The Widow's Husband

by Tamim Ansary

  He bowed gravely. “It will be my pleasure, Madame.” He dared to emphasize, ever so faintly, the word pleasure.

  He could not risk staying near her after that. His heart was too close to bursting. He went to join the crowd around Lord William Elphinstone, high commander of the British forces in Kabul since late April. Macnaghten outranked him, being Her Majesty’s Envoy, but Elphinstone led the military corps. He had arrived just several weeks ago to replace the doughty Willoughby Cotton but had proved even doughtier than the man he replaced. Tonight he was languishing in an armchair, as was typical for him. He rarely stood up, even to drink, for he suffered from both gout and pleurisy. He paid no attention to Oxley’s arrival. He was in the middle of telling some story, which the officers ringed about him took in politely, some tedious yarn about his exploits during the Peninsular Wars thirty years ago.

  “And my horse foundered on the last leg—had to shoot the beast. Then I walked, gentlemen, walked the last half mile on foot, yes. Ahem. Bullet in my thigh and all—arrived all covered in mud but arrived, by God. Wellington could scarce believe his eyes. William, he kept saying. William? I remember it clear as yesterday. Is it you, he kept saying. Is it you? ‘Course, I was younger then, we all were, but that, gentlemen, was a war. Nothing at stake since those days. Still, we soldier on.” He sighed and lifted his large head to see what reaction his story had drawn from the officers. He had a cataract in one eye and floaters in both, so he had to move his head about to assemble a picture of the whole scene. Some of the officers clapped politely and said “Bravo, sir.”

  “Well might you say so, lads, but now it is your turn. You lads must do your duty too. Do your duty. England still needs good men, though the Age of Greatness may have passed. With luck, you too may find your Bonaparte. Your Bonaparte. Can’t have a Wellington without a Bonaparte, you know. And Afghanistan is good seasoning. Tough it out here and by the time you get home, there will be man-sized work awaiting you on some more glorious field, I assure you. I assure you.”

  The officers clapped politely again, but Oxley could see that they found Elphinstone only slightly more inspiring than a bucket of steaming horse manure.

  At last, the musicians began to play. Most were officers in the military bands that had come to Kabul with the Army of the Indus from the start, but some were regular soldiers who happened to play a fiddle and a few were Wily Oriental Gentlemen, as the boys called the more upstart Hindus—wogs, for short—some of whom knew how to play a proper dance tune on a Christian instrument. The music wobbled a bit at first, but the gentlemen had imbibed enough gin and the ladies had waited long enough for the dancing to begin that no one minded the deficiencies, and after a few numbers, the musicians found their footing, and the ball turned really lively, for all its primitive accoutrements.

  True to his word, Oxley went looking for Amanda, but she was already on the floor with a partner. Jealousy tied his belly into knots, but what could he do? He took another small gin with tonic and a slice of lime to calm himself, but his gut remained clenched.

  The dance ended, but Amanda and her partner stayed on the floor as if ready to dance again. Oh, this would not do at all. Offers had been made! Oxley made his way onto the floor and put his case graciously, he thought, with an air of easy wit. “M’lady promised me a dance and now I must collect.”

  “All in good time, Oxley,” said the other officer with rude heat. “Wait your turn. Mrs. Hartley has promised the next number to me. Find yourself another partner, my good man. There are enough to go around for once.”

  Oxley reluctantly selected a partner from among the Fishing Fleet, a youngish thing who looked pretty from a distance; but as he led her to the floor, he saw a pimple on her cheek. Her hair was pulled back so tightly that it seemed to shine like varnished wood, and it lifted the skin of her forehead unattractively. He had a sudden intimation that this was a mature woman who had stretched a mask of youth over her face by devices known only to her sex. He danced with her soberly, his attention and sometimes his gaze fixed on Amanda Hartley, elsewhere on the floor.

  When the music stopped, he escorted his partner back to her seat with brusque impatience. Amanda was a popular partner and he had to move quickly if he wanted her. He did manage to slide in just ahead of some self-satisfied fellow with pretty lips and a small moustache curled at the tips, whom Oxley had glimpsed about cantonments but whose name he didn’t know. Amanda accepted his hand graciously and allowed herself to be led out to the floor again. “You flatter me, Mr. Oxley, but you must not show yourself quite so eager,” she murmured on the way. “It will raise remarks.”

  They began moving through their set. The orchestra was sawing out a reel, which gave little opportunity for conversation. The dancers separated into lines. The men clapped hands, beckoned to their partners, stamped four times and jump-stepped—and then, accursedly, Rupert found himself dancing with the next woman down the line. So it went, as the dancers traded partners through the formation. When he had Amanda back, he said, “I can’t help how I present myself, Amanda. I can’t express how lonesome I have been all these months. I long for your conversation. I miss—”

  “Now, now, Mr. Oxley.” Her voice turned tight and prim.

  They turned about and went back into the reel.

  He could not let her go, though, when the dance ended. He held her by the waist. He had thought she wanted his company as much as he wanted hers. Why was she pulling away? “I believe this next one will be a waltz. I really must keep you on the floor, Amanda. I insist.”

  She acquiesced, her face smiling, and the gleam of her teeth struck him like the sun coming up at dawn. “I’m on fire,” he whispered as he led her across the set to their places.

  “Good heavens, Rupert. Please!” she scolded.

  She had called him Rupert! This was looking promising! The dance began, and he concentrated on moving through the figures. He was a good dancer when he put his mind to it, and women liked that. He and Amanda swung their corners and returned into a right hand star. Then he had her in his arms again. “Oh, Amanda. Don’t hold me at arm’s length, there is so much in my heart. You have shown me such warmth. I know James is in Kandahar. You have no idea of my feelings. Every time I set eyes on you, I wonder what destiny brought us together so late in life, why could we not have grown up together as children and been promised to one another by our parents and been married as soon as we reached the age! Oh, Amanda, I—”

  “Hush! Hsst!” She leaned away from him, the blazing candles bathing her face in glow. “What on Earth are you saying? It’s impossible! We can only be friends. I thought we understood each other. Please. And you make it difficult even to be friends.”

  “Amanda. That night—”

  But she turned out of his embrace and released his hand. He had missed a step. They were supposed to do a back-to-back, but they were out of time with the music now, and with the other dancers. Her eyes flashed impatiently at his mistake. She reached for his hand to pull him around so they could mesh with the dance again, but he was too far askew from it now, and his mind was in such turmoil: he could not sort out dancing from romancing. At that moment, he knew nothing but sorrow and the raging ball of misery burning in his belly. “You can’t treat me this way. I will not stand for it,” he growled at her. “What do you take me for? You must—”

  “I must? I must? Mr. Oxley, you forget yourself.”

  “Oh no, I remember myself quite well. It is you who have forgotten, Amanda! It is you—” He had stopped all pretense of dancing now. He tried to seize her by the waist, but she wrenched away and her arm came swinging up in a blur of motion—which he caught. He caught her wrist before her hand could slap resoundingly across his cheeks. They stood for a moment, frozen in that tableau of scandal and woe. Their voices had risen just above the pitch of the music and their dissonance with the dance had drawn attention from the nearest couples. Eyes had turned their way. High spots of color burned on Amanda’s cheeks. Her eyes blazed with fu
rious dismay. Oxley’s heart fell to his shoes. He let her go, his courage and his anger and indeed all his manly essence wilting, as he suddenly knew himself disgraced and humiliated in the eyes of this whole company. Before long, his father and brother would both know of his shame this night. He could picture them opening the report of his humiliation—surely someone would write to them, surely the story would travel all the way to Leicester. Oh, he could hear their laughter now!

  One or two seconds passed, seconds that felt endless. Then he grasped control of his senses again. Amanda stepped away from him, into the requisite figure, hands on her waist, doing her turn. Oxley did his corresponding turn and they came together pas de bouree, well executed and performed the traveling waltz steps together and then the dance was over.

  She did not offer her arm to let him walk her back to her place. She only nodded her head curtly and said, “Mr. Oxley,” and retreated. He too turned at once, trying to pretend nothing had happened. No one was staring at him, not obviously at least, but he could feel the attention of the whole room burning on the spot between his shoulder blades, as if public calumny were a torch.

  22

  At that moment, someone touched his elbow. He glanced to his right and saw the pretty-mouthed gentleman he had beaten out to secure Amanda as a dancing partner. “Rupert Oxley,” said the man. He spoke as if testing out the sound of the words.

  “Yes. I’m Oxley. You have the advantage of me, sir,” Oxley retorted curtly.

  “You don’t know me? Odd that I should know you and you know nothing of me. Is Kabul really so large?”

  “Who the devil are you then?”

  “My name is Burnes,” said the man. “Alexander Burnes.”

  The Alexander of the East! How could he have failed to guess? Burnes was second only to Macnaghten on the political side, here in Kabul, and according to every rumor, he would soon be supplanting Macnaghten as Her Majesty’s Envoy to the court of Shah Shuja. Oxley blushed furiously. He had made his second gaffe of the evening, and this time his very career might be at stake. “Mr. Burnes! I beg your pardon! Of course I know of you. All England knows of you. Why, the papers could talk of nothing else when you returned from your journeys to the heart of Asia. Sekandar Burnes, that’s what they called you! We schoolboys—I was just a schoolboy then—I assure you, sir: every one of us dreamed of shaking hands with you someday. Sadly—I say, your face—that is, we’ve never—”

  “We’ve never formally met,” Burnes agreed dryly. “The press of business. Also, I do not haunt Cantonments, I prefer to live in the city, among the people of this land. But I have heard about you, Mr. Oxley. I have been following your career with interest.”

  “You have?”

  “I keep an eye on promising subalterns. One day we ancients must hand over the reins, we must leave the empire in good hands. Eh?” Burnes spoke with a twinkle in his eye. He looked to be in his early thirties, scarcely more than ten years senior to Rupert Oxley, but if it pleased the great man to play Father Zeus, so be it.

  “I hope the reports have not been too discreditable,” Oxley stammered.

  “Well, the notes you’ve added tonight do not entirely exalt you.”

  Rupert straightened his knees, fighting down the shame. “I lost my head. I’ve been distraught. . .”

  Burnes squeezed his shoulder and said in a kindly voice, “I understand what you are feeling, Mr. Oxley. I assure you, I know what it is to be spurned, but I have rescued friendships out of it, and so must you. Why don’t you come away with me? A ball is no proper place for men like us. We shine in other settings. I will be pleased to instruct you on some alternatives to….” He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Romancing the wives of other English officers.”

  Oxley glanced about in dismay but saw that he and Burnes were actually quite private where they stood, just two men quietly conversing in the corner shadows of a crowded room. “I will gladly go wherever you lead me, Mr. Burnes.”

  “You may call me Alexander,” said the other, his pouty little lips smiling. “Or better still, Sekandar. I have grown accustomed to the name.”

  They bid their hostess farewell and took their leave of Lord Elphinstone, who hrumphed and accused them jovially of abandoning their posts in the middle of a battle. “Won’t do, you know. Won’t do. Wellington would take the cats to you men.”

  They retrieved their horses from the stables and rode into the cooling crispness of a Kabul summer night. No moon showed. They rode by starlight alone. Oxley felt some trepidation, riding through the city at this hour, but Burnes displayed a careless ease and once or twice even called out in one of the native tongues to some cloaked figure.

  At last they arrived at Burnes’s compound, south of the Kabul River. It was tucked against the foot of the mountain spur upon which Bala Hissar, the royal fortress, loomed. Burnes called out, and servants opened his compound gates. The men relinquished their horses, and Oxley followed Burnes indoors. The house was furnished luxuriously in an Oriental style, with marble floors, thick carpets, and mounds of silken pillows. The few items of furniture were shelves that contained musty bottles of fine liqueur and ancient brandy, glasses as thin as soap bubbles, and hookahs. Everything about this domicile invited one to recline and indulge. Suddenly, it occurred to Rupert that Mr. Burnes might be an invert. That warm greeting, those fingers touching his shoulder, his hips, his face, the confidential tone he had taken with Rupert —and why on Earth should a man in Burnes’ position have been following the career of an undistinguished subaltern? Rupert loosened his collar, wiped sweat from his neck and wondered how he might make his escape without shutting his career in a coffin.

  “Yes, do make yourself comfortable. By all means.” Burnes picked up a small hammer and tapped a bronze plate suspended from a decorative wooden stand. A gong sounded. A native servant appeared almost instantly. He must have been lurking just behind the door, awaiting his master’s summons. He and Burnes conversed rapidly in a language Rupert didn’t understand. Then the servant departed, and Burnes turned back to his guest. “Now Mr. Oxley, we have merely to wait.”

  “Hmm. Wait…for what exactly?” Oxley cast a nervous glance about the room.

  “You shall see. You’ll be pleased, I think. Be seated,” said Burnes. “I have a small matter to attend to. I will rejoin you instantly.”

  Reluctantly, Oxley let himself sink into the nearest pile of cushions. Languishing on the floor like any Roman, alone in this sumptuous room, made him feel entirely degenerate. After a few minutes, Burnes reappeared. He had doffed the pigeon colored gabardine slacks and the checkered waistcoat of an English gentleman in favor of a flowing shirt and baggy pantaloons.

  “You’ve gone native,” Oxley gasped.

  “I recommend it. These outfits are astonishingly comfortable, Oxley.” Burnes splashed brandy carelessly into a glass and handed it to Rupert, then flung himself upon the cushions next to the younger man. “I wear nothing else at home. You should try a turban too. While we’re waiting, let me ask you: what is your impression of the Afghan countryside?”

  “Outside the city, you mean? I have scarcely been off station,” Oxley admitted. “I have seen the country south of here, but nothing more. As to scenery—if that’s what you mean—well, I find it stark but rather … stirring.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of scenery. Incidentally, she doesn’t love him, you know, and he abuses her, but she’s dutiful. That’s a good quality in the end. You should be glad of it.” Burnes held his gaze for a moment and then said, “What would you think of going north? After tonight’s fiasco, I imagine you’ll want to make your face scarce for a bit.”

  Oxley colored. “Was it that bad?”

  Burnes shrugged. “I’ve seen worse, but in your place I would look for opportunities to remove myself for a time. Her heart will soften in your absence. It’s not punishment I’m suggesting, it’s opportunity.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “I’ll h
ave to clear it with your commanding officer, of course.” Burnes stared at the ceiling, composing his thoughts. “Mr. Oxley,” he said finally, “the British Mission in Kabul as been very successful so far. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”

  “Oh, I agree, sir. When I spoke with Lord Auckland—”

  “Precisely. Now that you’re here, you see for yourself. You have eyes.”

  “We seem very well established.”

  “Well planted. Yes. The Afghan has accepted us, Ivan is stymied. In a year or two, we shall be straddling the Oxus, and with that we will have secured all that we need. We are only here to protect the empire, Oxley. Never forget that. With the Oxus at our backs, the Czar will finally understand the futility of his designs on India.”

  Oxley was thrilled. If only his brother could see him now, sipping brandy and discussing deep matters with none other than Sekandar of the Steppes! But where was this leading? “I see what you mean,” he agreed, wrinkling his brow to suggest thoughtful consideration. “You have such a clear way of putting it, sir.”

  “Of course, incidents have occurred,” Burnes went on. He leaned to his right and stretched to reach a bottle, not the brandy he had given Oxley but a smaller bottle of something from a lower shelf, a liqueur, it seemed.

  “Yes, I know,” said Oxley. Even now he could picture vividly the five men he’d seen hanging from gallows on his way into the city.

  “But nothing worse than we expected,” Burnes went on. “When the Dost fled north, the Amir of Bokhara was supposed to clap him in prison. We had it arranged, you see, money changed hands, but we were deceived. Those two were thick as thieves, in fact: they’re cousins, you know, plotting together. They sent agents down to Kabul to stir up trouble. We caught them, I’m happy to say, we arrested every one of them but I told Macnaghten we’d get nowhere until we cut off the head. Well, last November the Dost finally came south and engaged us at Pandit Pass. He cut us to pieces, frankly, but his victory was just what we needed. The Dost only wanted to redeem his honor, you see: show himself a man. Once he’d bloodied a British force, he turned himself in and that’s all we wanted from him in the first place. We secured with defeat what we never gained with victory. Well, that seemed an end of it. The source of all conspiracies, caged—and we have him now in Ludhiana, eating tamely from our hands. He’s in the self-same palace where we had Shuja tucked away. Not a peep of trouble.”