Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

We carried on with the main course. Another of her guests, who worked for Credit Suisse, asked me where I was staying. As I was thinking of a suitable hotel, Zaynab interrupted.

‘At my place. And not in the guest room.’

‘Ah’, said Henri, ‘you are lovers. Very pleased. Very good news, Dara.’

Till then the Chinese author, Cheng Chiao-fu, had remained silent. I looked at him more closely. He smiled. I was sure we had met somewhere.

‘What book are you writing for Henri, or is it a secret?’

‘Henri thinks it’s on a famous banking scandal in Shanghai that led to three public executions. That will be a small book. I’m working on a much larger book, on the history or, more accurately, the sociology of festivals in China. There are so many of them and their origins have always interested me. The existing work on them is not good.’

Chiao-fu’s English was perfect, not a trace of any Chinese accent, but before I could question him, Zaynab attempted to engage Henri’s companion in conversation.

‘Do you work for Henri?’

‘You could say that I work on him.’

We were just finishing at this point, but not wishing to hear more in this vein, Zaynab’s other guests pleaded the constraints of time and left us. There was a relieved burst of laughter from her. A more relaxed atmosphere prevailed. It was only ten, and more wine and cheese was laid on the table. I asked Chiao-fu whether he’d studied in Britain or the United States.

‘Neither.’

‘Where did you learn English?’

‘I can’t remember.’

The way he said that was familiar. I looked at him more closely.

‘Do you think we’ve met before?’ he asked. ‘That might be interesting.’

‘Do you mind removing your spectacles?’

He did as I asked and I was almost sure. I spoke to him in Punjabi, using a phrase that he had often deployed in the old days.

‘You dog, Confucius, you cold-hearted catamite. Where have you been all these years?’

He answered in Punjabi. ‘Who are you? Have we met?’

‘We met in Lahore. I knew your parents and Jindié. She lives in London now.’

He looked blank, and something none of us had considered as a possibility was now a certainty, unless he was fooling. But it soon became clear that he had lost his memory, at least partially. I carried on speaking to him in Punjabi, and he replied and asked questions.

‘Did you give up physics?’

‘I don’t know. I did economics at Beijing University.’

Zaynab saw that I was close to tears. She said, ‘Confucius, do you remember Plato?’

‘Yes, I think so. He made me laugh. What happened to him?’

‘He died a few months ago.’

‘I’m sad to hear that. And you knew him, too?’

Henri had immediately realized that what was taking place was serious. I explained rapidly in broken French who Chiao-fu really was and was told in return that he was regarded as one of the top economists in the country, but had been sidelined because of the scathing criticisms he had made of the direction in which China was headed. I couldn’t restrain a few tears. Something of the old Hanif Ma-Confucius had stayed in him. What happened to this boy? Whose identity had he assumed or been given and in what circumstances? His confusion was now palpable. The fact that he could suddenly speak a totally different language that he’d had no idea was in him had shaken his self-confidence. I asked whether I could ring his sister and inform her.

‘Later, please. Let’s just talk now. In Punjabi.’

Zahid and Jindié arrived the next morning and we all met later that day. Confucius was still bewildered. He didn’t recognize Jindié, but accepted rationally that she could be his sister despite her stumbling Chinese. She would often revert to Punjabi, reminding him of their childhood, using mixed Punjabi-Mandarin phrases from their past that were known only to them. Occasionally he would smile, his only tiny flicker of recognition. More would take time. I could see that she had been crying and attempted to comfort her.

‘Thank you for finding him.’

‘Pure luck.’

‘But you were convinced he was alive.’

We embraced warmly. ‘Go with him to Beijing and find out more. Stay for as long it takes, Jindié.’

‘I’ll write and let you know.’

I shook hands with Confucius and said farewell in Punjabi. ‘We will meet again, Confucius. I’m so happy that Zahid and I are not the only remaining survivors of the table at college.’

‘Was there someone we used to call Respected?’

Zahid and I screamed in tandem. ‘Yes!’

‘Why do you call me Confucius?’

‘I’ll let Zahid explain all that in great detail to you. I look forward to your book.’

The intense affection that Jindié felt for him could only have heightened the pain she felt when it became obvious he did not know her. What did he know? Did he remember his Maoist days? Was the past a total nonstarter? It couldn’t be if speaking in Punjabi had reminded him of Respected. Perhaps it was all inside him waiting for an opportunity to return to the surface. Zahid was confident that some of it would be recovered, though the shock or accident that had caused the loss of memory in the first place must have been a very long time ago. And that would be a problem.

I returned to the Rue de Bièvre exhausted. Zaynab was out and I switched on the computer to read about memory loss. Nothing definitive. Too many variables. One interesting statistic, however, revealed that in sixty percent of the cases studied in California, memory had largely or completely returned.

I had seriously considered going to Kunming and Dali with Jindié and Zahid, meeting young Suleiman and discovering what was left of the monuments from the time of the rebellion. How much of the Dali Forbidden City still existed? Had the Manchu, like the Red Guards a century later, wreaked their revenge on the architecture as well? It would all have to wait now. Confucius had become the centre of her world.

The next day was the first real spring day of the year. Paris was caressed by deliciously warm breezes; Zaynab and I walked virtually the whole day. She had heard about Jindié and me, Zahid and his life from Plato, and clearly in some detail. Now she turned towards me, looking slightly worried.

‘I think Jindié still loves you.’

‘ Aflatuni ishq . Platonic love.’

‘Our Plato didn’t think so. Did he ever tell you that when he was being discovered thanks to your help, she would contact him to ask about you and your life?’

‘He never told me. It was obviously too trivial to be repeated. In any case it means nothing. I am fond of her. I like her. Nothing more. She and Zahid are quite close in some ways and their life has developed a rhythm that suits both of them. It happens to couples who’ve been together a long time. You look vexed.’

She did not reply, and I wondered whether this had anything to do with us. I asked her.

‘I suppose it does, in a way. When we first became intimate I had no idea what I really felt about you, but now I’ve got used to you. I miss you when you’re not here, and that is not good. What do you think?’

‘I think we need to find you a boy toy. A vigorous young stallion who can escort you all over the world. A jockey capable of riding any mare. A Plato-style chauffeur, but young and virile.’

‘Be serious, Dara. I’m not joking.’

I could see numerous obstacles to any permanent arrangement, but I could also see the attractive side of what she proposed. I had got so used to being on my own and enjoying what I did that a complete break in my old routine was unappealing. Perhaps we could be together for long weekends, and more if we wanted, but I could also see that, after a lengthy interval, fate was offering a new possibility on a platter and that, too, was pleasing.