Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

‘The purpose of this confinement was to acclimatize me to my future. A year later, when I began to menstruate, the book would be removed while I was unclean. They thought that under this treatment I would either adjust to my new reality or take my own life. There were stories of women in my position who had done so. And, to be honest, there were times I thought it might be easier to die than to live like this, and I spoke of my thoughts with women friends who would start weeping at the idea. But one woman did promise that if I really wanted it, she would obtain a cyanide capsule from her husband, a senior officer in some intelligence agency. I promised I would never swallow it without talking to her first, but I needed a couple for emergencies. She obtained two. I wanted to make sure that they worked, so I fed one to my brother’s frightening hound, a dog that had cost him a fortune and was as large as one of your Shetland ponies. It worked.’

Alice was horrified.

‘Oh, Zay-Nab. Tell me it isn’t so. You poisoned a pedigree greyhound. Why not your brother?’

‘It was the Hound of the Shahskervilles, my dear. It terrified the peasants. There was much rejoicing when news of the animal’s death spread. Some of the serfs called the dog Pir Sahib, and at first people thought it was the pock-marked pir who had met with an accident, which also pleased them, but the dog’s death came as a relief, since he had already killed a child. Don’t tell me hounds are gentle creatures, Alice. Depends on their masters. Sámir Shah had encouraged the hound to be what it was. Do you want to see the other capsule? I keep it in this little naswar container that once belonged to my mother.’

She reached for her bag and took out a tiny old silver snuffbox. Inside it lay the beautifully disguised killer, a capsule the size and shape of a pearl. She told us how on hearing of the hound’s death her brother had become totally distraught, cancelled an important political tour and immediately returned home in his official helicopter. The country’s top veterinary surgeon was sent for and an autopsy performed. The poison had left no trace. The vet, who smuggled heroin as a night job, declared with an air of total confidence that the Shah hound had suffered a fatal heart attack. Sámir Shah screamed at him.

‘I never knew that hounds had heart attacks, you pimp.’

‘I’m afraid they do in Fatherland, sir, and especially in this region. Must be the heat. They are used to cold weather, you see. German shepherds are immune, but not hounds. General Farooqi’s hound had a fatal heart attack only three months ago. If I had known your beast had a weak heart I might have attempted a dual bypass or organized a transplant. Too late now and I’m truly sorry, sir. To which honourable person should I send my invoice?’

Even Alice managed a smile as Zaynab continued her story.

‘The dog was mummified, and that is how I first saw Plato, though from a distance. My brother had asked for the best painter in the country to be hired to paint the beast. I. M. Malik was away at a biennale somewhere in Europe, so your Plato was given the commission. He heard the official story, and, being Plato, found out a great deal more by talking to the villagers. As we know, he can never paint a realist portrait. What he did instead was brilliant. He portrayed a strange beast with angel’s wings and, alas, too large a private part, but it was the face that was remarkable. At first glance you would realize it was my brother. The expression on the hound’s face replicated the permanent frown that disfigured his master’s. I thought my brother would be furious, but no. This is a wonderful painter, he told us later, who has captured the affinity between hound and master so beautifully. The painting hangs in the hall where you enter his house.

‘When I asked for permission to congratulate the painter in person, to my astonishment, Sámir Shah agreed. Strange man he was, my brother. He was amoral, without scruples of any sort, ready to trample on anything and everything that stood in his way, as I know only too well. Yet the death of the hound undoubtedly affected him, and quite deeply. Plato was very handsomely rewarded for his work and I had my first conversation with him. It lasted exactly fifteen minutes, and then the Pajero drove him back to Karachi. Of course, he knew immediately that I had guessed his real intention and did not attempt to dissimulate. All he said was that every landlord and politician in the country should be painted as a mongrel. The mischief in his eyes was appealing, and also, I suppose, the fact that he was the first man outside my immediate family, excluding our serfs, with whom I had ever spoken, and I was fast approaching forty. That made an impact, though even at first sight he did not seem very developed from a sexual point of view. A woman in my position is more alert in these matters than someone like Alice, for instance. I felt that physical pleasures were not a Plato priority. There are some people I know, male and female, who can never accept any feelings they themselves are incapable of experiencing as authentic. Plato was the opposite. I could read that in his eyes, and it was confirmed in the months that followed.

‘Are you wondering why I didn’t escape from my prison, especially as I had the key to the door in my pocket? Simple. I had no money in my name. No bank account. No nothing. I didn’t really exist. There was another factor. Had I met a man and married him it would have been a suicide wedding. The primitives would have met and decreed that I had dishonoured the Koran, and pirs would have been found to pronounce the death sentence. It wasn’t till Sámir and the brother next in age to him, whom I hated so much that I prefer not to mention his name, died in a plane crash and Sikandar came home to take charge of the estates that my life began to improve.

‘Sikandar and his wife took me out everywhere, and for the first time I began to experience everyday life in the big city. Sikandar bought my share of the land, and gave me the money and a great deal more, including the large apartment in Karachi. He had a sorrowful expression when he told me that though he wanted my happiness, it would be best if I didn’t marry. He was not powerful enough to prevent the pirs from issuing a death sentence. By this time I did not have any desires in that direction, and then Plato entered my life, bringing happiness and intellectual comforts that I had not thought possible. Everyone believes he’s my cook-chauffeur. You know his face. With a tiny disguise and a change in body language he can play any part. He told me that he had taken you in, Dara, by pretending to be a Bengali caretaker.’ She threw back her head and laughed. Alice looked shell-shocked. None of us spoke.

‘Tell me, Zay-Nab, is marriage to the Koran permitted by Islam? Never heard of it before.’

‘Of course not. The clerics attack the practice every day, denouncing the landlords, but they do nothing. A few suicide bombers in the haunts of these guys might work wonders. Instead, they punish the poor.’

‘A primitive device to destroy primitives,’ said I. ‘The idea is not without merit, but it’s their economic power that needs to be destroyed. No point killing individuals if the institution survives.’

‘Which government in Fatherland will ever do that, Dara? It’s been going on for too long.’

‘So medieval,’ said Alice. ‘So bloody medieval.’

‘Medieval Europe perhaps, Ally, but not the medieval Islamic world. They were spared feudalism. Zaynab’s misery can’t be blamed on Islam. Didn’t you once say in public that patriarchy plus property equals murder?’

‘Spare me my juvenilia, Dara. Please. There are more important issues at stake. Zaynab, may I ask you a very personal question? We can tell this male monster to leave if you want.’