Oyxon, melancholic, was left on her own in the seat of honour. She spoke her thoughts:
My life has passed in flagrant ignorance, what shame;
What is left will now pass in repentance, o alas…
Without anyone noticing, she slipped away from the festivities and returned to her chambers. When she left, the feast was at its height; she had missed its climax. A moment or half a moment after Oyxon left, Nodira appeared from a corner door. The servants in that corner instantly blocked the door with a screen. Nodira was approaching the centre of the hall when Uvaysiy applauded loudly and cried out, ‘Praise to Allah!’ Willingly or not, the other women quietened down.
‘The culmination of the contest will be between Nodira and…’ Uvaysiy paused, then raised her voice: ‘Emir Umar!’
‘Oh!’ the hall responded as one. That instant, Umar’s royal voice sounded out from behind the screen:
How much respect is there for her eminent reason and intelligence?
Nodira, standing in the middle of the hall, responded to him in her full, flirtatious and elegant voice:
Do these fine minds belong only to those who wear padded tunics?
The women and girls desperately exclaimed ‘Oh, alas!’ Then Umar instantly picked up the theme:
The falling dew showed the beauty of your flower-like face…
All the talk is of the rosebud of your lips…
Again, there were gasps of amazement. Someone began to cry uncontrollably. The Emir said:
Cup-bearer, make me merry for an hour with wine…
and one of the maidservants, lifting up a full bowl of wine, hurried past the screen. When she saw this, Nodira shook her head, uttering the line:
My poor soul is hurt by the grief of separation…
Pausing for a minute or two to wipe his lips on the servant girl’s hem, the Emir responded:
Do not rebuke the bonds that hold me by the neck…
As if sensing something, the peacocks began chasing one another. In the middle of this uproar, Nodira, as if seeing her own hopes and dreams crystallised, said:
In all this cruel path there is a Christian’s hair belt round his neck…
The women asked one another what this meant, but nobody could understand; only Uvaysiy was quick-witted enough to grasp the sense behind those words. She smiled to herself. But she hadn’t made sense of the secret that the last words might contain, because in the middle of this conversation the ingenious Emir Umar was in fact addressing somebody else:
Just for a day, grace my ruined hovel with your angelic presence…
Excited by the wine, Umar had reacted to her words and couldn’t have expected her response:
If the time’s shadow on the wall has vanished…
At one point Umar had devised a poem ‘Welcome’, a lyric with the recurring refrain ‘shadow on the wall’. ‘No, today I shan’t darken your hovel’s door; you can cast a shadow on her wall instead, this woman to whom you say “Welcome”!’ – these were the words that Nodira had used as a loving reproach. As she said them again now, she looked in the direction of that third person, then bit her tongue: Oyxon had left the gathering… It was at that moment that the Emir said this astounding line:
How could my hospitable heart deny her welcome?
He waited and waited for her answer, but not receiving any response, he spoke from behind the screen:
As the king of love, Umar is a monument to justice…
This ending was his signature to the lyric, and leaving the ladies to get on with their celebrations, he left for his own chamber. Nodira was heart-broken:
Oh heavens, let your surface crack, your tyranny is unbounded,
Bereft is loving Nodira, parted now from her beloved.
—
Abdulla wondered if he should talk about such matters to the prisoners. Would they understand? Or should it mark the very start of his narrative, in the same way as A Thousand and One Nights? Might that not be a reason to work out the scenes he hadn’t yet written? Muborak was observant enough to notice Abdulla taking an interest in the conversations taking shape around him:
‘Abdulla, sir, what sins have you committed to be treated like a criminal?’
‘How would I know?’ Abdulla replied tartly. ‘You’d need to ask the people in charge. When the time comes, I’m sure they’ll have something to say. How about you?’ But then Jur’at came up and interrupted.
‘For a child slave even a shit is as good as a rest, they say; you and I need to have a talk. You say you’re a writer? We haven’t read anything of yours. I have read a book called The Naughty Child. That man could really write! I’ve also read a piece called The Thief by someone called Abdulla – was that you?’
‘No, that was Abdulla Qahhor…’
‘I don’t know about your writing, but that’s a nice gown you’re wearing!’
Were these remarks of Jur’at’s purposely casual, was he trying to cheer Abdulla up, or had he genuinely taken a shine to Abdulla’s gown? In any case, it reminded Abdulla of a story from Emir Nasrullo’s era. Abdulla suddenly laughed:
‘In olden times, there was a king who was forced to give up his throne. Absolutely destitute, he arrived one day in Samarkand. He had no money, no horse: his only possession was an old gown. Reluctantly, he went to sell this gown in the market. He couldn’t find a single buyer. All anyone would give was a quarter of a dirham, which he finally had to accept. The next day, when he was walking near the market, the man who had bought his gown grabbed hold of him. “There was something wrong with your gown,” this man said, “yesterday’s deal is off: I won’t have it!”
‘“What’s wrong with it?” asked the former king.
‘The man replied, “All the lice in the world have got into that gown. Last night they didn’t leave an inch of me untouched, you could say they ate me alive!”
‘‘My gown has the same drawback as that one,’ said Abdulla, ending his story with a smile.
‘That’s a good one! I must admit!’ Jur’at laughed. ‘If you’re ever bullied here, or you can’t find anywhere to lie down, move to where I am. While we’re gambling, you can entertain us with your stories.’ As he said this, the elder rattled the knucklebones in his pocket and had Abdulla’s bedding moved next to where he slept.
Then two prisoners in another corner started quarrelling over a share of something: Jur’at rushed over like lightning to pull them apart.
Muborak seized the opportunity to resume the conversation: ‘Weren’t you talking about Emir Nasrullo’s times? I’ve read an awful lot of books about how it was back then. Especially about the English… about the spies,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Abdulla exclaimed, unable to hide his amazement. ‘I’m writing a book about exactly that!’
‘Then you must have a chat with me,’ Muborak said with a quick wink. ‘Let me move your bedding, your heart can stay where it is. You asked me what I’m in for: I’m an English spy…’
Amazing the people you could meet in prison.
Abdulla had a game he had invented. When he was going by tram or bus to the city centre, or coming back home towards Xadra Square, he would study the other passengers’ faces and imagine them living in different epochs. A short, thickset man, for instance, would be right for the job of Sharia judge in Nasrullo’s castle. A frail, dishevelled woman would do as chief serving maid when there were guests in Nodira’s harem. Abdulla rarely took his cue from their current profession: the tram driver with the gigantic moustache would be better as a butcher than a cart driver; the ticket inspector with the restless eyes, if he’d been in the Kokand market at the time, would have been a pickpocket, rather than a collector of taxes or land rents. Some unassuming passer-by would be promoted to poet; another, carrying a folder under his arm, would alight at the Market Mosque stop unaware that he was now an executioner.
Jur’at was lying back, with his elbows on two pillows. He gestured to Abdulla to sit down on his right, and then instructed Muborak: ‘Everyone must be introduced to the writer. A writer should know his heroes. Bring your heroes in, one by one.’
Muborak began sending people over from the far side of the cell. Each one gave their name and reason for arrest, to which Jur’at always added a few words of explanation.
‘So-and-so… such-and-such… Uzbek Criminal Code… article 150… complicity in bribery.’ The elder told him, ‘If a worthy man boasts, he gains; if an unworthy boasts, he loses.’
The great majority of those who came up to introduce themselves, however, named the same article, one that had been introduced to the Uzbek criminal code in 1926: article 66. Some were charged under paragraph 12 of article 66: failure to report a crime of a counter-revolutionary nature to the appropriate authorities; others were charged under paragraph 10: counter-revolutionary activity and propaganda. To these, Jur’at offered some words of sympathy: ‘If you’ve got an untrustworthy friend, stick a straw in your skin’, or ‘Keep whatever’s on your mind tucked away under your skirts.’
Altogether some fifty or sixty men passed before their eyes. Some bared their teeth in a smile: ‘Who’s this new right-hand man?’ Others were annoyed by this strange puppeteer, frowning and muttering, ‘Look what’s turned up.’ Because of their constant moving about, the foul air became even more stale, and there was a stink of rotting apples. There was now nobody new to meet. Muborak himself approached:
‘Muborak Kukhanov, article 66, paragraph 6, espionage,’ he announced.
‘Ah, the ultimate cog in the machine, a spy,’ Jur’at teased him. ‘Article 66, did you say? Pretty good, eh! So we didn’t see the sheep, but we did see the droppings? If you came to get the yoghurt, then don’t hide the bucket! Spit it out, who were you spying for?’
‘Mr Jur’at, sir, you know I’m no spy. We were looking for Moses’s descendants, and we ended up in England. We Jews always end up getting the blame.’
‘Did you at least find your relatives there?’
‘I traced a few of them. There was one, a wise man, very well-respected. He’d written a lot of books about Bukhara. I read them myself…’
Abdulla listened to this exchange with interest, but because he couldn’t stand the foul stench, or perhaps because he had been face-to-face with so many wretched men, or because they had been presented in such mocking tones, not as flesh-and-blood human characters, he suddenly began to feel nauseous.
‘I’d feel better if I lay down by the door,’ he said, I can’t get enough air here.’ Jur’at looked at the writer’s pale face: ‘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’. He ordered Muborak, ‘Take him back to his old place.’
‘A dragon-king has taken over the world’s treasure
And takes pleasure in angrily spreading fire.
Anything in its maw that comes to life,
Gets its payment in the dragon’s maw…’
thought Abdulla, reciting Navoi, who himself was a vizier to one of those dragons. Abdulla went back to his old place, where he could feel the draught.
—
During this pleasant interlude, the midday meal was served. This time Vinokurov was in charge of distributing the food. The sight of the Russian made Abdulla’s eyes bloodshot, and all his desire for vengeance – a feeling that had flooded his heart for some days – was concentrated in his clenched fists. If Vinokurov had so much as caught his eye, Abdulla would have summoned all his youthful sense of honour and gone for the Russian’s throat. But Vinokurov didn’t look at anyone: hanging back behind the two soldiers who had wheeled in the trolley, he summoned Jur’at to him and the two conducted a whispered conversation. Then Vinokurov stepped abruptly back, like a wagging dog let off the leash, retreated to the door and left the cell. Abdulla’s vindictiveness was now confined to his clenched fists and tense breathing.
What had the chat with Jur’at been about? Could he ask the elder about it? Or was some plot being hatched between them? Everyone knows that if two men are together, a third will only get in the way. And here there were sixty-two human beings, like scorpions in spring, packed into a single jar.
—
A plot… a plot… a plot… Umar was reclining on seven layers of quail feather quilts, chatting with Ernazar, the governor of Qurama province, about the land taxes collected: ‘Your majesty, have mercy on me for a tiny error, but two days ago the tax collectors came back from a far part of the province: on their journey they came across two suspicious persons. When they were questioned, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” both of them whipped their clapped-out horses and galloped off. The tax collectors showed their mettle, and caught them. We found this letter hidden in their clothes. With respect for your imperial majesty, I, as your tax collector, have not read the letter, but have brought it to you.’
The Emir took the proffered letter with no particular anxiety, but once his eyes had run over it, his eyebrows met in a menacing frown, and he clenched his fists.
‘Sons of whores!’ he exclaimed. Then he folded the letter in two, put it in his pocket and turned to Ernazar.
‘Is that it?’
‘Your majesty, I don’t know anything about what is written in the letter, but when these men were tortured, they said that the writer had sent two other letters to the Kyrgyz, to the sons of Narbuta…’
‘What have you done with the men you caught?’ Umar demanded.
‘Again I must beg for mercy, your majesty. I had them thrown into a dungeon, but when they tried to escape, my guards hacked them to pieces…’
‘A pity!’ Umar thrust his fist into a quail-feather pillow, crushing it out of shape. ‘You can go. I’ll deal with this mess myself! But don’t drop your guard. Put someone better on the frontiers. Anyone you catch, send them to me!’
‘Consider it done,’ said Ernazar, stepping back without straightening his back. He then left the hall.
The Emir was worried; after a moment’s thought he clapped his hands. One of his guards ran in from the next room.
‘Send for Madali and Hakim,’ Umar ordered.
The guard hurried off to find the Emir’s son and nephew.
Very soon both young men presented themselves with a bow to the Emir.
‘Read this!’ said the Emir, handing the letter to Hakim.
Hakim began, reading aloud,
In the name of God, in the year 1232, in Rajab, on the first day of the seventh month. You should know, thanks be to Allah, we hope that as our true friend, always in our prayers, you are granted long life and well-being, just as our health is still without any shadow from providence or man’s actions…
‘Read the end,’ Umar interrupted impatiently.
Hakim looked at the middle of the letter and then seemed to find the right place: he read further:
Sunken in a mire of indulgence and depravity, sinfully hunting women and girls like a predatory bird, Emir Umar has stained his dagger with the black blood of our people…
‘Vile!’ the Emir yelled. Hakim was speechless for a moment, unsure whether this was a reaction to the letter, or to the person who had written it – he cautiously whispered a few more words, and then moved his eyes further down the letter.
The time has come to strike in vengeance. Make the Kyrgyz of Jirg’atol rise up, prepare them. Let them know that the local population is ready for the Kipchaks and the Kyrgyz to rebel at the same time. Call on the Karateg people, too. Tell them that this winter they will have to pay land rent again. With Allah’s help, we’ll strike lucky: you will inhe
rit the joys of royalty, that wretch will lose the throne of Kokand, and it will revert again to the possession of the descendants of Olim-khan.
Your truly devoted Rajab Minister of Finance …
‘Swine!’ Madali then exclaimed.
‘Traitor!’ Hakim said indignantly, as he reluctantly handed the letter back to Umar.
‘Bring me wine!’ shouted Umar, turning away from them.
One of the guards brought in a jug of wine and poured out a bowlful. The Emir downed the wine in one.
‘Go and get Rajab,’ he ordered Madali, wiping his wet moustache on his sleeve. His son ran off to search for the vizier.
‘Pour!’ the Emir of the Faithful held out the bowl to Hakim. ‘Let me know the moment that dog appears,’ he added, and then noisily gulped down the wine.
Very quickly, Rajab appeared, kneeling and bowing in the Emir’s presence. ‘You ordered me to come, your majesty…’
Umar thrust the letter at him. ‘Read this!’ he roared.
As if totally surprised, Rajab started reading the document. When he got to the lines, ‘Desert thorns are nasty; the loathsome Emir Umar has become a screech-owl on the ruins of vileness…’ he stopped. ‘No, I simply can’t read out words as horrible as these, your Majesty!’ he said.
‘Look at the seal! Isn’t it yours?’ yelled Umar. Rajab looked at the bottom of the letter. The blood rushed to his face. ‘This is a slanderous conspiracy!’ he stuttered, and swore, ‘God strike me dead if there’s any truth in it.’
‘It’s your signature, isn’t it?’ asked Umar, unrelenting.
Rajab’s reply to this was a couplet in Farsi:
Do not believe everyone when they talk about me or what they’ve heard,
There may be in it words of people who bear malice.
The dispute carried on for quite some time. Umar said one thing, the vizier another; Rajab said that he was innocent, the Emir that only the Creator was without sin. In the end the Emir seemed to believe his vizier: he took off his brocade gown and, in Madali’s and Hakim’s presence, placed it over Rajab’s shoulders. The vizier was overjoyed, not so much by the gift itself, but by the forgiveness it signified. After receiving his Majesty’s permission, he left.
The Devils' Dance Page 9
