First, though, Abdulla recalled another letter, one that made tears of distress well up in his eyes. A letter from his mother Josiyat, dictated to one of her grandchildren and sent during Abdulla’s studies in Moscow. ‘Abdulla, son, come back as quickly as you can from those Russian lands! The world is unreliable, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof – to put it bluntly, you might not see me again!’ Abdulla sensed that his mother was being underhanded; he replied with a letter that was even more sly: ‘Mama, you write that you’re on the verge of death, and that I have to come at once. Don’t be afraid. It’s not your turn yet; before you die there are your older sisters, Aunties Ubayda, Buvma and Rokiya. There is a long queue to get through.’ One day, at a wake, Abdulla’s Aunt Rokiya asked her younger sister: ‘Josiyat, you’re not ill, are you? You haven’t caught something, have you?’
‘I can’t seem to catch my breath these days, it’ll be the death of me, sister.’
Then the eldest sister, who had a sarcastic streak, said, ‘I’m the one who this talk about breathlessness should worry, because it will be my turn first to die, then Buvma’s, then yours, Rokiya, and Josiyat only after her. That’s what her son Abdulla prescribes.’
—
Muborak was having a hard time of it.
‘You’re lucky to have that skin disease,’ he whispered to Abdulla as one of Gena’s henchman barked at him to come over. ‘Nobody will touch you. I wish you’d infect me with your sores.’ Before Abdulla could think of any meaningful response, Muborak hurried over to the thieves. He was their human punch bag: every day they played tricks on him, such as: ‘showing the stars’, which involved pulling the sleeve of an old sweater tight over his head then pouring water over him, or they would blindfold him and make him pretend to be their driver, ordering him, ‘Turn right!’, ‘Old woman on the road!’, ‘Stop!’, ‘Cat crossing!’ ‘Look out: policeman!’ When the Jew was exhausted, they kept the blindfold on for a game of ‘guess who hit you’. The thieves beat Muborak mercilessly, and even if he managed to identify the author of the blows, they would continue to torment him, leaving off only when they were bored or Gena’s fancy turned to a story.
Abdulla’s thoughts of intervening, vague as they had been, had vanished: his illness and the endless interrogations had left him thoroughly exhausted, too exhausted to do anything but feel guilty relief that Muborak’s observations were correct, and the thieves were leaving him alone.
This time, at least, he was thankful that Muborak had been called upon in his role as court jester rather than punch bag. His stories seemed to put Gena in a lenient mood, and the other prisoners always used these interludes for some conversation among themselves. This time, it was Kosoniy who moved over to Abdulla.
‘Sir, it seems you’ve finished your business upstairs; for the last day or two you’ve been worried, haven’t you?’ the elderly man enquired.
‘Who knows? I’ve said everything that was on my mind, now they’ll need time to digest it,’ Abdulla responded, lifting his shoulder as he stretched out where he lay. Then something occurred to him, and he looked as if he meant to investigate further. ‘Mr Kosoniy, did Nasrullo, Emir of Bukhara, really write a letter to Victoria, the Queen of Britain?’ he asked.
‘Not only Nasrullo; Timur, or Tamberlaine as he was known to the English, also sent a letter to a British monarch. Emir Nasrullo Baxodur-xon, who interests you, sent his people with a memorandum for Queen Victoria a week before New Year, when the English spy Stoddart was in Bukhara.
‘Once I learnt this letter by heart, together with His Excellency Navoi’s Collected Letters, as a model example:
Let it be known to her who has the highest title and noblest position, the sun in the constellation of happiness, the pearl in the sea of nobility, who irrigates her splendid realm in the garden of the world with the river of justice, who nurtures the flowers of stability and prosperity in this realm, who is as great as Jamshid, as just as Faridun, the queen of the kingdom of Christ, the ruler at the court of Jesus, the guardian of the highest dwellings of the Roman peoples of Europe, that at this moment, by the grace of the most High and Just Allah, the man writing to her is seated unshakeably on the throne of state which he rules, as her obedient servant, in the hope that the rays of truth will illumine our common goals.
‘Come, my dear sir, you’re yawning, I shan’t burden your head with this florid style, let me just give you the essence of what was said.’
‘Not at all,’ Abdulla protested, ‘I wasn’t yawning. But that style…’
‘To put it briefly, the Emir was writing about how he was entirely fair and impartial in his treatment, including of Russians or other foreign traders; if they didn’t bring trouble on their own heads, he would receive them with justice and hospitality. For example, take Stoddart, who writes that when he first came there he had no knowledge of the local customs and couldn’t help but cause offence, whereas now, once he had understood and explained the errors of his ways, he was forgiven and restored to his proper rank.’
—
At night, when everyone had lain down to sleep, the iron door was opened.
‘Qodiriy, out!’ the order rang out. Abdulla flung his gown over his shoulders and moved towards to the exit. Behind him he heard Sodiq mumble a prayer, ‘God preserve you!’ Whether Sodiq was saying this prayer for Abdulla, or whether he meant the preservation for himself, the sound of a man’s ordinary voice seemed to fortify Abdulla.
The soldier acting as duty warder led him down the corridor, but in the opposite direction from usual, away from the stairs. So this was not going to be an interrogation. For shooting, though, they would have taken him out into the yard. Surely they didn’t use the prison building as their slaughterhouse? No, because in that case he would have heard the sound of gunshots. You couldn’t cover that up, the whole cell would talk of it. Just as the notorious room number 42 was common knowledge.
No, there was to be no firing squad today. Instead, the soldier brought Abdulla to the room where he had first been questioned. Trigulov sat at the head of a long table, Abdulla’s thick case file in front of him.
‘Sit!’ Trigulov said, then gestured to dismiss the warder. The soldier left and stood outside the door. Trigulov lit a cigarette, and pushed the cigarette case towards Abdulla.
‘You smoke, don’t you? Take one.’
When he was with the others in the cell, Abdulla did enjoy the occasional smoke. For some reason he didn’t push Trigulov’s hand away, but took one cigarette. Trigulov offered him his own lighted cigarette instead of a match. Abdulla lit his cigarette and drew deeply. The mild, warm smoke filled him with a feeling that he had forgotten. The tobacco’s effect went quickly to his head.
‘I’ve been reading you, and you’re not bad,’ Trigulov conceded. ‘You really captured Berdi the Tatar! And the way Xayri keeps quiet while letting herself be kissed and embraced… “If the heifer doesn’t make eyes at him, the bullock won’t break its halter,” isn’t that how you put it? Very good! Shodmonboy’s going to marry his daughter off to someone else, isn’t he? He’s making Berdi work for him for fifteen years, and all for nothing, isn’t he? Berdi will take an axe and hack him to pieces, won’t he? Just like in Dostoyevsky.’ Trigulov was making every effort to show off his knowledge of literature and especially of Obid the Pickaxe.
‘You know what? I’ve written a few things myself, now and then, though I don’t have time for that these days,’ the interrogator said, opening up.
Abdulla remained seated, enjoying his cigarette. Where was all this heading, he wondered.
‘Things aren’t looking good for you!’ Trigulov continued. ‘I’ve questioned a number of your colleagues, and what they’ve said…’ At this point he seemed to lose the thread of his thoughts, and he broke off halfway through: ‘If you’re a writer, then you ought to see people for what they are. I’m going to read, and you’re going to tell me who it is: are
we agreed?’ He didn’t wait for an answer.
‘Abdulla Qodiriy is considered a true nationalist. He was previously a wealthy trader, an exploiter of the working classes, whom he forced to work for him in his business. At that time he maintained close relations with Muslim clerics of a counter-revolutionary bent, such as Zahiriddin A’lam. These associates have been made to answer for their criminal activities.
‘In 1936 a group of Uzbek writers travelled to Kazan. There, while staying at the Soviet hotel, Qodiriy is quoted as having said: “By deliberately cutting food supplies to Tatarstan and the Volga German Autonomous Republic, the Soviets have caused a famine. Humanitarian assistance is being prepared in Germany for Tatarstan and the German Autonomous Republic.” He also said, “The Soviet Union is weaker than Germany: if there’s a war, the Soviets will lose.”
‘“Spies from among counter-revolutionary nationalists who have infiltrated our literature have split Uzbek literature…” No, that’s not it. Here we are: “Of the bourgeois nationalist apologists, who have been praised to the skies and take pride in this praise, the first and foremost is Abdulla Qodiriy. Until the final day of victory over the bourgeois nationalists, Abdulla Qodiriy faithfully served the bourgeoisie…”’ Trigulov glanced at Abdulla. Not seeing a response, he passed on to another document.
‘“Abdulla Qodiriy has always cited his work Obid the Pickaxe as proof that he has become a supporter of the Soviets. In truth, he has only been wearing a mask in order to struggle against the Soviets.”’
Still Abdulla kept his thoughts to himself. Trigulov moved to the next document, his face brightening as he cleared his throat and read out: ‘“The novel is written in the pompous, hyperbolic, florid style of the old literature, dead and artificial. Otabek shows bravery only in matters of love; when the people are suffering, when he should be showing his social side, he hides under his quilt.”’
Trigulov shut the thick folder with a flourish ‘They’re all in here!’ he pronounced. ‘Qurbonov, Oxundi, Kahhor, Nazirin and Husainov.’ This time, the interrogator seemed not to expect any reply, and the two men puffed at their cigarettes at silence. Trigulov exhaled two circles of smoke, ‘What shall we do now?’ Holding the smoke in his mouth a moment longer, Abdulla raised his eyebrows as if to ask, in what sense?
‘You and I ought to write a fine detective novel, with a secret policeman as the hero! Come on, sign this, with yesterday’s date.’ He passed Abdulla a piece of paper marked 15 March. ‘I have been informed of the end of the investigation. I have been shown the investigation’s materials. I have no complaints about the investigation.’
Abdulla picked up the fountain pen and wrote, ‘I have never been a member of any anti-Soviet organisation.’ Then he signed at the bottom.
—
After breakfast, when the more simple-minded prisoners sat down to play their card games, Muborak took the opportunity to pass Abdulla a sheet of folded paper: ‘For you to roll yourself a cigarette, brother.’
Bukhara, March 29, 1841
My dear Conolly,
1. I have the honour of transmitting a copy, in Persian, of a letter written by desire of the Ameer from me to you, the original Persian having been submitted to and approved by him this day. […] Of course Orgunj and Kokan would never, any more than the British, submit to have their Government communications dependent on the pleasure of the Ameer of Bokhara, however much the British may desire, as it is their interest, that the Oosbeg rulers should be at peace with one another and their neighbours. […] The high tone of the expressions of the letter will not mislead you […] I may add that you will only consult the Government interest, or your orders, whatever answer you may give to this communication will neither give offence to the Ameer, nor be prejudicial to me in his eyes.
2. It occurs to me that going yourself to Kokan might excite unnecessary jealousy in the mind of the Khan Orgunj, as well as lose the thread of your communications with him, without, on the other hand, your having an opportunity of doing anything effectual at Kokan, as your stay would be short.
3. The Kokan chief is raising soldiers after the European system. He gives them very little, and they are drilled in parties of ten and twenty at separate places by Cabool people and some Persians, who ran away from the body of soldiers kept up here by the Ameer.
4. […] I enclose a copy of the letter of the Ameer sent to the British state. You, therefore, also, must act so that whatever treaty or communications you make with other countries of Oosbegistan, be not made without the Ameer’s knowledge and assent, because he is the chief Sovereign of the Oosbegistan’s dominions. […] you should constantly send me all your news.
5. […] my sincere thanks to the Khan Huzrut for sending his Elchee to request my release. […]
6. Should you require money, I can supply you, or, if you prefer it, send me bills in my name. […]
I have &c.,
Charles Stoddart.
‘Roll a cigarette, quick,’ whispered Muborak. ‘They’re coming.’
Debating the relative merits of their countries’ literary traditions was a popular pastime among the more intellectually inclined of the prisoners, not least because it gave them the chance to show off their knowledge. The other pleasure it provided was that of argument, as when Abdulla, sitting with Muborak, Kosoniy and Mulla Shibirgoniy, praised the lyrics of Bedil.
‘But Bedil is one of ours,’ the mulla exclaimed. ‘He wrote in Dari, he’s the master of Persian poetry!’
‘True,’ Abdulla countered, ‘but his family were Chaghatai, and that makes him an honorary Uzbek.’
‘But is he well known among the Uzbeks?’ the mulla asked doubtfully. ‘His style is a little Indian, after all; even the Iranians don’t rate him as we Afghans do. For instance, his couplets on the theme of “The Mirror”; there are plenty, but would you be able to recite them?’ Without waiting for Abdulla or Muborak to respond, the mulla began, reciting first in Farsi and then in Uzbek:
Anyone looking with wonderment has no business with eyelashes,
The mirror’s chamber is closed, it has no door or wall.
‘In other words, the eye is the mirror of the soul. When it is struck by wonder, the soul’s closed cage becomes an open room.’
Kosoniy seemed to want to challenge this interpretation, but, remembering the rules of the game, waved his hand and recalled another of Bedil’s couplets:
Enchantment cannot deal with our sorrows,
Breath on the mirror’s chamber will not be air.
‘If you breathe onto a mirror, the mirror’s surface clouds over, just as our griefs and sorrows are not abolished, but only briefly masked, when we allow ourselves to be enchanted by the beauty of poetry – or the pleasures of fiction.’ Kosoniy directed this last at Abdulla. ‘Your Cho’lpon used to be good at this game. Are you his match?’
Abdulla took up the challenge:
Should the battlefield of lust draw dust on the path of desire,
If you breathe in or out at the mirror facing me, the breath stretches out and goes.
‘Do I have it right, gentlemen?’ Kosoniy and the mulla nodded. ‘What the poet is trying to say is this: if you are possessed by lust, and have gone in for the dust of desire, look at the mirror: it will start to breathe as you breathe in and out. This is a rough summary, of course, you can extract a dozen meanings from this couplet.’ But this time Muborak intervened:
‘We Jews put it simply:
Ashamed of its love, the heart retreats, look,
This mirror does such work, look.
‘The mirror doesn’t know what it serves: love, shame, or the poet.’
—
It was now that Captain Arthur Conolly came to Kokand from Khiva. ‘You see,’ Madali crowed, ‘none other than the Queen of England has shown me respect: she’s sent her ambassador.’ He gave a feast in Conolly’s honour, showed him his pigeons
and his drums, introduced him to his mother Nodira and to the ladies of the court. ‘This English dervish has come from Delhi. Look, he’s brought me a picture of the Taj Mahal, and this enormous mirror!’ The womenfolk were particularly pleased by the full-sized mirror, and the pleasure they gained from it was embodied in a poetry contest ‘The Mirror’. Conolly spoke Farsi fluently, and knew Mughal poetry like the back of his hand. He too took part in the contest, reciting a couplet which he tried to put into Ottoman Turkish:
The heart’s page, without the writing of your wounds, is lonely and empty,
Our mirror reflects authority, or the perspiration of pearls.
While he stumbled over the Turkish, Oyxon stole a glance at this gigantic, blue-eyed European, who reminded her of her old friend Gulxaniy: the same majestic stature, the same good looks, the same gift of the gab. At first, this resemblance was a source of sadness for Oyxon, and then she worried that Madali would be jealous of the attention she was showing the foreigner; luckily, she was saved by the fact of Uzbeks seeming to regard Europeans as aliens – a European, after all! – and thus not worth considering as men. In this sense, Madali showed himself indifferent to Conolly’s presence, treating him as if he were a mahram; gradually, Oyxon gathered the confidence to let her gaze linger ever longer on this cheerful, talkative foreigner; with the warming fire of memories of Gulxaniy, she found pleasure and enjoyment in looking at him.
Conolly knew a couplet about a mirror, but only in the English translation. First he recited it in his lisping English, then attempted to put it into Ottoman Turkish:
I shall see the morning overthrown with age, fire will come from my tongue,
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