The Opium Prince Read online

  Wedging the company report back in his satchel, the old man gripped his cane and stood. “I have work to do.” He moved deftly, his walking stick like an extra limb that granted him a new physical power. “Take care of your wound.” Sherzai gestured to his own brow. “You don’t want it getting infected.”

  They shared polite goodbyes. Daniel closed the door. Slowly, the rhythms of the day began to feel normal. He could imagine a time when the accident would seem long past. Whatever Taj wanted, he would not get, and he would eventually recede into the background just like the opium trade. Rebecca would recover from this, too. She would recover from everything. She and Daniel would try again, and this time they would be luckier.

  5

  The room grew shadowed as the afternoon wore on, a rare summer storm swelling outside. Thunder bellowed as lightning gilded the sky. Daniel looked out the window. Three stories below on the rain-polished pavement walked a blind man, arms outstretched, gait like a child’s tentative shuffle. His wet clothes were pasted to his skin, his naked feet parting puddles as he struggled against the storm. Pedestrians hustled past each other and cars navigated the traffic circle at whatever speed the traffic allowed.

  A businessman paced back and forth, glancing at his watch as a dark figure rippled into view, something billowing in the wind. It was a woman cloaked in a chaderi; she raised her head to look at the punishing sky through the mesh-covered eye panel. She drifted into the blind man’s orbit. Walking into each other, they both lost their footing. The businessman helped the blind man to his feet but did nothing for the woman, checking his watch again as he crossed the street.

  When Daniel took his briefcase and left the office, Miss Soraya and the others had already gone, the hallways dark besides the glare of fluorescent bulbs. A guard touched two fingers to his cap and wished him a good night. Outside, Daniel looked around, ready to help the woman, but she was no longer there. He set off toward home. It was a four-mile walk, but tonight he didn’t mind, and he thought he would never again mind walking a long distance, nor did he mind the rain that lashed at his clothes and his face. He headed south toward the river.

  The roads were thick with honking cars, their drivers frustrated by cyclists, imperious camels, flocks of sheep, and mules that refused to move. Tonight, all the cars seemed larger and louder than usual. A white Datsun honked, a long, plaintive sound, and the car filled Daniel’s vision and the honking sound became the screech of brakes and it all dissolved in a burning smell that made him stop breathing until his instincts forced him to inhale. He passed small shops that sold everything from lentils and onions to Timex watches and American jeans.

  He passed a billboard advertising a three-year-old movie, The Godfather: Part II, its arrival next week at the Ariana Cinema billed as a major event. Towering over the sidewalk, the poster was partly torn down the middle, the gash running the length of Al Pacino’s considerable nose. On the edge of the sidewalk stood a man in an elegant suit. As Daniel walked by, the stranger turned and threw a convivial arm around him.

  “What an honor,” Taj said.

  Daniel shrugged off his arm.

  The opium khan recoiled in mock surprise. “Did you not like my letter?”

  Daniel stepped into a puddle, splashing the cuffs of Taj’s trousers and leather shoes and his own rain-soaked clothes. When he didn’t respond, Taj continued. “We have much to talk about.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “You need glasses, then.” Taj straightened his tie. “Which would explain why you didn’t see me from your window. You came out terribly fast.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Daniel said, recognizing Taj as the businessman on the sidewalk.

  “I thought I might catch you at lunch, but my lookout boy told me you never came out.

  The bloodlust Daniel had felt in the Yassaman field returned. He wanted to throw this man to the pavement and slam his head into it so hard he could hear the skull break and watch the blood matte his Brylcreemed hair. Watch the vain smirk turn into an incredulous gasp.

  Before he could move, the khan took him under the arm. “Don’t do anything stupid, Daniel Sajadi.”

  With his tidy sideburns and wire-rimmed glasses, which he likely did not need, he looked like any accountant renting space in Daniel’s building. His aftershave smelled of cloves, and he was shorter than Daniel remembered, but just as thin.

  “I’ll try not to. As grateful as I am for the advice, I think I’ll be okay.”

  Taj kept pace. “My poppies will be ready for harvesting soon.”

  “It’s good of you to give me a heads-up. But I already knew that.”

  They passed a hookah lounge where four police officers were framed in the open window, sharing a water pipe. Tendrils of smoke escaped, the sweet fragrance drifting into the evening. “Those policemen might be interested in what you’re up to,” Daniel said.

  “Indeed,” Taj replied. “The efficiency of our law-enforcement stallions is such that I often find myself unable to sleep, trembling at the thought of their imminent arrival and the pioneering tactics they will use to subdue me.” He gestured back toward the Godfather billboard. “When I say the poppies are ready, this is not some kind of mafia code for something else, like in your movies.”

  They had crossed the river and flanked the old part of the city with its labyrinthine streets and shops. They entered Shor Bazaar, where musicians sat in crooked stairwells, the sounds of the tabla and rubab rising in the air. They played only for each other, the passersby passing by. Daniel concentrated on his surroundings as if the sights and sounds could drown out the khan’s presence. Three women with pageboy haircuts and skinny heels came clicking down the sidewalk, complaining about their salaries. A boy with a mule offered Daniel a half kilo of almonds and promised to throw in a bag of raisins. Against a crumbling wall sat the old man without arms Daniel often saw. Next to him was a boy, maybe nine years old, who helped fetch food and in return had a parent figure.

  With Taj still beside him, Daniel didn’t want to make the turn onto the road toward home, so he stopped at a pizza parlor that also made local specialties. He walked past a plastic table sheltered by a dripping umbrella, the name Cinzano printed along its scalloped edge. Although the restaurant complied with alcohol laws by trying to cover up liquor names with pictures of dishes from the menu, some of the pictures hung precariously, failing at their purpose.

  The Pepsi sign in the window flickered on, the lights flashing red, white, and blue as they rippled. With Taj on his heels, Daniel considered turning back to the office, but that would be too close to fleeing.

  “Invite me to dinner,” said the opium khan. “You owe me.”

  Daniel sat at a small table with a red-and-white tablecloth, his briefcase awkwardly heavy. The opium khan sat opposite him and after a moment said, “The silent treatment? Very well. All the better that you should listen.”

  A waiter hurriedly lit a candle and placed it before them along with two glasses, which he splashed full of water. Daniel ordered lamb skewers to take home, just enough for Rebecca. He wasn’t hungry. He watched passersby in the street, acutely aware of Taj’s warm breath and cologne.

  “You’ve had two days to recuperate from your shock. I hope that you are thinking more clearly, as I am here to reiterate my request. It’s a simple and reasonable one.”

  Daniel studied the open kitchen, where men in flour-dusted caps tossed dough in the air.

  “I beseech you once more: Do not destroy the poppies in the Yassaman field. They are the fruit of my labor. Do you understand?” Taj smiled only with his lips. From his pocket, he produced a Milky Way, which he unwrapped carefully, tearing the foil cleanly along the seams. He picked up a knife from the table and shaved a slice from his chocolate bar.

  Daniel pressed his feet into the floor, eyes locked on the blade. How did one talk to a man like this? His father w
ould have known. He hoped his next words would convince the opium khan to leave him alone. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that some parallel universe existed where I wanted to help you. I couldn’t, because the fields are destroyed in order, and once that order is determined by Washington, it’s carved in stone.” Before today, the statement would have been a lie, but the call with Smythe made it true.

  Taj closed his eyes and considered Daniel’s comment. “Very well. Another approach then.” Taj drank deeply from his glass until it was empty. “Mr. Sajadi, if you do not leave the Yassaman field alone, I will kill every Kochi that was to help with that harvest. Every man, every woman.” He dabbed the corners of his lips with a napkin. He widened his eyes when he added, “Every child.”

  Daniel searched for some coded meaning in this declaration, something to make it less monstrous. He suddenly found himself wishing to see Telaya’s face and hear her voice, as if her presence would give him courage and strength against the khan, but she did not appear. He leaned across the table, and it felt like he would never be able to lift his fingers off the sticky wax tablecloth. “What did you say?”

  Taj repeated his threat, wiping his glasses with his sleeve. He shaved another slice from the chocolate bar. A dry, bitter fluid collected in Daniel’s mouth. He was suddenly aware of the bad disco music bouncing off the walls. The waiter arrived with his order and the bill.

  “Here,” Taj said, pointing to his lip and offering Daniel a napkin. “You perspire easily.” When Daniel did not react, the Manticore folded the napkin neatly and arranged it parallel to the table’s edge.

  In the seconds that followed, the past, present, and future crashed together in Daniel’s thoughts. He chastised himself for the despair that he hoped did not show on his face, for wishing he could ask his father what to do, or agha, for wishing again to see the girl whose ghost threw him into another dimension where she ran free, where he’d held her hand and stopped her from running into the road. And yet he sounded composed when he said: “You would gain nothing from the death of all those people.”

  “You’re right, which is not surprising, because you are in every way my superior. I gain nothing.” Taj aimed a steady finger at Daniel. “But you lose a great deal. Because their lives are now in your hands.” He pointed to the cardboard box the waiter had brought, a greasy stain spreading over its lid. “In any case, you must go, or your meat will get cold. Is this for your wife? Surely she deserves a finer meal.”

  Daniel felt his body clench when the man mentioned Rebecca.

  “You appear to find my request unexpected,” Taj continued. “You’ve left me no choice. If one cannot appeal to a man’s honor, one must move on to his fear.”

  A trio of adolescents came in, ordering enough pizza for a large party. They leaned against the counter in their fringed denim jackets, their backs to the kitchen as they laughed at inside jokes.

  “You don’t know how the world works,” Daniel said. “I can’t stop the Yassaman field from being reformed.”

  “Which world? There is only your world and mine.” Taj was on his feet. “I know you’ll find a way to honor my request. I expect a confirmation of that tomorrow night. Come find me at the Zoroaster. You know the club, I assume?”

  Daniel shook his head. “You’ll never get what you want.”

  “I have a better chance than you, because at least I know what I want. And now, though you have been a charming dinner companion, I must take my leave.” Taj walked away and vanished into the storm-cleansed air. He was nowhere in sight when Daniel resumed his walk home.

  The rain had stopped. The restaurant bag felt slippery in his fingers, as did the handle of his briefcase. An aging voice rang out behind him. It was the man without arms, asking Daniel where he was going. He squatted beside the invalid and the orphan huddled next to him.

  “I only asked where you were going, sir,” the man said, eyes glistening with fear. “Don’t hurt me.”

  The orphan placed a protective hand on his friend’s leg, telling Daniel to leave him alone.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, my friend. I’m just wondering: Why are you sitting here?” Daniel pointed south to the boulevard with more thickly populated sidewalks. “There’s more food and money down that way.”

  The man said matter-of-factly, “I am full of broken glass. If I move, I’ll be sliced up like a lamb from the inside. I have to be very careful.”

  “Take this,” said Daniel, handing the bag to the child. There was abundant food at home, and the cook would make something better.

  “I’m not hungry,” said the man without arms.

  “You must be.”

  “I’m not. When my wife was alive, I had a home. We didn’t have a home outside, but we had one inside.” The man looked down at his concave stomach. “In here. You understand? Then my wife died and the home fell apart, and all the windows broke, and the pieces of glass stayed inside me. That’s how it is.”

  Daniel gave the pair all the cash he had. As he walked away, the man said, “There is such worry on your face. I pray you find peace.”

  Find peace. Peace wasn’t like a wallet, something you simply found when it was misplaced. Sometimes, it was just lost. As he reached the T-shaped intersection and turned right on Jada Maiwand, Daniel heard a chorus of angry voices rising. Looking ahead, he saw a dozen men assembling on the sidewalk. People were arguing about something. Their disparate cries coalesced into a single chant: “Death to Russia! Death to Communism! Islam is the true way!”

  Men walked across the street or emerged from shops, joining the growing chorus. The police wouldn’t be far behind. Women quickened their pace, pulling their headscarves tight and their children close. Those in chaderi glided by, padding along the walls like fleeing thieves. Daniel saw what had sparked the confrontation. An unmanned tank loomed at the curb near an alley, and while that was nothing remarkable, someone had tied a makeshift flag to its turret: a square of red fabric, the call to Russian sympathizers and Communists. Men with long beards scrambled up the tank, standing on its roof, broadcasting their contempt through cupped hands. One of them tore the banner off its pole and held it triumphantly in the air before throwing it to the pavement. His feet were bare, but his head was covered. Rebecca always described this as being “dressed upside down.”

  The chanting was accompanied by applause and shouting that was reaching a frenzied pitch. Daniel smelled gasoline. Flames rose inside a circle of cheering men. People knocked into him, rushing away from the turmoil. It was then that he saw her. Laila was striding down the boulevard, arms linked with women to her right and left. He sometimes saw her on his way home as she left the clinic for the day. But never like this. She was walking with a crowd defending that red flag, yelling against those who had set the fire. What was she doing? A man seized her elbow, barking something that Daniel could not hear. She snapped her arm back, her chin raised to his face. Sirens pierced the air. The melee grew with the fire, hordes quarreling on the sidewalks and spilling onto the street.

  He dropped his briefcase and ran toward Laila. She didn’t see him. She looked like she wouldn’t see anything besides what she wanted to see. The sirens grew louder. Angry faces were disfigured by the strobing lights of police cars. It wasn’t long before the crowd dissolved. Some fled the guns and batons, evaporating into the city’s backstreets, while others crowded around the soldiers and cops, shouting.

  Laila was not the only person Daniel recognized. Khaiyam, the cleric who had once been in charge of his admittedly pointless religious education, was with the first group. He had been at every protest, planned or otherwise, for as long as Daniel could remember. Protests were few, because neither the old king nor the new president allowed them. And Khaiyam had been part of that failed Islamic coup two years ago that no one seemed to care about. He’d survived the arrests and executions that followed and still managed to appear so often he was among
the most famous clerics in the city, even though he was only a mullah, not an imam. The distinction didn’t matter much here anyway. This wasn’t like Iran, with its strict religious order and hierarchies.

  Khaiyam had been kind to Daniel when Sayed was in prison. Even kinder after he died. Whatever strength Daniel had found in religion, he had found in those impossible months. He waved to him now, and Khaiyam waved back before being absorbed by the human mass. Daniel weaved through the crowd toward Laila but could not reach her. Her hair had slipped from its ponytail, and the scarf swung back and forth in her hand as she stalked up the boulevard.

  Someone tugged at his clothes. It was the orphan. He was holding Daniel’s briefcase, which made him look even smaller. “I kept it safe!” The boy’s smile took up most of his moon face as he held it out for Daniel. A middle-aged man in a suit turned and scanned the boy lasciviously, but when he tried to talk to him, the boy spat in his face and decamped back toward the pizzeria. Daniel hoped his own child—the one he hoped would one day be born—would be as smart as that orphan.

  He thought about the children of the Yassaman field, of an article in the day’s paper about deepening inequality and the treatment of children. He could understand why people like Laila thought revolutionary communism was the only way. But they were wrong.

  He turned left on Darlaman Road. The broken traffic light welcomed him from a hundred yards away with its glassy red wink. Eventually he entered that familiar section of smaller paths with no lights, leaving the chaos behind. He breathed deeply, grateful for the cool night air. As the sirens faded, so did the gasoline and flames, until the protest was nothing more than an echo. A cyclist rode past, clinking his bell, proud that he had one. They shared a small smile.

  Almost home, he was relieved to feel the unpaved road, now muddy from rain, under his soles. Soon, he would hear Rebecca at the piano. Every evening she played arpeggios and scales for hours. Only afterward would she allow herself the pleasures of true melody. Rebecca had a simple goal: to spend more time at her piano each day than her office typewriter. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when she returned from her part-time job at the embassy, she sometimes played from dusk to dawn.