Farishta by Patricia McArdle

Author:Patricia McArdle [McArdle, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2011-05-12T07:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

March 21, 2005

At six fifteen the following morning under a cloud-streaked salmon sky, Mark and I climbed silent and unsmiling into the backseat of the colonel’s vehicle. The Beast was in the shop for repairs. Rahim was wedged unhappily between us.

Jenkins was assigned as our driver, and the colonel’s spit-and-polish vehicle commander had replaced Fuzzy in the passenger seat.

Only the governor’s official vehicles and those of his invited guests were permitted to enter the city center that morning, but it still took Jenkins almost an hour to maneuver through the crowds to the designated drop-off point near the mosque.

Thousands of New Year’s Day pilgrims arriving on foot had jammed Mazār-i-Sharīf’s broad boulevards overnight. Everyone wanted to be as close as possible to the beribboned janda and its magical powers when it was hoisted into place in the courtyard of the Blue Mosque.

Leaving the two soldiers with our vehicle, Mark, Rahim, and I followed an Afghan policeman along a narrow path into a fenced area near the mosque where VIP guests were being served steaming glasses of green tea.

Hundreds of nervous Afghan policemen, their arms linked to hold back the frenzied pilgrims, did not hesitate to bring their wooden batons down on the heads of anyone who pushed too hard against their human phalanx.

Just below the VIP viewing stand was the fifty-foot ribbon-draped janda. It lay on its side, tied down like Gulliver and looped with the ropes and pulleys that would be used to hoist it into position.

We took our seats, which were still shaded from the heat of the rising sun by the dome of the mosque. Several members of the Mazār consular corps and a few of the governor’s ministers, whom I had met previously, recognized me and nodded in my direction, but the din of the crowd made conversation impossible.

A loudspeaker blared prayers and religious music, while an announcer shouted futile orders to the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims to move back. Mark and Rahim sat stiffly in their chairs, staring straight ahead.

There was not a cloud in the sky as the sun rose higher and the shadow of the Blue Mosque slid slowly away under our feet. The heat became instantly oppressive, and the restive crowd pressed ever closer against our heavily guarded enclosure.

“Angela, there’s Nilofar,” shouted Rahim, jumping to his feet. He grabbed my arm and gestured toward the crowd, where the young law student was trying to support an old woman. They were both about to be trampled by the crowd behind them.

“She is close to the janda, and one of the policemen is trying to force her back. She is with her grandmother. May I leave you and the major here to help them? I can get to them through the VIP gate.”

I looked at Mark. “You’re in charge. May he go? ”

Rahim pointed Nilofar out to Mark. She was arguing with a very agitated policeman and was struggling to keep her grip on the old woman.

“Go help her, Rahim,” Mark ordered. “Angela and I will be fine.

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