The Watch Read Online Free Page A

watch with cold fury as they leave.
    Shortly afterward, I am surprised when the Tajik returns with yet another Amrikâyi, accompanied as usual by gun-toting soldiers. The lieutenant is nowhere to be seen, and I feel distinctly relieved.
    The newcomer plants himself before me and, without further ado, hands me a stiff and ragged piece of brown cloth. I fix my gaze warily on him: he has coarse stubble, a hard reddish face, and watery eyes. He addresses me rapidly, his teeth flashing as he belts out the words, his eyes opening wide once he finishes and awaits my response. I turn my face to the Tajik and wait for him to translate. With a peculiar diffidence, he says: Sergeant Schott has cut out this piece of cloth from your brother’s kameez.
    I glance at the rag with shock and nearly drop it.
    At length, in a stranger’s voice, I hear myself telling them that my brother’s kameez was green in color, while this cloth is brown.
    That’s dried blood, the sergeant says indifferently.
    From his very indifference, I know that he is speaking the truth. I hold the rag; it burns like a red-hot brand.
    I ask the Tajik: What am I supposed to do with this?
    He replies in an undertone. The Americans would like you to bury this cloth in place of your brother and, in return, give them the information they seek. After that, you can depart in peace.
    I close my eyes and bury my face in the rag. Before my shuttered eyelids I see my brave and handsome brother with his ever-present smile—but also the moment of his death. I see him lying broken-backed in the dust, his eyes cast down in shame at my own ordeal. I would give the last of my food and water for a final word from him. I would surrender my own life with a glad smile if I could exchange it for his.
    Before I open my eyes, I press the cloth to my face again and breathe in deeply. It retains the scent of our house and the mass of mountains that surround it.
    Then I let it drop to the ground.
    Addressing the Tajik, I say: Tell your masters that I refuse. I am not going to barter on the basis of these pitiful credits and debits.
    Even before he has finished translating, the sergeant takes out a shiny tablet and stabs his fingers into it. Then he nods at the Tajik and begins firing questions at me, the words shooting out as if from the barrel of a gun:
    What is your full name? What is your father’s name?
    What is the name of your tribe? How many men are in it?
    How many of these men accompanied your brother in the attack? What are their names? Who will succeed your brother now that he is dead?
    How many guns does your village hold? How many villages in your tribe?
    How soon …? How much …? How many …? How far …?
    I meet all these questions with a dignified silence. I do not budge, even when the sergeant raises his voice and leans his face close enough to mine for his spittle to rain down on me. Finally, he steps back in frustration, his face flushed, and snaps: How is it possible for anyone to be so ignorant? Is it because the women in your tribe are locked indoors and separated from the men as in the rest of your damn country?
    No, we are neither locked indoors nor separated from our men-folk, I say calmly.
    Then how do you explain your ignorance? Are you a fool?
    I have other things to do, I reply, than to eavesdrop on what the men may be talking about.
    But you have ears, don’t you? You have eyes and all your senses!
    When one is busy with work, one does not hear or see.
    My determination must show on my face because his voice loses confidence. He gestures to the soldiers behind him and they point their guns threateningly at me. The Tajik implores me to cooperate but I don’t respond. He continues pleading but my wall of indifference saps his spirit. He stops abruptly and we’re left staring at eachother. The sergeant shakes his head, gives his device a few desultory pecks, steps back, and marches off with the rest.
    I am left staring at the rag on the ground, this pitiful