The Devils' Dance

by Hamid Ismailov

  What has happened to poor ‘To’ron’? Abdulla wondered sarcastically.

  ‘I’ve never been a member of any organisation! I’ve never been a member of any organisation!’ All Abdulla could remember was repeating this several times: then his head began to spin and he lost all his strength. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the cell and Sodiq was pressing a wet towel to his head. He became delirious; he was tormented by nightmares where he was either in a palace or in a cell, surrounded by both acquaintances and strangers. He heard musicians playing sad tunes. He saw his mother Josiyat as a young woman, dancing with his father in the middle of the room. ‘When your father married me, I was sixteen, and he already had a beard that went down to his belly button!’ she complained, just as she did in real life. Abdulla grew angry. Why were his parents making fools of themselves in front of other people? He meant to have a stern word with them. But, bewitched by the musicians’ playing, he couldn’t help joining in the dance. He started twisting and spinning, and with an enchanting girl in his arms. He looked around, meaning to ask his Rahbar who she was. He spotted his wife sitting in a corner, but then she and the beautiful girl both vanished. Still, Abdulla went on dancing. He was stumbling and, when he looked down, he saw a silk tassel tied to his ankle. Someone was tugging at him, tugging, and whistling as they tugged…

  Drenched in sweat, Abdulla woke up. Sodiq was by his head, Muborak by his feet; Kosoniy was sitting a little further away, intoning a healing prayer.

  ‘You’ve had an attack of malaria,’ Sodiq told him.

  From that day on Abdulla’s thoughts became acutely lucid. The next morning, when he was summoned to Trigulov’s office, he was so weak he could barely move his legs, but his mind was as ready for battle as a charger.

  ‘I don’t wish in the least to conceal my nationalist views,’ he said. ‘My views on the nation were formed even before the October revolution. I was brought up in this spirit by the Islamic reform movement of Jadidism. I didn’t assimilate the idea of Soviet power. I considered myself to be a national writer. My novel Past Days, begun in 1919 and published in 1925, was a national novel, opposed to the Soviets. In it, I described our history before the Soviets came. True, “Down with the Soviet government” is not openly said in this novel, but it is implied.’ Abdulla briefly paused for breath, wiped his dry lips and continued, ‘From 1926‒8 I wrote another historical novel, The Scorpion under the Altar. In it, I distanced myself a little from the national idea; that is why the work is half-baked from a political point of view. But it does contain a certain amount of nationalism, as well as relicts of the past.

  ‘Between 1932–5 I wrote my most recent work, the novella Obid the Pickaxe. Its contents are close to Soviet themes: in other words, it’s about a collective farm being set up. But I did express my doubts about collective farms. If that is an offence, then I admit my guilt.’

  Abdulla’s throat had dried up. ‘Oh, the thirst of “Cotton-stan”!’ But as long as he had the strength to hold out, he was not going to ask for a glass of water from the interrogator, who had himself worked up a sweat writing down what had been said.

  ‘Which anti-Soviet organisation, exactly, has benefited from your activities?’ Trigulov asked, looking up from his papers.

  ‘As a nationalist, I was working for the Uzbek nation, which wanted to overthrow Soviet power. My novels and press articles were against Soviet power, and in this respect my work can be used as an argument against Ikromov and Xo’jayev. It was on their orders that my writings were published and circulated on a massive scale.’

  ‘When, by whom, and into which anti-Soviet bourgeois-nationalist organisation were you recruited?’

  ‘I have been involved with nationalists for a very long, but I have never been a member of any organisation.’

  ‘You’re lying, Qodiriy! We have ample proof linking you to both National Unity and National Independence. How can you deny this?’

  ‘I repeat, I have never been a member of any organisation, and nobody has ever recruited me.’ Abdulla’s mouth was so dry that his tongue stuck to his palate, making his speech sound heavy and slow.

  ‘You’re lying! You were present in this room when Nazrulla Inoyatov said you were a member of National Independence! The others have also confirmed this.’

  ‘And I have denied this in their presence and in yours! Yes, I am a nationalist, and yes, I have been active in spreading nationalist ideas in literature and in the press. But I tell you again and again that I have never known or been a member of any organisation, neither National Unity nor National Independence.

  True, just once in my life, I did try to join an organisation – To’ron, in 1917. For reasons I do not know, they wouldn’t have me. But I have had nothing to do with any of Ikromov’s or Xo’jayev’s organisations.’ (I wouldn’t be a party member, Abdulla thought of adding, nor work in the commissariats. But he held his tongue.)

  Flinging down his pen, Trigulov made a show of his irritation to the sergeant standing next to him. ‘At the last confrontations it was proved in full that you were a member of anti-Soviet bourgeois-nationalist organisations headed by Ikromov and Xo’jayev. Are you ever going to tell the truth?’

  ‘They said I was a nationalist at those confrontations. I acknowledge and confirm the truth of that. But I have not been a member of any organisation. I said so at those confrontations, and I say it again now: those statements made about me are baseless and unjust. I have had nothing to do with Akmal Ikromov and Fayzulla Xo’jayev.’

  Abdulla felt his sight dimming and his head throbbing. If he had to repeat these names one more time, he felt sure his brain would burst. Was this all a delirious illusion? Was he still suffering from the effects of malaria?

  —

  At midnight, the questioning continued.

  ‘We have shown you a letter written by Fayzulla Xo’jayev in his own hand, which shows that you, together with organisation member Beregin, re-published your nationalist anti-Soviet books and that they were exported abroad. Do you acknowledge this?’

  ‘Yes, I do. In summer 1932, my work Past Days was set in Arabic script in order to be sent to Kashgar. This job was entrusted to Beregin. I didn’t object to this, because I had been informed before that there were people in Kashgar who had read Past Days. This book of mine was widely circulated there. At the time, an important trader had come to Tashkent from Kashgar, intending to talk to me about Past Days. I never met this trader personally, but I heard about him from a friend at Uzbek State Publishing.

  ‘You are concealing your links with foreign intelligence services!’ (Good God, thought Abdulla, as if this wasn’t enough, he’s making a spy out of me now!) ‘Tell me the name of this “trader”! The whole truth: what instructions did you take from him to undertake your treasonable activity?’

  Abdulla was dumbfounded. When he was a child, the Russian language and literature teacher at his school invented a game to develop the children’s vocabulary. The first child had to devise a sentence and say half of it; the next had to catch the sense and continue, but stop before he finished the phrase. Each successive child continued, with the sense becoming gradually vaguer. By the time they reached the end of the class, it would be twisted beyond all recognition. Abdulla was reminded of this game now. Could that man, in his official epaulets, seriously believe the rubbish he was coming out with?

  Or this might be a variation of the game that Jur’at had started: mixing lies and truth until they could no longer be told apart?

  ‘Qodiriy, I asked you a question. You think you can gain time by keeping quiet?’

  ‘I absolutely deny having any connection to treacherous activity of any sort. I’ve never had connections to any intelligence services, I’ve never ever carried out anyone’s instructions. I don’t know the name or title of the trader from Kashgar.’

  ‘So you say. But you do know Zahriddin A’lam – and we know him to
be an agent of the English intelligence services. Tell us then, what was the basis of your connection?’

  ‘As far as I know, Zahriddin is a major religious figure. The reason for my being connected with him is that I also believe in God. But our views were somewhat different. Because my religious views are peculiar to me. But I’ve never had any working connections with this man. I certainly never knew him to be a spy.’

  ‘All right, in what way were your religious views expressed?’

  ‘If Zahriddin can be counted one of the conservatives, compared to him, I am a jadid. What I value in Islam is Allah, all the rest is nonsense invented by the clerics.’

  ‘You’re being deceitful again. We know that you are a Baha’i.’

  ‘I used to know some prominent Baha’i leaders, it’s true. And in 1936 they tried to lure me into that movement. But I categorically refused to convert.’ (Is there anything they don’t know? Abdulla almost admired their thoroughness. Wherever three people met, the third man was one of theirs; if four people got together, the fourth would be one of theirs; if five were in the same place, the fifth would be their man… )

  ‘In 1936 you took an active part in a meeting of religious leaders, where the politics of the Soviet government were discussed in a counter-revolutionary spirit. Do you confirm that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. In summer 1936, at the house of a cleric who was a friend of Zahriddin, we quite openly discussed taxes and the state loans. Personally, I didn’t take part in the discussion, but I fully supported what was said. If that is a crime, then I am guilty of it.’

  An endless refrain again began to sound in Abdulla’s ears: La hawla… There is no power and no strength except with Allah…’ he whispered to himself. Was this just a musical refrain, or his interminable illness plaguing him anew? He hastily tried to distract himself.

  Uzbeks have a curious belief: if a woman is overly fond of a neighbour or relative, then her next child will resemble this person. The neighbour of Abdulla’s family garden was an Auntie Tursun: from time to time she would drop in to see Abdulla’s mother: ‘Josiyat, my dear, what a fine son you’ve given birth to: I read everything Abdulla writes, I can’t put it down! He writes as if inspired! And how does he think up all those words? To think his father was illiterate! A nightingale born of a shrike, that’s what he is.’

  Josiyat very much disliked this praise from ‘that birdbrain Tursun’, and when the latter left, the old woman would call her grandson Habibullo over and fumigate him by burning Persian rue. ‘Trying to put the evil eye on my son, damn her eyes!’ Nevertheless, though she was over forty, Tursun had a child by her sixty-year-old husband, and the child was the spitting image of Abdulla: he even had a pierced ear!

  The older Oyxon’s eldest son grew, the redder his black hair and eyebrows became, and the bluer his eyes. His movements became energetic; those who observed him compared him to a crackling bonfire. Oyxon felt flooded with love for her son, and nicknamed him her Gulxan, which means ‘bonfire’. She couldn’t bear to be apart from him. Her younger son by Madali was also growing quickly, becoming more and more obviously unlike his father.

  Oyxon’s affection for her sons grew as she spent all her time with them, telling riddles, doing calligraphy, or reading A Thousand and One Nights. Suspicions began to gnaw ever more sharply at Madali’s heart. He would watch them furtively, then look in the mirror in his room and compare his nose and eyebrows with his sons’. After that, on the pretext of swordsmanship practice, he took both princes to his dovecote. One of them yawned, the other pinched his nose: ‘Ugh, they stink!’ Another day, he gave each son a drum: one started rolling it around like a wheel, the other set it like a cap on his red hair to make his younger brother laugh.

  Madali was having bad dreams: in his dreams, he beat Oyxon even more brutally than in waking life, pounding her face like dough. But even that didn’t calm his mind. The worm of doubt became a leech, then a snake; the snake turned into a dragon. One day he got drunk and burst into Oyxon’s chamber while she was putting the children to bed; the furious Emir dealt his wife a brutal slap in the face, then waited for her to shriek. But Oyxon covered her mouth with her hand and did not utter a sound: she didn’t want to wake the children.

  ‘Tell me, you slut,’ the Emir rasped, ‘who fathered those children of yours?’

  Oyxon’s eyes froze with horror and astonishment.

  ‘I’ll cut the heads off your bastards!’ he said, drawing his sword.

  Oyxon shook her head and bent her white neck, as if to offer it as a replacement.

  This outraged Madali even more: ‘Who have you been cheating on me with, bitch?’ he said, grabbing her hair.

  Oyxon did not utter a sound.

  ‘You were sleeping with Gulxaniy, you filthy whore,’ said Madali, spitting it out at last.

  He put the blade right against Oyxon’s neck, and again she silently shook her head.

  Madali struck his wife in the face with the pommel of his sword. Blood dripped onto the bed.

  ‘I’ve killed them both, Gulxaniy and Qosim; now I’ll cut the throats of the lot of you!’ hissed the Emir. It was then that Gulsum came in and raised the alarm. Oyxon fell upon her two children, who had woken up: a furious tumult ensued. The Emir flung down his sword and stormed out of the room.

  Chapter 6

  Guess Who Hit You

  Bokhara, Dustar Khaunchy’s House in the Ark,Tuesday, 26 January, 1841

  My dear Todd,

  The fear of uselessly sacrificing my own life and that of the messenger and all concerned in forwarding letters has kept me strictly silent. I now venture to speak out, upon the strength of the very high favour in which I am with the Ameer; but he is very uncertain; and should a secret letter from you or Cabool now be found out, the heads of the merchant on whom it might be found, and mine, would not be worth ten minutes’ purchase.

  I beg of you, therefore, and Mr Macnaghten, not to send any such letters. On the 25th of October, by the Ameer’s order, I wrote a letter to Government, requesting a treaty. That letter will, I trust, be the beginning of useful negotiations, and end, as everything here, to the firm establishment of British interests at Bokhara […]

  My release from all restraints took place on the 8th of October, but I was still surrounded by spies. On the 17th of January my dwelling was changed to this most agreeable one, where I was with the former Vizier five months; he is now Governor of Charjooy. My employment for the last two months and hereafter is to translate from my books, the greater part of which they have found and given me back, what I think useful for this country; and, besides this, the Ameer called for an account of European armies. On 15th of January the Ameer […] sent a clever man to help me […] Whatever I require in money or kind for my work, I am to receive from the treasury, as I now do in fact. In four days I made a looking-glass, and delighted the King much by sending it to him. They never knew before how to plate glass, and the Ameer has long been anxious to know the secret of how this is done. It may seem trifling and ridiculous to dwell on a looking-glass, but my object being his favour, I am glad by all means to have secured it. My books have thus been of the greatest service. I will thank you to send me as many as possible, and some medicines and tests for minerals, or rather for stones containing metals. Make them all up with any letters you may have for me, and lots of newspapers, in two parcels: one containing books alone, and the other containing the letters and papers, and writing-paper, ink, pens and pen-knives. Let the bearer come openly, and leaving No. 2 with his baggage, let him take No. 1, with a letter from you to the Shekawol, requesting him to represent to the Ameer that as you learnt from Cabool that the Ameer required translations for his service from me, you have sent some books to aid me, […] I wish also the following books procured for me, and sent: Reid’s Chemistry, Copeland’s Medical Dictionary, some books on Diseases and Prescribing […] on Bees and Hives […]. some copperas, soda-po
wers, pencils, colours and brandy (French) will be welcome. The barouche I speak of as likely to win the Ameer’s heart (to be sent after he has apologised) […] need not have silver or gold about it, as the Ameer votes himself a Soofee […] It should have harness for two or four horses, separate: Indian-rubber linen folding-head instead of thick leather, silk inside instead of Morocco lining and cushions, and high wheels […] Very strange it may seem that after so long a silence I should write in this manner, but I consider that the interests of Government, especially in keeping the Russians out of this (who hitherto have no hold whatsoever here) will best be answered by my stopping here doing my best to keep the Ameer to us […] for there is only one man to be considered here: as Boney said, ‘Je suis l’Empire!’ […]

  Thank God, I am relieved, and now quite at my ease, and, please God, I will serve on here till all is as right as Government and my friends could wish.

  My dear Todd, yours most sincerely,

  Charles Stoddart

  ‘It’s from Joseph Wolff’s book,’ Muborak whispered, when Abdulla had read these three torn-out sheets. ‘Moshe the barber is one of us. If we ask, he can bring more…’

  Abdulla was amazed. Did he need this sort of document? True, he was learning much he’d never known about the history of Uzbek khanates, but were such articles of any use for a novel he planned to call The Harem Girl? What could they have to do with Oyxon? On the other hand, how could he write about the nineteenth century and leave out the Great Game? Didn’t he see himself as a national writer? If you’re a national writer, and don’t know the grindstones through which your nation’s history has passed, and the consequences for its fate today, are you worth even tuppence? All right, he would familiarise himself with the documents that Muborak had obtained – God knows from where – and then see, as they say, if he was ‘a king or a donkey’.