Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

‘Look at the painting of the priest with three penises. Look at them closely.’

I did so and realized that all three organs were depictions in various sizes of the Egyptian president, Hosni Mubarak. Somehow, that made them really disgusting. I managed a weak laugh.

Alice Stepford had rung to invite me to her studio for lunch, saying, ‘Today, please, if possible.’ It was possible and I motored over to the address in SW3, assuming that Plato would be present. Her Chelsea studio was a revelation, a bit too tasteful for a bohemian pad. Lunch was served soon after I arrived, and Alice wasted no time in sharing her concerns with me. Our conversation turned out to be extremely serious and I was touched by her intensity. Not that it prevented me from wondering what her breasts might be like underneath her sweater, and that was before she uncorked a bottle of Château Lafite and decanted it with an apologetic smile.

‘My only weakness apart from painting. Stolen from Daddy’s cellar last weekend.’

Daddy was Lord Stepford, whose forebears had fought on the wrong side during the Civil War — and he had three beautiful daughters, two of whom were married to their milieu. Alice was the family bohemian, and when she informed her parents that her boyfriend was an Indian bus conductor who was trying to paint she had received a terrible missive from Stepford, who was old-fashioned on the subject of mixed marriages. The letter made it clear that while he did not care who she saw in her own time, he absolutely forbade her to soil the family name by marrying a Hottentot, an Eskimo, a Negro, a Chinaman, a Nip or a Wop and certainly never a jumped-up Indian, let alone a Paki. Plato saw the letter and laughed. He had no thought of marriage and suggested she tell Daddy that she was safe, but Alice was livid. She wrote back asking whether her father was aware that she had been invited to exhibit her work in Sydney and Wellington. And if he was, why had the Maoris and aboriginals been excluded from his otherwise comprehensive ban? He wrote back immediately. When he compiled the list he had assumed that even she would exclude cannibals as potential husbands. Her mother tried to make up by suggesting Alice bring ‘your Indian’ home one weekend. Alice impolitely declined the offer.

All this I knew, but why were we having lunch? She described her affection for Plato, which was no surprise, but there was clearly a problem.

‘Can I rely on your eternal discretion, Dara? Please don’t tell him about this, but I thought you might be able to help.’

Till now, nobody in my whole life had ever asked me, leave alone with such soft eyes and pouting lips, whether they could rely on my discretion. I was so touched by her trust that I pledged total secrecy and help whenever and however it was needed. The wine, too, was delicious. The hours were gliding by.

What emerged was that she had been seeing Plato for more than two years. They had painted each other naked. They had sported with each other, but not too seriously, and he had, she now told me, always kept his penis safe from her touch and she had only seen it flaccid. I was seriously taken aback.

‘And there I was, so glad that everything had turned out so well for both of you. Work, love and sex in the same space. Purest joy.’

‘No. Definitely not.’

Not once had Plato wanted or attempted to make love to her. All her attempts had been rebuffed. This worried her. It worried me too.

‘What is it with him, Dara? Am I that unattractive? It can’t be a religious inhibition, can it? Or is he gay? If so, I wish to bloody God he would just tell me and we could all relax.’

I was desperate to relax, but the news had stunned me. What the hell was wrong with Plato? Was there someone else?

‘You don’t think he’s gone religious?’

‘Can’t be religion, Ally. That would be good for you. Islam is truly sensuous. Men who let women down by staying down themselves are considered worse than heretics and unbelievers like me. No, definitely not religion. Could he be gay? It would have been impossible to keep that a secret in Lahore. We would have known. Let me make a few ultra-discreet inquiries and get back to you.’

‘Will you, Dara? I’d be so grateful. This is so bad for one’s self-esteem.’

We finished the bottle, and while she made coffee I inspected her books and paintings and peeped into her bedroom, where Plato had let the side down very badly.

‘Would you like some cognac with your coffee?’

‘I like your paintings very much. Surprised me. I thought they would be…’

‘More didactic.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Glad you like them. I always feel that financial considerations sometimes necessitate bad art. Never found that tempting and nor does your friend. Affinities.’

‘True. But it’s always worth remembering that fine sentiments do not automatically produce good work, either.’

‘Do you think melancholy can be contagious? Is it possible that if a friend is depressed you can feel depressed too, even at a distance?’

‘Only if the friendship is so deep that a part of it is repressed.’

She agreed strongly. We looked at each other and it was obvious to both of us what the next step would be. Nor did we let each other down. As the enjoyable afternoon was coming to an end and I was putting my clothes back on, I asked whether she still wanted me to head an unofficial inquiry to uncover Plato’s secret.

‘Yes, please. I mean I should know, don’t you think?’

I was hoping she had moved on already, but hurt egos require nursing. I promised to have a report ready soon. She said she sorely needed my advice as to how she should proceed with Plato. I suggested that given the failure to establish physical contact, a close working friendship might be more appropriate. She nodded eagerly.

‘And can we have lots of lunches together, Dara?’

‘That is a much simpler request and easy to fulfil.’

But this is Plato’s story, not mine, and all temptation to describe the idyllic year I spent with Ally Stepford must be resisted. I thought Plato might be more inclined to share confidences in our mother tongue, so I rang him a few weeks later, and we repaired, as usual, to Drummond Street. It was he who began the inquisition.

‘Are you fucking Ally Stepford?’

This straightforward question sounds so crude in Punjabi that even my well-conditioned ears rebelled. I reprimanded him without answering his question. He rephrased it.

‘Did her eyes bewitch you? Was it lust at first sight? Was it her paintings or her apartment? Tell me, dear friend. What really attracted you?’

I decided to answer in the affirmative. It was pointless to lie, but I twisted my response so as to force him on to the defensive.

‘Yes, I am seeing her and for none of those foolish reasons, but there were no divided loyalties, Plato. She told me you weren’t lovers at all, not even on a spiritual level. I wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. Was she lying just to reassure me, or is it true?’

An embarrassingly long silence followed, and a remorseful look replacing the earlier anger on his face.

‘What is it, Plato? Is there someone else?’

‘What she said is true. I’ve never told anyone else this before, but I think you should know.’

I thought this would be a declaration of his coming out and breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I’m impotent, Dara. Always have been. My alif won’t stand to attention. It won’t take the meem . It’s never erect. Unlike the sun, I never rise. Understand?’

How could I not, but I was nonetheless stunned since this contradicted so many earlier stories. I recalled some of the ingénue’s tales we had heard in Lahore. Were they all duplicitous? Or had the fantasy trapped him to such an extent that he found it difficult to back out?