End of Manners by Francesca Marciano Page B

and yell to her that we were flying over the Himalayas. I was possessed by an unexpected, mad euphoria (but then, what was that, actually? the Himalayas or the Hindu Kush? weren’t they the same thing? how annoying that I shouldn’t even know that), but she was sleeping so soundly it didn’t even seem like she was breathing; she looked like a bundle of expensive wool forgotten on the seat.
    Beyond the peaks I saw the stony desert begin to spread from the foot of the mountains announcing Afghanistan. The Wagnerian sound track went up a notch. I knew that desert. I had seen it drawn on the maps I had looked at in the previous weeks. As the plane started its descent I realized that the desert’s vastness, the ruggedness of its terrain, were no longer just abstractions, mere colors on a map. In just a few minutes, once the cabin door opened, I was going to fall right into this place called Afghanistan. Just looking at it from above, that immense, corrugated territory ringed by mountains, was enough to tell me that here the game was of immense proportions. Suddenly the whole week spent with the Defenders—the slides, the dummy shots, the pumps squirting blood, the latex intestines and the explosions among pruned hedges and wet oak trees—seemed like a pathetic attempt to put some order into an expanse ruled by titanic forces.
    Once I had reached as far as this no-man’s-land, I felt I was back to square one.

    Hanif had been highly recommended to Imo by a colleague at the BBC and was supposed to be the man who would solve our every problem from the moment we set foot in the country. He’d been described to her as an excellent fixer, someone who knew lots of people in the various ministries, who could easily get permits, get us through checkpoints without a problem, who spoke English well and who was used to working with Westerners. In the early days of the Taliban regime, Hanif had fled to Pakistan and had lived in Peshawar as a refugee; he’d been back in Kabul for only a couple of years and currently worked for the recently revived Afghan TV. In short, Hanif was reputed to be number one as far as efficiency and charisma went, and Imo had bent over backwards to secure his services.
    “He’s the guy who actually
reads
the six o’clock news. Apparently for the last couple of months he’s also the presenter of a quiz show that goes on air once a week. Everyone will ask for his autograph on the streets. It’ll be like traveling with Madonna,” Imo said as we were beginning our descent.
    Kabul looked like a dusty patch with no color.
    “Why does he need an extra job if he’s a TV star?” I asked.
    “Because we pay him one hundred and eighty dollars a day, which is probably more than half of his monthly salary, that’s why. I don’t think you get it: there’s still no electricity, no roads, in this country.” She looked me in the eye. “Everyone is poor, everyone is struggling. Nobody is a star in Afghanistan, Maria.”
    She pulled out from her diary a printout of an e-mail he had sent her.
    “Good day, Miss Glass, I trust your health is fine and so too is that of your family. I wish your profession may proceed as you desire and I wish you much prosperity. I shall be honored to work at your complete disposal, but I am obliged to warn you, the road to the village you wish to visit is greatly in disorder because of debris from an explosion and presently it is not possible to surpass the crater, but inshallah, perhaps the detritus may be removed before your arrival and we may proceed.”
             
    The first thing to greet us on Afghan ground in the early-morning light was three big posters plastered on the outside of the airport building. One was a huge portrait of President Hamid Karzai in his astrakhan cap, quoting a phrase in English on peace and democracy. The second one was an even bigger image, of the great Afghan hero Commander General Massoud, the Lion of Panjshir, leader of the resistance