Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

‘Are you sure your husband isn’t in there?’

Inside she lost control and just roared.

‘Will you please behave yourself? I know you’re in one of your stupid moods, but preserve some decorum. Please try.’

I kissed her on the lips for a very long time. She broke loose; we adjusted ourselves and joined our friends. By the time the helicopter was ready we were in normal Fatherland mode. Zaynab had her head well covered, and, I was pleased to see, so had Alice. She looked very fetching in a maroon Sindhi scarf embroidered with silver stars. I put on my dark glasses. ‘To hide his mocking eyes,’ I heard Zaynab whisper to Alice. The helicopter was well prepared and we were handed a bottle of water each for the forty-minute hop to Pir Sikandar Shah’s helipad.

‘In case you’re wondering why there are no parachutes, it’s because you can’t jump from a helicopter,’ I said to nobody in particular. As the blades began to whirr, I noticed a momentary look of concern on Alice’s face. At this point Zaynab put on her dark glasses. Conversation is always difficult on helicopters, but was more so in this one because the guard accompanying us had forgotten to bring the noise-cancelling earphones on board. I took out mine from my hand luggage and listened to a violin concerto that came to an end just as the helicopter landed on the baronial estates of the Shah family.

Pir Sikandar was at an emergency cabinet meeting in Isloo. His personal assistant and sundry retainers greeted us on landing. Zaynab was surrounded immediately by four maids, and she, Yu-chih and poor Alice retired to the women’s quarter, no doubt for massage and bath respectively. Lucky things. We were taken to our guest cottages, with mine the closest to the house. I was greeted by a refrigerator overloaded with Murree beer but demanded fresh lime juice without sugar and a jug of tamarind juice with ice and honey. We men showered, and then Zahid and Confucius knocked on my door. I offered them beer. Both preferred the tamarind concoction. Confucius appeared slightly bewildered.

‘I hope they haven’t kidnapped Yu-chih for too long.’

Zahid asked whether I had been here before, to which the answer was no. Neither of her brothers was known to me. Most of my Sindhi friends were writers and poets and painters, and I reminded them that it was to see the last work of one of these that we were here.

‘Plato was a motherfucking Punjabi,’ muttered Confucius, in the language he had just mentioned.

‘Glad you’re back on side.’

He grinned. ‘I want my wife back.’

Lunch was eagerly awaited by all, especially those who had travelled on Fatherland Airlines, but even the Beijing Two were starving. It was served in the pir sahib’s dining room. His wife and kids were in Europe, and Zaynab had to play official hostess. A very elderly gentleman had joined us, a great-uncle who had helped to create Fatherland but whom nobody remembered was still alive. We had no doubt on that score. He drank a couple of beers and ate a healthy portion of each of the seven or eight well-prepared dishes that had been placed before us. When I asked his age he said ‘ninety-two’ in a lively voice. Nobody was disappointed with the food, but the presence of this elder had a slightly inhibiting effect on the conversation.

Every evening, he would lead the prayers in the tiny mosque on the estate, for a congregation of two dozen servants and about fifty serfs who were rustled up to keep the old man happy. The prayer was followed by an improvised exhortation to the assembled to be good Muslims and say their prayers; occasionally he would tell them not to interfere sexually with animals. Such acts had not been sanctioned, and they confused the lesser species. When the service was over his jeep would bring him straight to the house for a Patiala peg of whisky before supper. This daily disjunctive between theory and practice appeared to have kept him alive. Nor was he ungenerous. One reason the servants and serfs didn’t mind him all that much was that he was too old now to demand one of their wives for the night and besides he was doling out money to whoever said they were in want.

He was, of course, a dreadful bore, but this could be said of most people who reach such an age.

During supper that night he remarked, ‘Unless our politicians are led back to decent principles within ten years, we will have a bloody Communist revolution, and all these estates will be distributed to these donkeyfucking peasants.’

Confucius could not remain silent. ‘The same will happen in China, except they fuck pigs, not donkeys.’

The old man roared with delight. Usually nobody spoke to him; Zaynab signalled me with her eyes, but I had no idea what she wanted. Later she told me that it was a rule at the table that nobody should ever answer Great-Uncle. I thought this excessively mean, but she had that don’t-argue-this-one-with-me look in her eyes. I told her that her injunction would genuinely shock Mr and Mrs Confucius, because they came from a culture where ancestors were literally worshipped, including by many Hui. She was not impressed.

‘Young man’, he said now to Confucius, who was in his mid-sixties, ‘I thought China was bloody Communist.’

‘No, sir. They’re capitalists now and conquering the world with their commodities.’

‘Bloody good show. Did they bump the Communists off?’

‘Oh no, sir. The Communist leaders became capitalists.’

This puzzled the great-uncle, and, aware that his presence annoyed Zaynab, he did not speak again till the dessert was served. This was a sensational rice pudding, exactly the correct consistency. Great-Uncle posed a question that none of us had yet asked.

‘I was told there was an English lady with your party. Where is she?’

Zaynab was forced to announce that Alice was indisposed and had retired early. I was sure that the rusty orange juice that none of us had touched had rotted her insides, and the deadly desert diarrhoea germ, permanently in search of an opening, had scored a majestic triumph.

The old man mumbled something sympathetic. ‘I had no idea she was ill. Otherwise I would not have worn my dinner jacket.’

None of the rest of us had dressed for dinner, but we had not packed any smart clothes. As we were leaving, I was handed a note by a retainer. It gave me instructions for the rest of the evening. When everyone had retired at about ten p.m. and the guards were pretending to patrol the perimeters, two of Zaynab’s maids came to my room and wordlessly escorted me to their lady’s bedchamber.

‘I am a ruined man, Zizi. If we’re discovered I’ll be killed and you’ll be married off to twelve volumes of the hadith as a punishment. Paris is one thing, but in this holiest of holies where you were married to the Holiest of Holy Books, there can be only one punishment.’

‘Stupid man. Take off your clothes and get into bed.’

‘Are you not going to dismiss the maids?’

‘They’ve seen better things hanging in their time.’

‘I thought we were breaking up.’

‘I’ve told Alice she has no cause for anxiety. I’m sure she’ll be fine. And please stop winding her up. Did you know she was a distant relation of the Napiers?’

‘I’m taking my clothes off.’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘The Napiers of Napier Road in Karachi? It should be called Peccavi Road.’

‘It’s nice you’re in this bed.’

‘I feel a poem coming in my head. Where once a candle stood to light the Koran, a peasant entered and replaced the candle with his own…’

The maids turned out the lights and retired to the adjoining room.

‘Has Alice got diarrhoea?’

‘I can’t find your candle.’

‘I’m perfectly happy.’