The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra Read Free Book Online

Their wails pierce his skull like a blade. A woman protests against the unruliness of her offspring, and a male voice quickly silences her.
    Atiq straightens his neck, then his spine, and looks up at the thousands of constellations twinkling in the sky. Something like a sob constricts his throat. He has to squeeze his fists bloodless to keep from collapsing. He’s tired, tired of going in circles, running after wisps of smoke, tired of these dull days trampling him down from morning till night. He can’t figure out why he has survived two consecutive decades of ambushes, air raids, and explosive devices that turned the bodies of dozens of people around him into pulp, sparing neither women nor children, neither villages nor flocks, and all to wind up like this, vegetating in a dark, inhospitable world, in a completely disoriented city studded with scaffolds and haunted by doddering human wreckage—a city that mistreats him, damages him, day after day, night after night, whether he’s in the company of some wretch condemned to die and awaiting her fate in his stinking jail or watching over his tormented wife, doomed to an even crueler death.
    “La hawla.” He sighs. “Lord, if this is a test you’re giving me, give me also the strength to overcome it.”
    Striking his hands together, he mumbles a few verses from the Qur’an and turns for home.
    WHEN ATIQ OPENS the door of his house, the first thing that catches his attention is the lighted hurricane lamp. Usually at such an hour, Musarrat is in bed and all the rooms are plunged in darkness. He notices the empty pallet, the blankets neatly spread out over the mattress, the pillows propped against the wall, just as he likes them. He cocks an ear: no moaning, no sound whatsoever. He retraces his steps, observes the basins, upside down and drying on the floor, and the dishes, gleaming in their proper place. His curiosity is aroused; for months now, Musarrat has done little in the way of housework. Wasted by her illness, she spends most of her time whimpering, huddled around the pain tearing at her insides. To signal his return, Atiq coughs into his hand. A curtain is drawn aside, and Musarrat shows herself at last, haggard, crumpled, but on her feet. She can’t prevent her hand from clutching the doorway for support, however, and Atiq can sense that she’s battling with all her remaining strength to remain upright, as if her dignity depends on her success. He puts two fingers on his chin and raises an eyebrow, making no effort to conceal his surprise.
    “I thought my sister had come back from Baluchistan,” he says.
    Musarrat straightens up with a jerk. “I’m not helpless yet,” she points out.
    “That’s not what I meant. You were in a really bad way when I left this morning. Now everything’s in its place and the floor’s been swept. When I saw that, right away I thought my sister had come back, because we don’t have anyone besides her. All the women in the neighborhood know how sick you are, but not one of them has ever dropped in to see if you could use some help.”
    “I don’t need any of them.”
    “Don’t be so touchy, Musarrat. Why must you turn over every word to see what’s lying underneath?”
    Musarrat sees that she’s not improving matters between herself and her husband. She takes the hurricane lamp off the table and hangs it from a beam so it will shed more light; then she brings in a tray loaded with food. “I cut up the melon you sent me and put it on the windowsill to keep it cool,” she says in a conciliatory tone. “You certainly must be hungry. I’ve cooked some rice the way you like it.”
    Atiq takes off his shabby shoes, hangs his turban and whip on a shutter knob, and sits down in front of the dented metal tray. Not knowing what to say and not daring to look at his wife, for fear of reinjuring her sensibilities, he grabs a carafe and brings it to his lips. The water runs out of his mouth and splashes his beard, which he