Night of the Golden Butterfly

by Tariq Ali

  ‘Yes, I’m going to see him next month. I’ve never been, you know. Time to go and bid farewell to the ancestors. Want to come? Zahid would be very happy.’

  It was a tempting offer and I promised to think about it.

  ‘China is going through a remarkable cycle in its history. How will it end?’

  ‘Don’t know. Sometimes a nation grows more in a decade than in a century, but there have been so many decades and centuries in the Chinese past that prophecy is impossible. If I can I will accompany you to China. There is nobody else I would rather be with in Yunnan.’

  ‘I will accept that as a compliment.’

  I graciously declined her offer of the guest room, though grace is not generally regarded as one of my virtues and is frowned upon as an affectation in most of the Punjab.

  ‘It was a really nice evening, Jindié. I’m really happy we finally spent a night together without quarrelling.’

  She kissed my forehead. ‘Why did you decide not to stay? Frightened of being raped by me disguised as Hsi-men?’

  ‘I just don’t like waking up in a house where there is no coffee.’

  She pushed me gently out the doorway.

  I drove back to North London just as dawn was breaking. Whatever the time of year, this has to be the nicest time of day to be awake in London, just before the big city wakes up. I crossed the river at Kew, stopping for a few minutes to see if a house I’d shared with friends after leaving university was still there. It wasn’t, and, slightly disappointed, I drove on and was home within fifteen minutes. There are advantages to living in an early Victorian square within ten minutes of St Pancras station. Novelists and bachelors share this in common: both are permanently at the mercy of capricious impulses. I espressoed myself two coffees, shaved and showered, left a message for Zaynab on her machine asking her to get some croissants, rush-packed a bag, adding a few books, earphones and my iPod, and walked to the station. At six-fifteen in the morning I was on the train to the Continent.

  FOURTEEN

  THE CROISSANTS WERE COLD by the time we finished making love, but dipping the cold edge of one in a bowl of milky hot coffee can sometimes be an equally sensuous experience. Zaynab Koran, nee Shah, having lived in Paris for over a month on her own, provided me with an emotional account of her social life.

  ‘I’m not sure I made the right decision, D. I love this city and I love French culture, but something’s happened. Have you heard of a Fatherland woman called Naughty Lateef? That’s what she calls herself.’

  She was flabbergasted when I described Naughty’s recent adventures in Fatherland. She repeatedly shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘She’s writing her memoirs, and they’ve started promoting her already. Let me show you the magazine.’

  Naughty had made the cover of Feminisme Aujourd’hui, a journal that had not crossed my path before and was largely full of ads for perfume, lingerie and related goods. Naughty, herself an Isloo Hui, was the cover story. Prior to this, I’d had no idea what she looked like, but the image on the cover did not come as a surprise. The modesty implied by the Armani scarf covering her head was immediately negated by her two friends below, proudly jutting forward as if to say, ‘Look, look, we have them in Fatherland too.’ Her looks were typical of Fatherlandi starlets who disgrace an already abysmal cinematic tradition: a fair skin, brown eyes with a tinge of green or blue eyes with a ring of brown, a toothpaste-ad smile, wavy hair, big breasts and a saucy expression.

  This was what undiscerning males from the high command of Fatherland’s armed forces required for rest and relaxation; and all in all it was best their needs were fulfilled by indigenous commodities. It avoided the trouble of importing Eastern European call girls, whom the fall of Communism had made available in very large numbers to the rest of the world and who now cluttered the hundred or so brothels in Kabul and numerous five-star monstrosities in the Gulf.

  The pretty wives of the more obedient junior and not-so-junior officers were regarded as fair prey, occasionally to be had with the full agreement of husbands eying a rapid promotion or a sinecure in the military-industrial enterprises and pleasantly surprised that their wives had turned out to be such lucrative investments. This was the world so well described in the anonymous Chin Ping Mei. The Fatherland high command was littered with Hsi-men types, who their juniors were only too happy to mimic.

  The interview with Naughty spanned six glossy pages. She was masquerading as a wronged Muslim woman, describing her oppression in lavish detail. The number of times she had been forced by different men, totally against her will, the tears that followed each experience and how when she had complained about this to a religious scholar, he had looked at her with anger and said, ‘Women like you should be stoned to death.’ Fiction, thinly disguised as fact for the European market, especially France and Holland, where the premiums on this sort of material were high. She informed the reader that she was working on a book for a giant German conglomerate and its North American, French, British and Spanish subsidiaries.

  It was not that wronged and oppressed women were in short supply in Fatherland—though their sufferings were not exclusively the outcome of religious oppression—but Naughty was not one of them. I couldn’t wait for her book. The fiction was so blatant that it was bound to generate a response. I couldn’t help chuckling at market fashions. Fake anti-communism and Holocaust memoirs had become popular a few decades ago, with publishers justifying these faux biographies as an attempt to grapple with a unique experience of horror, rather than seeing them for what they were, tawdry attempts to exploit a historical tragedy in order to appease one’s bank manager.

  Now it was open season on Islam. Any piece of rubbish was fine as long as it targeted the followers of the Prophet, preferably rubbish from women with pleasing exteriors, who would be easier to market in the West. I could see why Zaynab, forcibly married to the Koran, was seriously upset by Naughty’s dramatic entrance on the European stage. Zaynab had a real tale to tell, a story that had the Holy Book at its centre and the uses made of it by cruel and rapacious landlords to oppress their sisters and daughters. She had never spoken about any of that in public when she was in Europe. She told me she had no desire to fan the flames of prejudice.

  Zaynab threw the magazine in the kitchen bin. ‘Let it putrefy happily in the company of rotting vegetable matter and discarded eggs past their sell-by date.’

  ‘Why are you so angry? Naughty’s just trying to assert her independence and make a bit on the side. Not the first nor the last to do so.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but do you have any idea how bad things are in this town? At three dinner parties over the past fortnight, and with very different types of people, the minute they realized I was brought up a Muslim, the same question was pointedly repeated and usually by very nice, cultured people and always with a charming smile: Why does your religion insist on female circumcision? I was enraged by this absurdity. Where on earth have they got that idea from? I was polite the first few times and said that as far as I knew the millions of Muslims in Indonesia, China and South Asia had never suffered from this practice. It was restricted to parts of Africa and had tribal origins. Christian women in those areas were also mutilated. No injunction in the Koran or the traditions that I know so well demands it. And I was quite proud that this was so. I was unchallengeable. The third time it happened I did raise my voice. If men can be circumcised, why not women? It was a sign of our equality. Anything a man could bear, so could we.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Shock. Horror. Till they realized I was being facetious, and then I let them have it. I really did. This last dinner party was in a very proper, polite, even haute bourgeois household. Still they asked. The level of ignorance was so toxic that there was a moment when I thought I’d drop my poison capsule in the host’s wine.

  ‘To change the subject, I inquired whether anyone at the table was a strict believer, since I certainly did not qualify. Two young men, both Normaliens, admitted wi
thout a trace of shyness that they were practising Roman Catholics and, to the embarrassment of their parents, they put up a staunch philosophical defence. I asked about abortion. They were opposed. Divorce and contraception were issues that could be discussed, but this was not a romantic reverence for religious tradition. It was the real thing.

  ‘So they’re all doing religion, I thought to myself. And France, like Italy, despite pretensions to the contrary, is a Catholic country. The veneer of the Enlightenment is wearing off very fast. Why just attack us? Munafiqeen. Hypocrites. You can’t imagine what a relief it was to escape from all this and return to bed with my Stendhal. You were so right. I love him, and he writes at such a pace that you read him with the same rhythm. Why the soppy look on your face? Am I wrong? I’m glad you’re back. Can’t you move here? I mean travel from Paris to wherever you go to give your lectures, instead of from London?’

  I had never imagined I would someday hear Zaynab defending the faith with such vim, but then Euro-crassness had that effect on many Muslims, believers and unbelievers, who now lived and worked on the Continent. A month in this city had revived her spirits. I knew she had been extremely depressed by Plato’s death and by her inability to stay behind and watch him suffer and die. But she was recovering, and rapidly. It was this quality in Zaynab, her refusal to sham in order to please, as so many of our acquaintance did, that I found so attractive. This quality had created the affinity. From the very first time I met her I had been struck by her lack of affectation, whether we were alone or in company—as we were about to be that night, since she had invited a dozen people to dinner at a restaurant situated conveniently close to the entrance of her apartment. That’s where we normally ate, since—like many other women of my acquaintance—she was not one of nature’s cooks. It was time for a confession.

  ‘Zaynab, I have no idea whether or not Balzac ever ate here. I just made that up to expedite your decision on the apartment.’ She laughed, her eyes darting a few flames in my direction. ‘Hai, Allah. That is so funny. I became excited when you told me. After I had come to know the people who own the place I decided to share this information with them. They were so thrilled that they put a large portrait of him in the entrance hall, as you’ll see tonight, and also a quote from Le Père Goriot on the menu. Dara, they’re thinking of changing the name to Le Père Goriot. What should we do?’

  ‘This is how history is written these days. Leave it be. But let’s suggest that Eugénie Grandet might be a better name for the place. It’s a merciless assault on stinginess and might encourage their customers to spend more. A number of apposite quotations from that could be found to embroider their menus and enhance the impact. They’re doing it all to increase custom. Making money. A true homage to Balzac.’

  ‘How should I introduce you to the other guests? I don’t mean what you do, but ...’

  ‘What we do?’

  ‘Something like that. One of the Frenchmen is married to a fading beauty from Karachi, so whatever is said will reach Fatherland. Of that we can be sure. It’s awful how I’m picking up your stupid jargon.’

  We discussed the issue for far too long. Alternatives were considered and discarded. Zaynab often indulged in the most rash judgements, a trait not unrelated to her early years of enforced piety and isolation.

  ‘I could say you’re my brother-in-law who’s visiting for a few days.’

  ‘Does the Koran have a brother?’

  ‘You fool. I meant my brother’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘You mean your sister-in-law’s brother,’

  A fit of giggling temporarily immobilized her. I suggested a simpler solution: I would be just another guest. This would avoid any unnecessary rigmarole. Agreement was reached. A phone call in the afternoon from the fading beauty was a relief. An emergency had arisen and she and Jean-Claude had to go and comfort their son in Lyon. Zaynab was two guests short, and this worried her. I suggested one of my nonfiction publishers. If Henri de Montmorency were in town he would be fun and she would realize that Paris still contained critical minds, even more disgusted with official culture than she appeared to be. He was available. He had a new young Tunisian woman, Samira, in tow and they would happily join us for supper. There was a tiny glitch. He had agreed to meet a Chinese author writing a book on Shanghai for a drink and they might be a bit late. I suggested he bring his Chinese author along to dinner. Suddenly the party began to feel more promising. Zaynab had originally organized the dinner to be polite, returning the hospitality of the Islamophobes who had fed her over the past month. She knew this had all the makings of a dire evening and that since she was the hostess, sitting through it in disdainful silence, a satisfying option on other occasions, was excluded.

  In fact, the evening proceeded smoothly till Henri de Montmorency and his party arrived. Samira had not bothered to dress up, which surprised some. The Chinese author graciously beamed at us all. It was Henri who became argumentative early on, just as we were busy consuming the first course. He announced that he had just returned from Gaza and began to speak of crimes and atrocities that were being committed by Israel. Even at the best of times this is not a subject greatly appreciated in polite society in Paris. One of the women present, the wife of a liberal newspaper editor, excused herself and we heard her being loudly sick in the lavatory. Her husband rushed to her help as silence reigned at the table. Then the couple returned, the journalist apologized for his wife, who was not feeling well, and they left.

  Henri, whose surname concealed his Sephardic origins, of which he was immensely proud, remained unrepentant. ‘This is not the first time, you know. She was sick at another dinner party where I was present a few years ago. That year I was returning from Jenin. I don’t think she’s really sick at all. It’s an act of protest. The minute I saw her I knew that a mention of Gaza would send her straight to the toilet.’

  We carried on with the main course. Another of her guests, who worked for Credit Suisse, asked me where I was staying. As I was thinking of a suitable hotel, Zaynab interrupted.

  ‘At my place. And not in the guest room.’

  ‘Ah’, said Henri, ‘you are lovers. Very pleased. Very good news, Dara.’

  Till then the Chinese author, Cheng Chiao-fu, had remained silent. I looked at him more closely. He smiled. I was sure we had met somewhere.

  ‘What book are you writing for Henri, or is it a secret?’

  ‘Henri thinks it’s on a famous banking scandal in Shanghai that led to three public executions. That will be a small book. I’m working on a much larger book, on the history or, more accurately, the sociology of festivals in China. There are so many of them and their origins have always interested me. The existing work on them is not good.’

  Chiao-fu’s English was perfect, not a trace of any Chinese accent, but before I could question him, Zaynab attempted to engage Henri’s companion in conversation.

  ‘Do you work for Henri?’

  ‘You could say that I work on him.’

  We were just finishing at this point, but not wishing to hear more in this vein, Zaynab’s other guests pleaded the constraints of time and left us. There was a relieved burst of laughter from her. A more relaxed atmosphere prevailed. It was only ten, and more wine and cheese was laid on the table. I asked Chiao-fu whether he’d studied in Britain or the United States.

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Where did you learn English?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  The way he said that was familiar. I looked at him more closely.

  ‘Do you think we’ve met before?’ he asked. ‘That might be interesting.’

  ‘Do you mind removing your spectacles?’

  He did as I asked and I was almost sure. I spoke to him in Punjabi, using a phrase that he had often deployed in the old days.

  ‘You dog, Confucius, you cold-hearted catamite. Where have you been all these years?’

  He answered in Punjabi. ‘Who are you? Have we met?’

  ‘We met in La
hore. I knew your parents and Jindié. She lives in London now.’

  He looked blank, and something none of us had considered as a possibility was now a certainty, unless he was fooling. But it soon became clear that he had lost his memory, at least partially. I carried on speaking to him in Punjabi, and he replied and asked questions.

  ‘Did you give up physics?’

  ‘I don’t know. I did economics at Beijing University.’

  Zaynab saw that I was close to tears. She said, ‘Confucius, do you remember Plato?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. He made me laugh. What happened to him?’

  ‘He died a few months ago.’

  ‘I’m sad to hear that. And you knew him, too?’

  Henri had immediately realized that what was taking place was serious. I explained rapidly in broken French who Chiao-fu really was and was told in return that he was regarded as one of the top economists in the country, but had been sidelined because of the scathing criticisms he had made of the direction in which China was headed. I couldn’t restrain a few tears. Something of the old Hanif Ma-Confucius had stayed in him. What happened to this boy? Whose identity had he assumed or been given and in what circumstances? His confusion was now palpable. The fact that he could suddenly speak a totally different language that he’d had no idea was in him had shaken his self-confidence. I asked whether I could ring his sister and inform her.

  ‘Later, please. Let’s just talk now. In Punjabi.’

  Zahid and Jindié arrived the next morning and we all met later that day. Confucius was still bewildered. He didn’t recognize Jindié, but accepted rationally that she could be his sister despite her stumbling Chinese. She would often revert to Punjabi, reminding him of their childhood, using mixed Punjabi-Mandarin phrases from their past that were known only to them. Occasionally he would smile, his only tiny flicker of recognition. More would take time. I could see that she had been crying and attempted to comfort her.