Ahmad was taken aback by the tone of his friend’s response. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? I was just asking.’ He waited, expecting Babur to apologise, but there was no apology. Ahmad decided he needed a different approach. ‘Who do you think the Talib might be in the square?’
Although this had been Ahmad’s initial thought when Omah had told him of the shabnamah, it was obvious that neither the cook nor Babur had considered this. The three men looked out into the square as if they expected the culprit to make himself known.
‘Not Iqbal,’ offered Babur, scratching his head under his turban.
‘Not Rashid,’ said the cook.
‘Couldn’t be Chief Wasim because he’s the chief of police, and it can’t possibly be Dr Jabril because everyone knows he hates the Taliban.’
‘Omar hates the Taliban too.’
‘Everyone hates the Taliban,’ offered Babur miserably.
‘Obviously someone doesn’t. Isn’t that what people normally do, anyway?’ asked the cook. The two men looked at him, waiting for an explanation. ‘Don’t people cover their tracks by pretending to hate something when they really love it?’
‘True,’ offered Ahmad, nodding.
‘It could be someone who only visits the square,’ offered the cook who, being the only one not worried that he might be the focus of the shabnamah, had grown tired of the conversation and made his excuses to leave. ‘And who says it’s the Taliban anyway?’ he said in parting.
In his absence Ahmad and Babur agreed this was a very good point, but it didn’t solve the problem of who was being threatened and why.
* * *
AFTER AHMAD AND the cook left, Babur waited for his last customers to finish before closing early for the night. Retreating back to his cushion on the platform, he poured himself another tea and sat watching the darkness descending on the square. In the previous hour Babur had moved from shock, to terror, to an explosive anger and finally to emptiness. As he sat alone in the dark he wondered if the shabnamah was really meant for him.
Only two nights previously he had told his no-good brother-in-law about his purchase of alcohol that he hoped to secretly sell in the chaikhana to increase profits. As Babur thought about his brother-in-law, he felt his anger rising. He’d never much liked his sister’s husband, who had always been too pious for his liking. He also suspected that he was jealous because Babur owned the famous chaikhana. He had no doubt the brother-in-law would be unhappy about him increasing his profits and realised he’d been a fool to confide in him.
Babur finished the last of his tea and thought about going home, but what was the point? There was no one waiting for him other than the cousin he shared the flat with. The chaikhana was where he belonged, he thought, as he looked around at the teapots bought by his father and the walls blackened by centuries of smoke. The rugs he had crawled on as a baby, played on as a toddler, were still there. To this day he knew every perfect and broken thread on those carpets. Over the years he had wondered in what village they had been made and how old they might be, but even his father couldn’t say. They had been in the chaikhana forever.
For a while now he had been thinking of moving into the chaikhana. Turning the two small rooms out the back, which had once been the rooms of the original inn but were now full of old furniture no one used, into living quarters.
Babur took a long drag on his cigarette. He wasn’t so sure the threat had been the Taliban. It was probably his brother-in-law, but if it was a shabnamah, and if it was about him, then why hadn’t it been posted on his door? Why post a threat on someone’s door telling them to tell their friend? As far as Babur could see, none of that made sense. And if it were his brother-in-law, why would he post a night letter on Omar’s door? He had no idea who it was from or intended for, but could he ignore it? The chaikhana was worth far more to him than a small potential profit from alcohol. As far as he could see, he had no choice but to get rid of the alcohol. Having made up his mind, Babur walked to the back of the shop and phoned the man he’d been dealing with to ask if he would like to buy the alcohol back. When he declined, Babur offered to return it for free.
No matter what happened, Babur thought as he locked up the chaikhana and made his way home alone, he would get rid of the alcohol, even if he had to tip it down the drain and smash the bottles to little pieces. And he would move into the two back rooms of his beloved chaikhana.
17
WITH INEFFICIENT VEHICLES and power shortages that had people burning everything from rubber tyres and plastic to trees for fuel, Kabul had become one of the most polluted cities in the world. When Sofia woke early the following morning it was to a cold white fog swirling ghostlike around the square, but by the time she came out of the house the sun had burnt through to reveal a brilliant, cloudless blue sky and unusually fresh air. Outside the gate Tawfiq and Rashid were leaning up against the side of the SUV talking and smoking, while Behnaz was off in the square collecting the previous day’s litter.
‘As-salaam alaikum,’ she said, feeling the lightness of the morning. ‘Isn’t this a beautiful day?’
‘Wa alaikum as-salaam,’ the two men offered in unison, pushing themselves off the car.
‘We’re going to the Serena Hotel this morning, Rashid, and then on to Jamal Mina, so you’re free until after lunch, unless you need to come with us?’
Rashid dropped the cigarette he had been smoking, grinding it out on Behnaz’s newly swept cobblestones
