The Honey Thief (19 page)

The fig thieves by now had no fear of Hameed. They considered him insane, wandering about with a book under his nose. Soon they had stripped four more trees of fruit.

Hameed could not help but see that the entire six trees on the roadside were bare of fruit. He had no other choice than to take the fruit from four more trees at the very back of the orchard.

‘The ravens came,’ he said to his father, ‘so I began the harvest.’

Ahmed Behsudi danced with rage on the place where he stood. ‘Did I not tell you to wait for the fruit to ripen? Were your ears full of beeswax?’

Every son fears his father’s wrath. Certainly Hameed feared his father. Certainly he wished to honour him in every way he could. And yet he was powerless to put the book of Huckleberry Finn aside and give his mind to his task. Not only had he been forced to lie to his father, he was forced to lie to his mother when she asked him if he knew where the candles had gone. Hameed’s mother kept twenty candles in a wooden box at all times, replacing each one when it was taken. She now had five candles.

‘I took them to the orchard,’ he said, ‘but on the way I misplaced them.’

Hameed’s mother said to her husband, ‘If it were not against God’s law, I would tie him to a tree for the wolves to enjoy.’

Ahmed Behsudi thought to send his eldest son Abdul Ali to the orchard to discover the reason for Hameed’s madness. But Abdul Ali was married and had many other tasks to fill his day. Ahmed Behsudi’s other sons, Mohammad Ali and Hussein Ali, were also married men with no time to spare. So Ahmed Behsudi himself walked to the fig orchard in the heat of the sun to see what Hameed was up to. He didn’t call out his son’s name when he reached the orchard but instead crept about quietly until he spied this most difficult of his children sitting under a fig tree with the book of Huckleberry Finn in his hands. Ahmed Behsudi was amazed. He kept his temper and stepped closer to his son, and closer still, and finally he stood no more than the length of his arm from Hameed. So deep in the book was Hameed that he did not see his father until Ahmed Behsudi roared at the top of his voice: ‘What madness is this! Will I put my hands to your neck and choke you now or first whip you raw?’

Hameed leapt to his feet in dread, but he kept a tight hold on his book.

‘Give this object to me!’ cried Ahmed Behsudi. He meant the book of Huckleberry Finn, of course.

Hameed, so much younger than his father, was able to spring away in time to avoid capture.

‘Father, no.’

‘Do you defy me? Has such a day come in my family?’

‘Father, no.’

‘I tell you, boy, give me that object!’

‘Father, no.’

Disobedience of this sort is never found amongst the Hazara. A father is honoured. To insult your own father with disobedience is asking for trouble. And yet, Ahmed Behsudi found the strength to seize back control of his passions. This boy of his had made a habit of angering him, but never through spite. Whatever the vile object Hameed was guarding, it must be precious to him. And so Ahmed Behsudi raised his hands with his palms out, a signal that he was calling for peace. He gestured towards the mossy ground and sat down. Hameed, after some hesitation, sat before his father, but he kept the book safe.

‘What is it, this thing?’ Ahmed Behsudi asked calmly. ‘Tell me.’

‘A book of America, a book of a boy Huckleberry and Jim, a book of Mississippi.’

‘In God’s name, talk sense.’

‘I swear to you!’

‘How came it into your hands?’

‘The merchant gave it to me.’

‘Ah, he gave it to you! For his pleasure? Strange, I have always known him to ask something in exchange.’

‘I gave him twenty apricots.’

‘Twenty apricots! For
that
!’

‘For this and three more.’

‘Ah! Four worthless objects instead of one for twenty good apricots! My happiness is restored!’

‘Father, it was a
chana
.’

Chana
in our language of Dari means a great bargain, but not a bargain won through trickery. A
chana
is a bargain that grows out of the goodwill of those who are making the trade.

‘Ah!’ said Ahmed Behsudi. ‘A
chana
, is it? Well, my heart is at peace. It was a
chana
. Twenty apricots that took a year to grow for some such rubbish as “Mispee”, but it is a
chana
. Thank God for that!’

Ahmed Behsudi, calling on all of his ancestors who had found their way to Paradise for patience, looked his son in the eye. This boy – was he indeed Hazara? Yes, he was Hazara, it must be admitted, but what sort of Hazara? Ahmed Behsudi had known a man many, many years in the past, who found a stone of astonishing beauty, redder than a ruby, a stone that caught the sun and sent shafts of rose-coloured light about the room. And the man had contemplated the beauty of this stone each day, this rare gem, until one day, with a smile on his face, he swallowed it. Those who witnessed him swallowing the stone leapt back in amazement. ‘What have you done, and why?’ they cried out. And the man said this – Ahmed Behsudi remembered exactly: ‘I had no words left, so I ate it.’ The stone was not lost forever. It emerged from its owner’s regions before long. But the man said he was not sorry for what he’d done – no, he was glad of it. Such passions can take a hold of any man, it was well to remember.

Ahmed Behsudi only discovered in that moment that he loved the boy Hameed. He loved him because he was difficult to love.

‘Keep the books,’ he said. ‘What else must you tell me?’

He meant that he wanted to hear the truth about the figs that had been brought home with a story of ravens. Hameed told him the truth. Ahmed Behsudi said nothing at all for some minutes, then he spoke. ‘Hameed, a man might have four brothers, five brothers. He might have many sisters. He might have four wives, if he can afford them. He might have fifty friends, in his good fortune. But he can have only one father. In all the world, no man will grieve for another as a father grieves for his son. Keep me in your heart, as I keep you in mine.’ Then he added, ‘Leave the book at home until the figs are in their baskets.’

*   *   *

The fig harvest was over within the week and Hameed was free to enjoy the book of Huckleberry Finn. His father found the time to hear the boy read the book aloud, against his better judgement, and discovered an enjoyment in hearing the story. He thought to himself, ‘Such a river, Mississippi! Would that we had a river like Mississippi in Hazarajat!’ When he began to understand the story of the black slave Jim, he thought of the many Hazara who had become slaves during the years of massacres. But at the same time, he worried about Hameed. No Hazara can make a life for himself by reading the books of America. And was it not possible that Hameed would take it into his head to travel the country, like the boy Huck? In America with so many cars and bridges and tall buildings, a boy might travel on a road or a river and find his fortune. Not in Hazarajat, not in Afghanistan.

He told his worries to his second wife Zainab, Hameed’s mother, and she listened with the attention for which she was known. She said, ‘He must marry.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Ahmed Behsudi. ‘Yes, perhaps you are right. With a wife and children, he will cease reading books, he will find some sense. But who would marry him?’

Ahmed Behsudi’s second wife said, ‘Najaf Khalaj has a daughter of twenty years. Her father wants her to marry.’

Ahmed Behsudi threw back his head and laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. ‘Najaf Khalaj’s daughter? Proud Nadia? That one? What, do you hate the boy so much? Better to marry him to a brown bear!’

It was true that Najaf Khalaj wanted a husband for his daughter and would probably accept Hameed with all his faults, but the daughter, Nadia, was no blessing. As beautiful as she was, with fine eyebrows, no man in the whole of Hazarajat would take her for his wife. Many had courted her through her mother and father but the girl’s temper had ruined every match. To one young man she had said, ‘If your nose did not resemble that of an anteater, it would be better for you.’ Another who came a great distance to drink tea with her was asked to turn sideways. When he did so, Nadia stared at the side of his head. ‘Yes, I thought so,’ she said. ‘I can see in this ear and out the other. Nothing between.’ Her mother said to her, ‘Do you think we will feed you forever? Your pride will go with you to your grave!’ But Nadia felt no caution: ‘If I am turned out into the world to live on crumbs like a sparrow, so much the worse for me. The men you bring are fools.’ Some may have been fools, but even those with wits revealed some flaw to Nadia. ‘He is too short. I would spend my life looking down at the top of his head . . . He is too tall. Am I to destroy my neck by looking up all day? . . . He smells like a stoat . . . He has a wart on his chin bigger than a chestnut . . .’

What hope, then, for an awkward young man such as Hameed? Ahmed Behsudi put his mind to the problem and came up with a solution. ‘I will sweeten her thoughts with a gift. If she will marry Hameed, the small fig orchard will come with him.’

Zainab said, ‘You will give a dowry to the bride? And for how many years will our neighbours laugh? More than a hundred!’

Ahmed Behsudi persisted in his plan. He visited Nadia’s father, who himself owned an orchard, much smaller than any of Ahmed Behsudi’s, however. Najaf Khalaj listened to Ahmed Behsudi, and smiled as he listened, and laughed as he listened, and sighed as he listened.

Finally, he spoke. ‘The girl has an imp in her heart. Think of my shame when I say that I have no influence with her. And her mother? She listens to her mother even less than me. Some grave sin of mine must be known to God that I am burdened with such a child as Nadia and her pride. Send Hameed, by all means! But prepare for disappointment.’

It was arranged for Hameed to walk the road to the village where Nadia’s family kept their orchard to greet the girl’s unfortunate mother and father, and to drink tea with the dreadful girl herself. The road to the village was a long one and would take the whole of the morning, and since this was a journey that Hameed had no taste for, ending as it would in meeting a girl he had no interest in, he carried with him his book of Huckleberry Finn, and read it as he walked. He had finished the book once already and had considered reading
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
, but his love of the Huckleberry book had grown so strong that he began it again, and this second reading thrilled him even more than the first.

Hameed arrived in the village well after midday. It happened that Najaf Khalaj’s house was the first in the town. Nadia and her mother and father were waiting at the door and saw Hameed with the book under his nose walk straight past and into an old gundy tree allowed to grow where it stood for the sake of its shade.

Nadia’s mother put her hand to her face and shook her head. Najaf Khalaj sighed deeply. But Nadia laughed aloud. ‘Well, this is a gift,’ she said. ‘The biggest fool in the world has come to my doorstep.’

‘Child, build treasure in Heaven,’ pleaded Najaf Khalaj. ‘Be kind to the boy.’

Hameed with a bump on his forehead allowed himself to be helped to his feet by Najaf Khalaj. He picked up his book, cleaned the dust from its cover and made an apology to Najaf, to his wife and to the daughter, Nadia. Hameed was shown indoors, according to our custom, for a young man who is courting will wish to see a clean and tidy household. ‘Study the mother, know the daughter,’ as we say, and in the case of Iram Khalaj’s first two daughters, now married, the advice was good. The third daughter, Nadia – alas!

It was Nadia’s habit to first show great courtesy to the young men who came to her father’s house. This suited her well, for the shock to come, when she abandoned her manners, would be that much greater. She asked Hameed if he would be pleased to take a glass of tea. She asked if he enjoyed sugar. She handed him the glass of tea on a saucer with two sugar cubes. She asked him – and here her mother moaned to herself – if the book he was reading had any words in it.

‘Of course,’ said Hameed, who wished for nothing more than to return to his own village and never leave it again.

‘And did the words tell you to walk into the gundy tree?’ said Nadia, her smile as sweet as the sugar she had given Hameed. ‘Is it perhaps a book of instruction in being a fool? You are wasting your time. You need no instruction.’

Hameed scratched his head, not sure what Nadia was saying. He took up his tea, sipped it loudly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It is a book about the boy Huckleberry, and Jim the black man. On the river of Mississippi in America. The woman Douglas is a widow and must take the place of Huckleberry’s mother. A raft is made, a word for a boat, not such a boat as we have in Hazarajat. Bigger than a raft is a paddle-boat, which I will explain.’

Hameed gave the best description of a paddle-boat that he could. Then he remembered that the cover of the book showed a paddle-boat behind Huck and Jim. He showed the cover of the book to Nadia, who, for the first time in her life, was lost for words. She held the book as if it might suddenly reveal itself to be alive, and dangerous.

‘What
is
this?’ she asked.

Hameed took the book and showed her the English words in the front. Then he showed the Dari words in the back. He read to her from the page he had reached:

I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn’t been lived in for a long time . . .

Nadia’s eyes, thought so beautiful, were now as big as the saucer on which she had served Hameed his tea. Hameed gave the book back to Nadia. She held it at the page from which Hameed had been reading. By the movement of her eyes it could be seen that she was herself reading the words on the page.

‘The boy Huckleberry is telling the story to us,’ said Hameed. ‘These are his words. Do you understand?’

Nadia, baffled, murmured, ‘What?’