The martyr

In the first few days of the Young Man’s stay the General was particularly disgusted with Americans. His son Khalid was a student in California, under a temporary visa, and Khalid’s wife had applied for a temporary visa to visit him. The application had been denied on the grounds that it could not be proved that the young woman would not become an immigrant. The General had offered to put up a surety, but this did not affect the case. This hurt the General deeply. He could not understand why his son could have a visa and his daughter-in-law could not. He told the Young Man that America didn’t know what friendship was.

“What do you think of Brigadier X? ” the Young Man asked at the U.S. consulate.

Thumbs down. “We’ve passed on his stories, and the consensus seems to be that he’s slightly”—finger to forehead. — “He was a Brigadier once, and he isn’t now, and he hasn’t made the transition.”

This might be true, the Young Man thought. Sometimes I myself, watching the monotonous circular motions of his hands, or his talking to himself — or is that just his Muslim devotions? (for I don’t speak the language) — sometimes I think that he might be a little mad. — But how am I to know? he said to himself angrily.

“It does seem as if he has a following, ” the Young Man said.

“We’re not sure if it’s his following or if it’s a consequence of the fact that he’s staying with General N.”

“There are lots of people who claim he’s their boss, ” said the Young Man.

A shrug. “I really have to go to a meeting.”

“Well, would you recommend that I go to Afghanistan with him? ”

“I’d advise against it.”

The Brigadier had told the Young Man to inform the Ambassador and his wife that he sent his salaam to them, and to ask when his work would be ready. The Young Man did neither. Returning, he met the Brigadier on the porch.

“What they say? ”

“They had no time for me today, ” the Young Man said.

The Brigadier flew into a rage. — “They Amerikis, but — if they Afghans, I — KILL THEM! They servants — not masters! You — NO help me! Democracy — NO good! ”

The Young Man lied, saying that he had done his best, ^d but the Brigadier would not believe him. At last the Young Man replied curtly. The Brigadier smiled, the way people there smiled to express deep offense.

“They treat me like — DOG! ” he said.

Wearily, the Young Man agreed and went in to the toilet. The walk to the consulate and the heat had stirred up his dysentery.

Sitting on the toilet seat, he imagined a dialogue with the General, who had just been lecturing him on the Jewish lobby:

“General, ” he’d say, “I think the Brigadier’s on the brink.”

“Because you won’t help him, ” the General would reply sternly. “He’s a friend of America, but you’re making him an enemy. You won’t give my daughter-in-law a visa. If I can’t get a visa, no one in Pakistan can get a visa. Zia was my subordinate. If I wanted to, I could go to him, and he would make them give me the visa.

“But that’s against my principles. I ask no one for favors. I expect nothing from anyone. But now you are supporting Israel, and lakhs ^e of people are homeless.”

And the Young Man, slightly light-headed with fever, suddenly understood his role as an American: to accept responsibility for everything.