“We were talking about the spray,” she said. “The U.S. is pressuring President Karzai to spray the poppy fields, you know, to show the world that they’re ridding Afghanistan of heroin. Which is actually the dumbest thing this government could do.”
She then turned to Paul.
“You know of course how the U.S. did exactly the same thing in Colombia with coke. I’m actually from Medellín, so…”
But Paul had planted his eyes on me.
“Right. So, what would you say the alternative is?”
He was asking me, not because he thought I had an opinion, or because he was interested in hearing it if I did. It was a rhetorical question, something a teacher would ask the class dunce during a test. He lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly right into my nostrils.
“I wouldn’t know. Sorry, but why is it so dumb to spray?”
Paul chuckled. He stretched and shook his head in amusement.
I’d obviously asked the wrong question.
“Well. First of all, it’s a short-term, one-time effort and it would only push the opium prices up. Second, do you have any idea what the illiteracy rate is in Afghanistan? I’ll tell you, it’s close to seventy percent. How do you think this population of illiterates survives? What work can they do?”
“I don’t—”
“Agriculture,” Imo cut in, looking up quickly from the notes she was jotting down.
“Yes,” conceded Paul. “And where do you think the farmers get the money to feed their families during the winter months when nothing grows?”
I looked over at Imo.
“Opium,” she answered.
Paul approved with a movement of his hand and turned to me again.
“If they grow opium, then they get an advance on the harvest from the drug lords. And that money gets them through the winter. Then, when they harvest it in spring, they get the rest. But if the field is sprayed, then that farmer finds himself not only without a crop, but now he also has a debt to pay.”
“And so the poor bugger is completely fucked,” added Imo.
“Exactly. So, given that these poor buggers make up seventy percent of the country, how kindly do you think Afghans view the Americans who want to spray their only means of subsistence?”
“Not very kindly.”
“Right. So even though in Washington this might sound like a really bright idea, the truth is, in this country they want to see every American dead.”
He mimed the gesture of cutting his throat with his index finger.
“It’s the worst thing they could do; it’s actually why everything is going down the drain. That, not religion or culture or what have you, is the reason why the Taliban are coming back with the support of the people.”
Imo wrote and nodded.
“But why don’t the Americans help them with alternative crops?” she asked. “Then they can destroy the poppies but in exchange they get them to grow something else. You know, in Colombia and also in Bolivia they did exactly that.”
Paul smiled enigmatically and stroked his chin.
“Okay. And what crops?”
“I don’t know. Wheat, barley, for example?”
A glimmer of amusement flickered in Paul’s eyes, then he shook his head as if Imo’s suggestion was laughable.
“So how much do you think an opium crop weighs?”
Imo and I looked at each other.
“I’ll tell you. I’d say you could transport it on a donkey’s back. And how much does a wheat field weigh?”
“Obviously a lot more,” I said.
“I’d say you’d need at least a truck,” said Imo.
Paul nodded and took a slow sip of beer.
“Correct. That’s exactly right. You’d need a truck.”
This way he had of making us guess every answer was beginning to annoy me. He wiped his hand over his mouth.
“Do you have any idea what the roads are like ten kilometers out of the city?”
I was wondering if he was ever going to stop asking these questions.
“The tarmac ends, right?” I said to cut him off. I’d already figured out what he was getting at.
Paul raised his palms and shrugged, as if there was nothing to add. Imo lit up as if the obvious solution to a mathematical problem had suddenly been revealed to her.
“Right. Opium is the only crop that can be
transported
on the back of a mule. Wow. That’s interesting.” She was writing it all down, glowing from this bit of information. “Funny, one never thinks of that,” she said defensively, not wanting to sound naive.
Paul sniggered.
“Everyone talks and writes about Afghanistan, but you’ve got to talk to the farmers, the villagers in the remote regions—and you’ve got to talk to them in their language—to figure out the details of how things work or why they don’t work.”
The waiter came with my tea and their drinks. Paul kept looking at me with a mixture of interest and insolence. He snapped his fingers and took a sip of his fresh beer.
“If they don’t build roads first they’ll never solve the problem of resources. If you can’t transport it, you can’t sell it. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
We nodded.
“It’ll be years before they build a decent road network here,” added Imo with the air of an expert. Then she smiled at Paul. She picked up his cigarette from the ashtray without asking permission and took a drag. I realized she was on to something. In order to weasel as much information as possible she was actually flirting with him.
I took my pills out of my pocket and swallowed one with a sip of tea. Everything still hurt: my bones, my muscles, my nerves. The battle with the monster had left me aching all over.
“What’s the matter?” Paul asked.
“Nothing, I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
“There, you see, for example…”
He picked up the bottle of Advil and turned it around in his hand.
“Do you have any idea how many painkillers are consumed every day around the planet?”
He was driving me insane. Maybe it was a syndrome, this thing of closing every sentence with a question mark.
I didn’t answer.
“And what is the main substance in an analgesic?”
“Morphine derived from opium,” Imo said, twirling the ice around in her drink.
“That’s right,” conceded Paul once more. He took another sip of beer and smiled. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He looked at us, expecting one of us to cry miracle, as if his beer glass was the Holy Grail and we still hadn’t realized that whatever we were seeking had been under our noses all along.
“Precisely. There you go,” he said triumphantly.
“Precisely what?”
“Pharmaceuticals would be the only solution.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said wearily. “I don’t think I get it.”
“Simple. In order to produce the quantity of painkillers the world consumes every day, you need about ten thousand tons of opium a year, and the legal market can’t produce enough. If Afghanistan sold its opium to the pharmaceutical market rather than to the drug cartel, we’d all be set. The farmers would be happy because they’d get paid, the American government would be happy because it could show the world that it had eradicated the drug problem, and you, with your headache, would get the drug you need. Does that make sense?”
We nodded again, obediently.
“But here’s the point: Do you know which countries have the license to legally produce opium?”
“No,” we said in unison.
“France, Spain, India, the U.K. and Turkey, to name a few.”
Imo was stunned. Her pen halted in midair, her eyes widened.
“But that’s absurd! I mean, sorry, but why don’t they give the license to Afghanistan? Wouldn’t that make sense? That way they’d have found a solution to the whole—”
Paul chuckled, as happy as a magician in front of children who pester him to find out where the bunny went.
“Why don’t they? That’s entirely another issue. But actually, it’s the real heart of the problem.”
He lit another cigarette, ready to start another round of question and answer.
Imo was excited. She slipped her shoes off and tucked her feet under her on the chair.
“No, I’m sorry, Paul, but I’d really like you to explain this to me. Would you like another beer? Maria, more tea? I’m having another gin and tonic.”
Paul put up his hand to stop her. He wasn’t the kind of guy who lets a woman buy him a drink. He called the waiter and ordered another round.
“I mean, this story about opium and licenses is incredible. This is actually something I’d like to research. What do you say, Maria?” She turned to Paul. “Please, Paul, explain why they give the license to France, of all places. How insane is that?”
I chose this moment to stand up.
“I’m sorry but I’m a bit tired. I’m going to bed.”
I felt too weak to undergo another round of interrogation, and besides, the looks Paul was giving me were making me uneasy.
“What, you’re going already? Sit down and have a drink.”
He was pissed off that I dared to withdraw, that I wouldn’t have a drink, but mostly, I thought, because I didn’t have any questions for him.
“No. I’m going to get some sleep,” I replied firmly.
Imo blew me a kiss on her fingertips.
“You go and rest, sweetie. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
Paul gave an imperceptible nod, the way killers do in movies when they’re in a crowd and realize it’s not the right moment to make the hit, but they let the victim know that although they have gotten away this time, they won’t the next.
The morning after, at seven, General Dynamics—freshly shaved and corseted in another immaculate multipocket vest—was describing the performance of a particular kind of bullet when it hit armored concrete as he carefully scoured his bowl of yogurt and muesli. The South African and the German in his pseudo-Tyrolean outfit were listening like salt statues. The Dark One was eating his mound of Kabul-style huevos rancheros. The seat next to him was empty.
“Good morning, everyone,” Imo intoned as she came down wrapped in a dark red shawl, flowing brown woolen pants and dangling Indian earrings. But no one replied. Only General Dynamics suspended the monotone flow of information for a fraction of a second, registering her presence with the slightest movement of his chin.
Imo sat down next to me, smiling at the audience, sending out wafts of sandalwood, and leaned over to my side.
“He got fired last night,” she whispered, indicating the empty seat.
“Who, the Blond?”
She nodded.
“Paul told me.”
“Did you go to bed late?”
“Two, three, I have no idea,” she said offhandedly. “We had another four drinks each after you left. It kind of got a bit out of hand by the end.”
She began to butter her toast.
I looked at her questioningly. She laughed and shook her head.
“No way, are you kidding? I just had to push him hard and slam the door on his face. Thank God he was so drunk he probably won’t even remember.”
“Was it useful at least?”
“He told me everything about what’s going on in this country at the moment: who’s in charge, who’s corrupt, who’s got money, who’s got arms, who’s got opium, who’s in bed with whom. All of it strictly in quiz form, of course. I thought my head was going to burst. God, is he exhausting. But he knows a lot of stuff, that guy.”
“What did he tell you about the Blond?”
“He says when you’re working in security at the level the Blond worked at, all it takes is a split second’s distraction and they send you home. Bang. Gone. Paul said he’s sorry they had to lose him. He liked him a lot.”
“I wonder whose bodyguard he was. Did he tell you?”
“Of course not. He just said he was very capable. That he doesn’t muck around.”
I thought of the Blond’s milky body, his stiff prick bumping into me in the middle of the night on the landing. The brutal way he’d pushed me aside, the automatic weapon on his bedside table next to the mineral water. And then I remembered the desolate look on his face the night before as he pocketed the money from Paul, his head hanging low, his shoulders slack. He had morphed into some kid who’d been fired from his first job and had to start all over again.
“But why was Paul paying him? Is he his boss?”
“I think so. I don’t know. I don’t understand much about it. Around the third gin and tonic, I asked him, ‘
Who are you?
How come you know all this stuff?’ But he just laughed at me and asked another question.”
Imo turned to the Dark One and said out loud, “Could you pass me the milk, please?”
The Dark One ignored her.
“Hallo? I’m talking to you,” Imo insisted, still smiling. The Dark One lifted his face from his eggs, stunned.
“The
milk,
” Imo repeated. Even General Dynamics cut short. There was a silence.
Imo held out her index finger, pointing decisively at the glass jug.
“Could you please pass it to me?”
The Dark One hesitated—all eyes were now on him—he picked up the jug, reluctantly, and held it suspended in midair for a second. Then he slowly passed it to Imo, while all the men at the table followed the trajectory with the same rapt expression, as if watching a penalty kick in slow motion that ends up going straight into the net.
An hour later, on a bright morning swept clean by a freezing wind, we were gone.
In the quiet of the early morning we left behind the dense cloud of dust and diesel fumes that hovered over Kabul like a deadly pall. Imo had insisted that I borrow a thick long coat from her and one of her Indian scarves instead of wearing my green parka, “for a better camouflage effect.” It felt good to be inside her expensive wools on such a cold day.
After we passed the last checkpoint, everything suddenly spread out like a fan opening with a flick of the wrist. The air was crystal clear, sharp like the point of a diamond, and I could smell snow on the mountains that edged the horizon like lace. The beauty of the mountains loomed before me all at once, taking my breath away. Imo took my hand and squeezed it at exactly the same moment.
“Look at that,” she murmured. I was grateful that she would allow me to participate in her surprise, for choosing not to take such beauty for granted.
That morning Hanif had showed up in the hall of Babur’s Lodge in a
shalwar kameez
and pattu. I gathered that this attire was the sensible choice for a trip to a traditional village. He looked wretched and puffy-eyed, as if he hadn’t had the time to wash his face properly.