Agreeing that Sofia should not become involved, it had taken Jabril twenty-four hours to devise a plan. Using his influence among his rich and powerful friends in Kabul, he would create a public, high-profile campaign to raise awareness of the evils and prevalence of bacha bazi. ‘Get people talking,’ was how he explained his idea to Sofia. ‘Get the subject out in the open. Put pressure on the politicians to force the police to crack down on those who traffic in little boys.’ Jabril knew his plan would meet resistance, but in his idealism he had faith.
Without exception, everyone Jabril spoke to had put his hand on his heart, solemnly condemned the practice, agreed unequivocally that it was a terrible business and that it should be stopped and the perpetrators brought to justice, and had done nothing. There was simply no plausible upside for a high-profile person to have his name linked to bacha bazi.
‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’ Jabril would later say to Sofia, ‘no one wants anything to do with bacha bazi, probably because their powerful friends might be involved.’
Minister Massoud was the only person to show any interest, but because bacha bazi was not covered under his portfolio as Minister of Counter Narcotics he would not be able to help. He did, however, ask Jabril to keep him informed of his plans and the two men spoke often, although the general lack of support for his project had left Jabril hurt and frustrated. A month ago, he had made the decision to fund the campaign himself. And now, thought Sofia, there are four little boys missing from Jamal Mina. Were they related to bacha bazi?
When the second little boy had gone missing from Jamal Mina about a week before Walid had arrived in Jabril’s surgery, Sofia, Jabril and their friend Taban had begun to suspect someone was targeting Hazara children from the slum. In a country still torn apart by violence, the disappearance of a couple of little boys from poor Hazara families was of little interest to anyone. And although the disappearance of the third boy last week had seen Chief Wasim expressing some sympathy for the grieving families, he had told Sofia that he didn’t have the resources to launch an investigation when there was no evidence of abduction.
‘Three boys have gone missing,’ Taban had said when Sofia passed on the chief ’s message. ‘There’ll never be evidence of abduction until someone starts looking for it! The loose change of history,’ she had said, looking up at Sofia with tears in her eyes. ‘No one records these children’s births or deaths here because no one cares.’
As Sofia watched Farahnaz disappear down one of the access paths to the alleys behind the square, she remembered her father’s parting advice: Pick your fights. It had proved wise counsel, but how many times should you turn away, she wondered. How many times was too many and what would the price of that turning away eventually be? Surely there came a point when you could no longer live with yourself? Were these missing boys a fight worth picking? She decided they were. She could not remain silent any longer.
10
OMAR SUSPECTED ALLAH had been playing games with him that morning by tempting him with memories of the young Behnaz. Lost in these pleasant thoughts, Omar had forgotten the fact that Allah had not seen fit to bless him with sons, or that He had done nothing to stop the slow creeping death now stealing through his body, and in this bliss of forgetfulness he thanked Allah the Merciful and the Compassionate for his infinite generosity on that fine sunny morning. As Omar was revisiting all these pleasing thoughts – which were bringing happiness to his heart but not his manhood – he thought again of the Viagra hidden in a drawer under the counter in the shop.
Which, by the way, has not been the seller you anticipated, has it?
Omar would have preferred to ignore the voice, but annoyingly, it captured his attention. When he had seen the ad on the internet for ‘Erection Medication – Discreet – Express Delivery’, he realised immediately that, although he had no use for it himself, he would be doing his old friends a favour. With some quick financial calculations indicating that the Viagra would also do his profit margin a favour, the deal had been sealed. The thing he hadn’t figured into the profit margin was the fact that he didn’t have any idea how to advertise something he was embarrassed about keeping. He also hadn’t taken into his profit-margin calculations the fact that when he finally found the courage to tell his friends about the Viagra, not one of the old snakes would admit to needing it.
As the wind picked up, carrying the dust and dirt in little eddies around the square, Omar decided it was not so pleasant sitting by the pistachio tree any longer. With the sun about to arrive at the front of his shop, he picked up his plastic chair and slowly made his way back. Once comfortable again, Omar felt inside his pocket to check the night letter was still there before looking around the square to see if anyone was watching.
Babur was busy in his shop preparing lunch, while his cook was outside finishing the last of a cigarette. Rashid and a friend were squatting by the stairs to Dr Sofia’s surgery where Iqbal would normally have set up his shop but had not yet reappeared after prayers. This was becoming a habit lately. Omar knew Iqbal’s leg was causing him more trouble than normal and decided that when he mixed up another of his uncle’s pain draughts for himself he would make a little extra for Iqbal. Like everyone in the square, Omar never dreamed of charging the cobbler. The square looked after its own, Omar thought with a sense of pride.
He could see Hadi lost in thought as he sat smoking on his stool, while Ahmad was busy securing his pile of pink hats which had been toppled by a gust of wind. The first time Omar saw those hats he knew they would be a good seller for Ahmad. As if to prove his point, a couple entered the square with their young daughter who, having spied the hats, was pulling her mother to them. As Omar was smiling at the scene he realised his mind had wandered away from the problem at hand again: the Taliban’s shabnamah. With one last look around the square, he pulled the letter out of his pocket.
Tell your friend to stop.
Omar looked up, staring into space, as if the answer might come flying past. That was all. Tell your friend to stop. He could not help feeling a little disappointed at the brevity of the message. It was simple enough, but that was what made it all the more complicated. And really, when he thought about it, this didn’t look like something the Taliban would write. They wrote long missives, telling you what you had done wrong and how you needed to fix it and what would happen if you didn’t.
But if it wasn’t the Taliban, who was it?
Omar was searching his mind for possibilities when a terrifying thought parked itself at the station, which happened to be the place in his brain where Omar liked to think all his thoughts arrived and departed from. Maybe this night letter was for him? Maybe he was the friend the Taliban was telling to stop? As soon as the thought arrived, Omar was convinced it was true. He had to get rid of the Viagra. Yes, definitely, he had to get rid of it that very evening.
But how did a Talib, if indeed it was a Talib, know about his Viagra? Omar sat outside his shop pondering this difficult question until the answer arrived at the station, horrifying him. One of those snakes who called himself a friend had told the Taliban! But then a new, more confusing thought arrived at the station to shunt the last one further along the tracks and almost out of view. Why would the Taliban be against Viagra? Didn’t they want all men to be virile and impregnate their wives? And if the night letter had been for him then surely it would have been left on his door? He could feel the flood of relief surging through his body. He and his Viagra were safe, but he still had the problem of who this friend of Behnaz’s might be and what they had done.