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The Brigadier
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Just taking her easy here at the Blue Lagoon Snack Bar — a ritzy place for Pakistan, to be sure, for it had white lace tablecloths (full of holes, and so filthy that one touch blackened his fingers), a dependable fan behind him, and Indian music on the radio — he sat comfortably, though maintaining good posture. The waiter, who like his counterpart at King’s Restaurant could tell that this customer hailed from a developed country, brought him on a plate a real fork and knife with a paper napkin wrapped around them. At King’s he hadn’t had a napkin. This was pretty good. — In front of him stood a blue pitcher of cool obuh, * doubtless full of disease … and now he was whisked his dinner with dismaying speed considering that (a) he was the only customer, (b) they were staring at his every move, and (c) he somehow had to kill two hours waiting for Dr. Tariq. Well, anyhow, what was his dinner actually, let’s see, he’d first ordered an onion steak at fourteen rupees, on the principle that a protracted stay demanded an expensive purchase, but today was a meatless day, so he was stuck once again with a chicken roast: mm-hm, half-raw meat given the position it deserved in the middle of the plate, encircled by okay onions, putrid peppers, merely wilted peppers and some perfectly acceptable tomatoes … Time passed, the meal passed, and the sick hot evening improved until when Dr. Tariq came he was in the middle of a conversation with some Jordanians about how dull the nightlife had been here ever since the imposition of martial law. The Young Man paid his bill, shook hands all around, and proceeded into the swelter with Dr. Tariq, who had invited him to stay the night with his family.
The household was headed by Tariq’s father, Major General N., a fine old man who influenced the guest more than anyone else in Pakistan, for in the end he stayed not a night, but a month. The General’s family gave him food, lodging, clothes and presents. He came to feel love for them.
MY CLOTHES (1987)
I no longer have the plastic scraps of a butterfly mine from Afghanistan, because I gave them to Dr. Tariq’s younger brother Zahid (since become a doctor in his own right). One of the yellow glass bangles that the family gave me for my fiancé e broke on the trip home; the others left with her when she left me. I do still have a stack of photographs, through which I used to flip with some complacency, the vividness of the color dyes convincing me that I must not have failed in Afghanistan after all, and for a while I busied myself with them, blowing them up into fund-raising posters that cost more than the money they brought in — for I was and still am a most lamentably ludicrous Young Man — but within three or four years I had studied those pictures so many times that not a single image was real. I retain my illegal pen-pistol from Darra, but seldom roll its fat coldness between my fingers. My best aid to memory (for I doubt that I will ever go to Afghanistan again) is the set of clothes that General N.’s family gave me. — They hang in the back of the closet, whose white door is now shut, with its black knob like a sphere of darkness extruded from the darkness inside. — My shirt (which I think once belonged to Zahid) is a baggy affair that hangs down to my knees like an apron. The pants are wide enough around the waist for two people; they tighten with a drawstring. — On hot days, this loose cotton skin of mine feels cool, luxurious.
THE BRIGADIER (1982)
The other guest of the N. household was, of course, the Brigadier, with whom the Young Man shared the double bed. Thirty-six years ago the General and the Brigadier had been pals, back in British days, when the Pakistanis (or Indians, as they then were) had been involved in an insurrection in Kashmir.† —“I was his teacher, ” said the General, “and I regarded him as an honest man.
“You think I have picked him up now for no reason? I am convinced he will be of use. He has been with me now for six months. Every day he writes letters. He is the leader of a national party inside, you see, and he is trying to obtain weapons. If he had not been of use I would have gotten rid of him long ago. But if your people would just give him weapons, he would be a great thorn in the side of the Russians. When you go back to America, Young Man, you must tell people about him.”
The Young Man was given a copy of the letter that the Brigadier had written to President Reagan in October of 1981 (receiving, of course, no reply). It is a remarkable and pathetic document, and is here given as is. (It should be noted again that the Brigadier spoke minimal English; the peculiar spelling and syntax are the fault of the translator employed.)
Oct.29.1981
To his excellency the President of U.S.A.
(Mr. Ronald Reagan)—
Dear excellency,
I wo-ould like to bring to your kind notice the following facts related to the destiny of Afghanistan.
When the late president Daud went to Moscow to attend the funeral of stalin on behalf of Ex-King Zahir Shah he strengthened bi-latiral relations between the two countries. On returning to Kabul he started his pro-communist activities at the beck and call of Moscow and on 1954 succeeded to the post of Prime Minister.‡
Being Brig: in Afghan army I realised his brutel activities. There and then I resolved to lay out all the secrecies and make it public but I could not succeed to overt his false design during my 10 years tenure of service.
On his resigning from the poist of Prime Minister he established indirectly of pro-Russian parcham party§ on new lines. It was the only alternative to quit my Military services on 1970 to impede their ways independently.
I came to know in Qandahar province in 1973 that Daud succeeded in a Coupe-De-Ta backed by Moscow. Soonafter that I consulted all my Military and companion and various other religious, and Political Co-workers in Ghazni province. It was unanimously decided in that meeting to refer to U.S.A., Embassy in Kabul for the expected friendly co-operation for the solution of our national grievances.
Unfartunately Amirican Embassy was under the Eyes of K.G.B.s and local spies due to which we could not succed to have proper contacts.
Eventually I got an opportunity to contact U.S.-Embassidor through a prominent personality of the Embassy Feroz Mohsin who worked as an interpreter. He was an Afghan National and latter on proved a Rusian detictive. I handed over a list of my fellow Army personnel, Religious Schalor and politicians along-with other details of national interest to the Ambassador, besides a revolutionary and reactionary plan against then then Daud’s regime. He thought over the subject and latter on a states envoy Mr. Edvard Fox Martin came to Kabul and I visited him in Feroz Mohsin lodge. He supported our plan on belhaf of the states Government, which was based on humanitarian and bi-latiral relations. After conversation Mr. Edvard and myself signed on 1976 an Agreement (Known as Ox-Fox plan) bearing the following context that after two months of the agreement we will be helped with the following:
1- 300 Machineguns
2- 240 Bazoka Antitank launchers.
3- 4 Hawan (Marterguns and exessaries)
4- 40 Powerful explosive Bumbs.
5- Numerous Wirless Radio sets.
6- Establishment of Radio Broad-Casting station.
7- 22600000 Afghani money repayable and interest free.
8- 400 Rifles.
Soon after the agreement I was chased by the detictives with a consequent imprisoned of 3 years with other four brothers.
On my release from the Jail there was no hope to visit the U.S.-Embassy during the regime of late Taraki. I deputed my companion 1978 Mr. M— S— R— to see the Amirican Embassy in Pakistan and to convey my message to him. He met with the staff of the Embassy in Islamabad but with no result.
Now I have lift the nations behind to fight against the Russian intervention and came to Pakistan with 60 other comrades, who represent all the provinces of Afghanistan, in hope to revive the foresaid agreement.
I visited the 3rd Secretary of states in Islamabad and the Counsellor in Peshawar in this regard but all in vain.
Now I wish to put our problems on your table for a very kind and just favour which is based on share humanitarianism and anti-communistic expansionism ideals. I shall be very much grateful to you in person and on behalf of my nation, if you pay a very kind attention to our matters and affairs and arrange for a possible help and clue.
Thanks and thanks.
Your Sincerely,
(BRIG: — -)
U.S.A., Counselte, Peshawar
(Pakistan)
In the course of time the Brigadier grew angry at America, for Reagan and the C.I.A. ignored his letters; and the people at the consulate were less and less polite about his coming by. It was clear enough to the Young Man that if the Ox-Fox Agreement had ever been made, it would long since have been written off the books by Mr. Fox Marten’s organization; for who would want to support a man whose plot had not been airtight? — Then again, Napoleon had made a comeback; so had Lenin. The Young Man, who did not understand very much about political change in Asia, decided to maintain an attitude of genial neutrality until more facts came in.
AT LATEST REPORT (1989)
He is still waiting.
MORNING AND AFTERNOON (1982)
“I was in the jail for three days without food or water, in summer, ” he told the Young Man in his slow, earnest English.‖ “Then three years I was there, and I took up the fight against the Roos. ” —The story went that he had been Zaher Shah’s bodyguard, and a jewel dealer on the side. Soon after the invasion, the Russians napalmed his house and confiscated his jewels—“ten kilos of emeralds, fif— fifty kilos rubies, many other— jools! ” cried the Brigadier fiercely. Some of his fortune remained hidden; this he disposed of by equipping a group of freedom fighters personally loyal to him. Then he set off for Pakistan to obtain the arms due him according to the Ox-Fox Agreement. Here he was. — One of his sons was missing in action; another had been conscripted by the Roos and every night supplied the guerrillas with ammunition for their Kalashnikovs. His wife was sick somewhere in Afghanistan, and his daughter (if I understood his pantomime) had a bullet wound in the chest. At intervals he heard from his family. A messenger would come to the General’s house and deliver a square of linen, covered with Pushto cursive, which had been sewn into his garments. The Brigadier would read it over and over to himself for hours. When he had not gotten a letter for a long time, the Young Man saw him going through the other bits of cloth which had come to him, and slowly shaking his head.
“What he says, it is a tissue of fictions, ” said the Young Man’s Afghan translator back in California. “I was in Kabul many years and I have never heard of this man. He was no bodyguard; he is no leader; he is nothing.” —But perhaps the translator supported a different party.
In the morning and in the afternoon the Brigadier sat working on new letters to various heads of state. He read each draft aloud to the General, who patiently suggested insertions and modifications. Between his siesta and the evening prayer the Brigadier read his Qur’an aloud to himself in the low singsong of custom. The Qur’an was kept wrapped in a bright, supple cloth whenever it was not in use. As the Brigadier picked up the bundle or replaced it on the guest-room table, he kissed it. He prayed outside in the garden with the General, touching head, hands and feet to the prayer mat.