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

backwards, still looking at him. —He had finished his
lessee
. The hand she had touched smelled like vomit.
HAPPINESS [1]
     
    Akbar and Muhammed Ibrahim were telephone operators. They had gone to school together. Akbar had to start his shift at 7:00 p.m., so Muhammed Ibrahim took the Young Man to his seat on the train. Then they sat looking at each other.
    “In Peshawar, people very wicked,” said Muhammed Ibrahim. “They rob you, kill you, take everything.”
    “I’ll be careful,” the Young Man said.
    “On train, very dangerous. You stay in seat three days, until you reach Peshawar. Never leave the seat. You must promise me, never leave the seat. You leave the seat, come back; they take your pack, take your seat, rob you, take everything. You sleep never. You sit like this all the time, with your pack under your feet. You never stand up.”
    “All right,” he said. “I’ll be careful. Thank you very much.”
    “You remember us. You send to us picture. You come back to Karachi, you stay with me. I love you.”
    “You’re my friend,” the Young Man replied, a little awkwardly.
    “I love you. You come, be my wife. You make me full-fresh. I hate Akbar. You, you are AMERICA. You are my best friend.” And Muhammed Ibrahim began to weep.
    The American felt bad. “You’re my friend,” he said again. He let Muhammed Ibrahim take his hand.
    “You are so good to me,” Muhammed Ibrahim said. “You are my best friend. You make me full-fresh. Please come back to me. Every day I will wait for you. Every day I will keep a room in my house for you. If you call, I come for you. Even to Peshawar I will come foryou. If you have trouble, I come to you. I pick you up, take you to my house.”
    “Thank you very much,” he said.
    “If you no come back, no write, no telephone, I will kill myself. You have made me full-fresh.”
    “Thank you very much. You’re my friend. You’ve been very kind to me.”
    “Do you like me?”
    “Very much,” said the Young Man. Decency made him say it.
    “Thank you. I so happy. I am so happy. I do anything for you. I am your friend.”
    Muhammed Ibrahim spoke to the passenger whose seat faced the Young Man’s. “He take care of you to Lahore,” he said finally. “Then he find someone else to help you.”
    The whistle of the train sounded. Muhammed Ibrahim had to get off the train now. He stood on the track and held the Young Man’s hand through the window even after the train began to move. Then he ran alongside, crying. To make him feel better the American stuck his head out the window and waved to him until he could no longer be seen.
HAPPINESS [2]
     
    So when he had to share a bed with the Afghan Brigadier, he soon got used to it. The Brigadier was a good man. He only felt the Young Man’s calves in broad daylight, in public, to see if he was strong enough to go into the war zone. Occasionally he held his hand.
    “My dear son,” he said. “What is your name?”
    The American told him.
    “If the Amerikis say they
no
can help me, I very happy. I go back to Afghanistan to fight with the
Roos
.” ‡
    The Young Man thought of Muhammed Ibrahim’s saying: “Thank you. I so happy. I am so happy.”

     
     
    *
Nan
and
dordai
are the equivalents of pita bread.
Nan
is Pakistani;
dordai
is Afghan—very similar to nan, but thicker.
    † Fans.
    ‡ Russians.

4
THE BRIGADIER
(1982)
     
    And when your Lord made it known: If you are grateful, I will give you more, and if you are ungrateful, My chastisement is truly severe.
    Q UR’ĀN , XIII:14:7
     

The Brigadier
     
    J ust taking her easy here at the Blue Lagoon Snack Bar—a ritzy place for Pakistan, to be sure, for it had white lace tablecloths (full of holes, and so filthy that one touch blackened his fingers), a dependable fan behind him, and Indian music on the radio—he sat comfortably, though maintaining good posture. The waiter, who like his counterpart at King’s Restaurant could tell that this customer hailed