‘Everybody was shooting-I mean, everyone shooting in the same time. Afghan army, they were shooting at us also, but the mortars that did hit us, I think they were our own side. And that made Afghan army and Russian soldiers run away. I killed two of them myself when they run away. The men of Ahmed Shah Massoud, they had Stingers. The Americans give them the Stingers, in April, and since that time, the Russians having no helicopters. Now the mujaheddin fight back in every place. Now the war is over, in two years, or maybe three,
‘April… what month is this?’
‘Now is May.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Four days, Lin,’ he answered softly.
‘Four days…’ I’d thought it was one night, one long sleep. I looked over my shoulder again at the sleeping form of Nazeer. ‘Are you sure he’s okay?’
‘He is injured-here… and here-but he is strong, and he can move himself. He will be well,
I laughed with him for the first time since I’d woken. The laugh sent my hands to my head in an effort to contain the throbbing pain it caused.
‘I wouldn’t like to be the one who tried to change Nazeer’s mind about anything, once it was made up.’
‘Me too not.’ Mahmoud agreed. ‘The soldiers of Massoud, they carried you and Nazeer, with me, to a car, a good Russian car. After the car, we moved you and Nazeer to a truck, for the road to Chaman. At Chaman, the Pakistanis, border guards, they want to take Nazeer’s guns. He give them money-some of your money, from your money belt-and he keep his guns. We hide you in the blankets, with two dead men. We put them on top of you, and we show them to border guards, and tell that we want to give good Muslim burial for these men. Then we come into Quetta, to this hospital, and again they want to take Nazeer’s guns. Again he give them money. They want to cut your fingers, because of the smell…’
I put my hands to my nose, and sniffed at them. There was a rotten, death-foetid smell to them still. It was faint, but clear enough to remind me of the rotting goat’s feet we’d eaten as our last supper on the mountain. My stomach churned, arching like a fighting cat. Mahmoud quickly reached for a metal dish and thrust it under my face. I vomited, spitting black-green bile into the bowl, and fell forward helplessly onto my knees.
When the nausea attack passed, I sat back on the cot and snatched gratefully at the cigarette Mahmoud lit for me.
‘Go on.’ I stuttered.
‘What?’
‘You were saying… about Nazeer…’
‘Oh yes, yes, he pull his Kalashnikov out from under his pattu and point it at them. He tell them he will kill them all, if they cut you. They want to call the guards, the camp police, but Nazeer, he is in the door of the tent, with his gun. They cannot go past him. And I am on his other side, looking for his back. So they fix you.’
‘That’s a hell of a health plan-an Afghan with a Kalashnikov pointed at your doctor.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed without irony. ‘And after, they fix Nazeer. And then, after two days with no sleep, and many wounds, Nazeer sleep.’
‘They didn’t call the guards, when he went to sleep?’
‘No. They are all Afghans here. Doctors, wounded men, guards, everybody is Afghan. But not the camp police. They are Pakistani. The Afghans, they don’t like the Pakistan police. They have big trouble with Pakistan police. Everybody has trouble with Pakistan police. So they give a permission to me, and I take Nazeer’s guns when he sleep. And I look after him. And I look after you. Wait-I think our friends are here!’
The long flaps of the tent’s doorway opened all the way back, stunning us with the yellow light of a warm day. Four men entered. They were Afghans, veteran fighters; hard men, with eyes that stared at me as if they were looking along the decorated barrel of a jezail rifle. Mahmoud rose to greet them, and whispered a few words. Two of the men woke Nazeer. He’d been in a deep sleep, and spun round at the first touch, grasping at the men and ready to fight. Reassured by their gentle expressions, he then turned his head to check on me. Seeing me awake and sitting up, he grinned so broadly that it was a little alarming in a face so seldom struck with a smile.
The two men helped him to his feet. There was a wad of bandage strapped to his right thigh. Supporting himself on their shoulders, he limped out into the sunlight. The other men helped me to my feet. I tried to walk, but my wounded shins refused to obey me, and the best I could manage was a tottering shuffle. After a few seconds of that embarrassingly feeble scuffling, the men formed a chair with their arms and swept me up effortlessly between them.
