My Uncle Napoleon
Page 52
TWENTY-THREE
THE APPOINTED WEDNESDAY, when the English representative was to begin his negotiations with Dear Uncle Napoleon, arrived.
Using as an excuse that he was having some men friends over, my father had before noon sent everyone in the house, including our servant, over to one of my aunts who had a house in Tajrish; by insisting and pleading, I had persuaded him to allow me not to go to this gathering and to stay in the house. The meeting had been arranged for four in the afternoon. From two onwards my father and Asadollah Mirza were coming and going from the Indian brigadier’s house, their faces alternately open and shining and then closed and gloomy. It seemed they were settling various issues and problems. Then uncle colonel came over to our house, too. From their whispering and the muttered words they exchanged I realized that the only awkward problem still remaining was the fact that the representative was an Indian. Asadollah Mirza was more optimistic than everyone else and kept repeating, “God willing, that’ll be all right, too.” A little after three o’clock they sent uncle colonel to fetch Dear Uncle Napoleon.
For two days I had held back from going anywhere near Layli or talking to her, because I didn’t know what to say to her. If by any chance she had got wind of this meeting and were to ask me about it, I didn’t know how I should answer. Since I was certain that Dear Uncle would not permit me to be present during the negotiations, I had prepared myself a nice little hiding place behind one of the living room doors, which gave onto a small side room. Fortunately this side room behind the living room had a door to the hallway so that I would not be imprisoned in my hiding place. Asadollah Mirza had told me that wherever I might be I should be ready to come and help the proceedings along if that proved necessary.
When Dear Uncle Napoleon set foot in the yard to our house I was at an upstairs window, watching. Dear Uncle was wearing a dark suit with the ribbon of an order which, according to him, he had been awarded by King Mohammad Ali Shah pinned to the lapel. He was wearing a black and white striped tie over his white shirt. His face reminded me of the newsreel images of Daladier, the French president before the Second World War, as he went into the conference room at Munich. Mash Qasem was following him. He seemed to be wearing one of Dear Uncle’s suits because the sleeves and legs were far too long for him.
My father and Asadollah Mirza went out to welcome Dear Uncle. In response to their warm and friendly greetings, Dear Uncle’s answers were very dry and clipped.
I ran to my hiding place. As soon as Dear Uncle entered the living room he started drawing up a plan of where various people were to stand. “My brother the colonel will stand here . . . and you here Asadollah . . .”
“Moment, I should be to the right of the English representative . . .”
Dear Uncle cut him off, “Who has made such a decision . . . ? Not at all; just as I said, you stand here!”
“But take into account the fact that I have to act as interpreter and I can’t from over there . . . I must be at a certain distance between you and the representative.”
“But isn’t that Brigadier Maharat Khan coming?”
“But you yourself wouldn’t agree to his coming.”
“Yes, it would not be right for a stranger to be present at such important negotiations, and an Indian at that.”
Asadollah Mirza and my father and uncle colonel exchanged despairing glances. Dear Uncle Napoleon went on, “In that case you stand where you were saying. And Mash Qasem is to stand two paces behind me on the left-hand side.”
“I’m very pleased you changed your mind about Mash Qasem. It’s really not necessary for him to be on the lookout from behind a curtain.”
Mash Qasem, who was having difficulty moving in his ill-fitting clothes, said, “God keep you, sir . . . I’ve killed that many English in the wars it’ll be enough for seven generations . . . God wouldn’t want me to be dirtyin’ my hands with the blood of no more English. I remember there was a man in our town who . . .”
Dear Uncle cut him off with an angry look and said, “For this job we need someone who is completely reliable.”
Asadollah Mirza and my father exchanged puzzled looks, but they had no opportunity to say anything because the door to the living room opened and Puri, uncle colonel’s son, entered with a double-barreled shotgun in his hand.
Dear Uncle said in a stern voice, “Puri, according to my orders to you, you’re to stay on guard behind the hallway door the whole time; keep your finger on the trigger and, as soon as I give the command, fire!”
Asadollah Mirza, who was staring at Puri in astonishment, involuntarily said, “Oh, my sainted aunt!”
Then he turned to Dear Uncle, “But sir . . . in our negotiations it was agreed that the representative was to come unarmed. This is against all custom and decency and ethical principles, and even against the rules of war.”
Staring into midair from behind his dark glasses Dear Uncle said calmly, “I know the rules of war better than you do. But one must not ignore the malicious nature of the enemy. Puri! Carry out your commander’s orders!”
Uncle colonel, who had been watching this exchange in stunned surprise, joined the conversation, “Brother, this boy has no idea how to fire a gun. If, God forbid, he should suddenly . . .”
“He has no idea? . . . Then what was he playing at during his military service?”
“Well he was working in the commissariat . . . I mean, of course he did some shooting, too, but not with a shotgun!”
Puri was listening to this conversation with an idiotic expression on his pale, equine face. Dear Uncle turned to him, “Puri, if you are really not capable of this, then honestly say so before you accept the post . . . as Napoleon said, ‘To confess one’s inability is a kind of ability.’”
Stammering and spluttering, Puri said, “I . . . uncle . . . whatever your orders are . . . I’m ready to sacrifice my life for you.”
“Then report to your post . . . your commander is giving you your orders!”
Asadollah Mirza jumped into the conversation, “Moment, moment, firing a military rifle and firing a double-barreled shotgun are very different things. If you’ll allow me, I’ll explain the details to Puri . . .”
And before Dear Uncle had an opportunity to answer, he dragged Puri out into the hall and shut the door. I peeped out into the hall.
Asadollah Mirza took the gun from Puri and said, “Let’s see, lad . . . What! This gun’s really loaded . . .”
Puri spluttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of . . . but Dear Uncle ordered me to . . .”
“Moment, moment . . . Now, you’re no fool; we’ve taken a thousand pains and finally succeeded in getting a representative of the English to come here to solve the existing differences between them and your uncle, and God willing your uncle’s health will improve then . . . Now just imagine the negotiations don’t get anywhere or there’s some kind of argument . . . do you have to shoot the representative in the belly? . . . Don’t you realize they’ll arrest you and hang you for murder?”
“I won’t really fire it, Uncle Asadollah.”
“But if there’s a cartridge in the barrel and, God forbid, your finger touches the trigger, it’ll fire.”
Puri started spluttering, “But doesn’t it have a safety catch?”
“Where the hell would a decrepit old gun like this have a safety catch? . . . And besides, can’t you remember how you went into shock when you heard that bomb go off? And God forbid the barrel should explode in your hands . . . in the last two or three months four of these guns have exploded in people’s hands.”
“Uncle Asadollah, I’m really afraid . . .”
“And you’re quite right to be afraid . . . Now I’ll just fix it like this . . . Aha, aha!”
“You’ve taken the cartridges out!”
“Ssshhh! Don’t say a word; stay right here and wa
lk up and down with the gun, I promise you there’ll be no need for any firing . . . these old guns are no joke. Fifty times out of a hundred they explode, and they explode under the barrel so that all the pellets go into the belly of the person holding the gun . . . Would it be right for you to be mutilated at your age? To lose your virility, say? Do you still have any hopes of San Francisco?” Puri was so terrified he had begun to tremble. His mouth hung open but he couldn’t say anything else.
When Asadollah Mirza returned to the living room Dear Uncle Napoleon was sitting on the sofa and the others were standing. Asadollah Mirza signalled a few times to uncle colonel. Uncle colonel twisted his mouth and jaw this way and that for a while, and finally started to speak, “You know, brother, there’s one thing I have to mention to you.”
With a sudden movement Dear Uncle Napoleon swivelled his head round toward him. In a voice filled with anxiety and uncertainty uncle colonel went on, “In each country, for negotiations with their opponents, the English make use of their people who are in that country, or in that area . . . and, er, how can I put it . . . in fact they feel that a person from the area will be more familiar with the . . . particular spiritual quality of the place . . .”
“I don’t understand what you’re driving at.”
“Meaning . . . I mean to say . . . this colonel that’s coming to see you now . . . he’s an extremely important personage in the British army . . .”
Dear Uncle Napoleon said dryly, “Isn’t that what was agreed upon? They should thank God that I’ve agreed to talk to a colonel instead of a general.”
Uncle colonel gave Asadollah Mirza and my father an agitated look and went on, “Meaning that this colonel . . . who’s very close indeed to Churchill . . . in fact, you could say he’s Churchill’s righthand man . . . is the commander in chief of the British army and is an Indian.”
Asadollah Mirza closed his eyes.
Dear Uncle Napoleon’s lips began to tremble perceptibly. He turned pale and repeated in a voice that seemed to come from the bottom of a well, “An Indian . . . an Indian . . .”
Mash Qasem suddenly slapped one hand on top of the other and said, “Eh, you don’t say! . . . God save us from them there Indians!”
Uncle colonel seemed to feel that if he once stopped talking he wouldn’t dare start again, and he went on, “But this Colonel Eshtiagh Khan is so important that the viceroy of India won’t take a drink of water without consulting with him first.”
Fortunately Asadollah Mirza’s interruption averted the calamity promised by Dear Uncle’s Napoleon’s terrifying expression. “Moment, colonel, don’t forget that Colonel Eshtiagh Khan bears the title ‘Sir’; you should say ‘Sir Eshtiagh Khan.’”
This mention of the title “Sir” had a miraculous effect on Dear Uncle Napoleon. It was as if water had been poured on the flames and quenched them. After a few moments’ silence he said in a quiet voice, “If the representative has complete authority, delegated by the English, what difference does it make to me?”
Asadollah Mirza and my father and uncle colonel breathed a sigh of relief. At this moment my father, who was near the window, leaned out toward the yard and shouted, “Mr. Shir Ali . . . Mr. Shir Ali, did you want something?”
The sound of Shir Ali the butcher’s gruff, harsh voice came up from the yard, “Good day to you . . .”
But before he could answer my father’s question, or my father could say anything else, Dear Uncle Napoleon said, “Leave him alone. I told him to come here . . . so that if we wanted tea or anything he could bring it to us.”
My father called into the yard, “Make yourself at home, Mr. Shir Ali . . . the folks aren’t here yet . . . pour yourself a cup of tea . . . the samovar downstairs is on.”
Those present looked at each other and said nothing. There was no doubt at all that Dear Uncle Napoleon had taken every precaution. He had even asked Shir Ali to be in the area, to deal with any possible eventualities.
Dear Uncle continued to sit on the sofa and the four other participants to the meeting continued to stand where they were. Even Asadollah Mirza, whom it was normally impossible to keep quiet for a moment, had closed his mouth. Finally Mash Qasem’s voice broke the silence, “Then why hasn’t this English Indian come? To be honest, I’m really worried. God rest his soul, there was a man in our town who . . .”
Uncle colonel growled at him, “Mash Qasem!”
But Mash Qasem was not going to be cut short, “Well now, sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . When I . . .”
Fortunately Shir Ali’s harsh voice rang out from the stairs, “Sir, that guest of yours has come!”
Dear Uncle quickly stood up and, after signalling to the others to stay in their assigned places, he placed his hand on the ribbon on his coat collar and stood to attention. Shir Ali opened the door. Officer Eshtiagh Khan made his entrance.
Corporal Eshtiagh Khan, or as they were calling him, Colonel Sir Eshtiagh Khan, was a short, fat Indian. He was wearing a summer uniform consisting of a short-sleeved shirt and shorts. The flap on the revolver holster on his belt had been left open so that it was obvious the holster was empty.
As soon as he entered he clicked his heels together and raised his hand to his turban in a military salute, “Good afternoon, sir . . . How do you do!”
Dear Uncle, who was standing to attention with the color drained from his face, snapped his hand up to his eyebrows. Not only Dear Uncle but everyone else present seemed to be affected by the formality of the occasion, since no one answered except Mash Qasem, who said, “Good day to you.”
Mash Qasem’s interjection jolted Asadollah Mirza into speech, “Good afternoon, Sir Eshtiagh Khan.”
The Indian said something in English, which I think was an objection to the title “sir” because apparently this had not been part of their agreement, but a gesture from Asadollah Mirza silenced him.
After Dear Uncle had shaken hands with the Indian corporal, an act that was accompanied by his clicking his heels together, everyone apart from Mash Qasem, who stayed on his feet, sat down in the places that had been assigned to them.
Although I did well in my English lessons at school, I didn’t understand a word the Indian said, but I could understand what Asadollah Mirza said, and I recognized the mistakes he made, saying masculine pronouns for feminine and vice versa, as he spoke.
After an introductory exchange of polite greetings, Dear Uncle recovered his dry, formal tone. “Asadollah, I must ask you to translate whatever I say word for word . . . Say that I require my life and wealth and honor for the sake of my motherland. If I’m supposed to make some concession to the English, I’d a thousand times rather be killed and my body be eaten by wolves and hyenas . . . Translate!”
Asadollah Mirza started spouting English words at a great rate, and in among these I heard the word “wolf’’ which he said more loudly than the rest. Finally, in order to show that he was translating word for word, he paused and said in Persian, “Hyena . . . What’s the English word for hyena?”
Mash Qasem’s voice rang out, “Must be ‘corpse eater’ . . .”
Dear Uncle said, “Well, that’s not important for now . . . Say that I myself am aware of the immensity of the damage I have done to the British army . . . In the Battles of Kazerun and Mamasani, and in tens of other battles, I must have destroyed a thousand members of the British army. I have done the utmost damage to their colonial designs, but all this was for the sake of my motherland . . . It was because the English had raped my motherland . . . During his infancy one of our poets put his hand into a bird’s nest, and the bird pecked him with its beak in such a way that blood spurted out; he wrote:
‘My father laughed and said (although I cried),
Learn from this hen true patriotic pride!’
Asadollah, if you please, translate, word for word!”
As it happened our English teacher had taught us the meaning of the word “delicious” two weeks previously.
Asadollah Mirza turned to Dear Uncle, “Colonel Sir Eshtiagh Khan says that: ‘Yes, yes, we possess exhaustive information concerning all the details of these struggles, and we feel the greatest respect for him as a patriot, however . . .’”
A frown spread over Dear Uncle’s face and he said darkly, “Asadollah Mirza, this individual didn’t say more than a few words . . . was all this in those few words? You’re not embellishing his remarks are you?”
Asadollah Mirza hurriedly said, “Come now, sir! Do I know English or do you? As everyone knows, English is a language of brevity and economy. . . . There are some words that if we wanted to translate them into Persian we’d have to talk for half an hour. . . . Didn’t you hear Churchill’s last speech? He spoke for a quarter of an hour in the House of Commons, and the Persian, French and Arabic translations were so long that everyone fell asleep.”
Mash Qasem had been silent for a while and could contain himself no longer, “If you’re askin’ me, that’s not too far from the truth neither . . . whatever you say about the English could be true. That time that English sergeant came to ask for quarter from me, he just said ‘falasakh,’ and then the interpreter fellow talked for an hour describin’ to us what he wanted to say.”
Uncle colonel gave him a contemptuous look and said quietly, “Be quiet, Mash Qasem! So you know English, too, do you now?”
“Well now, sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I know the English better than they knows themselves. You mean you want to say that me who’s been fightin’ with the English for these forty years, that I don’t understand their language? I remember, and a good feller he was, too, there was a man in our town who . . .”