Jabril could hear Zahra’s voice in his head. You need to stop talking right now, Jabril. He tried very hard to take her advice and was successful for a time, but having lived for twelve years in Boston he was worried about how foreign and chaotic Kabul would appear to someone who had been used to a modern, functioning metropolis. Jabril had discussed these concerns and how they should deal with them with Zahra, but in the end she said, ‘If she cannot handle it I think it best we all find out immediately.’ Of course, she was right.
On the side of the road, and in the rubble of the sidewalk, local vendors had set up shop, plying their cheap wares from wheelbarrows with faded beach umbrellas, tarpaulins and bits of ripped plastic to shield them from the burning sun. Behind these were small dark shopfronts with metal roller doors opening out onto the footpaths, or directly onto the street. A pharmacy, a silversmith, a rug merchant, a tailor shop, a bookseller, a shop selling household goods and another selling fruit and vegetables sat side by side as crowds of men and women moved in and around them. A lot of the women were wearing long shapeless coats and headscarfs, or long pants and tops, while others were fully covered in the shiny blue burqa that the West now associated with the Taliban but which had been around for over a hundred and fifty years.
A few buggies drawn by horses or donkeys vied for position on the broken roads alongside pedestrians, intrepid men on rusty bicycles, clapped-out yellow and white taxis, overcrowded minibuses, brightly decorated ‘jingle’ trucks and the ever-present SUVs with their blacked-out windows and missing numberplates.
‘Kabul was once very beautiful,’ Jabril began, wanting so desperately for her to see the Kabul of his youth. ‘We used to have modern universities and beautiful houses, summer villas and gardens, fountains, and shops and movie theatres where men and women could go together. In summer, music would float out onto the streets and there were concerts in the parks.’ Jabril had felt his heart expand. It was always like this when he thought back to what had become, in his memory, an idyllic life. ‘Yes, it is true in the villages we still had the traditional women, but many women in Kabul were modern and wore miniskirts, shorts and make-up, and their hair was free.’ He looked back at Sofia, who had turned in her seat and was watching everything pass by with an enraptured smile. She really wants to be here, he had thought in surprise. He had not expected such enthusiasm.
He turned back around to the front. ‘But then the Russians came and they destroyed – the Russians only ever destroy. They cannot see beauty, only ugliness. Of course, there are many beautiful buildings in Russia,’ he had added, ‘but they’re from the time of the tsars, not from the Communists. I tell you, Dr Sofia, while the Communists cannot see beauty, the Taliban cannot bear to see it. Between them they succeeded in destroying our world and, of course, we had the five years of civil war. I tell you, Afghans are tired of war.’
After leaving the main roads they had passed the maze of old streets and back alleyways in the oldest part of Kabul, with its ornate wooden houses in various states of repair. Turning a few streets off the main road, they had stopped in front of a small passageway barely wide enough for a car to pass through. After Tawfiq pulled in their side mirrors they drove slowly down the alley to stop in front of a small mosque with stone steps and a beautiful domed roof, which sat at the entry to a large cobbled square with an ancient pistachio tree and fig tree at its centre. On three sides of the square were small shops and homes, but to the right, and the furthest from where they entered, was a line of beautiful old timber houses with deeply ornate and intricately carved fretwork that had long fallen into disrepair. As if to highlight their abandonment, a hen and her chicks had emerged from a broken window of one of the houses to scamper across the square and disappear around the corner.
‘Ah,’ said Jabril, slightly embarrassed to see Dr Sofia had noticed them too. ‘They’ll be someone’s dinner tonight,’ he laughed.
‘They’re beautiful houses,’ she had said. ‘Does anyone live in them?’
‘No one but chickens,’ he had said, laughing again. ‘They were originally used by the artisans who worked for the king, but no one lives in them now. I don’t think anyone knows who owns them anymore.’
‘Shame.’
Jabril nodded in agreement. ‘From time to time a family might move in, but Chief Wasim – who, by the way, will be your landlord – gets rid of them pretty quickly.’ Jabril had sighed. ‘When we have so many homeless it pains me to see these beautiful houses abandoned, but Chief Wasim is right. They are far too dangerous for people to live in. As you can see, the rest of the buildings are newer, except for Babur’s chaikhana here,’ he had said, pointing to his left and indicating for Tawfiq to drive over.
Inside could be seen Babur’s worn wooden serving bench
