Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

‘Let’s talk about this later and see how we should proceed. As you know, I’ve become attached to you.’

‘Not so attached that I am invited to stay in your London flat.’

‘Let’s go tomorrow. Come and see it for yourself.’

‘Are you serious?’

I was, and then I also remembered that neither of us had informed Alice Stepford of Plato’s death. That evening I rang her in New York. She demanded to know why we hadn’t told her. I though it best to be truthful.

‘We forgot.’

She became vituperative, but then calmed down and wept sensibly.

‘Has there been an obituary?’

‘Two, in Art Monthly . Both good.’

‘I meant the New York Times .’

‘No.’

‘I’m going to write one. And I assume that Zaynab is the executor and all the paintings now belong to her.’

‘This is true, Ally.’

‘Alice. Good. He did a nude of me once. Usual stuff. Huge balloon-shaped breasts with all the other accompaniments. Could you tell Zaynab that if it hasn’t been sold I’d like to buy it off her? Don’t like the thought of it hanging anywhere. I might e-mail you for some details of his youth, but otherwise I’ll write mainly about his work.’

Which she did, introducing Plato to an art public that he had neither known nor coveted. He was the only one of my friends who, in all the time I knew him, showed no interest — negative or positive — in the affairs of the United States, or any desire to visit it. This lack of curiosity annoyed me, and when I reprimanded him he would contemptuously shrug his shoulders, but never offered an explanation.

We may return later to the impact of Ally’s obituary, but in the meantime Zaynab is waiting for me in the restaurant to hear my views on our future. I thought of all the things I liked about her, some of which have already been listed. Another quality that I appreciated was her incapacity to make small talk and to give her undivided attention to people she did not like or value. Better not to speak than maintain a pretence. And though she was in her early fifties now, she had retained a girlish quality, largely with the help of her mischief-filled eyes, and this belied her age. All these traits could not have been the result of her unique upbringing, or other unfortunates in a similar position might have benefited equally. Nor was there a trace of bitterness in her. She did not suspect people she liked of base motives or jump to embittered conclusions regarding their actions. I’m sure that is what Plato saw in her, too, and why he adored her in the way he did.

My hesitation was purely selfish. I wanted no further disruptions in my life and I was fearful that this might happen, which was why I had devised a compromise formula that might suit us both: weekends and holidays together and every third week a change of city. As I entered the restaurant the first thing I noticed was that the portrait of Balzac had disappeared from the wall. Zaynab sat at her table near the window, smiling. As I joined her she pointed at the menu to indicate that the Balzac quote had disappeared as well. What had happened? That catamite Henri de Montmorency had happened. He had returned one lunchtime and informed the: Spanish proprietor that the place postdated Balzac’s death and this was not a street much visited by the novelist in any case. I should have alerted Henri to the joke, but he had written a highly regarded history of Paris and probably would have become cross with me. History was sacred and woe betide those who took liberties with it. We tried not to laugh. Zaynab whispered that she had told them it was an honest mistake on my part.

We talked and she appeared perfectly happy with my solution, as long as she could stay with me in London. Why should that have been a problem? She gestured as if to imply that I knew. I was genuinely puzzled.

‘Don’t you keep London pure for Jindié?’

It was jealousy. I burst out laughing, repeated what I had said before, and explained why I hadn’t stayed in the guest room in Richmond and the excuse I had offered Jindié. For a minute I was the subject of a fixed and profound gaze, and then she burst out laughing.

‘I know how fussy you are about your cursed coffee. That may well have been the real reason as well. So there were two reasons for not staying. Now I’m convinced.’

She had more wine than usual that night and at one point was overcome with a giggling fit, to which she was sometimes prone. This time there was no apparent reason. Finally she spoke.

‘I have been sworn to total secrecy and if this appears anywhere I’ll lose a very good friend in New York. She’ll never forgive me. It’s about a professor from our parts.’

‘Which parts did you have in mind?’

‘Geographical. In this case, South Asia.’

The story concerned egos in academia. A leading professor in the literature department of a university in the Midwest had been invited to Harvard some weeks ago, where she was due to receive an honorary degree, followed by a banquet at which there would be speeches. Her best work was behind her, but it had once helped her acquire an enormous reputation and a cult following for reasons that even at the time — it was the height of the postmodernist wave in the late Eighties — could be only partially justified. Subsequently she had languished, producing books that her students were compelled to read but that were not part of course lists on other campuses. The New York universities, in particular, had ignored her recent work and had stopped inviting her to lecture. For that reason, the honorary degree at Harvard and the fanfare surrounding it had come at a good time for her.

During the dinner, at which Zaynab’s friend had been present, the guest of honour was ignored by most of the old men at the table. This lack of attention upset her greatly, and she burst into silent tears, which went unnoticed, and then began to weep loudly. Everyone present fell silent; now she was the centre of their undivided attention. A kindly retired professor in his eighties put his arm around her to ask why she was so upset.

‘Well, it’s like this,’ said the visitor. ‘After lying fallow for a long time I acquired a young Egyptian lover last month. All went well till yesterday, when he refused cunnilingus point-blank because of his religion. I just thought about it and that made me cry.’

There was pin-drop silence. She looked appealingly at the gathering and pleaded for some expert advice. ‘Do any of you know why the Coptic Church forbids cunnilingus?’

I laughed as Zaynab finished. It was the one of the more original and comprehensible utterances that I’d heard reported of this particular professor in twenty years. And just before leaving the restaurant, I think I managed to convince its hirsute proprietor that whether or not Balzac had literally eaten at this location was irrelevant. His spirit now hovered over this entire area, if not the country as a whole, and he should reinstate the portrait and the quotation. The Spaniard promised to give the matter serious consideration.

Later that night we agreed that as Plato’s friend and possible biographer, I would accompany Zaynab to her family estates and study his unfinished masterpiece.

‘I’ve told you I hate it, D. If your opinion is the same and the work is without any intrinsic value, let it stay at home. Why inflict it on the world? Plato would have respected the decision.’

Sleep did not come easily that night. Every so often Zaynab would sit up, turn on the lamp and question me. ‘D, what was that stupid Punjabi song that Plato used to sing or hum and which had quite a funny first line but was otherwise conventional?’

I remembered. ‘The first line was Plato’s contribution, and the rest of the song was early Bollywood, vintage 1958, I think.’