“I have a deck of cards,” says Sonia.
“A deck of cards will do as well. Are we agreed on that score at least?”
“As if we had a choice,” says Ashton.
Amin gives the Englishman a stern look. “No, we don’t have a choice as to whether we will die, but we can choose if we will die like human beings. Our captor wishes to reduce us to a squabbling herd of animals and wishes to degrade Sonia by making her the mistress of our fate. He would like to see us begging her for another day of life, offering her money, favors, I don’t know what. We can choose not to do that. We can choose to leave the order of our dying in the hands of fate-or God, if you will.” He pauses to look each of them in the eye, then asks, “Are we agreed, then?”
Murmurs of assent, nods. Porter Cosgrove clears his throat. “But it’s not certain that anyone will be killed, is it? I mean, it depends on whether any innocent Muslims are killed. Maybe they’ll call some sort of truce while we’re being held.”
An incredulous laugh from Harold Ashton, and Amin says gently, “Porter, of course we all hope that, but I am afraid there is little chance that the various wars will cease just because nine people are being held hostage. Innocent Muslims are being killed every day by various armies, and the fact that most of them are dying at the hands of fellow Muslims can’t affect our situation. The deaths will not stop-if not in Pakistan, then Kashmir, Afghan i stan, Iraq, Chechnya. We can always hope for rescue, but there is no point in clutching at false hopes.”
Sonia observes that Cosgrove has a lock on the prize for most demoralized captive. He seems to have lost two sizes since his expansive performance at the dinner party, was it four days ago? A lifetime ago, at any rate. His face has fallen into itself like a rotted white grape, and his eyes are a hurt child’s: How can this be happening to wonderful charitable me? He sags against his wife’s sturdy youth. Sonia catches Annette’s troubled look but pulls her eyes away, feeling embarrassment, guilt.
Amin speaks again. He’s also transformed himself, Sonia observes, from a slick, even oily, foundation professional into a death-camp leader. He’s physically shrunken, like the others, but this has only exposed an unexpected core of moral steel.
“The other decision we must make is whether to hold our conference now. Sonia tells us it is our tyrant’s desire. We must not suppose that he is really interested in what we have to say. It is most probable that he wishes to mock us. Nevertheless, I believe we should do it.”
There is some outburst at this, but he holds his hand up until they are quiet again. “This is why,” he continues. “We all stand for something and, if I may say it, different versions of the same thing. We stand for peace. We think it is possible in this world. We think intelligence, fair dealing, and moral clarity can help bring about peace, even in places where war is the only thing anyone remembers. Some of us have actually done this, so we understand that it is not merely a pious illusion. Some of us are inspired by religion. We think a compassionate God desires all His children to live in peace. Others of us are not religious, but believe that war is a crime against reason and humanity. None of us expected to be in this situation, with death hanging over all our heads. But consider our choices now. We can refuse to perform for this evil man, that is one way to look at it, or we can speak our truth, even in the face of death. This is what is meant by the word martyr, as I’m sure you know. Martyr means witness. And speaking only for myself, this is how I would prefer to die, with my truth on my lips to the last breath.”
In the silence after this, Sonia begins to clap, and the others join in with enthusiasm, all except Porter Cosgrove, who sits stunned on the edge of a charpoy, like a stuffed doll. But Annette claps, as does Ashton, although Sonia notices he is looking at Annette as he does.
Schildkraut now rises as the applause fades and says, “Let me add, if I may, one observation to my colleague’s remarks. I am the oldest person here, by a good measure. I was looking forward to my seventy-sixth birthday next month, and I suppose that in the normal course of things I would have volunteered to be the first to go to death. It would not be much of a sacrifice, I think, not of very much time anyway. But as it is, I will submit to the hand of fate, as Amin has suggested. I say fate and not God, you notice; I am one of Amin’s atheists. And as the oldest of you, I suppose I have been to more conferences over the years than anyone else. That is what we intelligentsia do in the modern world, we travel and talk and confer, all paid for by people like Mr. Craig there. It is one of the perks of such a life, quite pleasant-the nice hotels, the beautiful conference centers-yes, and I agree with Amin that we must do this thing now, to speak our truth, and I would like to add that, should any of us survive, we should propose this arrangement as a general principle for conferences. At every conference there should be a card drawing and executions. Everyone should speak as if their speech were their last words on earth. I submit that this would make for shorter meetings and a good deal less bullshit.”
He sits. After a frozen instant, Amin bursts into laughter and the rest of them join in, all except, again, Porter Cosgrove. He seems about to cry. Then he does cry, deep, almost soundless sobs. Annette talks to him softly, urges him to stand, moves him shuffling away from the others, and lays him down on a charpoy near the far wall.
Nobody comments on this. Instead they crowd around Sonia and Amin, seemingly reluctant to move away, as if these two have some powerful mana that will lift the curse of death, Amin because he is now the leader, and Sonia because… she doesn’t quite understand it, but it has to do, she thinks, with the experience she had in the cellar stable. Maybe they sense it, the shadow of God; maybe they think, even the rationalists, the atheists, that she can work miracles as a result.
Sonia says, “There’s something else you should know. I guess you’ve heard that I’m interpreting dreams for some of the locals, yes? Well, as Amin said, I’m not sure we can impress Alakazai with anything we do, but I have the sense that Bahram Alakazai is not well loved as a leader, and neither is his field commander, Idris Ghulam. It’s hard to lead Pashtuns, even if they respect you, and respect ordinarily goes through khel and tribe. They’ll take orders from people they don’t know if they believe it’s for a higher cause, like the jihad, but they don’t like it. If the jihad for some reason proves illegitimate, the whole arrangement breaks down. If their violence is not authorized, they accrue blood guilt for the people they kill. And they need not take orders from someone not in their clan hierarchy, which I suspect is the case here. Alakazai is a half-breed, and Idris has the look of a malang, a man of one of the menial tribes.”
“But even if this is true, Sonia,” says Manjit Nara, “how is this to our advantage?”
“I’m not sure yet, but dreams are very important to these people. I think I’ve almost won over the guard Mahmoud. I mean he’ll still torture me, but his heart’s not in it. And Alakazai doesn’t seem to want to go the full legal route to have me put to death under sharia law. Instead he’s whipped up this supposed psychological torture for me. That’s not Muslim, that’s simple sadism, and people won’t like it when they find out about it, and Alakazai will lose face when we foil that by putting the choice in God’s hands. Meanwhile, we can expect a big audience for the conference because Pashtuns love talk fests, and I intend to simultaneously translate the presentations into Pashto as you all speak. Among other things, we can make the case that murdering hostages is a violation of sharia law. Which it is.”