Short Stories Read Free Page A

at last. Yes, but sound doctrine even so. Sometimes the officer Sayid Jaglan had been  showed through under the chieftain of mujahideen he was. You did well to  persuade the boy to get rid of that one. Taking off the cap activates it?   Satar asked. Sayid Jaglan nodded. Satar went over and picked up the pen and set  it on top of a battered wall, out of reach of children. If he was afraid of  doing it, he didn't show his fear, or even acknowledge it to himself. All he  said was, We should be able to salvage the explosive from it. Yes. Sayid Jaglan nodded again. You were a little soft when you joined us,  Satar who would have expected anything different from a druggist's son? You  never followed the herds or tried to scratch a living from the fields. But  you've done well. You have more wit than God gave most men, and your heart was  always strong. Now your body matches your spirit's strength. Satar didn't show how much the compliment pleased him, either. That was not the  Afghan way. Gruffly, he replied, If it is God's will, it will be accomplished. Yes. Sayid Jaglan looked down the valley, in the direction of Bulola. And I  think it is God's will that we soon reclaim your home village from the atheist  Shuravi. May it be so, Satar said. I have not sat beside my father for far too long.

    Sergei strode up the main street, such as it was, of Bulola. Dirt and dust flew  up from under his boots at every stride. In Kabul, even in Bamian, he probably  would have felt safe enough to wear his Kalashnikov slung on his back. Here, he  carried it, his right forefinger ready to leap to the trigger in an instant. The  change lever was on single shots. He could still empty the magazine in seconds,  and he could aim better that way. Beside him, Vladimir carried his weapon ready to use, too. Staying alive in  Afghan meant staying alert every second of every minute of every day. Vladimir  glanced over at a handful of gray-bearded men sitting around drinking tea and  passing the mouthpiece of a water pipe back and forth. Laughing, he said, Ah,  they love us. Don't they just! Sergei laughed, too, nervously. The Afghans' eyes followed  Vladimir and him. They were hard and black and glittering as obsidian. If the  looks they gave us came out of Kalashnikovs, we'd be Weeding in the dust. 'Fuck em, Vladimir said cheerfully. No, fuck their wives these assholes  aren't worth it. He could make it sound funny. He could make it sound obscene. But he couldn't  take away one brute fact. They all hate us, Sergei said. They don't even  bother hiding it. Every single one of them hates us. There's a hot headline! Vladimir exclaimed. What did you expect? That they'd  welcome us with open arms the women with open legs? That they'd all give us  fraternal socialist greetings? Not fucking likely! He spat. I did think that when I first got here. Didn't you? Sergei said. Before they  put me on the plane for Kabul, they told me I was coming here to save the  popular revolution. They told me we were internationalists, and the peace-loving  Afghan government had asked us for help. They haven't changed their song a bit. They told my gang the same thing,   Vladimir said. I already knew it was a crock, though.   How? How? I'll tell you how. Because my older brother's best friend came back from  here in a black tulip, inside one of those zinc coffins they make in Kabul. It  didn't have a window in it, and this officer stuck to it like a leech to make  sure Sasha's mother and dad wouldn't open it up and see what happened to him  before they planted him in the ground. That's how. Oh. Sergei didn't know how to answer that. After a few more steps, he said,  They told me the Americans started the war. Vladimir pointed out to the mountains, to the gray and brown and red rock. You  see Rambo out there? I sure don't. We've got our own Ramboviki here, Sergei said slyly. Bastards. Fucking  bastards. Vladimir started to spit once more, but