Atiq Rahimi - Earth and Ashes

Atiq Rahimi

Earth andAshes

Translated from Dari (Afghanistan) by Erdag M. Goknar

VINTAGE

Published by Vintage 2003

2468 10 97531

Copyright P.O.L editcur, 2000 Translation copyright Erdag M. Goknar, 2002 Firstpublished in Dari (Afghanistan) in 1999 By Editions Khavaran, France, Under the title Khakestar-o-khak

AtiqRahimi has asserted his right under the Copyright,Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Thisbook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade orotherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without thepublisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that inwhich it is published and without a similar condition including this conditionbeing imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britainin 2002 by Chatto & Windus

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ACIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0 09 944212 4

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Printedand bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Limited, Reading, Berkshire

For my father, and other fathers who wept duringthe war

The author and publisher would like to thankSabrina Nouri for her editorial advice.

A Note on the Text

Reference is made in Earth and Ashes to the greateleventh-century Persian epic, the Bookof Kings (Shahnama inPersian) by Ferdusi. This famous poem interweaves Persian myths, legends andhistorical events to tell the history of Iran and its neighbours from thecreation of the world to the Arab conquest in the seventh century. Even today,storytellers can recount large parts of the Book of Kings from memory. The characters mentioned in Earth and Ashes are:

rostam , son of Zal, the great hero of the epic who, ina battle, kills his son, Sohrab, whose existence he did not know about.

sohrab , son of Rostam, born from Rostam's secret unionwith Tahmina, daughter of the King of Samengan, who finds himself on theopposite side from his father in battle and is killed by him.

zohak , the legendary tyrant of the epic, who ruledwith serpents who fed off the brains of the young men in his kingdom.

He has a great heart, as great as his sorrow

Rafaat Hosseini

I'm hungry.'

You take an apple from the scarf you've tiedinto a bundle and wipe it on your dusty clothes. The apple just gets dirtier.You put it back in the bundle and pull out another, cleaner one, which you giveto your grandson, Yassin, who is sitting next to you, his head resting on yourtired arm. The child takes it in his small, dirty hands and brings it to hismouth. His front teeth haven't come through yet. He tries to bite with hiscanines. His hollow, chapped cheeks twitch. His narrow eyes become narrower. Theapple is sour. He wrinkles up his small nose and gasps.

With your back to the autumn sun, you aresquatting against the iron railings of the bridge that links the two banks ofthe dry riverbed north of Pul-i-Khumri. The road connecting Northern Afghanistanto Kabul passes over this very bridge. If you turn left on the far side of thebridge, on to the dirt track that winds between the scrub-covered hills, youarrive at the Karkar coal mine...

The sound of Yassin whimpering tears yourthoughts away from the mine. Look, your grandson can't bite the apple. Where'sthat knife? You search your pockets and find it. Taking the apple from hishands, you cut it in half, then in half again and hand the pieces back to him.You put the knife in a pocket and fold your arms over your chest.

You haven't had any naswar for a while. Where'sthe tin? You search your pockets again. Eventually you find it and put a pinchof naswar in your mouth. Before returning the tin to your pocket, you glance atyour reflection in its mirrored lid. Your narrow eyes are set deep in theirsockets. Time has left its mark on the surrounding skin, a web of sinuous lineslike thirsty worms waiting round a hole. The turban on your head isunravelling. Its weight forces your head into your shoulders. It is covered indust. Maybe it's the dust that makes it so heavy. Its original colour is nolonger apparent. The sun and the dust have turned it grey...

Put the box back. Think of something else. Lookat something else.

Youput the tin back into one of your pockets. You draw your hand over yourgrey-streaked beard, then clasp your knees and stare at your tired shadow whichmerges with the orderly shadows cast by the railings of the bridge.

An army truck, a red star on its door, passesover the bridge. It disturbs the stony sleep of the dry earth. The dust rises.It engulfs the bridge then settles. Silently it covers everything, dusting theapples, your turban, your eyelids... You put your hand over Yassin's appleto shield it.

'Don't!' your grandson shouts. Your handprevents him from eating.

'You want to eat dust,child?'

'Don't!'

Leave him alone. Keep yourself to yourself. Thedust fills your mouth and nostrils. You spit your naswar out next to five othersmall green plugs on the ground. With the loose flap of your turban, you coveryour nose and mouth. You look over at the mouth of the bridge, at the road tothe mine. At the black wooden hut of the guard posted at the road barrier.Wisps of smoke fly from its little window. After hesitating for several secondsyou grip hold of one of the bridge's rusty railings with one hand and grab yourbundle with the other. Pulling yourself to your feet, you shuffle in thedirection of the hut. Yassin gets up too and follows you, clinging to yourclothes. Together you approach the hut. You put your head through the small,paneless window. The hut is full of smoke and there's the smell of coal. Theguard is in exactly the same position as he was before, his back against one ofthe walls, his eyes still closed. His cap might have been pulled slightlyfurther down, but that's all. Everything else is just the same, even thehalf-smoked cigarette between his dry lips... Try coughing.

Even you can't hear your cough, let alone theguard. Cough again, a bit louder. He doesn't hear that either. Let's hope thesmoke hasn't suffocated him. You call out.

'Brother

'Whatdo you want now, old man?' He can speak, thank goodness. He's alive. But he'sstill motionless, his eyes closed under his cap... Your tongue moves,preparing to say something. Don't interrupt him!

'... You're killing me. I told you a hundredtimes. When a car comes past, I'll throw myself in its path, I'll beg them totake you to the mine. What else do you want? Till now have you seen any cars?No? You want someone else's word?'

'I wouldn't dream of it, my good brother. I knowthere's been no car. But you never know... What if you were to forget us ...'

'How on earth do you expect me to forget, oldman? If you want I can recite your life story. You told it to me enough times.Your son works at the mine, you are here with his son to see him.'

'My God, you remember everything... It's mewho's losing my memory. I thought I hadn't told you. Sometimes I think othersforget the way I do. I'm sorry. I've bothered you...'

The truth is, your heart is burdened. It's beena long time since a friend or even a stranger listened to you. A long timesince a friend or stranger warmed your heart with their words. You want to talkand to listen. Go on, speak to him! But you're unlikely to get a response. Theguard won't listen to you. He is deep in his own thoughts. Preoccupied withhimself. Let him be.