Kamila Shamsie - Burnt Shadows

James raised his eyebrows at Sajjad.

‘No, it wasn’t. It was yours.’

‘Yes, Mr Burton.’ With barely a glance at the board, Sajjad moved his knight into the path of James’s pawn.

‘What are you being so petulant for? Move that knight back, Sajjad, don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Why isn’t chess insidious?’

‘It’s that damn book again, isn’t it? You’re quoting that damn book to me.’

The ‘damn book’ was Ahmed Ali’s Twilight in Delhi , published during the war by Hogarth Press. James’s mother had sent him a copy for Christmas and he’d read no more than two pages before deciding it an overblown piece of hyperbole and thrusting it in Sajjad’s hands to show him the kind of nonsense that was being praised as an Indian masterpiece. ‘Virginia Woolf and E. M. Forster at their patronising best. You could write a better book than this.’ But Sajjad loved the novel, and had taken to peppering his conversation with quotations from it in the hope of revealing to James the beauty of its sentences.

Sajjad moved his knight back to its previous position, and pushed his pawn forward instead.

‘Do you think an Englishman will ever write a masterpiece in Urdu?’

‘No.’ James shook his head. ‘If there ever was a time we were interested in entering your world in that way, it’s long past. And you wouldn’t know what to do with us if we tried.’

It seemed to Sajjad these were the kinds of things said so often that repetition made fact of conjecture. He’d know what to do with an Urdu masterpiece written by an Englishman. He’d read it. Why pretend it was more complicated than that?

‘Anyway, if it was going to happen it would have happened by now. The new Viceroy’s arriving soon. To preside over the departure of the Raj from these shores.’ He sat back, surveying both Sajjad and the garden beyond as though he were in equal parts responsible for both. ‘Even the best innings must come to an end, I suppose.’ Sajjad wondered how James Burton would have felt about the end of the Empire if he didn’t have this cricketing phrase handy. James returned his attention to the board, smiling as he identified the trap Sajjad was laying for him. ‘People who know about such things seem to think the creation of this Pakistan seems quite likely now. Ridiculous really.’

Sajjad twirled his fingers in the air in what James had learnt to recognise as an Indian gesture of indifference.

‘Either way it won’t matter to me. I will die in Dilli. Before that, I will live in Dilli. Whether it’s in British India, Hindustan, Pakistan — that makes no difference to me.’

‘So you keep saying. I think you’re talking nonsense.’

‘Why nonsense? The British have made little difference to the life of my moholla.’ At James’s look of confusion he translated ‘neighbourhood’, barely disguising his impatience at the Englishman’s failure after all this time to understand that all-important Urdu word. ‘It goes on as it has gone on. Yes, there are interruptions — 1857 was one, perhaps the departure of the British will be another — but believe me over the next century Dilli will continue to do what it’s been doing for the last two centuries — fade at a very slow, and melancholically poetic, pace.’

James made a noise of disbelief at the assertion that the departure of the British would be nothing more than an interruption, but contented himself with saying, ‘If that really is the case, then you’re mistaken in thinking you’ll live and die there. You’re not cut out for a fading world.’

If Sajjad had the sort of relationship with James Burton of which he sometimes convinced himself while inventing speeches and subjects of discussion on the way from Dilli to Delhi he would have laughed and said, ‘Is this what you call a flourishing life? Spending my days playing chess with you? Isn’t it time for us to get back to the law offices, James Burton?’ But instead he kept his eyes on the board and nodded his head slowly as though deeply reconsidering his relationship with his moholla.

‘Don’t believe me?’ James said. When Sajjad merely smiled and shrugged, James put a hand on his arm. ‘I don’t know any man more capable.’

In moments such as these Sajjad loved James Burton. It was not so much for the compliment itself — Sajjad had no need of those from anyone — but for James’s way of compressing a complicated matrix of emotion, one that encompassed the relationship of ruler — subject, employer — employee, father — son, chess-player — chess-player, into the word ‘capable’.

There was the sound of the front door opening, and then Lala Buksh’s voice said, ‘Wait, please. I will tell Mrs Burton.’ James and Sajjad heard his heavy tread go up the stairs.

‘Wonder who that is?’ James said, rising out of his chair. He walked into the hallway, Sajjad following.

There was a woman there, hands in her trouser pockets, looking at the portrait of James, Elizabeth and their son Henry which hung on the wall. In addition to the blue trousers, flared below the knee, she was wearing a cream pullover with sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and her dark hair was cut just below her ears. Even with her back turned to them she looked like no one James knew among the Delhi set.

‘Are you here to see my wife?’ he said.

She turned, and James said, ‘Good Lord,’ as he found himself looking at a Japanese woman.

‘I’m Hiroko Tanaka. You must be James Burton.’

There were only three things Hiroko Tanaka knew about James Burton when she walked into his house. He was Konrad’s brother-in-law. His uncle, George, had built Azalea Manor. He had a Muslim employee. So when Lala Buksh opened the front door for her and, amidst the black-and-white of walls and floor tiles, she saw the vibrant oil painting on the wall calculated to create a first impression of the Burton family for all visitors it was James more than Ilse who she stepped closer to examine. Who was this man about whom Konrad had nothing to say? But when she looked at the portrait — the man in his expensive suit, one hand on his wife’s shoulder, the other resting on a cabinet which showcased sports trophies — she saw immediately what the painter had captured so perfectly: the complacency of James Burton. And then she understood why Konrad would have had nothing to say to, or about, him.

Standing before James, her extended hand unnoticed as he stared in confusion at her, she thought he looked like a discarded sketch that preceded the oil painting. The chestnut hair depicted in the painting was really light-brown, the slightly bronzed skin was pale and freckled, and the green eyes were set closer together than the painter had acknowledged. And yet, as good manners firmly but gracefully ushered the surprise off James’s face and prompted him to take Hiroko’s hand as though he’d been expecting her all along, she saw that the painting was a good likeness — here was a man at ease with ease.

‘How do you know my name?’ he said. And then, as if answering a question that would win him a bottle of champagne, he declared, stabbing the air in triumph, ‘Konrad!’

Sajjad, standing unnoticed behind him, winced.

This is what Elizabeth heard: Lala Buksh’s voice telling her there was a visitor from Japan, and then as she hurried along to the stairs James’s cry of delight carrying up to her: Konrad! Her heart, if not her mind, had already leapt to its impossible conclusion when she rounded the curve of the stairs and saw the wholly unfamiliar figure standing beneath, back towards her.

Noticing James’s eyes sweep from her towards the stairs, Hiroko turned her head. And discovered a new aspect to pain. It was Konrad become female, and beautiful. The ginger hair augmented to copper, the heavy eyes made sensual rather than sleepy, the lankiness transformed into slimness. Beside her, James was saying, ‘My wife, Elizabeth. Darling, this is Miss. Tanker?’ and a man’s voice behind him corrected, ‘Tanaka,’ but Hiroko did nothing but stare at the figure walking down the stairs.