I stare
at a tiny color television in the lobby for an hour, watching a traditional
dance troupe that’s god-awful, while waiting for a manager who speaks some
English. He finally arrives. We negotiate a price in three languages and he shows
me to my room.
As we
walk I notice that I am apparently the only one staying in the hotel. A long
line of room doors are wide open.
The
room is fine. It has a bathtub of all things, a bathtub with feet. The bed is enormous.
A large window overlooks a pleasant front lawn. Knowing that the windows of
this hotel were used for target practice not long ago by an army unit encamped
nearby, I avoid the view. After a short nap, I explore the hotel.
Pillars,
grand staircases, high ceilings, long windows—all right out of the 1930s. I
wander through the cavernous hall and into the gardens behind the hotel. Out of
boredom, I hop a fence and start walking towards town. It’s ten or so and quite
dark.
I hear
it first from the alleys—the howling. It spooks me from the start. Wolves come
to mind, but I am, of course, in the center of a city. It gets louder.
I am
the only pedestrian out and about. That seems strange in such a large city.
After
three blocks the howling is still louder, and from multiple directions: in
bushes, behind cars, behind mounds of trash, and above, on balconies. I turn around;
retrace my steps, feeling panic, unsure of myself. My pace quickening.
At the
entrance to the hotel grounds, the octogenarian guard, armed with a Chinese
made AK-47, salutes me elaborately. I laugh at him and at my own foolishness, return
to my room, and sleep soundly.
Months
later I hear the story. When the Taliban finally moved north and took the city,
they decided to punish the Hazaras, a Mongol tribe and a constant thorn in
their side, for multiple grievances. They went door to door pulling out every
Hazara man, woman and child that they could find. They slaughtered them where
they stood in the street. Next they forbade anyone, upon pain of death, from
burying the rotting corpses. So the
city’s half-starved dogs took over and became fat on human flesh.
Now
that normal times have returned, the dogs are hungry again. But this time with
a difference: they remember their predations: days and nights of feasting, and
whom they feasted upon.
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