After the attempted arrest of Dost Mohammad, Leo had accompanied his only surviving student back to her family home to help collect her belongings, the most important of which – her books on Marxism – had been hidden outside in the failed hope that her parents wouldn’t find them. Two Soviet soldiers provided protection. By the time they were ready to leave a crowd had gathered, pushing up to the edge of the vehicle. The soldiers fired shots into the air to disperse the mob while Leo bundled Nara into the car. As they drove through the crowd, a small plastic bag hit the windscreen. Acid leaked out and the glass smoked and melted. Leo ordered the soldiers to continue driving, not to get out of the car, sensing that the provocation was a prelude to an ambush. Nara remained calm, despised by the community she’d once been part of. In response to her exile, she practised her Russian.

—My Russian is not good. I would like to make it better. From now we must speak more Russian.

For the rest of the journey, as the windscreen bubbled and hissed, she read her Russian phrase book as though nothing were wrong.

Curious at the sound of this music, Leo found the discipline to delay smoking, slipping on his flip-flops. He entered the corridor and knocked on her door. Nara opened up, releasing the several heavy locks. She was wearing her uniform despite being off duty. She’d been granted the privilege of Soviet-level accommodation primarily because she was an important symbol of the insurgents’ failure to kill all the trainee officers, rather than a gesture of equality between the two forces. She was a talisman of the occupation, and they intended to protect her. Outside the barbed-wire fence and guard patrols she would only last a few hours.

On the living-room table was a bulky cassette player. Nara asked, in Russian:

—Is the music too… big?

She couldn’t find the word and changed into Dari.

—Is it too loud?

—No.

The music was bootleg Western pop, the kind that could be found in markets, spread out on shawls, with photocopied album covers, shipped in from other countries, sold at an enormous mark-ups, intended for the occupation force. Leo had no idea what the music was, or who the singer might be. The singing was English: the accent was American. The man had an excellent voice. Nara asked, genuinely nervous:

—Is it a mistake for a Communist to purchase the music of an American singer?

Leo shook his head.

—I don’t think anyone is going to mind.

—The captain gave me an allowance. I have never had my own money before. I spent it. I spent it all in a single afternoon. I kept buying things I didn’t need until the money was gone. Was I wrong to do that?

—No.

On >— The singer is called Sam Cooke. Have you heard of him?

—I don’t follow music.