Hussein: An Entertainment

by Patrick O'Brian

  High up out of human sight a vulture swung on motionless wings: it was watching the rubbish heap intently. There were other vultures watching it too. One of them rolled over on to its side and dropped towards the earth. The others followed. Suddenly there was a rush of wings as the first vulture perched on a nearby tree: it looked meditatively at Hussein, with its head on one side, wondering how soon it could safely get to work. At intervals the other vultures joined it: three crows came. For about a quarter of an hour they all stared unwaveringly at Hussein, who stirred now and then.

  Several more crows came, and they began to quarrel among themselves. The noise they made attracted some people who were passing. A child ran to see what they were squabbling about, and he found Hussein twitching gently, just enough to keep the birds off. The little group soon became a crowd, all gaping at Hussein, but far too busy talking to do anything for him. With real Indian ineffectiveness they wondered shrilly how he had come there, while he was very nearly dying in front of them.

  Their chatter attracted the mahouts, who came running from the elephant lines to see what was happening.

  In spite of what he had been through they recognised Hussein, and they carried him to the Englishman who was in charge of that section; then he was taken into the hospital in Haiderabad.

  Six

  After a week it was obvious that he had come by no permanent injury, and in no long time he came out of hospital quite whole again.

  Jehangir received him with great joy; the elephant had become thin and anxious, for although Hussein had been away from him before for more than a month, he had felt that something was wrong, and had gone off his feed.

  Hussein went to his hut; it was just as he had left it, except that a letter lay on the floor. He ran to it, hoping that it might be from Sashiya. All that it said was: ‘If you go to see Sashiya again we shall beat you more seriously.’

  The writing — it was in Urdu — was not that of anyone he knew. It looked like that of someone who was accustomed to writing, and that narrowed things down a bit. For a long time he meditated, lying on Jehangir’s back while the elephant wandered slowly about by the banks of a pool, picking out tender branches from among the bushes. Suddenly Hussein had an idea.

  ‘It is probably a letter-writer,’ he thought. There was one of these always seated by the Temple of Hanuman, near the elephant lines. He was a fat Bengali: Hussein showed him the letter. ‘I might know something about it,’ he said, ‘but of course I could not tell you anything — my work is most confidential.’

  Hussein dropped some money negligently: the scribe covered it with his foot, trying hard to feel how much it was before imparting any information.

  At length he said, ‘Now that I come to think about it, it seems to me that that is the writing of Abd’Arahman, who writes in the Krishnavi bazaar. Yes, I feel quite sure of it.’

  Hussein went into the city, to the bazaar of Krishnavi, and he found Abd’Arahman the letter-writer sitting before his pen-case and paper.

  ‘Peace upon your house, Imâm,’ he said, squatting in the dust.

  ‘Salaam aleikum, hâthi-wallah,’ replied the old man courteously, who knew Hussein well.

  ‘A friend and I,’ said Hussein, ‘have had a dispute about the Q’ran. Now we have agreed to seek the arbitration of one whose judgment is infallible and whose learning is as deep as the well Zem-zem. So I have come to one who is not only a hadji, but also an Imâm.’

  Abd’Arahman stroked his long white beard: he swelled with pride. ‘What little learning I may have,’ he said, ‘is always at the service of the Faithful.’

  ‘The point, then, of our disagreement is in the Sura called “The Ant”, wherein it is related that Suleiman ibn Daoud (on whose soul be peace) desired to know who among his followers would fetch him the throne of Balkis, Queen of Saba, and two answered him. Then it is related that the throne appeared instantly before him, but it is not said by whom the miracle was performed; is it not so?’

  ‘Assuredly.’

  ‘Now I contend that it was performed by the Wazir Asaf ibn Barrachia, the true believer, who answered saying, “I will bring it unto thee, in the twinkling of an eye”. Whereas he obstinately holds that it was done by the Djinni Dhakwan, who said, “I will bring it unto thee, before thou arise from thy place”.’

  ‘You are both wrong. It was performed by the Suleiman himself. As Al Beidâwi says in … And so I have shown, neither the Djinni, who was an Afreet and an unbeliever, nor the Wazir, who was a man full of evil, being a politician, performed this wonderful exploit. Allahu Akbar!’

  ‘I hear and am dumb,’ replied Hussein, awaking from his doze. ‘By the name of Allah, I wish that my friend had been here that he might have been confounded, for I fear that he will close his ears against me when I tell him that he is wrong, being an obstinate creature and full of all manner of vice.’

  The Imâm smiled. ‘But you may still defeat him, O excellent Hussein, for I shall write my conclusion with ink upon a fine piece of paper, that you may show it to him.’ The old man did so, and Hussein poured forth his thanks.

  ‘It is but a small matter — a nothing,’ said the old man.

  ‘Now in the name of the Merciful, the Compassionate,’ said Hussein after a little, ‘but I could swear that I have seen this distinguished writing before: a friend showed me a letter that you had written for him — some little thing about Sashiya bint Ibrahim: now who in the name of Shaitan was he … Jafar? … No, my memory must be going.’

  ‘Surely you mean Kadir Baksh?’ said Abd’Arahman.

  ‘Of course, Kadir Baksh: it is strange how one forgets names.’

  ‘Inshallah! Now when I was a youth there was an ancient man in Haiderabad who remembered the days of the Company, when the English were small in the land and there was a Maharajah whose memory …’

  While the old man rambled on Hussein was thinking furiously. So it had been Kadir Baksh: he wondered whether the other three were hired badmashes or other lovers.

  Suddenly he was aware that the old man had stopped and was laughing, so he laughed too, and said, ‘Aha! that was a good tale. Have you never thought, Hadji, of writing these tales in a book, so that your descendants shall say, “Verily, our great-grandfather was a scholar and a wit: one worthy of honour and remembrance? Others with less to write have done so, and they are honoured to-day.” ’

  ‘By the Beard of the Prophet, I have never considered the matter, but it is a surpassingly excellent idea. Come and break bread with me, and we will discuss it.’

  Hussein had nothing to do, for he did not intend to go to Sashiya before dusk, so he went with Abd’Arahman to his house. The old man was delighted with the idea, and from his inexhaustible store of memories he told scores of stories, inquiring anxiously if they should be included. After a little while, however, he saw that there was something abstracted about Hussein’s replies.

  ‘I perceive,’ he said, ‘that there is something troubling you: do not think me intrusive if I observe that I am a very old man, older even than Wali Dad, your grandfather, whom I knew, and from my experience of life I may by chance be able to give some advice that might help you.’

  Hussein, charmed by the old man’s scholarly courtesy, hesitated a moment and then told him everything.

  ‘I told the lie concerning the Sura of the Ant not from idle impertinence,’ he wound up, ‘but because it is a point on which I really have thought a great deal.’

  The Imâm thought in silence for some time, then he said, ‘You have done very well to tell me about it, if I may say so without appearing to boast, for I write so many letters for so many people in all kinds of trouble that I have a certain experience in dealing with it. Are you certain that she does not look upon this Kadir Baksh with more favour than you?’

  ‘Quite certain,’ replied Hussein, without the least reason.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well … I feel quite sure …’ said Hussein, feeling rather foolish.

&
nbsp; ‘You say that you know Fatima the herb-seller, who can get messages to her for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we had better ask Sashiya straight out, or perhaps find out in some more devious way.’

  ‘But I am going to see her to-night. I will ask her myself. I shall know, whatever she says.’

  ‘In spite of the letter?’

  ‘Assuredly.’

  ‘Well — I was once a young man too. Tell me about it to-morrow after the evening prayers, if you are still alive. No man may escape his fate …’

  ‘What is written is written, but I am going to-night.’

  ‘Take the blessing of an old man with you. I had a son very like you — long ago, before the cholera …’

  Hussein went by a roundabout way to the courtyard: he also carried a long curved knife.

  He found rather more difficulty in climbing the tree than he had expected, for he was still somewhat feeble. When he was about three-quarters of the way up, he heard a whisper, ‘Catch this!’ and something brushed by him: it was a couple of sashes tied together that Sashiya had thrown down. He caught at the sashes and she pulled on the other end, so that he was drawn upwards like a fish on a line.

  ‘Oh, Hussein!’ said Sashiya rather tremulously, ‘and they told me you were dead.’

  After a little while Hussein said, ‘Tell me just one thing, Heart of my soul: do you love Kadir Baksh?’

  Sashiya looked at him, sitting sideways on the cushions that she had brought up; she let her veil fall and looking him full in the face she said, ‘No, I hate him.’

  Hussein blushed; he was silent for a while.

  ‘He killed Daoud Shah, whom I loved a little once,’ Sashiya went on, ‘and I feel certain that it was Kadir Baksh who beat you. If he kills you I shall die.’

  Hussein told her all about Abd’Arahman.

  ‘I know him. He is a lovely old man. He did my horoscope once, and wouldn’t let me pay him.’

  The sky was full of stars and they began to count them. Hussein told her a great deal about the stars, eking out a few facts with a great deal of fiction: it was all one to Sashiya.

  When the time came for Hussein to go, they leant together over the parapet and lowered a lantern by a long string to see whether anyone was waiting below to waylay him again. They saw nothing, but when at last Hussein really went, and was half-way down the tree, she saw a head bob up over the wall; it was Kadir Baksh. She gave a low whistle to attract Hussein’s attention, and beckoned him back again. They went to a place in the roof garden from which they could see over the wall. In the shadows there were three men, while a fourth walked up and down at the end of the blind alley to see that no one came.

  ‘You must go by some other way,’ said Sashiya.

  ‘But how can I get through the house — and especially the zenana — without being seen?’

  ‘Perhaps no one would hear you if you went very quietly!’

  ‘But what about the watchman at your uncle’s gate?’

  ‘I had not thought of that.’ She paused a little while, wrinkling her nose. ‘I know,’ she said: ‘several of the women are going to the Mosque of Imâm Din for the midnight prayer. I will go too, and I will give you a thick chudder and a big cloak, and you can pass out with us.’

  ‘You don’t think that someone will notice that there is one too many?’

  ‘No. I will get Fatima — not the old herb-seller, but my cousin — to stay behind. She will do what I ask without any questions, because I know all about her and Faiz Allah, and she knows I know, so that will be all right.’

  ‘What a pearl without price is a woman with brains! I have never met your peer, even among men, although …’

  ‘Without doubt, Best-beloved, but they will be going in a little while, so I will get you the things.’

  In a few moments Hussein was transformed into the shapeless tent that is a Moslem woman when she goes out.

  ‘Now remember to take little steps, Hussein; if you stride like an ostrich we shall be undone; and remember to bring back that yashmak in a bundle; it belongs to Oneiza, and she will raise Eblis if it is lost.’

  ‘On my head and heart.’

  After a little while they went down the enclosed staircase to another courtyard, where about a dozen women were waiting.

  Without much talk they filed out of a little side door, past an ancient man with a sword — the watchman — and into the street. It was quite deserted except for a few prowling pariah dogs.

  A few of the women talked in low voices, but Sashiya and Hussein, who were at the end of the group, kept quiet. Only once, when Hussein strode right over a large puddle, Sashiya whispered ‘Ostrich!’

  Hussein had not the vaguest idea of how a woman should behave at prayers, as he had never been at a mosque when they were there: he wondered how he could leave the party without disgracing Sashiya.

  At length they came to a passage that was so narrow that they had to walk in single file. As they came to a sharp corner, Hussein, who was at the end of the row, took Sashiya’s hand: she looked round; he whispered ‘Good-bye!’ and as the women went round the corner he stayed behind. None of them but Sashiya noticed anything.

  He ran back along the way that he had come, for he did not know the city very well; but he knew how to get to the elephant lines from Sashiya’s house. He soon reached it, and as he passed the top of the alley leading down to the courtyard he saw Kadir Baksh walking up and down, with his three men still waiting in the shadows.

  When he was out of the city and near the elephant lines he stripped off his veil and cloak, wrapping them into a bundle, and he went to his hut.

  On the next day Hussein went to see Abd’Arahman. He told him everything that had happened.

  ‘We may be certain that it is none other than Kadir Baksh, then,’ said the old man meditatively. ‘Let us go to a place where we can talk in peace. I have written seven letters to-day and that is enough.’

  They went to the Mosque of Al Beidâwi and sat in the courtyard.

  ‘Perhaps, if he were to be beaten?’ suggested Hussein.

  ‘Yes: but if he were not killed you would be almost certainly within a few days, and if he were, you would be involved in a blood-feud with his people — he is of Pathan stock, you know. You might have him poisoned, but that is very dangerous these days, and you would have to bribe one of the women of his house, and you never know how long women will keep a secret, even if it is to their own advantage.’

  ‘I might be able to stab him myself as he leaves the elephant lines at night.’

  ‘No. You would be suspect at once. We must think of something more subtle.’

  They sat thinking for some time: the Imâm in the Mosque called the Faithful to prayer from the minaret.

  ‘La illah il Allah. Mahommed raisul Allah!’

  Abd’Arahman and Hussein prostrated themselves towards Mecca.

  ‘I have it,’ cried the old man, as they got up: ‘we will have him cursed. By my father’s head, that is the solution of the whole matter.’

  ‘Perhaps something a little more definite?’ said Hussein dubiously.

  ‘Eh, but you have never seen a man wither and die under a thorough curse by a fakir who really knows his business: in these degenerate days there are not many such men — but I know one — a red-headed fakir who sits daily on a bed of nails, a very holy man.’

  ‘I know the one you mean,’ said Hussein; ‘he has one arm continually raised.’

  ‘It is the same man. I know him well. Now I shall go and speak to him. Come back here with all the money you can bring at the hour of the midnight prayer, and I will tell you whether it can be done.’

  ‘I will see Sashiya again this evening: if she thinks well of it, you and I will go to the fakir.’

  ‘It is not wise to tell a woman of a plan before it is accomplished,’ replied Abd’Arahman, ‘but I am quite sure you will. Be very careful to-night.’

  That evening Kadir Baksh was at a big Pathan fe
ast outside the town, and his hired badmashes did not trouble to stay awake half the night with no one to watch them, so Hussein found nobody in the alley when he went over the wall to see Sashiya.

  He told her all about the letter-writer’s scheme, and from the first she thought it a very good one.

  ‘He deserves anything', she said, ‘for beating you, and for murdering poor Daoud Shah.’

  ‘Did you love Daoud Shah?’ asked Hussein anxiously.

  ‘Just a little; but then I thought I loved Kadir Baksh a little too at that time.’

  ‘But you don’t now?’

  ‘I hate him more than I can say. I would poison him if I could. Once I dropped a stone on him when he was climbing up the tree, but he only laughed because it missed.’

  ‘You love me a little? As much as Daoud Shah?’

  ‘No.’

  Hussein looked unhappy, and Sashiya laughed.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘ever so much more — with my whole heart!’

  For a long while they said nothing, but sat side by side, their little fingers linked.

  A little after the midnight muezzin, Hussein found Abd’Arahman in the courtyard of the mosque.

  ‘He will do it,’ said the old man, after Hussein had told him that Sashiya liked the idea, ‘and if you come here to-morrow at noon I will take you to him. Can you get away then?’

  ‘Yes, there is no work done just now, after the heat becomes too great, and the elephants are not used much.’

  ‘Good. You should bring all your money: he will probably do it for twenty rupees, but it would be very unwise to anger him by haggling.’

  The next day they went to see the fakir: they found him in a very small, dirty hut leaning against the back of a house. He was squatting on a bed of nails, for he expected them. He was very thin and his body was quite thickly covered with dirt, which was cracked where he bent, like enamel. He had no clothing besides a mat of hair and a loin-cloth. For the last twenty years he had held his left arm up over his head, so that now it was immovable, and very thin like a dead stick. The nails were peculiarly long and twisted. He lived principally on bhang, which gave his red-rimmed eyes a very strange expression. Altogether he was a singularly pious and respected fakir, with a deep knowledge of hypnotism in its more curious applications, and a well-founded and widespread reputation for curses.