The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra Read Free Book Online Page A

wipes with the back of his hand before feigning interest in a barley cake.
    “I made it myself,” says Musarrat, watching him closely. “For you.”
    After a pause, he finally asks, “Why do you give yourself so much trouble?”
    “I want to perform my wifely duties until the end.”
    “I’ve never demanded anything from you.”
    “You didn’t have to.”
    Seated on the mat across from him, she sags a little, then fixes him with her eyes and adds, “I refuse to give up, Atiq.”
    “It’s not a question of that, woman.”
    “You know how much I detest humiliation.”
    Atiq gives her a searching look. “Have I done something to offend you, Musarrat?”
    “Humiliation isn’t necessarily caused by what others think about you. Sometimes it comes from not being responsible for yourself.”
    “Where are you getting this nonsense, woman? You’re sick, that’s all. You need to rest and gather your strength. I’m not blind, and we’ve lived together for many years: You’ve never cheated anyone, not me or anybody else. You don’t have to aggravate your illness just to prove something—who knows what?—to me.”
    “We’ve lived together for many years, Atiq, and for the first time I feel that I must be failing in my obligations as a wife. My husband doesn’t speak to me anymore.”
    “I don’t speak to you, it’s true, but it’s not because I’m rejecting you. It’s just that I’m overwhelmed by this everlasting war and the squalor that spoils everything around us. I’m a part-time jailer who doesn’t understand why he’s agreed to stand guard over a few poor wretches instead of dealing with his own misfortune.”
    “If you believe in God, you must consider the fact that I’ve become a misfortune for you as a test of your faith.”
    “You’re not my misfortune, Musarrat. You get these ideas all by yourself. I do believe in God, and I accept whatever trials He sends me to test my patience.”
    Musarrat cuts the barley cake and hands a piece to her husband. “Since we have a chance to talk for once,” she murmurs, “let’s try not to quarrel.”
    “Fine with me,” Atiq says approvingly. “Since we have a chance to talk for once, let’s avoid all disagreeable remarks and insinuations. I’m your husband, Musarrat. I, too, try to perform my proper conjugal duties. The problem is that I feel a little out of my depth. I don’t harbor any resentment toward you; you have to know that. My silence isn’t rejection; it’s the expression of my impotence. Do you understand me, woman?”
    Musarrat nods, but without conviction.
    Atiq pokes a piece of bread into one of the dishes of food. His hand trembles; it’s so difficult for him to repress the anger welling up in him that he hisses as he breathes. He hunches his shoulders and tries to regulate his breathing; then, more and more exasperated by having to explain himself, he says, “I don’t like pleading my case. It makes me feel as though I’ve done something wrong, when I’ve done nothing of the kind. All I want is to find a little peace in my own home. Is that too much to ask? You’re the one who gets ideas, woman. You persecute yourself, and you persecute me. It’s as though you’re deliberately trying to provoke me.”
    “I’m not trying to provoke you.”
    “Maybe not, but that’s what it feels like. As soon as you get a little of your strength back, you stupidly wear yourself out to prove to me you’re still on your feet, your illness isn’t about to keep you down. Two days later, you fall to pieces, and I have to pick them up. How long do you expect this farce to last?”
    “Pardon me.”
    Atiq heaves a sigh, moves his little bit of bread around in the cold sauce, and brings it to his mouth without raising his head.
    Musarrat gathers the folds of her skirt in her arms and looks at her husband, who makes moist, unpleasant sounds as he eats. Unable to catch his eye, she contents herself with staring at the bald spot that’s