The man had to wait till his eyes adjusted to the darkness, after the midday sun out of the house. Then he saw well his bag packed already, close to the rope he used to tie the wounded men to the table, since when the supplies of anesthetic were exhausted. He sat on the ground, with the light from the window on his right hand side, took the notebook from the pocket of the backpack, opened it and read the last thing he had written.
"The most unpleasant thing in this war is, that we had to blame some European guys."
He snorted, took his pen from the pocket of his shirt and added:
"And to agree with people who believe that a war can be holy."
He thought a bit, then he cancelled the last phrase. The sense was clear, all the same. The genius is to know how to limit yourself.
The most unpleasant thing. If not, it would have been a war as any other. With the difference that he was inside of it.
Some time before, he would have never written such things, besides the strictly medical notes. But some time before, Francoise was still there. And she would have not left the next morning, with him. She had left and gone away already. And the "European guys" were not to blame at all, about it. Hell no...
Yes, he had remained there, then. He had even come back the next year. And they had sent him another assistant. And she too had died. And that time, the "European guys" messed with. But please, don't add apples and oranges! She had had what she was looking for! Fools die!
She was American. Blond, beautiful and beyond recognition stupid. A crusader with the wrong chromosomes. There were a lot of crusaders like her, in Peshawar, lately. And with them, things had only got worse. In 1986 there were serious persons there, doctors, real doctors, but then, they came... They were not there to help people, they were there to see the war in the front row. But sometimes, in the front row, some stray bullets come too...
And Jesus Christ, if you INSIST to go and see an ambush, then you WANT a stray bullet for you, really! Francoise would have NEVER asked it, but that crusader DEMANDED it! And the chief of the "aul", of the village, had surrendered: "inshallah", come, as you please. She wanted to see the "shuravi" die. But for once, the "shuravi" had had their lucky day. And she didn't. They shot first, and better. And she was there. That's all.
Fools die, all as it takes. If only they could be the only ones to die, then the wars would be good for something. He had gained a good reputation in the "aul", a reputation of stern, strong man, because he did not cry when he saw her dead. But why in the hell should have he cried? She was nothing, for him. He was very sorry because even the chief of the aul was dead: he was not a bad person. And the new chief was mediocre, compared to him. But not "mediocre" as her...
No, he was not an anti-American. He loved American movies, American songs. Before to meet her, he liked to speak with the American people, when he met them at home. But she was another deal, definitely. He was there for the third time, he got used to the lay of the land. She was a Jenny-come-lately, she didn't understand a damn. He was the veteran, she was the rookie. And SHE wanted to teach HIM how the things went on!
He shook his head. Think "here", think "now", no vain efforts. Next day, he would have gone home, farewell to all that jazz. To the dead, to the wounded men that cried as damned souls, to the girls, as beautiful as untouchable, on pain of death. Yes, he had thought to come back, after the war, because people don't die only by bullets, especially down there. But now, no more. Enough to the mountains, he had seen too much in those mountains. Give me a hill, a plain, a lake, an Ocean, and I will die in peace...
To die. The foolish, horribly easy way the people died. He went there to avoid it, or at least, to limit that easiness. Blow it. Rule number one, in a war, people die a lot. Rule number two, the doctors cannot abrogate the rule number one.
It was really SO easy. Someone raised his head too early, and go. Another one remained with his mag empty at the wrong moment, and go. Another one put his feet where it was better not to, and go. And before the Stingers, when the helicopters ruled the ball, it was even easier. And before the Stingers, when the helicopters ruled the dance, it was even easier. A blast of 12,7 bullets, a salvo of rockets, a rain of shrapnel grenades hung to small parachutes, and go, go, go...
But after all, who cared? The mothers for their kids, yes. And the kids died more with starvation than with napalm, more with diseases than with bombs, more with infections than with mines. If they did not get any "green parrots", those anti-personnel mines who could look like toys, built for wounding rather than killing, and it was even worse...
But the men... "Insh Allah", and this was it. They REALLY believed that to get killed in battle gave you the entry ticket for a garden of earthly delight. And they seemed to think that to get it living properly and dying with age was not the same.
It was better than doping, and it had been invented a thousand and a half of years before. From a genius. What can be the desires of a man who lives in the desert, or thereabouts? Water, shadow, trees, music, women. Just get him to think that he can have them all, forever, if he just follows you, and he will follow you, wherever. Should he die to get there? Not too bad. To die in battle? Sorry, where the front is?
Really, if it's true, it's a boon. And if not, who comes back to say it?
The man snorted. The irony, the sarcasm, was his one and only drug: a narcotic and a tranquillizer. It was organic, free, legal and always at hand. And it was working again. He was smiling. Not the kind of smile he and Francoise exchanged there, in the past. More a grin, indeed. But a grin is better than nothing. Better than getting crazy at all...
He was still grinning, when someone threw something in the house. Something that was someone. Someone who hit the backpack and made some things fall from it and roll away in the house.
Someone who was a Russian.
"Well, look at this!" he said. He stood and went away to retake the things which had fallen from the backpack. "Welcome to the Kyber Pass Hotel, buddy. Though I guess your stay here will be short... At least as a living man... "
The Russian was looking at him. He did not seem scared. Maybe he didn't realize what a hell of a trouble he was in. It was strange he was alive yet, but maybe this was a part of his problem, not of the solution. for him. Coming to think of it, what solution?
"Yeah, it will be very short... " the medic said, turning his back to the Russian. He had his hand tied, no shoes, what could he do to harm him? "And don't look at me: there is nothing that I can do..."
"I know... " the Russian said.
The man turned his head. His face was very, very surprised.
"You... you speak... "
"Yes, quite well... University... Second year... "
"Ah... and why... "
"Why have I studied it? To become an interpreter, to travel... to work in tourism..."
"Eh... " the medic said, almost cheerfully. Then he recalled where they were, and why. "Yeah..."
"Do you really think they will kill me?" the Russian asked. He spoke calmly, as if he didn't care.
"Yes... But you are lucky. Here they JUST kill. As a rule."
