Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

‘Ten thousand,’ sighed Fairhead, ‘and handsome. One can only dream.’

Just then a roaring and whooping and stamping and drumming was set up outside in the hallway, and Mrs McCosh exclaimed, ‘Goodness gracious!’

‘Ooh,’ said Sophie, ‘cacophany and polydindination!’

The door burst open and three Khattak warriors hurled themselves into the room, leaping and whirling. Caractacus hurtled out of the room, between their legs. One was beating on a clay drum with a curved stick, and all were chanting something quite indecipherable in a strange high-pitched yodel. They wore ragged black beards, their equally ragged long hair was tied up in bobs, and their faces were of a golden hue. They wore chappalls on their feet, and, on their bodies, long loose shirts that, on closer inspection, would turn out to be improvised from old sheets. Two warriors held long curved swords, and began to slash at each other ferociously and rhythmically.

Everyone in the drawing room was both appalled and fascinated. It was unclear as to who these prodigiously athletic savages were, and the two showed every semblance of truly desiring to slaughter each other. Their blood-curdling shrieks and the stamping of their feet on the bare floorboards made everything so much more alarming.

One of the combatants raised his sword above his head and slashed downwards. His opponent sidestepped and crouched down, cutting horizontally with a wide sweep that should have taken the other’s legs off at the knee, had not the latter skipped lightly into the air. When this manoeuvre was repeated, it began to dawn on the audience that they were watching, not a fight, but a dance.

A blade came down diagonally as if to strike at the base of a neck, but the target ducked and executed exactly the same manoeuvre in return. Then the two circled each other, glaring and snarling, until suddenly they both began to whirl like dervishes, two, three, four times, balanced on one foot and bobbing up and down like shuttles. Finally they faced each other once more, and circled, each with the point of a sword levelled at the tip of his opponent’s nose.

Suddenly they broke away from each other and advanced upon their audience, eyes rolling with aggression and insanity, chewing the ends of their beards, and feigning the intention of cutting the poor folk to pieces. Millicent squealed and ran from the room, but Cookie took up a brass candlestick to defend herself. Christabel and Ottilie looked uneasy, aware that this was all a wonderful hoax, but thoroughly disturbed by it nonetheless. Mr McCosh watched with amusement and appreciation, a cigar clamped between his lips, and Mrs McCosh enjoyed it all with a look of immense disapproval on her face. Rosie sat very still, with Esther on her lap, sucking her thumb. Sophie, pretending to be terrified, used the occasion as an excuse to cling more closely to her husband.

The dance ended with a frenzied ratatat-tatting on the clay drum, and howls of ‘Allah o akbar!’ from all the protagonists. ‘Dadda’ said Esther, pointing.

‘Gracious me, I do believe it’s Archie and Fluke,’ said Christabel as the three men linked arms and bowed. ‘We haven’t seen Archie since the wedding!’

‘Feel free to applaud!’ said Daniel, and the assembly obediently did so, disconcerted though every member of it was.

‘Was that a Pathan dance?’ asked Sophie.

‘Pathans don’t dance,’ replied Archie, ‘they think it’s undignified. Chitralis like to dance. And sing.’

‘You had me quite fooled for a moment,’ said Sophie. ‘How did you do your faces?’

‘Wren’s polish, of course.’

‘Silly me,’ said Sophie. ‘I presume you got the beards from a goat?’

‘Archie, is that you?’ asked Christabel.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ replied Archie.

‘Introductions and fond reunions later!’ cried Daniel.

‘We are now going to do the Chitralis’ vulture dance,’ announced Archie. ‘Would anyone like to volunteer to be the corpse?’

‘Very much so, I would,’ declared Mr McCosh, ‘but it may take some time to lower myself to the floor.’

‘Do take my arm,’ said Archie, and so it was that Mr McCosh was lowered with much aplomb to the floor, where he lay on his back, sportingly puffing his cigar smoke towards the ceiling. Mrs McCosh was thoroughly mortified to witness her husband thus.

‘Would anyone like to play the drum?’ asked Archie. ‘Otherwise Fluke doesn’t get a chance to dance.’

‘I shall do it,’ said Mr McCosh gamely, ‘horizontal though I may be. Would someone take my cigar? Fairhead?’

The three dancers got down onto their haunches, and Mr McCosh began to beat the drum. ‘Slower!’ said Archie, and Mr McCosh obeyed. Fairhead held McCosh’s cigar at arm’s length. He had always disliked the things quite intensely. Privately, he considered them the turds of the Devil, and went for frequent strolls round the garden when Mr McCosh was smoking one.

The three men performed manoeuvres that can only be described as macabre and grotesque. They hopped in a curious oblique skipping fashion towards the corpse, leapt back when it showed signs of life, flapped their arms in imitation of wings, pecked at each other and jostled each other out of the way. They gathered around the body and made a brilliant imitation of vultures ripping a hole in the belly and dragging out the intestines with long sideways wrenchings of the neck. The only thing they did not do was stand on the body itself.

At last Daniel fell back and announced, ‘I don’t think I can do any more of this hopping. My thighs are killing me.’

‘Let’s eat Daniel!’ cried Fluke, and the two remaining dancers switched their attention to him.

‘Can I get up now?’ asked Mr McCosh. ‘I think I need a stiff drink.’ Archie helped him to his feet, and he felt a sudden dizziness, from which he quickly recovered.

The three performers sat side by side on the sofa, sipping tea, still sweating and panting, and basking in the admiration of everyone except Mrs McCosh, who disapproved of exuberance, and had been disturbed by the very thought of vultures and corpses.

Hamilton McCosh was standing in the middle of the room with a sword in his hand, waving it speculatively. ‘I like the Pathan sword best,’ said Archie, noting Mr McCosh’s interest. ‘It’s like a long scalene triangle with a sort of ridge along the top. They’re unbelievably sharp.’

‘One misses rather a lot from never having been a soldier,’ said Mr McCosh.

‘One misses a lot of truly horrible things,’ replied Archie earnestly, ‘and it can make you quite unfit for normal life.’

‘Quite so, I’m sure. I bashed the Boche through the power of industry, but it might have been satisfying to spike one in person.’

‘I’m still hoping to kill one,’ declared Mrs McCosh. ‘When I think of poor Myrtle … and those dreadful bombers … quite beyond the pale.’

‘How long is your leave?’ Rosie asked Archie.

‘I’ve got three months, and then I’m back to the North-West Frontier.’

‘It’s most awfully nice to see you again,’ said Ottilie, who wondered sadly whether she would ever lose her passion for him. ‘I do wish you all still lived next door.’

‘I also wish we were still next door. Even so, maman is happy at Partridge Green, and it is lovely countryside down there. It’s splendid to go up on Chanctonbury Ring. You can see for miles. All the way to Blackdown. Maman likes it too. She takes binoculars and tries to look at France.’

‘She must have awfully strong legs.’

‘Family trait,’ said Archie.

‘Do you still speak French, en famille , the way you used to?’

‘Oh, absolutely. French is more intimate than English somehow. And it is far more effective when used on children. They actually obey if you say it in French. Not that I meet many children these days.’