Prince of Afghanistan Page 6

  Corporal Mark Hollis.

  A lousy corporal. When I was with the Americans I only mixed with officers. I’m Ghulam. Nice to meet you, Corporal Hollis.

  I can’t help but smile, it sounds as if he is imitating an English gentleman. Nice to meet you, Ghulam.

  Afghans are very hospitable people. We look after our guests. Hey, what’s your father’s name?

  In my short time on tour I’ve learned that this is an important question in Afghanistan. They always want to know your father’s name, who he was or is, where he fits into society and what kind of family you come from. My father’s name is Thomas Hollis, he’s a mining engineer. We live in the mountains. My mother is dead. I am the only child.

  Ghulum ponders the information. I think my mother and father are dead. My foster father is Captain Duncan. I think I am an only child too.

  The introductions reduce the tension and he passes me the bowl. I take out a handful of raisins and begin to eat them. I’m fattening you up, Corporal. He throws me a hunk of flat bread. Be my guest. I tear off a piece and chew it.

  He eats his bread as he sizes me up. He says something but because his mouth is full I don’t understand a word. When he realises, he repeats it. Americans have all the food you care to eat. That’s why most are big like elephants, especially those black dudes. This group of clowns here eat crappy food. You never go hungry with the Americans.

  He sighs and chews some more, his mouth bulging with bread. Something is nagging him. You guys are rich like Americans, aren’t you? I mean, we’re poor compared to you.

  Yes. I’ve never seen so many poor people in my life.

  He nods in silent agreement. His accent and ease in speaking American English is impressive compared to the lousy English of most Afghans. I decide to flatter him. How did you learn such great English?

  It works; he smiles with pleasure, almost preening. Then he tells me about his background. Because of his disability his parents put him in an orphanage. He was six years old when the building was destroyed by a wayward American rocket. He was found in the rubble by a medical officer who carried him to the American compound in Kabul. The Americans took a shine to him and he became their mascot. He picked up English easily and knew how to, as he said, act the goat. He kept on mentioning a Captain Duncan whom he was very close to. He showed me things, he said mysteriously. When the Captain finished his tour and returned home, Ghulum was devastated. He had become such a fixture at the compound that he was taken for granted. He no longer seemed special. Depressed and lonely, he started using heroin, not caring if he lived or died. One day while he was walking down a side street after scoring, a car stopped beside him and a man jumped out of the passenger seat and grabbed him. He was driven out of Kabul and after a journey of several hours ended up in a village where Taliban soldiers were holed up. Their leader had seen Ghulum in the streets a few weeks before. Like the Americans he wanted the midget as his mascot and good-luck charm.

  Ghulum taps his head saying, The guy was nuts, I had to shave his whole body ’cos he thought that hairs on his body was a sign he was an ape, not a true human. I went through hundreds of razors, I mean, man, his back was like fur. The memory of shaving the man’s back causes him to act out a comical shiver, which makes me smile.

  All told, he has been with the Americans for eight years and with the Taliban for four. It’s only when I start to add up the years that I realise he is younger than I thought, perhaps eighteen years old, like me. After his kidnapper died in a drone attack on his car, Ghulum remained with the Taliban. Some of them teased him and would dress him as a girl or throw him around the compound like a football. But they kept him because their revered leader had adored him.

  After telling me his story he lapses into silence for a time, standing in the kitchen, staring vacantly at the floor as if he is trying to make sense of his life. Dressed the way he is, he looks like a lost child. I’m aware I could jump him but I don’t. I’m still trying to come to terms with how weird this is. I feel like pinching myself just to make sure I’m not dreaming. He lifts his head and groans softly, as if all he understood of his past was that he was always at the mercy of someone else, whether it be his parents, the Americans or the Taliban. You been to Kabul? he asks. I nod. The big city is where I belong, man, not in the badlands here. His face brightens with remembered pleasure. Oh boy, one day Captain Duncan and me go to this really big boss guy. His lift was made out of gold, man! All the furniture was leather. Ceilings shiny with gilt, parquet floors and statues of men and women half undressed, and they had these green, pink and blue lights shining on them. And get this, dude, a television operated by a voice. I spoke to it and told it to turn on and it did, man. It did. You like Kabul, dude? Course you would. Ever do ten-pin bowling there?

  Didn’t know you could.

  I mixed with the big boys, you didn’t. The Yanks have got a couple of really good bowling alleys. Jeez, and their food. Not nuts and raisins like this dump. Cheeseburgers. Steaks as big as your head. Fajitas. Ever taste fajitas?

  I shake my head.

  Well, you would if you had it. Kabul … he says softly. Kabul’s my aim, man. I’m gonna get back there. I’m gonna go bowling and eat icecream in Kabul. Kabul … His voice trails off, his eyes gleaming as if he has been transported back there and is experiencing it just as intensely as the first time.

  He looks at the kitchen and sighs at the contrast. Ack! Ack! he cries and orders me into the living room. I say that Prince is starving and could I get some food for him. His eyes open wide with fury. It’s only a dog, man! Now get in there! He pushes me ahead of him and tells me to sit on a green silk cushion before a low coffee table, while he sits on the other side, propped up on three cushions, so he can be my height. On the coffee table between us is the large paperback he retrieved from his room. He picks it up with reverence, as if it was a sacred text. He kisses it and hands it to me. In a moment, you’ll read it to me, he says and pulls out a plastic bag from a pocket in his shorts. He opens it and I smell the unmistakable odour of marijuana. I prefer a bong, but these Taliban guys think it’s a sign of Western decadence. I watch him expertly roll a huge joint and light it with a cigarette lighter. He takes a huge puff, holds the smoke in his throat for a long time and then slowly exhales. This is pure weed, no tobacco to ruin the high. Prime stuff. I mean Afghan stuff is the best in the world. He hands me the joint. My shake of the head makes him laugh. Gee, you’re not like the Yanks – they love weed.

  As he takes a few more tokes he relaxes visibly. The dope is so strong, I’m getting a second-hand high; I’m feeling light-headed and, despite my desperate situation, I’m feeling relaxed. Not only that but I’m sorely tempted by it. It amuses me to think he doesn’t know I was a stoner. Holy hell, was I ever. After Casey left Emerald Creek I spent most of my free time with stoners and slackers (not that there was much difference). We’d sit on the old machinery, pull bongs and drink cask wine. In winter I liked to get high and walk up the snow-covered hill and stare at the burning soil, the steam pouring out of the dead earth. You’d swear the steam heat was killing shrubs and trees right in front of you. The dope was all I would think about. I’d start with a few bongs before going to school, then have joints during morning and afternoon breaks and, of course, lunchtime. Then back home I’d sit on the creek bank watching the water, stoned out of my mind, listening to spacey dubstep stuff like Burial or dark drone metal like SunnO))) on my headphones until the early hours of the morning, becoming more and more obsessed by it. I seemed to spend all my waking hours stoned. I only realised I had a problem with it when one of the boys I mixed with, a guy who smoked even more weed than I did, if that was possible, began to hear voices and become so paranoid that he threatened to kill his family. Even so, it was truly hard to quit and I’d promise myself I’d only smoke one joint and no more – but I could never stop at one. And now I find myself in the middle of Afghanistan sitting opposite a stoner midget.

  After a few more puffs of th
e joint he taps the book, signalling me to start reading. It’s a comic book called Bloom County and has a cartoon on the cover of a penguin with a gigantic nose. Opus, says Ghulam as if answering my question. That’s his name. The pages are fragile, tissue-thin, as if the book has been read every day for years. He gets me to speak the dialogue in the different voices of the characters, even though he knows it word for word because he softly echoes everything I say. He giggles a lot, as if hearing it for the first time. It’s difficult to make sense of the characters; there’s a hard-drinking sleazebag bachelor always wearing sunglasses and making crude passes at women, a verbose rabbit, a black bespectacled kid with a genius IQ, a smart-talking cockroach, two young boys, a wheelchair-bound ex-Vietnam War veteran, Opus, the main character, and a scrawny, scruffy Bill the Cat with pinned eyes, who takes drugs and drinks too much. It’s when I come to the cat that I understand Ghulum’s strange strangling noises. Bill the Cat doesn’t talk, but in constantly trying to bring up hairballs, cries out Ack! Ack! Whenever I imitate Bill the Cat’s cough, I have to repeat it until I get the tone right. Each time Ghulum shakes his head in admiration, as if the sounds were the cleverest things he has ever heard.

  I finish reading the comic book and he takes it from me, holding it tenderly against his tiny chest. Captain Duncan gave it to me, before he finished his tour. He used to read it out to me. He did all the voices, really well, not like you. His Ack!Ack! … well, man, I’d fall on the floor laughing. That Bill the Cat is a crazy dude. No?

  Yes, I say, having been unable to make sense of the comic strip. Ghulum places it on the table and gazes adoringly at it as if it’s the most precious relic in the whole world.

  I have to stop from giggling as I look at him perched on the cushions, smoking a joint, wearing ridiculous clothes, the revolver at his side. The strong smoke is making my head spin. I glimpse a shadow at the doorway and see Prince peering in, not daring to enter. I become aware of a soft, grating noise and realise that Ghulum is grinding his teeth again. He glances at me, seemingly irritated, but whether it’s with me, Prince, or someone else, I have no idea. He rocks slightly as if trying to relax. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead and he gives me such an evil stare that he looks like a demon. I recognise the symptoms – he’s such a heavy dope smoker that he’s becoming paranoid. I smile, trying to find a way of making me less threatening. I really like Bloom County. When I get back to Australia I’ll track down other issues.

  Ghulum does a comic double-take. I don’t think you’ll ever see Australia again.

  With that he grabs his gun and gets to his feet. Carry that! he orders, pushing the book across at me. And be careful with it, man. He directs me outside. Get that damn dog away from me, he squeals as Prince comes to greet me, his stump of a tail wiggling with happiness. I wave him away, not wanting him to annoy a tense Ghulum as we cross to the opposite side of the compound. You see, man, I gotta do this, ’cos I really don’t trust you. He steps aside from a doorway and waves me in. The door squeaks open, the bottom rubbing against the floor. I almost reel with the smell. The stench is unbelievable; it’s as if I’m about to enter a filthy lavatory stinking of human shit, piss and sick.

  Go in, man. This is gonna be your new home. He stands a few metres from me, pointing the revolver at me. He’s jittery and biting his lips. I hear a moaning, like a sick animal, coming from inside the room. Ghulum grins, Hey, dude, I hope you get on with them.

  I step inside the dark, stinking room and see a figure in the shadows. A man squeals like a rabbit caught in a steel trap. Then something stirs in the corner and there’s a scurrying sound on floorboards. I turn on hearing the soft footsteps of Ghulum come up behind me. Meet the folks, he says, in his high-pitched voice.

  He opens the door further so that sunlight creeps in. I’m trying not to gag. Once my eyes become used to the dim light, I make out a naked man in the far corner and another one, opposite him, wearing only black shorts. The men are filthy; their hair is matted and their skin stained with shit and urine. One huddles into the corner as if trying to merge into the stone wall. The other one is grinning wildly, displaying his broken, rotting teeth. He suddenly throws himself at me. I flinch, and at the same time he seems to leap backwards. I see the cause; both arms and a leg are tied with ropes which are attached to a thick metal ring, the size of a basketball hoop, hammered into the wall. The two men seem more like beasts than humans.

  They’ve gone bananas, says Ghulum answering my thoughts. The man cringing in the corner begins to hiss at me like a snake. The effort is so violent that he’s soon foaming at the mouth. This is what your boys did to them. Me, I’d put them out of their misery, but they’re our commander’s cousins. He has this wacko idea that they’ve got the devil inside them and says they’ll be cured when you guys leave the country. Me? I think they’re nuts forever.

  He tells me that both men had been Taliban commanders but had gone mad, one slowly over time, the other when he returned home to his village to find that his wife and five children had been killed by a bomb and buried only a few hours before his arrival. You guys, says Ghulum, tugging at my sleeve to get my attention, have sent the whole country crazy. But you know, you lost! We’ve seen off the British, the Russians and now you Aussies and Americans. Losers!

  While he’s berating me, the man in the corner shivers as if having a fit. I can’t believe the misery they live in, having to be tied up twenty-four hours a day, living and sleeping in their own muck. The one that tried to rush me twists his head and stares at me, like a waterbird tilting its head to avoid the reflected sunlight on the water so as to see under the surface. His face softens and he bows towards me as if before an emperor. Excuse me, excuse me, he says in a thick accent.

  The loon knows some English, so whattaya know, first time I’ve heard it from him. Hey, Corporal, Ghulum says loudly as I stare at the naked madman continuing to bow and repeat, like a mantra, Excuse me, Excuse me. Ghulum gets my attention by punching me in the side. You three will have a lot to talk about, Corporal, and you can tell them why you guys have driven them bonkers. Ack! Ack! I need another joint. He pauses as if he’s thinking of lighting up one immediately, then he turns and points to a third metal ring, with a rope tied to it. Used to be three, but the dickhead chewed through his ropes, escaped, got a knife from the kitchen and tried to kill the commander’s wife … and then there were two. But now it’ll be three again. Let’s hope the guys don’t take their time getting back, or else by the time they find you, man, you’ll be as loony as these dipsticks.

  I want to run. This place stinks of sickness. These men are crazy. The stench makes me want to throw up. If there’s a hell, then this is it. A shadow flicks past the doorway. We both spin around. It’s only Prince. He walks in carefully and suspiciously, as if he too is appalled by the stink. Ack! Ack! Ghulum screams at him, but Prince can’t hear and pauses a couple of metres from the both of us, his forehead crinkled in a deep frown. Tell that damn dog to go!

  He’s deaf.

  Good, then he won’t hear himself die. With that Ghulum points the gun at Prince and, before I can react, he fires. There’s the sound of a shot, followed immediately by a sharp metallic ping. Prince doesn’t react but there’s a gentle sigh from Ghulum. He stares at his own blood staining the image of the cute child on his chest and then looks at me, a bewildered expression on his face, before he pitches forward and, with a soft thud, his body hits the floorboards. One of the madmen starts to cry out to Allah. I’m stunned and for a few moments I can’t move. Then I work out what happened. The bullet missed Prince, hit one of the metal rings and ricocheted into the midget.

  The chained men go quiet. I bend down and turn over the body. It’s so light, almost weightless. Ghulum has the contented expression of a sleeping child. Prince sniffs the corpse, as if trying to find an explanation for this strange event. The comic book lies on the floor near the body. It’s probably the only possession Ghulum had; one that reminded him of another time and better plac
e. The thing that strikes me again is how chance determined that he should die, and Prince live.

  Staring down at the body I hear a noise and see one of the men slapping his face, crying out words I don’t understand. I’m suddenly aware that I’ve got no time to waste. We have to leave as soon as possible. The Taliban could be on their way back right now. I don’t want to hang around because they’ll think I killed Ghulum. I need to pick up my guns from the opium-processing room, grab some food from the kitchen and make tracks.

  I’m on my way out of the room when I hear, Excuse me, Excuse me. I look back at both men. I have never seen such human wretchedness. The one in the corner seems to be abusing me in Pashto, while the other keeps bowing at me. I can’t leave without freeing them and I cut their ropes. The one in the corner is the first to realise he is free and, like an animal, crawls past me to the outside, where he kneels and stares at the sky, loudly thanking Allah. The other gradually understands he is free too. He takes a few steps towards me, clasps my hand and shakes it fiercely as if he is using my arm as a pump, endlessly repeating, Excuse me, Excuse me.

  There’s nothing more I can do for them, and Prince and I leave the stinking hole and run to the processing room to get my rifle and revolver. The opium room’s sickly-sweet smell is a relief after the hellhole. Picking up my rifle and revolver, I rush out into the courtyard and head for the kitchen. One of the madmen, naked and covered in grime, is pushing the garden wheelbarrow towards the other man, who is lying in the dirt on his back, staring at the sky. I hear a shrill noise and look up. A jet is flying low, directly at the compound. It passes overhead, the underside of the plane white like a shark’s. Two rockets emerge from puffs of smoke under its wings. I throw myself onto the ground as the rockets explode on the far side of the compound with deep, thudding booms. The ground wobbles. A row of fireballs and a column of thick black smoke rise high in the air. The kitchen and reception area I had been making for only seconds ago is obliterated before my eyes. They’re now just burning ruins.