The Devils' Dance

by Hamid Ismailov

  Who knows if the soldier from Qumloq had heard the question? The door was slammed shut and Abdulla was left alone with his gruel and his thoughts.

  What could he ask the soldier for? What was the man able to do? Could he be asked to bring a knife? Would that really be possible? Or would it be easier to ask him to bring paper and pencil, so Abdulla could write a letter to his family? But what could he write about? If he wrote that everything was fine, that would be a lie; that he’d be free any day now, would be an idle dream: he couldn’t write that he was being beaten and kicked. Or suppose he wrote, ‘I’m going to kill that scoundrel Vinokurov, forgive me and farewell’. That would be absolutely idiotic. All the same, Abdulla decided to ask for paper and pencil first. At least he could write and ask Rahbar, ‘Did you take the children to the Railway Workers’ Palace?’ Or should he say, ‘I hid the manuscript of the novel about the slave in the Sultan’s harem in the stove under the summer porch in the yard. Keep it, and hide it where nobody will find it.’ At least he’d managed to conceal the manuscript in a place where the secret policemen, naturally, hadn’t thought of looking. They’d ransacked the whole house, even taken away the torn shreds of his manuscripts, but they’d overlooked the yard stove.

  Chewing his tasteless millet porridge, Abdulla recalled the secret policemen, the treacherous concierge. When would the interrogations begin? The interrogators would need to take a break for the New Year holiday, but only for a couple of days; after that he would be put on Vinokurov’s list and would become the Russian’s lawful hostage.

  He had to ask the young man from Qumloq for a knife.

  —

  Oyxon lay behind the white wedding curtains, wrecked and desolate. She didn’t have the strength to cry for help, nor to weep bitter tears, nor to hang herself. The night was endless for the violated girl… The monster that had raped her pushed the curtains aside and went out to wash his body. As she watched him, hatred weighed on Oyxon’s breast as heavily as a millstone. She had kicked, she had scratched and bitten, but this had only served to inflame him more. The girl lay there, sticky with blood, seized by pain. ‘The moment he comes back, I’ll sink my teeth in his throat,’ she thought as she lay there, clenching her pearly teeth.

  When Oyxon was put into a cart to be brought here, she had spotted a tall, slightly ruddy man among the bodyguards. This courtier had guarded Umar almost as far as the wedding-bed curtains, and he seemed familiar to her. Of course, the handsome Gulxaniy, who had studied under her father at O’ratepa! Her father had given him that nickname himself, ‘Fiery’, because of his reddish beard… the men had been fond of each other. Could she not, by begging and fawning on him, persuade him to give her a dagger?

  —

  To think that that Nodira had once been jealous of Umar’s state duties, even of the word ‘pomegranate’ – what a joke that had turned out to be! Once she had borne a couple of children and was occupied in looking after them, the Emir took a second wife, a rather squat Kipchak girl. But that was just the beginning. Destructive jealousy, deep suspicions, furious envy were yet to come.

  Who had led her lord and master astray? One summer, he went to visit his younger sister in Shahrixon and returned utterly changed. Could Nodira’s poetic heart have deceived her?

  The tulips are blooming – where has my beloved fled?

  Has she vanished from my sight, who inspired the words I said.

  Everyone seeks their prey, in this worldly hunting land.

  What am I to do? My sweet hawk has flown my hand.

  Nodira could tell that she was going to be flooded with misery. As Mashrab said:

  With a thousand shrieks of woe, calamity made us stagger.

  The soul cries out to be alone, disaster is a dagger.

  Nodira was taking measures, but before that she found in a pocket of his lordship’s gown a poem written on Kokand paper:

  My heart yearns to meet you, oh my beloved, welcome

  You have made my eyes shine, my dear beloved, welcome!

  I was sick from the feast – hey bring some wine here!

  You filled my glass right up, yes my beloved, welcome!

  With your forms and shapes, you teased the tedious banquet –

  Skewered their shadows on the wall, ah my beloved, welcome!

  Last night the moon came in secret, and the Emir said quietly:

  ‘Don’t tell our rivals of your kindness, yes, you are welcome!’

  Even if it was merely a rumour that this moon-like creature was a rival, the shadows on the wall were troubling for the lady of the castle. She set reliable plotters to work, and found out that the wife of the ruler of Shahrixon was the source of this intrigue, that the disaster was already in full swing: it had taken root, and was now too late for any remedy. Some time ago two of Umar’s courtiers had gone to Shahrixon and visited the exiled G’ozi-xo’ja to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

  Nodira burned with resentment. ‘Who is this moon-faced girl?’ she demanded to know. The young Hakim took her to see his mother Oftob, the Emir’s sister, in Shahrixon. There she was unable to see this fine figure, ‘the shadow on the wall’, who had become a beautifully arrayed pea-hen hidden behind a curtain. When she did see the maiden, all her former jealousies were cast aside as trivial: this girl became the sole object of her obsession. Now Nodira knew what real jealousy meant; lacking the strength to express it in her own words, her enfeebled lips again whispered Mashrab’s fiery verses:

  With a thousand shrieks of woe, calamity made us stagger.

  The soul cries out to be alone, disaster is a dagger.

  Gripping his steel, the executioner’s come for my head.

  He’s snuffed out my life with his blade: I am dead.

  —

  To wash down his tasteless millet porridge, Abdulla sipped a mouthful of bitter tea: it had been made from used tea-leaves, dried in the sun. Cho’lpon and Fitrat must by now be used to the prison regime, as well as to the smell of chlorine and sweat, to the foul food, the smoking ceiling lamp, the attacks at night: as Abdulla knew from his first incarceration, it was surprising how quickly you got accustomed to such things. From time to time the days were disturbed by interrogations and confrontations with witnesses, which were a kind of contact with the outside world – though a false, distorted version of it.

  In any case, the New Year holiday meant there was still no investigation: were they planning to simply beat him up first and ask questions later? The recent visit by Sunnat from Qumloq had given Abdulla hope, and in doing so weakened his resolve: his obsession was fading – perhaps he wouldn’t kill Vinokurov after all. But now it remained to be seen if Abdulla would really let him get away with his actions. He’d drunk all the tea: it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  It would be wonderful if he could get the young soldier on his side! Might the boy have read any of his books? He looked rather simple-minded, but there must be more to him than that. The NKVD wouldn’t take just anyone on. And he was the only Uzbek Abdulla had come across among all the guards and interrogators here… He could write a note to Rahbar; it would be good if she could take care of his manuscripts, assuming the worst forty days of winter hadn’t started, and she hadn’t used the manuscripts to stoke the stove… The thought made Abdulla very nervous. To a certain extent, the scenes he had written were still there in his memory, but the point was not just sketching out the scenes, it was a matter of finding the right tone, putting the words together, placing a full stop at just the right point.

  Some artistic works are like buildings constructed from carefully placed bricks, with no cracks you can put a finger through. The walls of such buildings ring like a bell. Other works are mere hovels, their crooked walls are jerry-built with lumps of clay; the slightest tremor is enough to finish them off.

  —

  Oyxon emerged for the bride’s morning greeting: her face was made up, bu
t her loins and her legs hurt unbearably. When she walked, her legs refused to obey her. The women of the harem praised her beauty with ululations, while she felt like a cat that had fallen into the water, or a cockroach that had been flayed… no, like a lifeless kid goat, thrown into the bozkashi scrum. The elderly harem guests were fussing and bustling around her, gabbling verses:

  Girl as slender and graceful as a cypress, you are welcome.

  With all the beauty of a peacock, you are welcome.

  Take pleasure in your bride-time, you are welcome.

  Light of my eyes, my crown and bride, you are welcome.

  May your life be long and happy, you are welcome.

  Live long and well with your bridegroom, you are welcome.

  Oyxon found this constant babble agonising. Who had composed such a clumsy, ugly poem? It didn’t rhyme, it made no sense. This was the very opposite of art or grace: amateurish, overfamiliar word-play. From under her fine silk veil Oyxon looked discreetly out at her surroundings. On her right, she was surrounded by old women, all expecting gifts of clothing in honour of the bride.

  The reciter was getting carried away, leaping from poem to poem. First she called on Oyxon to bow to the senior members of the family, but the gifts of rubies and pearls that she received from them didn’t brighten her dulled eyes. Then the reciter called upon Oyxon to stand to the right of the Emir’s senior wives, paying especial deference to Nodira, the palace’s chief wife, whom she likened to a nightingale:

  This day presents are given out,

  While hems are raised magnificently,

  Let us give to all the poor and destitute…

  From behind her veil, Oyxon stole a glance at this incomparable, extraordinary woman: she saw not two eyes, but two daggers pointed at her. Her heart missed a beat. After all, she had read the anthologies: she knew by heart all the poems that had been written under the pen-name Nodira.

  Separated in the evening from my beloved, I have not failed to suffer agony.

  Have mercy, now, it is impossible not to suffer…

  With her two adolescent sons standing behind her, Nodira handed Oyxon her gift of soft crimson silk. Bewildered and horrified, unable to straighten her aching back, the new young wife retrieved from somewhere deep down another opening couplet which she spoke to her own heart:

  Blood is shed all over the town square, if she moves elegantly everywhere,

  Like a river, blood ebbs over the town square and flows everywhere.

  Chapter 2

  Knucklebones

  On the fourth night of January, using a bit of powder to cover up the bruises and the black eyes inflicted by Vinokurov – who appeared to be lying low – someone led Abdulla to the same room where his belt and cummerbund had been removed. There they showed him the rifle they had taken from his house, and made him confirm in writing that it belonged to him. Abdulla signed: if he was going to be kicked and trampled on now, he wouldn’t fire the rifle, but he’d go for them with the butt and smash their heads open. But no, there was no beating: as soon as he had signed to confirm that the rifle was his, they thrust his padded sleeping mat into his hands and led him off, not to his old cell, but to a different one.

  It was now midnight. Given that he’d had his face powdered, Abdulla assumed that he was going to be taken to see one of the higher-ups or interrogators. He was mistaken. A door was opened, and he was flung inside. A filthy stench struck him: the sweat of dozens of men, the stench of urine, farts and unwashed male bodies. There were five barred lamps hanging from the ceiling, so Abdulla guessed that this cell was three or four times bigger than the previous, which had had only one. His eyes needed time to get used to the darkness, but even from the threshold he could sense that there were many rows of objects lying there. Then, retching from the foul stench, he bent down and saw that these were human beings lying on their sides.

  In the corner by the entrance one man awoke, raised himself to a sitting position, and stared long and hard at Abdulla. When he finally appeared to have convinced himself of something, he shook the man lying next to him.

  ‘Muborak, get up, they’ve brought another one in!’

  ‘Tell the chief to find a place for him,’ Muborak grumbled.

  The first man, however, gestured to Abdulla. ‘Come over here, you look like a decent man.’ Then he jostled Muborak again: ‘Move over, make a space for him between us!’

  His neighbour’s persistence meant Muborak was now fully awake; he looked at Abdulla with surprise. ‘You’re not Abdulla Qodiriy, are you?’ he said, rubbing his eyes.

  His nostrils flaring from the stench, Abdulla repressed his desire to retch, and nodded.

  ‘What are you doing in this place?’ Muborak asked, but then seemed to find an immediate answer to this question. ‘Well, never mind that now: just come over here,’ he said, and made room between himself and his neighbour for the quilt that Abdulla was holding.

  ‘Sodiq, didn’t you recognize him?’ Muborak whispered as Abdulla unrolled his narrow quilt between them. ‘This man is the greatest writer in Uzbekistan!’

  ‘I recognised him by his red gown!’ Sodiq insisted. And then, to Abdulla: ‘Lie down, sir! Let’s get some rest. Tomorrow we can have a proper talk.’

  ‘Only, here we lie half the night on one side, then turn over on to the other side,’ Muborak explained. He turned over onto his left side, and Abdulla followed his lead.

  Whether it was the stench, or what he had just seen, or the snoring on either side of him, Abdulla couldn’t get to sleep. After four cold nights in isolation, at least he was back among people like himself.

  —

  In the Emir’s harem, was it better to be a senior or a junior wife? Let someone who’s been in that situation say. Nodira was in her quarters with Uvaysiy, listening to the latter reading; but her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Uvaysiy was reciting a fable chosen from somewhere in the anthologies. Nodira wondered whether certain aspects of the fable were directed deliberately at her, or were merely accidental reminders of her life.

  ‘In days of yore there lived two doves, one called Bazanda, the other Navozanda. They were together day and night in an idyllic place, they lived harmoniously in the same luxurious chambers. One day Navozanda looked Bazanda in the face: she could read the anguish on the other’s forehead, itself a thing of beauty. She said, “Listen, light of my eyes and moon, bliss of my melancholy heart, dim mirror of secret thought, your face bodes ill: what did you see, what has affected your ill-fated days?”

  ‘Bazanda said, “As the ancients say, ‘Cheap transport from the town just causes trouble.’ I have neither a man nor a pack animal. The terrors of making this journey weigh heavily on my mind. A parrot, after leaving the cage, must soar.’

  Uvaysiy carried on with the story of the two sad doves, but Nodira applied the last words to herself. In fact, her spirits were downcast: it was all so like her own situation… In her recital, Uvaysiy switched between prose and verse. Nodira’s confused thoughts prevented her from understanding fully: the same two lines kept running through her mind:

  The evil rival who hates me

  Is an infidel, her mind denies God

  Uvaysiy easily picked up on Nodira’s distracted state; the older woman raised her voice and articulated each word as she recited:

  ‘Then Navozanda said, “When setting off on a journey you mustn’t be frugal, but if you have one thing too many, it is hell. You need a friend on a journey… With a good friend a journey may be a pleasure, with a bad friend it will be disastrous. The proof of this is the journey a scorpion made with a tortoise.”

  ‘Then Bazanda said, “How did that go? Tell me.”

  ‘Navozanda said, “According to what I’ve heard, a tortoise was on its way from Iraq to the Hejaz. It took up with an exhausted scorpion it met by the side of the road. The two of them were obliged to go tog
ether. Now, this tortoise was very sharp-witted, having been on many journeys and having acquired a great deal of valuable experience. Still, it put its trust in the scorpion. They crossed deserts and came to a wayside inn. Eventually they found themselves facing a big river. They looked both ways along its banks, but could see no bridges or ferries. Finally, the tortoise, being near its desired goal, went down to the water’s edge, thinking to swim across. It shook itself like a goose or a duck. But then it looked around and saw that its companion was hanging back, its sting raised up over its shoulder. “Hey, friend,” the tortoise said, “why won’t you come here?”

  ‘“You’ll have to forgive me,” the scorpion said, “even a tear-drop of water is a drop too much for me.” The tortoise said to itself, Isn’t it the duty of travelling companions to tackle such problems together? This isn’t so difficult a task. It will be best if I carry him across. I’ll follow the ancient sages’ advice, ‘Do a good deed, tell it to the water; if the water doesn’t take it in, let the fish know; if the fish don’t take it in, the Creator will know’.

  ‘To cut a long story short, the tortoise took up a paddle. “Hey, friend,” it said. “I’ve decided to take you across the river. Get on my back. Don’t move, or it will be dangerous for you.”

  ‘The scorpion said, “Every person knows what is right for them,” and climbed onto the tortoise’s back. They set off across the river. After a while the scorpion started swaying about, and said to the tortoise, “Today I’ve found a wide enough battlefield. The sages used to say, ‘A donkey plays once in forty years.’ Today I’ll stick my steel sting neatly into your flat back.”

  ‘The tortoise said, “That nasty sting of yours is too weak to harm my back.”

  ‘Then the scorpion said, “You know that it’s all the same to me; a scorpion’s urge is to sting, whether it’s a friend’s breast or an enemy’s back.