As the wind picked up, carrying the dust and dirt in little eddies around the square, Omar decided it was not so pleasant sitting by the pistachio tree any longer. With the sun about to arrive at the front of his shop, he picked up his plastic chair and slowly made his way back. Once comfortable again, Omar felt inside his pocket to check the night letter was still there before looking around the square to see if anyone was watching.
Babur was busy in his shop preparing lunch, while his cook was outside finishing the last of a cigarette. Rashid and a friend were squatting by the stairs to Dr Sofia’s surgery where Iqbal would normally have set up his shop but had not yet reappeared after prayers. This was becoming a habit lately. Omar knew Iqbal’s leg was causing him more trouble than normal and decided that when he mixed up another of his uncle’s pain draughts for himself he would make a little extra for Iqbal. Like everyone in the square, Omar never dreamed of charging the cobbler. The square looked after its own, Omar thought with a sense of pride.
He could see Hadi lost in thought as he sat smoking on his stool, while Ahmad was busy securing his pile of pink hats which had been toppled by a gust of wind. The first time Omar saw those hats he knew they would be a good seller for Ahmad. As if to prove his point, a couple entered the square with their young daughter who, having spied the hats, was pulling her mother to them. As Omar was smiling at the scene he realised his mind had wandered away from the problem at hand again: the Taliban’s shabnamah. With one last look around the square, he pulled the letter out of his pocket.
Tell your friend to stop.
Omar looked up, staring into space, as if the answer might come flying past. That was all. Tell your friend to stop. He could not help feeling a little disappointed at the brevity of the message. It was simple enough, but that was what made it all the more complicated. And really, when he thought about it, this didn’t look like something the Taliban would write. They wrote long missives, telling you what you had done wrong and how you needed to fix it and what would happen if you didn’t.
But if it wasn’t the Taliban, who was it?
Omar was searching his mind for possibilities when a terrifying thought parked itself at the station, which happened to be the place in his brain where Omar liked to think all his thoughts arrived and departed from. Maybe this night letter was for him? Maybe he was the friend the Taliban was telling to stop? As soon as the thought arrived, Omar was convinced it was true. He had to get rid of the Viagra. Yes, definitely, he had to get rid of it that very evening.
But how did a Talib, if indeed it was a Talib, know about his Viagra? Omar sat outside his shop pondering this difficult question until the answer arrived at the station, horrifying him. One of those snakes who called himself a friend had told the Taliban! But then a new, more confusing thought arrived at the station to shunt the last one further along the tracks and almost out of view. Why would the Taliban be against Viagra? Didn’t they want all men to be virile and impregnate their wives? And if the night letter had been for him then surely it would have been left on his door? He could feel the flood of relief surging through his body. He and his Viagra were safe, but he still had the problem of who this friend of Behnaz’s might be and what they had done.
But why does it have to be a friend of Behnaz?
Exactly, thought Omar. Why can’t it be a friend of Chief Wasim or Dr Sofia? They live in the house too.
Or maybe it is Dr Sofia who needs to stop?
As Omar contemplated these new possibilities, he was unable to shake the feeling that he was missing some vital piece of information. Surely it could be for a friend of Chief Wasim or a friend of Dr Sofia as much as a friend of Behnaz? He realised that the only way to find the answer was to ask around the square, but just as he was thinking this was a very good idea and was rising from his chair to begin his investigation, he realised it was a very bad idea and sat back down again. How did he ask around the square about who this friend might be without people knowing he’d stolen the night letter? Omar sighed. He sincerely hoped another thought was on its way to the station to tell him how he should proceed.
Omar had been finding thinking very tiring work lately. Not only was he having more than the usual difficulty holding onto a thought for too long but now it seemed he had two voices in his head. The preferred explanation for these failings was that he’d been self-medicating a little too generously. The other option was not something he wished to contemplate too closely. What Omar was sure he was not confused about, though, was the fact that the night letter had become his responsibility
