will send to us?”
    “I’ll send it. Don’t worry.”
    They never wrote him later. So he didn’t have their address. So he didn’t send it.
    They took him on the merry-go-round, from which he had a whirling view of that tawny, canvas-colored beach whose camels stretched their necks as men led them through the sea shallows, and the low booths of vendors and the cotton-clothed crowds wavered in the hot fog; then the ride was over, and Akbar was offering to buy him one of the toys that were sold in the dirty booths along the beach. —“No, thanks,” he said, feeling embarrassed at all they had already done for him. “Maybe I’ll come back later and buy one.”
    “You pick it out, we buy for you now,” said Akbar implacably.
    “No, no, some other time.”
    “Sure,” said Akbar, insulted. It was the first time that the American had not given in.
    They took him to the railroad station an hour before the departure time of his train, the Khyber Mail Express. Akbar went and bought them all glasses of
lessee
. The guidebook had said to stay away from
lessee
; it was a health hazard to Westerners. In the vendor’s stand he could see the big kettle in which the milk fermented. The surface of the scum was black with dead flies. —“Thank you very much,” he said to Akbar, “but maybe—” —“Drink,” said Akbar, bringing the glass against the Young Man’s lip so hard a tooth chipped. —“Okay,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
BEGGARS AND CHOOSERS [3]
     
    While they stood there drinking, Akbar had Muhammed Ibrahim buy the Young Man another packet of betel nuts to chew on his journey. The Young Man wanted to refuse, but Akbar took his hand and closed his fingers around the packet. He thanked them both and stood holding it in his hand, drinking his
lessee
. —He felt a touch. A girl in a red sari was standing at his shoulder. She smelled like old vomit. —“She want money,” Akbar explained. “She no good.” —He shoved her. She took a few listless steps back, and the Young Man forgot her until he smelled her beside him again. She was looking him full in the face, standing there and saying nothing. —“Should I give her a couple of rupees?” he said, trying to make up for the leper. —“No, no,” said Akbar, irritated. He slapped the young woman’s face and pushed her away again, but without much indignation; it was as if he were brushing a yellowjacket away from a picnic lunch. The girl moved just out of Akbar’s reach and began saying something to the Young Man very dreamily, earnestly, but she could not talk, it seemed, and after a while her lips gave up their slow, silent fluttering. He turned away, but she was still there. If he took out the pouch with his rupees in it, he knew that Akbar would see and be offended; then, too, no doubt everyone else on the street would see, too, and come running. He would give her the packet of betel nuts in his left hand; maybe she could sell it—it must be worth at least a quarter of a cent. The size and shape and color of the packet reminded him of a sealed condom. He felt disgusted with himself and with her. This Afghanistan project, which he had thought to be such a fine self-assertion, had erased every possibility of existence for him except a waxy passivity. —He held out his left hand slightly. Sipping at his
lessee
, he pretended not to be looking at her. She approached, touched his hand with nervous cunning. He let his fingers begin to open. Akbar was looking at him. He couldn’t let the packet drop to the ground; he had to count on her to take it unseen. Her fingers drummed against the back of his hand; the touch of them was loathsome. She didnot understand what he wanted her to do. He opened his fingers a little more, but still she did not understand. Finally she let her hand drop resignedly away from his, and she stepped