A Sultan in Palermo (34 page)

‘Why didn’t she ever write and tell me that you were innocent?’

‘Now that you’re both in the same town, you could ask her.’

‘I’m glad Jamshed is dead. I’m glad you’ve lost all your hair and look really decrepit and aged.’

Zahid burst out laughing. It was spontaneous and unaffected, reminding me of how much we used to laugh when we were young. He looked at me closely.

‘Why the hell haven’t you changed? Does nothing affect you?’

‘I have changed, and in more ways than you think, but some things go far too deep, and however changed the world is, it is criminal to forget what was once possible and will become so again.’

‘Always motherfucking politics. What did happen to Tipu?’

‘He was arrested, tortured and sent back to Chittagong on the request of his uncle, who was a civil servant. The uncle took full responsibility for him. Tipu stayed in touch. I thought he had died in the civil war of 1971, but he was only wounded. The last time I saw him was at the funeral where he hugged you. He’s an arms dealer who uses his Maoist past to pimp for the Chinese. A Parisian wife helps with the French side of the deals.’

A gong, pretentious but effective, was sounded below. We were being summoned for supper. The table was laid out like a work of art. She must have wasted half a day at least.

‘I never thought I’d ever cook for you.’

‘If it’s not good, you never will again.’

But it was good. In fact, it was a convincing repeat of a Yunnanese meal cooked by her mother that I had enjoyed at her family apartment in Lahore all those years ago, the meal that introduced me to proper Chinese cooking, not the muck they served in the two restaurants in town. What a wonderful way Jindié had chosen to revive the most delicious memories from the past, mingling ancient recipes with adolescent love. To start, there were three types of mushrooms, including the most prized:
chi-tzong
, which when cooked in a particular way tastes like chicken. Then
kan-pa-chun
, or ‘dry fungi’, stir-fried with red chillies, spring onions and beef fillet, which gave the palate as much pleasure as one’s first French kiss. The main course was chicken served in the steam pot in which it cooked, which resembled an espresso coffee pot with a chimney protruding from its middle, seasoned with scented herbs, a great deal of ginger, and more mushrooms. The method produces steamed chicken as soft as marshmallows and the most exquisite chicken soup I have ever tasted. To go with this there were some ‘over-the-bridge’ rice noodles and
nuo mi
, the sticky rice that is only available in Yunnan and parts of Vietnam. Neither of my hosts could eat the baked green chillies that adorned a single plate put next to me; these, too, I had first tasted at the original banquet in Lahore.

Last, but not least, there was
ru-shan
(dairy fan), another delicacy that sets Yunnan cuisine apart from the cooking of almost all other Han Chinese provinces. This is a cheese-like product, solid, hard, and very thinly sliced into fan-shaped pieces, which are eaten with gooseberry compote and raw mangoes. Since Jindié’s stomach, like those of most Han people, is sensitive to all dairy foods, Zahid and I ended up eating too much of it that evening. I declined the
mao tai
, a gruesome spirit whose name when spoken in Punjabi means ‘death is near’.

My stomach had been completely won over, but the path to my heart was still blocked by a forest of stinging nettles. In more relaxed mode, I asked after the children and their lives. The son, Suleiman, had tired of making money and turned to Chinese history. He was in love with a Chinese woman and lived in Kunming. No, he was not at all religious and only mildly interested in politics. The daughter, Neelam, was religious, and married to a general in Isloo. Their son would be eleven next year. I smiled, thinking of how desperately Zahid had once been in love with a general’s daughter; now his own daughter was wedded to a general.

It was my turn to be questioned, but it was obvious they already knew a great deal, and I sheepishly confirmed much of the information that Jindié had accumulated regarding my life. She even recalled a few episodes that I had totally forgotten. Jindié had kept a strict watch on me even from afar. She asked for details of my life that I had also long forgotten.

‘You see’, said Zahid, ‘we never really lost touch with you even though we could never be in contact for all those years. Jindié’s spies reported on your every movement. Once when you came to give a lecture at Georgetown, we sat right at the back in dark glasses and funny hats so you wouldn’t recognize us.’

‘I wouldn’t have recognized you without a hat, you turnip.’

I chattered away in Punjabi, pleased that the thought of Zahid would no longer plunge me into a gloomy reverie tinged with repugnance. The mother tongue encourages imprudence and indiscretions, but both of us were enjoying the reunion. Jindié was silent, even though she was probably more fluent in Punjabi now than Zahid. I thought I detected an anxious look from her at one point, but it soon disappeared. Just as I was about to leave, I realized that we had not yet discussed Plato’s plight. Zahid had no idea to whom or why he had got married or whether this, too, was a fantasy. He admitted that he neither liked nor could understand Plato’s paintings. Jindié disagreed very strongly and we both united, to accuse him of philistinism. I suggested that I. M. Malik’s decorative work should be removed to his study or the washroom. He said that he had paid a great deal for the gouaches and asked why I owed Plato a favour in the first place. Jindié could not totally conceal her nervousness at this. I mumbled something about the distant past and fog-bound memory, but promised I would speak with Plato the following day.

The evening had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Just before I left, Jindié disappeared briefly, returning with a large packet that obviously contained a manuscript.

‘All those years ago you told me I should write the story of my family and the long march that brought us from Yunnan to India. I did, and here it is. At first I thought I was writing it for Neelam, but when she went religious I knew she could never understand her mother. For her, all freedom leads to moral corruption. But I carried on writing. Since it was your idea, I thought I’d give it to you. It’s for the grandchildren really. Not to be published, but I would like to know what you think. Sorry it turned out so long.’

I took the manuscript with delight, wondering whether it held up a mirror to the drawing rooms of Lahore. This little butterfly could always sting like a bee. Her waspish descriptions of visits undertaken with her mother to the great houses of the city had always made me laugh.

‘Jindié, I’m touched and honoured. If there is anything I can’t understand, may I ring you for an explanation?’

Zahid looked at both of us in turn and smiled. ‘You’re in the same town again. You’re always welcome here. And you should know that I was never given a chance to read the manuscript.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘You gave up reading a long time ago. Only medical journals and the less demanding airport thrillers. Too wearisome to read proper books. He only bought yours last week.’

‘He told me.’

It was time to take my leave. I rose and shook hands with Jindié. The tremor was unmistakable. Zahid walked me to my car.

‘Seeing you again was a pleasure.’

This time we embraced warmly, as old friends do. I thought about the evening all the way home and for some days afterwards. It was neither political treachery nor the hard school of misfortune nor my pride and ill humour nor his incessant frivolity that had led to the breach. It was Jindié. Somehow this didn’t ring true. I recalled him telling me that he never found her attractive and couldn’t understand what I saw in her. He would always insist that my love for her was neither tender nor pure. I’d strongly denied the charge. My love was certainly tender. As for the other, the love that is pure verges on religious ecstasy and worship and that never meant anything to me. It also separates love from passion. The first for the wife, the latter for a courtesan and later a mistress.

True, he had been obsessed with the general’s daughter at the time, but how could he have changed his mind about Jindié within a few years? And what had possessed her to marry him? These puzzles remained, but, most importantly, he had not betrayed Tipu. Looking back, it wasn’t a surprise that Jamshed was the traitor. His politics and sexuality—ever transient—went in tandem. His charm had once disguised his ambition. He came from a modest Parsi background. All he wanted was to be rich, like the other Parsi businessmen, who had prospered throughout South Asia and especially a great-uncle whose name when pronounced in Punjabi meant testicle. When Jamshed had achieved this aim, the charm disappeared and he became a gangster. His appearance, too, underwent a change. He was bloated and with his awful dark glasses looked like three pimps gone mouldy. Was he paid in cash to betray Tipu? Was that how he had begun his descent to the sewers of big business in Fatherland?

Plato had never trusted him. He would often leave abruptly when Jamshed arrived at the college cafeteria to join our table. The country we grew up in was permanently swathed in cant, and the most tiresome forms of hypocrisy flourished. That was why Plato became so special for us. He urged us to ignore religion, renounce state-sponsored politics, pleasure ourselves in whatever fashion we desired and laugh at officialdom. How in Allah’s name had this man become engulfed in an emotional crisis so late in his life?

Z
AHID HAD TOLD HIM
to ring at a decent hour, and when the phone hissed that morning at nine, I knew it must be him.

‘Plato?’

‘You recognized my voice before I spoke.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Never been so happy in my life. I’m not joking.’

‘Then why did you swear so much when talking to Zahid?’

‘How much time do we have?’

‘The morning’s free.’

‘Then let me start by telling you why I now sometimes use abusive language.’

Slowly, the tale unfolded. Plato was never one for shallow sentimentality and his voice grew harder as he progressed. In brief, Ahmed, a painter friend of his, had abandoned his wife and children for a younger mistress. This was banal and predictable, but he was uneasy and kept returning to the wife and mounting her every Friday afternoon, before having lunch with his boys. One day his wife, Zarina, could take it no longer and lost control. She abused him nonstop: your mother’s cunt, sisterfucker, fuck yourself, sodomite, catamite, dogfucker, daughterfucker ... stay with the camel-cunted bitch you’ve found and don’t come to me again. How long this would have lasted is a matter of speculation. Ahmed covered her face with a pillow and smothered her. Then he wept uncontrollably. The older son rang the police, who took him away.

‘I couldn’t understand’, Plato continued, ‘why the use of bad language had led to violence and murder. After all, it was only her way of telling him how angry she was at being abandoned and mistreated. I went to see him a number of times in prison. He was filled with shame and at first did not want to discuss what he had done, but after I pressured him the following explanation emerged. His wife had never used bad language before and had often punished the children when their tongues let slip an obscenity. This is a family that lives in the heart of the old city, where each lane has its own special obscenities. Ahmed told me that the sight of the woman he had chosen to mother his children suddenly transformed by hatred was a blow to his self-esteem, his idea of himself: he had been filled with anger at the thought that he’d married a woman who had turned out to be so vulgar. It was the discovery of this unknown side of her that made him lose control and kill her.’

‘Did they hang him?’

‘What world do you live in? He was released three months later. His lawyer argued it was an “honour killing”, and the judge was paid in advance. Ahmed now lives peacefully with his new wife. The two boys have been sent off to a cadet college and will soon become young army officers. I don’t speak to the dog, but occasionally I indulge in obscene language to express my solidarity with his late wife. Do you believe me?’

‘No.’

‘It’s true. Your old friend Zahid loves being abused anyway. Makes him feel he’s back home. How was the butterfly?’

‘Reserved and dignified as always. More than I can say for you. What do you want of me?’

‘Could you write a long essay about me?’

‘Your paintings?’

‘Yes, but more about my life. She wants it and I can’t deny her anything.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Fifty-two.’

‘Not bad. Only twenty-seven years younger than you. I was hoping she might be one of your younger models. When did her husband die?’

‘Who told you it was dead? It will never die. It’s still alive and present. In fact she keeps it close to her bed.’

‘What?’

‘Prepare yourself for a surprise, Mr Dara. My Zaynab is married to the Koran.’

‘Allah help us.’

‘He never does, as we know.’

‘So she’s the daughter of some Sindhi feudal engaged in sordid calculations about his property.’

Plato was overcome by a fit of bitter laughter. ‘Yes, but in her case it was the brother, not the father, who forced her to marry the Holy Book. He must have made a lot of money selling her share of the land. It’s not that old age has made him generous. He dropped dead a few years ago. The younger brother adores Zaynab. He bought her an apartment in Clifton overlooking the sea. She wanted to buy one of my paintings. I showed her a selection. She bought them all. Then I did an imagined portrait of her on her wedding night. That made her laugh so much that I fell in love. Can you imagine?’

I could, but Plato still wanted to go through it in great detail and I didn’t stop him. I preferred Plato in love to Plato melancholic, filled with whisky-soaked despair and suicidal. He preferred living on the edge and in a way his love for Zaynab fell into that category. For the ignorant she was the equivalent of a Catholic nun, except that she was wed to the Koran, not Jesus. The tradition refused to die out. To become her lover was to defy heaven and become a passionate sinner. I was sure that her marital status was the turn-on. Plato paid no heed to official morality, took great pleasure in defying public opinion and enjoyed startling his conformist contemporaries. His life and his paintings reflected these feelings.