Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

After the children had gone to bed the three of us sat in the living room, which was marred by a grotesque deer head, which had escaped my notice on earlier visits and which I now pleaded with Zahid to remove. He did so on the spot and took the antlered object out of the room. In his absence Neelam became much more forthcoming. I had not raised the subject, but she spoke of Jindié with great affection and said her mother’s life had been neither easy nor particularly happy.

‘She wanted me to have the life she never had, and when I fell in love with Rafiq she never tried to stop me, but I knew she disapproved. He was too brash, too full of himself, and my mother’s instincts told her I would not be happy with him. Unfortunately, this turned out to be true. I never told my parents even a quarter of what happened. Late nights fuelled by alcohol and women. Drunk before the children — that I could not forgive. His women ringing home nonstop and pretending to be friendly to me. Army life. I made a terrible mistake, but mercifully the children came early. They became the only thing I cared about. Now they’re older. I was planning to leave Rafiq and told him so the week before he was killed. Mom was horrified when I became religious, but believe me, it was the only way I could cope with life. The children needed a set of rules, and in our country, as you know, there are few role models. So I turned to the Prophet. Mom thinks I’m a fanatic, but that is not true. I needed Allah to deal with Rafiq and his friends.’

‘Who killed him?’

‘Not the Taliban or the Talibu or any group like them. That’s clear enough. It wasn’t suicide terrorism, but a clinical operation, like the one Abu performed on Dick Cheney. Everything carefully planned. No traces at all. He was killed by his own people, for telling the Americans too much. That horrible Naughty Lateef is worse than a prostitute. They do it for the money. Have you seen the way she’s been picked up by the West? Are they that stupid? She could never have written that foolish book. She’s illiterate.’

I wondered whether I should tell Neelam about the goings-on in Paris. Instinct sounded an alarm. I refrained, saying only, ‘She’s being educated.’

Neelam burst out laughing. ‘I suppose that’s good.’

‘Neelam, it’s not for me to say, but is there no way you can make friends with your mother again?’

‘You can say what you like. I think you’re the only person she regards as a close friend. She adores the children, and that is always an important bridge. I will try. I’m taking the children to Beijing to see their Uncle Suleiman and meet Great-Uncle Hanif Ma. My son wants to learn Chinese. That will make Mom happy. Why didn’t you and she work out?’

‘I was never the marrying kind. You look disapproving, despite your own marriage and how you describe your mother’s life.’

‘It was not a disapproving look at all. Nobody told me that.’

‘Were you upset at reading about me in her diary?’

‘Did she say that? It’s not true. I was touched and began to ask why she had married my father. It was she who overreacted and tore the pages up. She was in a real state. I was not shocked at all. If anything, pleased — but I did have a few questions.’

‘Dai-yu.’

‘That Dream of the Red Chamber . She’s read it at least a dozen times. It’s her Honoured Classic.’

Mention of the Holy Book made me think of Zaynab and her dinner guest. In a few days I would be seated at the same table as the woman who had altered Neelam’s biography, possibly for the better.

‘Neelam, what are your plans? I hope you have some project.’

‘Nice you asked. I did law at Washington State. I’m qualified, you know. Never practised, and that was another reason for Mom’s anger,

Now I’m studying Islamic law. The sharia courts will need a few women lawyers to defend women and I hope a few women judges as well, like in Iran. And I’m going to start work soon.’

I suggested that she might consider working in ordinary courts as well, just in case work opportunities in the others dried up. Quite a few Sunni theologians would argue against women being permitted to practise.

‘Possibly, but we can organize a special Sunni NGO to pay them off, and find other theologians to overrule them.’

Her cynicism was pleasing.

‘It’s getting late. Sure you won’t stay? The bed is very comfortable and there’s an en suite bathroom.’

‘Is there any decent coffee in the house?’

‘Of course. My father can’t do without it and will make you an espresso or whatever you want for breakfast. Just stop him boasting too much about it. We’ve all heard his coffee stories a million times.’

‘Then, I’ll stay.’

I DETECTED A SLIGHT panic when I embraced and kissed Zaynab. It turned out that Naughty, sounding strained and distant after her US tour, had asked to bring her publicist-agent to dinner tonight. The auguries were bad. Zaynab had been firm in her refusal. It was a private occasion, she told her interviewee. After several agitated exchanges, Madame Auratpasand, as we should now have been referring to her but couldn’t, had agreed to come alone as long as the meal was at home. Her publicist did not want her to be seen in a public place unless photographers had been arranged and there was at least one other celebrity present.

Zaynab had asked Eugénie Grandet’s to prepare a meal in advance and deliver it half an hour before her guests arrived. Apart from Naughty, the only other person invited was Henri, who had expressed a desire to see the monster from close up.

It was barely midday, but I was despatched to go and buy some wine. Zaynab was distracted, and the reason for that was obvious, at least to me. She had, not unnaturally, developed a great deal of sympathy for Naughty and had begun to see her exclusively as a victim. My attempts to wean her from this view had been rebuffed. Henri, too, was sceptical, which was why he had been invited to supper.

Naughty was late, as celebs are supposed to be, but it was her attire that surprised all of us. She wore a loose tracksuit made of some indefinable dark green material and a white silk headscarf that she pulled off and threw with abandon on the sofa. We smiled. Then I complimented her on her clothes.

‘Very patriotic of you to dress up in Fatherland colours.’

‘Deliberate, deliberate,’ she said in a funny accent, as if trying to cultivate a nasal twang. ‘My publicist in the States also does makeover jobs on Fatherlandi politicians. He told me I should wear Fatherland colours. Just to show I support our government against terrorism. I wore this on the habshi lady’s show. Copra Freedom. Very popular show. Miss Copra advised me not to wear white brassiere underneath green top.’

‘That was an intelligent suggestion by Mademoiselle Freedom. So you switched to a green brassiere during the advertising break, Madame Auratpasand?’

‘ Oui, Monsieur . Copra has bras of every colour just in case the guest is wearing one that can be seen. Many families and children watch Copra Freedom show.’

As we sat down to dinner, Naughty looked uncomfortable, but a few restorative glasses of wine relaxed her a great deal. When Henri praised her interview and her courage, Naughty decided to hurl her first grenade. After a slight pause, she asked politely, ‘ Quelle interview, Monsieur ?’

Zaynab erupted, ‘Our interview, Naughty!’

‘Oh, that one. I thought that was just informal, Zaynab. By the way, Jean-Pierre Bertrand wants to write my biography for very big New York publisher.’

Before Zaynab could speak again I addressed Naughty in Punjabi. She appeared delighted and replied in a potwari dialect of the language, much sweeter and softer than the Lahori version. I shifted to potwari , the language of my childhood, because I preferred it and still spoke it when visiting northern regions of Fatherland. Naughty grabbed my arm and dragged me from the kitchen into the living room, where the following conversation transpired in dialect.