The Devils' Dance

by Hamid Ismailov

  —

  Abdulla did his utmost to make this narrative like a fairy story, adapted for ordinary men’s minds; the trouble with this was that he didn’t know at what point he should end it. So he paused for breath and looked around: he saw that it wasn’t just the cell elder Jur’at and his squat underling Muborak, but all the other prisoners around them who were listening to his story with bated breath. Seeing this, Abdulla adjusted his expression, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

  ‘Now it’s somebody else’s turn,’ he said.

  ‘Once you’ve started, see it through,’ Jur’at countered. ‘Right: this is what we’ll do: if someone feeds us a cock-and-bull story and we don’t notice, he gets the prize. Understand? Then give us the biggest cock and the biggest bull you’ve got, and see if you can pull the wool over our eyes! If a goat is born in a barn, then grass for him grows in the ditch, as the saying goes. Are we all agreed?’

  Strangely enough, these words had an impact. First to put himself forward was Laziz; when he prefaced his story with a general introduction, it was obvious he had once worked as a Party lector: ‘In the period you have been talking about, at the turn of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the literature of the Uzbek nation consisted of two opposing currents: a feudal-clerical literature, and a progressive-democratic one.

  ‘The most striking and obvious example of feudal-clerical literature is the man you have just mentioned, Emir Umar, who may have held supreme power as the Khan of Kokand, but whose writings are from an ideological point of view reactionary and, from an artistic point of view, formalist and dated. Their erotic themes are rubbish, they are panegyric odes, decadent in form, ideologically impoverished and artistically shallow.

  ‘The most outstanding representative of progressive-democratic tendencies in literature is Emir Umar’s wife Nodira Begum. In the work of this radical poet, if we take into account the era, her times and circumstances, celebrating in verse the truth about life was the basis of her genius. Her poetry reflected the sufferings and sorrows of the epoch, the local people’s fears and worries: she used her pen creatively, longing for the freedom to work, to create and to live.’

  Laziz talked without stumbling or digression, the nonsensical platitudes poured uninterruptedly from his mouth like water from a kettle.

  ‘Let us cite two examples of Emir Umar’s reactionary life, which offer concrete demonstration of its religious and dogmatic nature. In the bourgeois historian Fitrat’s work History of Fergana it is written that Emir Umar subjected all his actions to the guidance of the feudal-clerical theologians’ decrees. One day, passing by the hammam, he saw dirty water flowing out into a pool. He asked the theologians: “What does sharia law say about this water?” They replied, “This water is permitted, and it is flowing water, but nature does not recognise it.” Then Emir Umar, relying on his religious mysticism, said “Nature has to be rejected in favour of the prescriptions of sharia law.” To prove it, he scooped up a mouthful of this water and drank it up.

  ‘The second example will show us Emir Umar’s courtly aristocratic nature. Religion is the opium of the people, and when a place for religion, a madrasa, was being built, a foundation stone had to be laid. Then Umar turned to the crowd, showering religious propaganda on the people: “The foundation stone must be laid by a person who has unfailingly observed sharia law for their whole adult lives!” But to his astonishment, nobody from the class of hypocritical clerics and sheikhs had the heart to put themselves forward. Then the feudal ruler, who had devoted all his life to the pursuit of glory and to orgies, offered to do it himself: “I am the only person never to have broken the rules of sharia law in my lifetime!” This symbol of sycophancy and ideological impoverishment, this reactionary-feudal laid the foundation stone for the new building!’

  Naturally, Abdulla was familiar with these events, although, true, the story was being told in a different language and style. Two things, however, astonished him: the first was that a Party activist, concerned only with the present and the future, should know about those times, and the second that, although knocked off his high horse, he was still firmly in the saddle. Here you are in prison, your Party has betrayed you, but you still won’t give up your Red propaganda! You can call one an exploiter and a pessimist, and another a progressive democrat. But Laziz had moved on to speak of Nodira’s love for the people and her humanism.

  ‘From an ideological point of view, Nodira’s poetry contradicts Umar’s reactionary outlook and feudal literary and aesthetic principles. The basic reason for this, in our view, is to be found in a different way of viewing life’s events and phenomena. Umar’s rule was based on oppression and tyranny. He shed the blood of thousands of ordinary people, destroyed their lives utterly. In his poetry Umar averted his eyes from all this, he kept silent about it.

  ‘Nodira was different. When the Emir goes off hunting game (Look at that: words like that from a Party man! Good for you! Abdulla thought to himself) or to a military campaign on his armoured horse, Nodira generally stays in Kokand and sees that the Emir’s decrees are carried out. She had a good understanding of what was going on. She witnessed executioners drag innocent persons to their death; she had a rational, sensible view of the world, she tried to understand the essence of every event and phenomenon. She thought, she wondered, she queried, she sought answers, she suffered torments and used her pen to write about them:

  “I die in grief, I burn with sorrow, I can find no way out,

  In misery, summer and winter are alike to me as night.”

  Her failure to find a way out is only natural. It was nearly a hundred years before the October revolution; Karl Marx, the founder of scientific communism, had only just been born. The feudal-clerical tyranny and oppression would continue to rule over the working people.’

  Apparently, Laziz considered that he had, at this point, completed his task. Nobody else knew what to say. Only Jur’at broke the silence, ‘Thank you for the political education, comrade citizen… sorry, citizen comrade.’ He sighed. ‘There I was in my village, drinking kumys; now I scratch my arse, wondering why I came to the city.’

  —

  There was a brief silence, and then another man spoke up.

  ‘Mulla Shibirg’oniy, from Afghanistan,’ Jur’at introduced him. ‘But at this point, a word to the wise: “Give tongue to a fool, and a spade to two hands.” Go ahead, Mulla.’

  ‘Of course, I am going to give you a story from our chronicler’s history of the times of Emir Nasrullo. When Nasrullo was Emir of Bukhara, Dost Muhammad was on the throne in Kandahar, but the dethroned Prince Shah Shujah Durrani had struck a deal with Ranjit Singh of the Punjab: the famed Koh-i-noor diamond, in return for the aid of English troops, to help him win back the throne in Kabul.

  ‘A Russian spy who had access to Dost Muhammad told him that, as a precautionary measure, the English were sending 50,000 soldiers with 30,000 camels from India. Dost Muhammad’s entire army consisted of 2,500 soldiers and 45 cannons.

  ‘Essentially, this massive invasion by the English meant the beginning for Kandahar and the end for Kabul. Dost Muhammad had no choice but to set off for Turkestan, and throw in his lot with Bukhara.

  ‘Dost Muhammad, his followers and family were compelled to travel for some distance until, after many difficult days, they arrived in the glorious city of Bukhara. As soon as Emir Nasrullo heard about Dost Muhammad’s arrival, he sent an appropriate number of his noblemen with a summons giving Dost Muhammad a safe conduct to come with his forces to the Emir’s castle. But when Dost Muhammad arrived at the palace arrayed in his finery and bowed respectfully to Emir Nasrullo, the latter failed to stand up or make any move to greet him. In sight of everyone, Nasrullo remained seated, merely stretching out a hand. The incident was the talk of the town, making it likely that any meeting of the two Emirs would require interpreters and intermediaries.’

  Abdulla looked aro
und him. The heavy dose of Persian syntax in the Mulla’s language had made some of his listeners yawn, and others start chatting among themselves. The Mulla himself was sensitive enough to take the hint; as the saying goes, ‘the root is the basic part of the picture’. He tried to speak something like simple, intelligible Turkic.

  ‘Put it this way,’ he said. ‘With praise to Allah, Emir Nasrullo said, “You’re welcome!” and after a chat, ended the conversation with “Now you can go to your camp; let’s meet later.” Dost Muhammad quickly realised that whatever Nasrullo promised would be a lie. He spent days begging Nasrullo for his permission to proceed to Iran before this was finally granted, and he was given the best of Nasrullo’s companions as a guide. When they got to the river Jayxun, the boatman there pointed out a decrepit boat. “You get in this one,” he told Dost Muhammad, “the others can board separately.” Fearing that he was to be drowned, Dost Muhammad took the Emir’s travelling companion to one side, saying “Let’s cross the river together.” The boatman then warned the companion in Turkic: “If you try crossing in this boat, you’re likely to drown!” Luckily, Dost Muhammad knew enough Turkic to understand this exchange: inevitably, he leapt from the boat onto the shore and headed back for the glorious city of Bukhara.

  ‘It is with a heavy heart I must report that it was the month of January, the depth of winter, as luck would have it, and everything was covered in ice. Hearing that Dost Muhammad was back at the gates of Bukhara, Nasrullo ordered a trusted courtier to go and meet the group: “Dost Muhammad is not to enter Bukhara unless he dismisses his army; he can come in only with a small retinue”. Dost Muhammad dismissed a thousand warriors; they wept at the wrong done to him, but dispersed at his command. To the sound of shrieking lamentation, Dost Muhammad returned to his camp. Just to live was now task enough, he had no way of achieving his goal.

  ‘He and his princes found this life very hard. “We’ll run off again,” they decided, “and attempt to get to Qarshi.” With seventy soldiers, his princes and nobles he set off for Shahrisabz. But the ruler of Qarshi put an end to his progress by giving battle, whereupon each Afghan found himself fighting thirty Uzbeks.

  ‘Fleeing was the easiest option, but all eight princes were captured. Dost Muhammad and his sons were taken prisoner; the news of the turmoil would reach the ears of Emir Nasrullo.

  ‘How shocked and dispirited Dost Muhammad was, when he saw his sons naked in the worst days of winter, starving and in shackles. As we can see, Emir Nasrullo inflicted repeated suffering on the unfortunate Dost Muhammad of Kabul, and yet took pleasure in these torments.’

  At this point Jur’at raised the palm of his hand to interrupt Mulla Shibirg’oniy. ‘If the patient is going to get better, the doctor comes of his own accord,’ he concluded.

  While Abdulla was still struggling to fit this proverb to the Mulla’s tale, Jur’at offered a further explanation. ‘The prison doctor will come at eleven. Vinokurov said that anyone with any illness, except for haemorrhoids, should speak up; otherwise, they can make themselves useful and put the cell in order. As for those with haemorrhoids, when you sit down, tuck in your arses.’

  —

  Abdulla had begun to notice something. Whether free or in prison, four men, even the cleverest, had only to be gathered together to start behaving like a group of delinquent youths. Their age – twenty, thirty, fifty – didn’t matter: their attitude when they met was limited to ‘Who’s the strongest here?’ and ‘It’d be good if we could have a girl’. Everything they did was meant to show themselves to advantage, and none of their exchanges went beyond the first expression in Mahmud of Kashgar’s dictionary: ‘A man’s strength is in his fucking’.

  In enclosed groups this phenomenon was even more noticeable. Abdulla recalled his Russian-language school for Uzbeks, and then remembered the time he studied journalism in Moscow, his first spell in prison, his trip to a writers’ congress in Tatarstan: everywhere the relationships were just as they now were in prison: this was the best place for observing and understanding them.

  When the doctor came in to see them, it was the same: the philosophy of ‘Who’s the fighting cock here?’ was particularly striking. Not one of the prisoners had the courage to say ‘I have pain here,’ or ‘I’ve been injured’. The doctor was astonishing. He was swarthy, curly-haired and had an aquiline nose. He looked more like a Tajik than an Uzbek; in fact, you’d say he had Caucasian features, he smiled just like a Jew, there was a touch of Kipchak Turkic in the way he spoke. All in all, he was somebody who wanted to be liked by everyone.

  When Abdulla’s turn came, the doctor asked with a smile, ‘Don’t you have any pains anywhere, either?’ and then began examining his head. He noticed a small sore on Abdulla’s right cheek and asked, ‘Have you ever had leishmaniasia?’ Then he saw a hole, as if for an ear-ring, in Abdulla’s left ear and whispered, ‘What’s that?’ Abdulla whispered back, ‘My mother’s other children didn’t survive, so she pierced my ear for luck.’ The doctor’s hands felt the injuries caused by Vinokurov’s kicking. ‘How did you get these?’ he asked, but didn’t press the matter when Abdulla kept silent. Then he examined the fur on Abdulla’s tongue, gave him some medicine, applied ointment to his bruised rib-cage, and tightly bandaged a wound on his elbow that was beginning to close up.

  ‘Now you’ll be healthy as a brood mare, Qodiriy!’ he said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Abdulla would have opened himself up to the doctor and poured out his worries, but the man and his fixed smile had already moved off, busy with other patients whose hidden wounds and osteomyelitis needed treating. Abdulla repressed his desire to talk, like a man with a chest cough.

  In prison life, this sort of minor variation, these novelties not quite worthy of the label ‘events’, can nevertheless rouse the cell so that it hums like a wasps’ nest for days on end. After encountering ordinary humanity, Abdulla began to contemplate compassion and love. He had been planning to write for the first time about the absence of love, about how love was abused and destroyed. In Past Days he had written about the love of Atabek and Kumush. The Scorpion in the Altar had praised Anvar’s love for Ra’no, but in this new story, he realised, it was necessary to write about a different sort of love. A love that isn’t particularly demonstrative, but involves fidelity and patience; a love, in other words, like his wife Rahbar’s silent devotion.

  What a predicament she had been subjected to, thanks to Abdulla! They had married, had two children, then when she was pregnant with a third he had gone to study in Moscow. And the first time he had been imprisoned she had been pregnant again, and with small infants to look after. Whatever Abdulla did she would follow, like thread pulled by a needle, and she kept the family together like a button in a buttonhole. Now, just as the children had grown up and peace and order returned to the house, Abdulla was in prison once more, leaving Rahbar to face all the troubles on her own. This was the sort of love that needed to be celebrated.

  This was the spirit of what Laziz had been saying; or should he describe in this story the devotion which Nodira had tried but failed to express?

  When I couldn’t see your face, my tears raised a mighty storm –

  Is it any surprise at all that the rivers rose in spate?

  Those who are truly in love care nothing for the rage of the world.

  Madness, take my misery, sweep this tumult to its fate!

  When my love went away from me, my madness became a show,

  But if I ever see him again, then there’ll be a show to relate!

  I’m entirely shamed in love, because I cannot reach my flower.

  Help me: lead my disgrace towards a happier state.

  Heavens, may your face freeze for the terrible hurt you’ve done –

  You took mad Nodira’s love away, and she is now desolate.

  Again, Abdulla remembered the game he had played in trams and buses: the game of transporting th
e people around him to other times. Now, however, something ‘clicked’ in his brain, transporting the nineteenth-century poet-queen to Samarkand, Ko’birariq Street, Number 121, in the shape of Rahbar his wife, in whose voice he now heard those very words.

  —

  As soon as the doctor had left the prison, the midday meal was served. Whether this was due to a miracle worked by the doctor, or whether it was a form of inspection, this time the prisoners were given moshkichiri, a rice and mung-bean stew. It looked as if the cooking pot had soured it, but all the same it was the real thing, quite unlike the bitter stuff they were fed every other day. ‘Now for a little after-dinner entertainment,’ Jur’at exclaimed, ‘let’s take our mind off things again.’ As Mulla Shibirg’oniy was busy reciting his noonday prayers, Muborak Kukhanov took the floor.

  ‘In 1930 I went to England and stayed in the capital city, London. There’s a district there called Golders Green, where our people, the people of Moses, live. I stayed with the Abramov family who owned sugar mills in Samarkand. When people heard I was from Bukhara, many Bukhara natives came to see me. A great number of rabbis came to pay me their respects. One person who came was not from Bukhara: he was a French Jew, and he told me that his grandfather, a Rabbi named Joseph Wolff, had travelled to Bukhara once, and wrote a book about it: Narrative of a Mission to Bokhara. The grandson gave me a copy; I’ve read it from beginning to end.

  ‘In Emir Nasrullo’s time, the Russian general Perovsky was planning to invade Khiva and Bukhara: he chose an Englishman, Colonel Stoddart, to go ahead and survey the lie of the land. The English ambassador to Tehran gave Stoddart a thousand ducats and sent him to Bukhara. In June 1838, two days before Ramadan, Stoddart reached Bukhara and was put up at the house of the vizier Rais.

  ‘Colonel Stoddart had brought with him a letter addressed to Hakim the Chief Minister, but this man had by now been executed, so he gave the letter to Rais instead. Rais reacted with fury. “Do you know who I am?” he menaced. “I’m the man who got rid of all the Emir’s enemies.” Not to be intimidated, Stoddart responded ironically, “I’m pleased to hear that the Emir has no enemies!”