The Honey Thief (21 page)

Abbas Behishti went to the cinema in Kabul when he visited the city to buy parts for a new honey-making machine, one he had designed himself and that employed ball-bearings. The film he saw told the story of a boy in the snowy parts of Russia who made friends with a black bear. He enjoyed the film, mostly because the boy who made friends with the bear had a smile like that of his own son, Esmail. But he was almost alone in liking the story. Others in the cinema cried out, ‘
Balay fier qoneit!
’ which in Dari means ‘Shoot the bear!’

Strangely enough, when the Russians themselves came to Afghanistan two years after Abbas Behishti’s visit, the cinemas again began to show films from Hollywood. The Russian soldiers did not wish to see films about black bears in the snowy parts of Russia. They wished to see James Bond.

*   *   *

Abbas did not get the opportunity to visit the Kabul region again until the reign of the Russians in Afghanistan was five years old. Even then, he went unwillingly. The great leader of the Hazara people, Abdul Ali Mazari, who lived in a village south of Mazar-e-Sharif, had asked him to take a message to a man in the city of Charikar, a long journey to the east.

The summons came as a surprise to Abbas. Abdul Ali Mazari was known to him and to all Hazara as Baba Mazari, Father Mazari, even though he was not yet in his middle years, not even forty at the time of the summons. Abbas’ grandfather, Esmail, had in his lifetime known Abdul Ali well. He had predicted for him the life and honour of a hero, even when Abdul Ali was still a boy. He had told Abbas, ‘Men such as Abdul Ali come one time in a thousand years. He is picked out by God for greatness. But he is not picked out by God for happiness.’ Esmail was right in this prediction as he was in so many other matters. Baba Mazari had fought the soldiers of Zahir Khan when they attacked the Hazara in Hazarajat. He had fought the communists when Zahir Shah lost his throne to them. And he had fought the Russians when they came with their trucks and tanks and cannons and aeroplanes. In the time of fighting he had seen his brother, Mohammad Sultan, younger than he, killed in battle against the communists. Then he lost his beloved sister in the fighting, then his father, his uncle, another uncle. Esmail did not live to see Baba Mazari’s sorrow, but he knew it would come.

*   *   *

It was Ahmad Hussein, once Abbas’ master in the trade of beekeeping, now his honoured friend, who brought the summons to him. He came on a day when the sky was dark with clouds above the Sangan Hills, and a day only a week from the tenth birthday celebrations of Abbas’ son, a boy who had brought joy to his life since the hour of his birth. Abbas had two other children, two daughters, but he kept the boy Esmail in the dearest place in his heart on account of his smile.

Ahmad Hussein had kept to the trade of beekeeping, even with a beard now more white than black. His hives were still placed in the fields that Abbas remembered from his time of learning the trade. Abbas himself had moved to fields further south, where he yielded ten per cent of the honey harvest to the landowners, or seven per cent in a season of drought. Abbas’ honey was flavoured by the wildflowers of the Sangan region that the bees craved – briars, Persian roses and a bright red tulip with blooms that lasted no more than two days.

Ahmad Hussein’s arrival was a great surprise. In his fields to the north this was a busy time. The rains of late spring on his side of the hills caused blooms to crowd the fields. His bees filled the honeycomb so quickly that honey would drip in waste to the ground unless Ahmad Hussein drained the trays once every three days. Yet here he was, two days by horse and cart from where he should be.

It is an honoured custom of the Hazara tribes that Abbas and Ahmad Hussein were born into – that is, the Daizangi and the Jaghori, only two of more than twenty Hazara tribes – not to show any great surprise when good news arrives, at least as adults. To remain calm, no matter how welcome the news, is thought to be a sign of maturity. If a Daizangi or a Jaghori becomes excited by good news, like a child receiving a present, people might say, ‘Such a shame!’ or ‘He has a beard but does he deserve it?’ It is also thought to be a good sign if a man remains calm when the news is bad, but people are much more forgiving in the case of bad news. When Abbas recognised with joy his old master from a distance, he stood still in the field with a smile on his face and waited until Ahmad Hussein in his horse-drawn cart was beside him before raising his voice.

‘My master,’ said Abbas. ‘God has brought you safely into my sight. You are very welcome on this ground.’

‘God keep you in health for a hundred years, and all of your family,’ replied Ahmad Hussein.

The master climbed down from his cart and the two men embraced. Nothing more was said for five minutes while Ahmad Hussein held a big bowl made from the hide of a goat and filled with water for his mare to drink. Even when the mare had satisfied her thirst, the two friends, master and pupil, remained silent. Except for the warmth of their smiles, a person not familiar with the ways of the Hazara might have thought that the two men had no voices at all. Ahmad Hussein tapped the mare lightly on the nose just above her nostrils, meaning, ‘We will be staying here for a time, crop the grass.’ He pulled out the burrs that had become trapped in her tail, and with a rag, dried the sweat inside her ears because it annoyed the mare to feel damp there. Then he asked Abbas, ‘The bees remain your friends?’

‘Surely.’

‘Your children?’

‘They are well, I thank you. And your sons and your daughters?’

‘I thank you, they are well. And your wife?’

‘She is well, I thank you. And your wife who is living?’

The first wife of Ahmad Hussein had died ten years earlier, leaving him with a grief that still bowed his head.

‘My wife who is living is well, I thank you. Your father?’

‘My father is well, except for his ears. He hears little. And your father, master?’

The last Abbas had heard, Ahmad Hussein’s father, at the age of ninety-three years, had expressed a wish to marry again, since he was a widower.

‘He is well, I thank you, but his mind wanders in these late years of his life. God sends us trials.’

Something difficult was about to be said. Abbas understood this from the pauses between Ahmad Hussein’s questions and replies. The very fact that Ahmad Hussein had come across the hills to the bee-field made this seem more likely.

Abbas had only water to offer his old teacher, but Ahmad Hussein had brought tea with him in a vacuum flask. The tea was still hot. This was the first vacuum flask Abbas had seen and it filled him with the desire to own such a device himself. Partly in order to postpone the difficult news, out of respect for Ahmad Hussein, who would not want to see anxiety in his eyes, and partly to satisfy his curiosity, he studied the vacuum flask closely.

‘What is the inside made of, master?’

‘I think it is glass. It can be broken, and then you must purchase a new inside.’

‘The tea remains hot inside the device?’

‘It remains hot if it is filled with hot tea. If it is filled with cold water, the water remains cold.’

‘A marvel. And it is called a “vacuum flask”, as you say?’

‘A vacuum flask, as I say. I don’t know why.’

‘A vacuum,’ said Abbas, ‘is nothing. I must think about it.’

‘Truly. Think about it while you work. I have been to see our master.’

‘Our master?’

‘Baba Mazari asked for me.’

‘An honour.’

‘A great honour.’

‘He is well, by God’s grace, our great master?’

‘He is well by God’s grace. But he has his sorrows.’

‘God has asked much of him.’

‘God has asked much of him, as you say. He hopes to see you.’

‘To see me?’

‘He hopes to see you not this day or the next or the next, but the day that follows.’

‘Then I must go.’

‘You must go, Abbas.’

‘Do you know the reason?’

‘I do. But you must hear it from Baba Mazari himself.’

*   *   *

Abbas Behishti had listened when his grandfather Esmail Behishti told him all that he knew of war. It was not a long speech. Esmail had said, ‘I fought with a gun and a blade because it was necessary. I put my knife to the throats of young men of my own age. I washed their blood from my hands afterwards and cleaned my blade. Now I weep for my folly.’ For the sake of what his grandfather Esmail had told him of war, or for some other reason, something perhaps that was born in him, Abbas kept as far from the fighting in Afghanistan as he could. Three friends of his childhood had fought in the service of Baba Mazari; fought to protect Hazara land and Hazara lives. Two had died, one remained. Of the two who had died, one had been killed by communist soldiers, and one had been killed by Russian soldiers. The friend still living had returned to his village at Ramadan, but only for a month. He had greeted Abbas with all the warmth of their friendship and had asked if he would not come and fight the Russians.

Abbas said, ‘I won’t fight the Russians.’

To which his friend replied, ‘If the Russian soldiers came to your house to kill your wife and your son and your two daughters, would you kill them?’

‘Surely.’

‘Then join us. For one day the Russians may come to your house.’

‘On my doorstep I will kill them. Nowhere else.’

On his journey to the north, Abbas carried only the food he would need for three days: dried figs, raisins, bread, some cold rice with parsley and peppers. He did not know with certainty what would be asked of him, but if Baba Mazari instructed, ‘You must take up your gun and your blade,’ Abbas would have to obey, and since this command was what he expected, he would need food only for the three days of the journey.

He chose the simplest garments in his possession, and as few as possible. Those fighting the Russians – the Hazara of Baba Mazari and the soldiers of the mujaheddin – wore more garments than were necessary into battle: scarves that tied three times around their necks, fabric belts that circled their waists three times, more than one shirt, turbans padded with more fabric beneath. They had to act as their own doctors, and would use what they wore as bandages. A man lightly dressed would not be thought a soldier, even by the Russians. In the country he would pass by snipers who sat behind rocks in the hills and shot anyone resembling a soldier. The Russians were said to have special rifles that could kill a man from a very great distance. There were few Russians in Hazarajat, but there were snipers employed by the Russians and armed by the Russians.

If Baba Mazari told him that he must become a soldier, Abbas was sure he would die on the battlefield. He could not fire a rifle with accuracy, he could not use a blade with any skill, and he knew nothing about fighting. So he would die, that seemed certain. His wife, Sabah, had put her head into a corner of the kitchen and wept when he’d told her of the summons. He could not keep from Sabah the danger he faced. How would that have been possible when he must explain to her how to manage the sale of the beehives if he didn’t return? Not only the sale of the hives, but of the honey-making machine with ball-bearings that made it turn faster and smoother. And Abbas had a special letter for her to give to his eldest son Esmail when the boy became twelve years of age. The letter was for the future. For now, he’d kept from the children the danger he might face. He said he was going for a holiday. But the boy Esmail knew better and would not smile.

A Hazara has two walking paces: slow and fast, nothing in between. Abbas covered the rocky land with ease, keeping off the roads. As I say, few Russians ever came to Hazarajat but those who did had been known to shoot from their moving trucks at travellers on foot. They shot for no reason, for amusement, or because of their hatred for their mission. It was known that the Russian soldiers did not wish to be in Afghanistan. Amongst the mujaheddin forces of the north there were those who took pleasure in cutting captured Russian soldiers into pieces and leaving the debris on the road to be found by the victims’ comrades. The Russians’ hatred for their mission was mixed with a dread of capture, and that dread made them cruel.

It was Abbas’ habit to pray twice each day; once in the morning, once at dusk. His wife Sabah, more pious than he, prayed four times. As the sun set on this first day of his journey northward, he found a place amongst the rocks, washed himself in the ritual of the faith and laid out his prayer rug, really a shawl, a
patoh
. In the midst of his prayers he sensed that he was not alone and opened his eyes. No further from him than the distance of two strides a black snake lay at the full length of its beauty with its head raised. The snake was not preparing for attack, as Abbas knew, for the black snakes of Hazarajat flee rather than strike if flight is possible. No, this snake had been attracted by the smell of the water for
wu’du
in the small bowl. A snake will rarely drink still water unless from a pond, but this region of Hazarajat was without natural springs and at this time of year no rain fell to gather amongst the rocks.

‘Brother, you are welcome to drink,’ said Abbas.

The snake moved its head from side to side. The smell of a man is a horror to every wild creature, yet the snake set aside its fear and drew itself slowly to the water bowl. As it drank, its head dipped and lifted, dipped and lifted. Abbas on his knees remained still for the whole length of time the snake required to satisfy its thirst – long enough for the sun to sink further behind the hood of the mountains and for darkness to deepen. The snake raised its head one final time, before it departed without haste towards the stones.

In the Holy Book, tales are told of Satan, who is said to be like a snake in his stealth and cunning and danger. But Abbas had always seen the great beauty of the creatures more than their menace, and when he had completed his prayers and eaten some figs and wrapped himself in his blanket for sleep, he said to himself, ‘It is the snake who should fear the man.’

*   *   *

The house of Baba Mazari was no different to the other houses in the village. It was the house of a farmer. But the path that led to the door of the house was more worn than other paths. Visitors arrived every day of the year to ask Baba Mazari’s advice on one matter or another, often simple matters, such as the digging of a new well or the best way to deal with an ant plague. The dwelling of Baba Mazari was special in only one other way: the well-worn path to the front door was guarded by two men with Kalashnikov automatic rifles.