A high-pitched voice stops Rassoul in his tracks. Where did it come from? He calls out, in his fragile, feeble voice: “Is anyone there?” “Yes, djinns!” resounds another voice, prompting sarcastic laughter from a stone sentry box by the Kabul Wellayat gate. Peering inside, Rassoul can just discern two bodies stretched out on the ground. “Did you see a woman go in?” “A woman? Here? If only!” The two bodies shake with laughter. “Is there anyone at the Wellayat?” “Who do you want?” “The public prosecutor.” “Which djinn is that?’ And then, to his mate, “Do you know it?” “No. Ask him for a cigarette.” Rassoul takes two cigarettes and holds them out. “Throw them in!” He obeys, insisting: “There must be someone there, though? A governor, a judge, or …” “Go and see for yourself! Why ask us?” * * * Rassoul didn’t see the soldiers’ faces. He makes his way into the ransacked courtroom, its floor strewn with charred papers and notebooks. The walls are riddled with bullets.
