As Iman disappeared up the stairs to Dr Sofia’s surgery, Babur scanned the square again with a proprietorial air which, as a direct descendant of Zahir-ud-din Muhammad Babur, who was himself a direct descendant of the great warrior Genghis Khan, he believed was afforded him. Soon Babur had forgotten his problem with the shabnamah and was thinking about the long and proud history of the chaikhana where the Diamond Sutra had once slept. How he wished he had held the book in his own hands at least once. For years he had told everyone in the square that he would one day travel to England to see the famous book, but he knew now that the time had passed and he never would.
The fact that he didn’t have a son to leave the chaikhana to had been weighing heavily on his mind of late. His brother expected him to leave it to his eldest son, but Babur had never much liked the boy. Until recently he would have preferred to leave it to his third sister’s second son, but she was married to that devil who had caused him all this trouble over the alcohol. Babur sighed again as his thoughts had come back full circle to arrive at the alcohol problem he still had no idea how to fix.
36
AFTER LUNCH AT Jabril’s they retired to the white leather lounges with cardamom tea, where Daniel and Sofia told Jabril and Zahra about their trip to Kandahar. Finally, Daniel asked Jabril how well he knew Minister Massoud.
‘I suppose you’re talking about his past?’ asked Jabril, setting his cup down on the small side table beside his favourite chair.
‘In part.’
‘I know a little about his past, but generally I make it a rule not to judge people on rumour. I also like to believe, or at least hope –’ Jabril, who had been watching Daniel, stopped. ‘Perhaps you need to tell me what you know?’
‘I’m afraid you’re not going to like this.’
Jabril nodded. ‘I suspect not.’
* * *
AFTER DANIEL HAD finished his interview with Fatima, Tawfiq had dropped him off in downtown Kandahar between a bank and a video shop whose windows had recently been covered with newspaper. It had been a long day, and with Forood more than ten minutes late, Daniel was considering leaving when an old silver Toyota Corolla pulled up in front of him. Apologising for his tardiness, Forood threw his arm around Daniel’s shoulders, introduced his three companions, and ushered them all up the stairs.
Under the bright glare of a long fluorescent tube that hissed and crackled, men were sitting three deep on cushions around a cleared space in the centre of the room. Behind them more men were crouching, standing or leaning up against the walls talking, while over by the window three musicians were tuning their instruments. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the heat of the unwashed bodies and the buzz of anticipation.
After taking their places in a space reserved for them in the front row, Forood claimed Daniel’s attention. When Daniel finally had the opportunity to look around he noticed a curtain placed over a doorway being pulled back a little and three young boys wearing jewellery and make-up peeping out. Although Daniel had never been to one of these ‘performances’ before, there was no mistaking what it was.
‘I’m going,’ he said to Forood.
‘No!’ Forood said, grabbing Daniel’s arm. The men closest to them had turned to see what was happening. ‘You’ll make trouble for me if you leave now.’ Daniel looked to where Forood was indicating. A group of men was standing against a wall. One of them was Abdul Ali Massoud. When he caught Daniel’s eye the warlord smiled and bowed his head in recognition. Daniel did not return the courtesy.
As the musicians began playing a scratchy, plaintive melody, the men in the room began a slow, insistent clap and the curtain was pulled back. One of the boys, barefoot and wearing a pale blue dress with a shimmering orange shawl, came twirling out into the space in the middle of the room. Shaking the bells and bracelets on his ankles and wrists, he began to move, tossing his long hair and flashing his heavily kohled eyes at the men around him.
The excitement and lust in the room increased as the boy danced ever more provocatively. Holding out his arms and shimmying his chest, he dipped and flicked his skirt and hair. Pursing his lips and lowering his mascaraed eyelashes, he circled the shawl around his face before letting it fall to his shoulders. The boy, Daniel thought, was well versed in the art of seduction.
It was the boy’s job to make these men desire him because the measure of his success would define his owner’s power. At the end of the evening the man might keep the boy for his own pleasure, or sell the child’s services on to one of the men in the room. Alternatively, the boy might be given as a reward to a friend, or to a man from whom his owner might one day need a favour.
‘This boy belongs to Abdul Ali Massoud,’ Forood had said. ‘He’s a very powerful man and has many friends with the foreign troops. Do you know him?’
Daniel nodded. ‘I do.’
‘The boy’s very beautiful, is he not?’ asked Forood.
‘How long has he had this boy?’
‘A long time, I think. He’s his favourite.’
‘Does he have any new boys?’ Daniel asked, noticing the change in Forood. You
