The Mulberry Empire

by Philip Hensher

  ‘Your words are empty, Burnes,’ the Amir said.

  ‘We cannot, Amir,’ Burnes said. ‘I can give the absolute assurance that in no circumstances will we take arms against you, but that is all. What I have said to you is exactly what is being said to your predatory neighbours, who would similarly like our direct aid. We will not fight against you, and I would hope that Your Majesty will consider whether he can be certain that even so small a certainty can be afforded in the case of others, of other emissaries from other—’

  ‘Burnes,’ the Amir said brusquely. ‘I assure you that I will not receive other ambassadors while there is a possibility of the friendship of your nation.’

  Burnes bowed, seeing the threat in Dost Mohammed’s words.

  ‘Enough, Burnes, enough,’ he went on. ‘That will do.’

  He swept out into the waiting crowd of courtiers, and Burnes was left alone, bowing, holding the Russian letter. There was nothing more he could have said.

  10.

  By now, Masson heartily disliked the appearance of Burnes in his house. He was under no illusions; Burnes always wanted something of him. There was another layer to his dislike, the unnerving feeling which rose from his boots, that Burnes knew what he was and what he had done. Here, he was safe from Burnes; the man needed him in some way. But Masson had no doubt that, were they a thousand miles to the east, Burnes would have had him shot, and not regretted it for a moment. One day, he thought, whenever Burnes turned up, one day I shall show you what kind of man I am; not a cowardly deserter, not a man who kills and runs away, but Masson. And I shall act, and you will see what kind of man I am, and how you will beg for my friendship … In what way this would come about – in what way Masson would show himself – he did not know and could not imagine. And he realized that in his uncertainty lay all his weakness, but still he hated Burnes, and the way Burnes looked at the useful, disgusting deserter in his mountain hiding place.

  Qasim had gone. One day he had not come, and Masson accepted it. He often slept in the afternoons, and when he came to, gummy with daylit sleep, Qasim was usually there, hanging about foolishly. That day, he had woken up, and there was no one by him. He had not come, nor the next day, nor the next. In the event, Masson had not been honoured by the table of Qasim’s father, and had no idea where the boy lived. He did not come the next day, or ever again. Masson had expected it; it always happened in much the same way, and in any case the boy had been more than mildly tiresome. If he had been less lazy, he might have dismissed him anyway, rather than trusting to the usual loss of interest. It was odd, then, that he felt a little pang at his departure, as if he had cared anything for him. Whatever he thought, there was always the memory of flesh, and that was a memory Masson could have done without. Qasim had gone, disappearing into the absorbent street life of the city, never to re-emerge or – to be honest – to be sought for with much energy. The periodic stirrings of lust would not, in this case, drive Masson out of doors. As the widow Khadija would have observed, another foreigner had arrived, and Burnes was proving a much more taxing visitor to the house. He was bored with him.

  ‘It is a letter from the Tsar,’ Masson said cautiously. ‘Here, look, it says—’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Burnes said. ‘I can read it, too. I know what it appears to be. I want to know if you think that is what it is.’

  ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘Dost Mohammed gave it to me.’

  Masson raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I knew they were here,’ Burnes said. ‘Of course, the Dost pretended it was all a great surprise to him, but he knows perfectly well they are here, too.’

  ‘Is he receiving them?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Burnes said. ‘Actually, I am fairly sure not. In any case, he showed me this today.’

  ‘And you think it might not be genuine? You think – what?’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ Burnes said de haut en bas. ‘I think it is exactly what it seems to be. There is no reason, as far as I can see, to think otherwise. Of course the Tsar would send emissaries to Kabul – that is entirely probable. The only reason I am asking you if this is a genuine letter is that, for some reason, the Dost was good enough to show me this and to say that he thought there was a possibility it was a forgery, and the Russians persons of no account whatever. I admit, it would be most convenient indeed were it so, but I don’t think that is the case.’

  ‘Well,’ Masson said. ‘If that is your view, and the Dost perfectly prepared to hear that it is not from Russia at all, why not simply tell him so? That would simplify matters enormously.’ For one bizarre moment, he thought of Burnes naked; his thin white body stretched out on the floor before him.

  Burnes looked at him in astonishment. It was as if he had seen Masson’s grotesque thought. ‘Lie, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But if it is in fact genuine—’

  ‘If, if, if – it suits your ends, the Amir would believe you, and the Russians be thrown out of town.’

  The possibility had clearly never occurred to Burnes, and he looked at Masson with what seemed very much like distaste. ‘I hardly think I can compromise my position by deceiving the Amir,’ he said. ‘And when it comes to light …’

  ‘Very well,’ Masson said. He held the letter up to the light, ran his eye over it briefly, and gave it back to Burnes. ‘In my opinion, this is a forgery. There. You have my opinion.’

  ‘I cannot take your opinion, sir,’ Burnes said coldly. ‘Sir, I have to say that I know well what manner of man you are, and how you live your life here – I know this very well – and you must not assume that my standards of behaviour are your own.’

  ‘That is my opinion, and that is what you asked for. And I strongly advise you against insulting me in such a fashion.’

  ‘Sir, look at the seal. That is undoubtedly the Russian imperial seal.’

  ‘An obvious trick.’

  ‘Even if they could write such a letter, the seal, sir—’

  ‘Very well,’ Masson snapped, and, seizing Burnes’s arm, he dragged him out of the room. ‘Come with me, and I will show you the value of the damned imperial seal.’

  Burnes followed him, and they left the house. Masson was steaming with rage, and they stomped silently through the snow. His feet, still in their sandals, almost burnt with the cold. No one was about; no one to see the two furious Englishmen struggling through the snow and the silent streets. Masson would not look at Burnes and his foolish honour; this was nothing to do with him, and he cared nothing whether Burnes or the Russians were received at the Bala Hissar. He did not know what manner of man Burnes was, and he did not know how he lived his life, and he did not care enough to inquire. But he knew he was right, and the stupidity of the man, his endless superiority, filled him with fury.

  At length they reached the bazaar, and Masson led Burnes to a dark little stall of provisions. The shopkeeper, who was familiar with Masson, nodded agreeably, but the gentlemen ignored him. Masson walked around him and, from a pile, picked up a bag of sugar. He thrust it in Burnes’s face.

  ‘There,’ he said. On the bottom of the bag was a blue seal; it looked uncommonly like the imperial Russian seal on the piece of parchment. ‘There, Burnes, your evidence. The imperial Russian seal? Every Russian merchant has one. You have no proof that this letter is genuine, and you have a very good reason to tell the Dost that it is not. And you know that if you do, he will believe you. And you know that if he discovers in years to come that it was perfectly genuine, and calls you to account, you may in all conscience say that there was no reason to suppose it so. There, Burnes, look, and you will see what manner of man I am. Listen to me.’

  ‘Very well,’ Burnes said. ‘I see I will get no sense out of you, sir. I shall act according to my own lights.’

  ‘Do you know what they call you?’ Masson said, now beyond all restraint. ‘Do you know, sir, what all Kabul calls you? They call you gharib nawaz. They call you that. Your humble servant. A
nd you must know, Burnes, that they all laugh at you, with your humble servant, your endless gharib nawaz and your creeping before the Amir, on your knees. The second you turn your back, they are laughing at you. Be a man, you fool.’

  Burnes stiffened like a warring cock, his nostrils flaring. With one gesture, he snatched the letter back from Masson’s trembling hands and stalked off. The shopkeeper looked at Masson curiously; it was not every day two foreigners came in and shouted at each other, in their strange singing shrieking language, the devil-language of the infidel, and he was interested. Then he had a brilliant afterthought, and dashed to the door as Masson went on his way.

  ‘Save Kabul, sir!’ he called after his retreating back. ‘Save us, sir, save us from our fates!’

  The foreigner did not turn, but carried on his way. But the shopkeeper went back and sat down, happy with himself.

  11.

  ‘How is it that you have seen so little of Kabul?’ the Newab Jubbur Khan asked politely.

  ‘Because, my dear fellow,’ Vitkevich said, ‘we are effectively prisoners, here, in your house.’

  Vitkevich had reached the end of his patience. For weeks, now, he and his men had been entirely cut off from the world. No news penetrated the walls of the Newab’s house; no knowledge could be gleaned from the ever-present guards, and they sat and waited and told long stories of their past campaigns to pass the time. He felt utterly alone; what he knew of the world outside the walls of the Newab’s house was now long out of date. He had his instructions, and he had a sense of what had been happening in Herat, in India, in Kabul. But now he knew nothing of all that. There had been no communication whatever from the Amir in response to his entreaties, and all Vitkevich knew was that the English were here in this city. Everything might be going appallingly wrong, and he – he, surely – would suffer the consequences. Imprisoned, he felt at the mercy of people he now knew nothing of.

  They lived in comfort and unspeakable boredom. It would not be so bad if they could simply lapse into silence, lasting days, leaving each other in peace, but that didn’t seem a possibility. Instead, they talked, on and on, but always around the same subjects, speculating about when the Amir would see them, and never coming to any conclusion. It was terribly dull. They never had any new information, since none of the Afghans would really talk to them, and the conversation always ran its course and ended with them all saying that they didn’t know why they were being kept here and hoped it wouldn’t be long.

  Sometimes one of them would start reminiscing, set off by a chance remark, and however dull the story of a campaign or a small military adventure, they would all drift over and listen. Vitkevich had heard all the stories more than once, but by some silently agreed decision, nobody would complain if a soldier felt like telling it one more time. Vitkevich disliked telling his own story – he was aware that it was rather more interesting than anyone else’s, and might discourage the others – and confined himself to the usual soldier’s complaints. The days passed on in this haze of boredom, and even the diversions from boredom seemed to have lost their appeal; dice lay neglected now, novels unfinished or unread. The ennui was too absolute. Confinement in camp always bred a passionate loathing of one’s companions, a sort of loathing which focused on the most harmless habits; the way Jirinovsky did not always reach for his handkerchief, but blew his nose on his fingers and would then wipe them casually on the cushion he was sitting on, or Stanchinsky’s dozy egotistical inattention, his habit of asking some question about one’s history, family or ideas, and then interrupting after two sentences to pass some remark about himself or to wonder, for the fiftieth time that day, when Dost Mohammed was finally going to see them. Vitkevich was too well acquainted with the irritations of camp life to give way to any of this, and much as he itched to tell his subordinates that he had heard that story a hundred times, or to remind one of them that it was disgusting to talk of one’s bowel problems over dinner while scratching one’s testicles, he kept quiet. Prison had been very much the same, and although these inner irritations with the presence of other people had a way of building up into huge resentments, it was vital not to give way to them.

  Oblovich had the limelight at the moment, and was recounting an adventure that he had had while on manoeuvres. He was an extraordinarily vulgar fellow and had told the story before, but the men were listening in an inattentive way. The Newab Jubbur Khan – now there was the principal source of Vitkevich’s irritation, with his charming manner, the perfect host, and all the time refusing to be of the slightest help in any way – had entered the room and stood, nodding at what, presumably, he could not understand at all, as if the rhythms of a story, even in a foreign language, were in themselves interesting and entertaining. Oblovich was glittering feverishly, thrilling himself at least with the much-told story.

  ‘… but then the wheel of a gun carriage caught in the mud, and the horses turned it over, trying to pull it out. Well, that was a day and no mistake. My batman said to me, that’s the third, so we’re all right now. And I said, what do you mean? And he said – he was a decent little fellow, a Moscow shoemaker’s son, always praying, I often wonder what happened to him – he said that they always said troubles come in threes, and we’d had three that day, and wouldn’t have a fourth, God be blessed. So I went to the commanding officer and said bluntly, because I could see that the men wouldn’t stand for any more, that we’d better strike camp there, where we stood. That’s the sort of chap I am, I never kowtow, and if the Tsar himself were to say something stupid, so if you imagine the Tsar saying to you that the moon was made of green cheese and the grass in the fields was nothing but noodles, most people would say, yes your imperial majesty, no your imperial majesty, but not me, oh no, I’d tell him straight away that he was talking nonsense. So I went to the commanding officer and told him, because I just didn’t care, that we’d better stop there, and he stared at me and said that I should return to my place and he saw no reason to change the plans for the day. Well, I went back, and in the end I was right, you see. Because the whole cart was turned over, and we were all standing around scratching our heads and thinking what we were going to do, when all at once over the hill there came thousands and thousands of the enemy.

  ‘Well, I say the enemy, but I don’t know exactly who they were, not knowing much about the part of the world where we were. But I can tell you there were thousands of them and they looked like they meant business, all in fur and grinning and spitting and shooting in the air. Now no tribesman is a match for one of the Tsar’s soldiers, yes, you’ve got a point when you say that. But you’ve got to remember that we were tired and hungry and didn’t know where we were and there were thousands of them, all bearing down on us and wanting blood on their swords. So as quick as we could I ordered the men into a square. You’ll be asking now why it had fallen to me to be ordering all this, but I’ll tell you. It was the commander in chief again. You’re not going to believe this, but when they came over the hill, he had no idea. As long as I live, I’ll remember the look on his face. You’d have said he’d been turned to stone, just standing there and staring, a fine Petersburg gentleman, but no iron, no iron at all. So it fell to me to organize the men. Let me ask you – what would you have done? I’ll tell you what I did in a moment, but I still don’t know whether I did the right thing.’

  ‘You must have done the right thing,’ Jirinovsky said sycophantically, ‘to get out alive. You must have.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Oblovich said, delighted. ‘That’s right, son. Well, I’ll tell you …’

  I could tell you a thing or two, Vitkevich thought viciously; I could tell you about bravery. I could tell you what it’s like to run away from home when you’re fifteen, to fight the Tsar’s troops just because you believe in something; to resolve under a hail of bullets that you are going to die rather than be taken, and half an hour later be lying in the enemy’s wagon with your body and shame intact; to spend years in exile, to change utterly, to return and burrow
your way into the affections and trust of the powers you once fought against; to learn never to trust anyone, and ride with the future of the Tsar’s empire on your shoulders; to be brave, and know it, and never to admit to bravery, because that is what anyone would have done in the same place. He told himself his own story, over and over, and listened carefully to it.

  When Oblovich stopped talking, the Newab looked round the group to make sure that the story had come to an end, and then bowed directly at Vitkevich, who stood up. The Newab beckoned him outside, and handed him a sealed note – one which had clearly been opened and badly resealed.

  ‘You have a letter from one of your countrymen,’ the Newab said, not troubling to deny that he knew its contents.

  Vitkevich raised an eyebrow, but opened it. It was in execrable French, and from the leader of the English mission. He read it there, while the Newab stood by him, nodding and smiling from time to time. Vitkevich folded it up again.

  ‘The guest of the Amir asks to meet me,’ Vitkevich said. ‘His name is Burnes. Do you know him?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the Newab said. ‘A great man, and a great friend to the Amir and to every Afghan.’

  ‘He proposes to entertain me to dinner,’ Vitkevich said, seeing the impossibility of this in Jubbur Khan’s eyes. Then he had a bright thought. ‘Sir, see, here, he reminds me that it is the Christian festival of Christmas in two days’ time.’ It was not the Russian Christmas, but the Newab would not know the difference between European calendars. ‘A very important and holy festival for all Christians. The guest of the Amir, this great man, I do not know how to refuse so very important a man and so very kind and condescending an invitation to so holy a festival.’