Mangla and I were standing only a few steps above them, and I was thinking, well, you don't often see this at Windsor—the astonishing thing was that no one else in the durbar room was paying the least heed; while the drunkard alternately mauled his wench and whimpered and snarled at the two counsellors, the dance was reaching its climax, the band piping away in fine style, the spectators applauding. I glanced at Mangla, and she shrugged.
"Raja Jawaheer Singh, Wazir," says she, indicating the turbaned sportsman. "Do you wish to be presented?"
Now he was struggling to his feet again, calling for drink, and the black girl held the cup while he gulped and slobbered. Azizudeen turned on his heel in disgust, and Dinanath followed him towards one of the booths. Jawaheer pushed the cup away, staggered, and clutched at a table for support, calling for them to come back, and that was when his eye fell on us. He goggled stupidly, and started forward.
"Mangla!" cries he. "Mangla, you bitch! Who's that?" "It is the English envoy, Flashman sahib," says she coolly.
He gaped at me, blinking, and then a crafty look came into his eyes, and he loosed a great shout of laughter, yelling that he'd been right—the British had come, as he'd said they would.
"See, Dinanath! Look, Azizudeen! The British are here!" He swung round, stumbling, weaving towards them in a sort of crazy dance, crowing with high-pitched laughter. "A liar, am I? See—their spy is here!" Dinanath and Azizudeen had turned in the entrance of one of the booths, and as Jawaheer capered and fell down, and Mangla brought me to the foot of the staircase, I saw Dinanath white with fury—shame and loss of face before a foreigner, you see. The dancing and music had stopped, folk were craning to look, and flunkeys were running to help Jawaheer, but he lashed out at them, staggering round to point unsteadily at me.
"British spy! Filth! Your Company bandits will come to plunder us, will they? Brigands, wilayati,*(*Foreigner.) vermin!" He glared from me to Dinanath. "Ai-ee, the British will come—they will have cause to come!" shrieks he, pointing at me, and then they'd hustled him off, still yelling and laughing, Mangla clapped her hands, the music began again, and folk turned away, whispering behind their hands, just as they do at home when Uncle Percy's had one of his bad turns during evensong.
I dare say I should have been embarrassed, but with a couple of quarts of mixed brandy and puggle inside me, I didn't mind one little bit. Jawaheer was plainly all that rumour said of him, but I had deeper concerns: I was suddenly thirsty again, and beginning to feel so monstrous randy that if Lady Sale had happened by she'd have had to look damned lively, rheumatics and all. Doubtless the curious liquor Mangla had plied me with was responsible for both conditions; very well, she could take the consequences … there she was, the luscious little teaser, by the booth where Azizudeen and Dinanath had been a moment since. I lurched towards her, gloating, but even as I hove to beside her a woman spoke from beyond the open curtains.
"Is this your Englishman? Let me look at him."
I turned in surprise—not only at the words, but at the slurred, appraising arrogance of the tone. Mangla stepped back, and with a little gesture of presentation, said: "Flashman sahib, kunwari,"*(*Kunwar-=the son of a maharaja, and kunwari is presumably the female honorific.) and that title told me I was in the presence of the notorious Maharani Jeendan, Indian Venus, modern Messalina, and uncrowned queen of the Punjab.
Here and there in my memoirs I've remarked on the attraction of the female sex, and how it's seldom a matter of beauty alone. There are breathtakers like Elspeth and Lola and Yehonala whom you can't wait to chivvy into the shrubbery ; equally classic creatures (Angie Burdett-Coutts, for example, or the Empress of Austria) who are as exciting as cold soup but appeal to the baser aesthetic senses; and plain Janes who could start a riot in a monastery. In each case, Aphrodite or the governess, the magic is different, you see; there is always some unique charm or singular attraction, and it can be hard to define. In Mai Jeendan, though, it stood out a mile: she was simply the lewdest-looking strumpet I ever saw in my life.
Mind you, when a young woman with the proportions of an erotic Indian statue is found reclining half-naked and three parts drunk, while a stalwart wrestler rubs her down with oil, it's easy to leap to conclusions. But you could have covered this one with sackcloth in the front row of the church choir, and they'd still have ridden her out of town on a rail. You've heard of voluptuaries whose vices are stamped on their faces—mine, for example, but I'm over eighty. She was in her twenties, and lust was in every line of her face: the once perfect beauty turned fleshy, the lovely curves of lip and nostril thickened by booze and pleasure into the painted mask of a depraved angel—gad, she was attractive. She looked like those sensual pictures of Jezebel and Delilah which religious artists paint with such loving enthusiasm; Arnold could have got enough sermons out of her to last the half. Her eyes were large and wanton and slightly protruding, with a vacant, sated expression which may have been due to drink or the recent attentions of the wrestler—a bit shaky, he looked to me—but as I made my bow they widened in what was either drunken interest or yearning lechery—the same thing, really, with her.
Considering the size of her endowments, she was quite small, light coffee in colour, and fine-boned under her smooth fat—a tung bibi, as they say; a "tight lady". Like Mangla, she was decked out as a dancer, with a crimson silk loin-cloth and flimsy bodice, but instead of bangles her legs and arms were sheathed in gauze sewn with tiny gems, and her dark red hair was contained in a jewelled net.
To see her then, you'd never have guessed that when she wasn't guzzling drink and men, Mai Jeendan was another woman altogether; Broadfoot was wrong in thinking debauchery had dulled her wits. She was shrewd and resolute and ruthless when the need arose; she was also an accomplished actress and mimic, talents developed when she'd been the leading jester in old Runjeet's obscene private entertainments.
Just now, though, she was too languid with drink to do more than struggle up on one elbow, pushing her masseur away to view me better, slowly up and down—it reminded me of being on the slave-block in Madagascar, when no one bought me, rot them. This time, so far as one could judge from the lady's tipsy muttering as she lolled back on her cushions, fluttering a plump hand at me, the market was more buoyant.
"You were right, Mangla … he's big!" She gave a drunken chuckle, adding an indelicate remark which I won't translate. "Well, must make him comfortable … have him take off his robe … come sit down here, beside me. You, get out …" This to the wrestler, who salaamed himself off in haste. "You too, Mangla … draw the curtains … want to talk with big Englishman."
And not about the Soochet legacy, from the way she patted the cushions and smiled at me over the rim of her glass. Well, I'd heard she was game, but this was informality with a vengeance. I was all for it, mind you, even if s he was as drunk as Taffy's sow and spilling most of the drink down her front—if any ass tells you that there's nothing so disgusting as a beauty in her cups, I can only say she looks a sight more interesting than a sober schoolmarm. I was wondering if I should offer to help her out of her wet things when Mangla got in before me, calling for a cloth, so I hung back, polite-like, and found myself being addressed most affably by a tall young grandee with a flashing smile who made me a pretty little speech, welcoming me to the Court of Lahore, and trusting- that I would have a pleasant stay.
His name was Lal Singh, and I still give him top marks for style. After all, he was Jeendan's principal lover, and here was his mistress cussing like Sowerberry Hagan and having her déshabille mopped in the presence of a stranger whom she'd been about to drag into the wood-shed; it didn't unsettle him a bit as he congratulated me on my Afghan exploits and drew me into conversation with Tej Singh, my fat little warrior of the afternoon, who bobbed up grinning at his elbow to tell me how well I suited the robe he'd given me. By this time I was beginning to feel a trifle confused myself, having in short order survived an assassination plot—what a long time ago it seemed—been filled with strong w
aters and (I suspected) aphrodisiac, trotted up and down by a half-naked slave girl, verbally assailed in public by the Wazir of the Punjab, and indecently ogled by his drunken flesh-trap of a sister. Now I was discussing, more or less coherently, the merits of the latest Congreve rockets with two knowledgeable military men, while a yard away the Queen Regent was being dried off by her attendants and protesting tipsily, and at my back a vigorous ballet was being danced by a score of young chaps in turbans and baggy trousers, with the orchestra going full steam.
I was new to Lahore, of course, and not au fait with their easygoing ways. I didn't know, for example, that recently, when Lal Singh and Jawaheer had quarrelled publicly, the Maharani had composed things by presenting each of them with a naked houri and telling them to restore their tempers by doing honour to her gifts then and there. Which, by all accounts, they had done. I mention that in case you think my own account is at all exaggerated.
"We must have a longer talk presently," says Lal Singh, taking me by the arm. "You see the deplorable condition of affairs here. It cannot continue—as I am sure Hardinge sahib is aware. He and I have had some correspondence—through your esteemed chief, Major Broadfoot." He flashed me another of his smiles, all beard and teeth. "They are both very practical and expert men. Tell me, you have their confidence—what price do you suppose they would consider fair … for the Punjab?"
Well, I was drunk, and he knew it, which was why he asked the impossible, treasonable question, in the hope 'that my reaction would tell him something. Even fuddled, I knew that Lal Singh was a clever, probably desperate man, and that the best answer to the unanswerable is to put a question of your own. So I said, "Why, does someone want to sell it?" At which he gave me a long smile, while little Tej held his breath; then Lal Singh clapped me on the shoulder.
"We shall have our long talk by day," says he. "The night is for pleasure. Would you care for some opium.? No? Kashmiri opium is the finest obtainable—like Kashmiri women. I would offer you one, or even two, of them, but I fear my lady Jeendan's displeasure. You have aroused some expectation in that quarter, Mr Flashman, as I'm sure you noticed." His smile was as easy and open as though he were telling me she'd be bidding me to tea presently. "May I suggest a fortifying draught?" He beckoned a matey, and I was presented with another beaker of Mangla's Finest Old Inspirator, which I sipped with caution. "I see you treat it with greater respect than does that impossible sot, our Wazir. Look yonder, bahadur … and have pity on us."
For now Jawaheer was to the fore again, reeling noisily in front of Jeendan's booth, with his black tart trying vainly to hold him upright; he was delivering a great tirade against Dinanath, and Jeendan must have sobered somewhat under Mangla's ministrations, for she told him pretty plain, with barely a hiccough, to pull himself together and drink no more.
"Be a man," says she, and indicated his wench. "With her … practise for acting like a man among men. Go on … take her to bed. Make yourself brave!"
"And tomorrow?" cries he, flopping down on his knees before her. He was having another of his blubbering fits, wailing and rocking to and fro.
"Tomorrow," says she, with drunken deliberation, "you'll go out to Khalsa —"
"I cannot!" squeals he. "They'll tear me to pieces!" "You'll go, little brother. And speak to them. Make your peace with 'em … all will be right …"
"You'll come with me?" he pleaded. "You and the child?"
"Be assured … we'll all come. Lal and Tej … Mangla here." Her sleepy gaze travelled to me. "Big Englishman, too … he'll tell the Malki lat and Jangi lat*(*"Lord of War", i.e. Gough.) how the troops acclaimed their Wazir. Cheered him!" She flourished her cup, spilling liquor again. "So they'll know … a man rules in Lahore!"
He stared about vacantly, and his face was that of a frightened ape, all streaked with tears. I doubt if he saw me, for he leaned closer to her, whispering hoarsely: "And then—we'll march on the British? Take them unawares —"
"As God wills," smiles she, and looked at me again—and for an instant she didn't seem drunk at all. She stroked his face, speaking gently, as to a fractious infant. "But first … the Khalsa. You must take them gifts … promises of pay …"
"But … but … how can I pay? Where can I —"
"There is treasure in Delhi, remember," says she, and glanced at me a third time. "Promise them that."
"Perhaps … if I gave them this?" He fumbled in his belt and brought out a little case on a chain. "I shall wear it tomorrow —"
"Why not? But I must wear it tonight." She snatched it from him, laughing, and held it beyond his reach. "Nay, nay—wait! It is for the dance! Would you like that, little brother-who-wishes-he-weren't-a-brother? Mmh?" She slipped her free hand round his neck, kissing him on the lips. "Tomorrow is tomorrow … this is tonight, so we'll take our pleasure, eh?"
She nodded to Mangla, who clapped her hands. The music died away, the dancers skipped off the floor, and there was a general withdrawal by the guests. Jawaheer flopped down beside Jeendan on the cushions, leaning his head against her.
"So government is conducted." Lal Singh spoke in my ear. "Would Hardinge sahib approve, think you? Until tomorrow then, Flashman sahib."
Tej Singh gave another of his greasy chuckles and nudged me. "Remember the saying: `Below the Sutlej there are brothers and sisters; beyond it, only rivals.' " He went off with Lal Singh.
I didn't know what the devil he meant -- nor, in my growing inebriation, did I care. All these gassing intruders were keeping me from the company of that splendid painted trollop who was now wasting her talents in soothing her whining oaf of a brother yonder, cradling him against that superb bosom and pouring drink into him and herself. I was itching to be at her, and even when Mangla came to lead me to the neighbouring booth, I wasn't distracted: I guess my tastes are coarse, and I'd developed a craving for the mistress that wasn't to be satisfied by the maid—who kept the curtains open, anyway, and had a matey standing by to keep me liquored through the entertainment which now began. As I said, most of the courtiers seemed to have gone, leaving the Maharani and her chosen intimates to riot with the performers.
The first of these was a troupe of Kashmiri girls, spanking little creatures in scanty silver armour, with bows and toy swords, who cavorted in a parody of military drill which would have scandalised the General Staff and terrified their horses. This was something from Runjeet's day, Mangla told me: the girls were his female bodyguard, with whom the old lecher had been wont to battle through the night.
Then there was a serious interlude by Indian wrestlers, who are the best on earth outside Cumberland, muscular young bucks who fought like greased lightning, all science and sinew—none of your crude Turkish grunting or the unspeakable Japanese vulgarity. Jeendan, I noticed, roused from her lethargy during these bouts, rising unsteadily to her feet to applaud the falls, and summoning the victors to drink from her cup while she stroked and petted them. Meanwhile their place was taken by female wrestlers, strapping wenches who fought naked (another of old Runjeet's fancies), with the male wrestlers and Kashmiri girls kneeling round the floor, egging them on, and then wrestling with each other, to the inevitable conclusion, while the band played appropriate music. They were all over the floor in no time, seriously impeding a troupe of dancing girls and boys who had come on to frolic in a measure which proved to be a considerable advance on the polka.
Now, you may not credit this, but I'm not much of a hand at orgies. I ain't what you'd all a prude, but I do hold that an Englishman's brothel is his castle, where he should behave according—as many flash-tails as he likes, but none of these troop fornications that the Orientals indulge in. It's not the indecency I mind, but the company of a lot of boozy brutes hallooing and kicking up the deuce of a row when I want to concentrate and give of my best. A regular bacchanalia is something to see, right enough, but I'm with the discriminating Frog who said that one is interesting, but only a cad would make a habit of it.
Still, evil associations corrupt good mann
ers, especially when you're horny as Turvey's bull and full of love-puggle; Mangla'll have to do, thinks I, if I ain't too foxed to carry her out of this bedlam, and I was just looking about for her when there was a great drunken cheer from the floor, and Jeendan came swaying out of her booth, helped by a couple of her dancing-boys. She pushed them away, took a couple of shaky steps, and began to writhe like a Turkish wedding dancer, flaunting her hips and rotating her plump little bottom, flirting the tails of her crimson loin-cloth, giving little squeals of laughter as she turned, stamping, then clapping her hands above her head while the others took up the rhythm and the tom-toms throbbed and the cymbals clashed.
That was my first glimpse of Koh-i-Noor, gleaming in her navel like a live thing as she fluttered her belly in and out—but it didn't hold my attention long, for as she danced she screamed over her shoulder, and one of the dancing-boys leaped in behind her, sliding his hands up her body, unclasping her bodice and letting it fall, fond-ling her as she danced back into him and slowly turned herself until they were face to face. They writhed against each other while the onlookers shrieked with delight and the music beat ever faster, and then he retreated from her slowly, sweat pouring down his body—and burn me if the stone wasn't in his navel now! How the devil they did it, I can't think; Swedish exercises, perhaps. The boy yelled and pirouetted in triumph, and Jeendan staggered into the arms of one of the wrestlers, giggling while he pawed and kissed her. One of the Kashmiri bints flung herself at the boy, clasping him round the waist and wriggling against him; damned if I could see any better this time, but she came away with the stone in turn, undulating to let the onlookers see it, and then subsiding under another youth, the pair of them heaving to wake the dead—but either he was less expert or something else caught their interest, for the diamond slipped out from between them and rolled across the floor, to cat-calls and groans of disappointment.
The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light fp-9 Page 8
