‘But you don’t,’ she insisted, adding a smile so he would not mistake her words as criticism.
‘But I do.’
She let her smile broaden. ‘Okay, this isn’t really getting us anywhere, is it? Can you tell me why you’re doing this?’
‘Dr Jabril said I have to.’
Sofia arched an eyebrow. ‘I see. And when did he say this?’
‘Every time you leave the surgery and every time you leave Behnaz’s house, unless you’re with Tawfiq.’
‘No,’ Sofia said, shaking her head, ‘I mean when precisely did he tell you that you needed to follow me?’ She saw the confusion. ‘Was it this morning? Did Dr Jabril tell you this morning to do this?’
‘Oh no,’ Rashid said, looking relieved he could finally understand. ‘He told me at lunchtime.’
‘Okay,’ Sofia said as they started walking again. She made a mental note to ask Jabril what this new security was all about.
Once back in her apartment she made a cup of tea and lay down on her bed before calling Taban to see if she had any further news about Farahnaz’s brother. When the call dropped out she wasn’t surprised; the network in Jamal Mina was notoriously unreliable. Thinking about Taban and remembering her conversation with Iman, she thought it might be a good idea to introduce the two women. Iman would see that Taban was one of the gutsy women of Afghanistan worth admiring.
Rolling over, she sat up on the side of the bed and was about to get up to make dinner when she saw Daniel’s scarf. Maybe she shouldn’t see him again. Of course, she’d have to take him to Jamal Mina and introduce him to Jabril because she’d promised that, but he didn’t have to come to Kandahar with her. She’d just say Fatima didn’t want to meet him. It would be easy enough to do.
16
OMAR HAD SPENT most of that day thinking about the night letter he had taken from Behnaz’s gate until by a matter of logic he discovered the answer to who the ‘friend’ had to be: Hadi. Everyone knew he had been stealing from his friends for years, skimming a little off the top of everything he weighed. With the knowledge he felt a great weight being lifted off his shoulders. It also gave him the answer to what he had to do. He felt happy because his thoughts were working well this afternoon: one thought at a time, just like a train running to a timetable. Lately, though, it was true that Omar had noticed a bit of congestion and a number of collisions. No matter, he was old and sick and these things were bound to happen. All in all, he didn’t think he was doing too badly, considering he’d solved the mystery of who Behnaz’s night letter was for and why, although he hadn’t discovered who sent it.
Omar needed to warn his friend but he was aware of the difficulties this presented. He must warn Hadi without giving offence or – and this last point was crucial – without letting him know the night letter didn’t rightfully belong to him. Omar began to feel the train of doubt creeping back into the station behind the one that had been parked so satisfactorily there only a few minutes before.
What if you’re wrong? What if it isn’t Hadi?
Omar’s good mood fell away but then he began to smile again. Although there had been a little confusion of thought lately, he realised that the answer to this new dilemma not only made perfect sense but it had arrived in time to clear the station of doubt – no crashes and no congestion – and it also possessed a certain pleasing symmetry. Even if it wasn’t Hadi, all Omar had to do was tell Hadi and Ahmad about the night letter – being careful not to mention that it wasn’t actually his – and not only would Hadi be warned but, because everyone knew Hadi and Ahmad liked to gossip, by evening half the square would have been warned, and by the following day half of Kabul. Omar really was feeling quite pleased with himself.
To a fool the right answer is silence.
The words of the Prophet had come from that second annoying voice in his head. No disrespect to the Prophet but sometimes the words of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate and the Generous were a lot like the words of his second wife, who had an irritating knack of having an answer for everything. So should he stay silent or should he warn Hadi? He was beginning to wish he’d never taken the night letter off Behnaz’s gate. Perhaps the answer to his problems was to put it back on the gate and forget about it? Omar considered this as the congestion at the station began to clear again and he became, once more, sure of the correct path. Leaving the comfort of his chair, Omar made his way across the square.
‘Excuse me, my friends,’ he said, interrupting a conversation between Ahmad and Hadi as they sat together outside their shops smoking. ‘It’s a bad day, my friends,’ he began. He noticed the look Hadi gave Ahmad but, having practised his excellent opening line as he walked across the square, he ignored it and continued. ‘This morning I found a shabnamah on the gate.’ No need to mention whose gate. He also realised he shouldn’t have called it a shabnamah because the idea of a Taliban night letter might not be correct. Too late now because he’d already said it. ‘At least, it might be a shabnamah,’ he offered.
Both men looked more interested now in what Omar had to say until a frown creased Hadi’s forehead. ‘But you don’t have a gate, Omar.’
Of course he didn’t have a gate. What a fool he’d been. ‘Did I say gate? I meant on my door.’
No, no,
