Night of the Golden Butterfly

by Tariq Ali

  Last, but not least, there was ru-shan (dairy fan), another delicacy that sets Yunnan cuisine apart from the cooking of almost all other Han Chinese provinces. This is a cheese-like product, solid, hard, and very thinly sliced into fan-shaped pieces, which are eaten with gooseberry compote and raw mangoes. Since Jindié’s stomach, like those of most Han people, is sensitive to all dairy foods, Zahid and I ended up eating too much of it that evening. I declined the mao tai, a gruesome spirit whose name when spoken in Punjabi means ‘death is near’.

  My stomach had been completely won over, but the path to my heart was still blocked by a forest of stinging nettles. In more relaxed mode, I asked after the children and their lives. The son, Suleiman, had tired of making money and turned to Chinese history. He was in love with a Chinese woman and lived in Kunming. No, he was not at all religious and only mildly interested in politics. The daughter, Neelam, was religious, and married to a general in Isloo. Their son would be eleven next year. I smiled, thinking of how desperately Zahid had once been in love with a general’s daughter; now his own daughter was wedded to a general.

  It was my turn to be questioned, but it was obvious they already knew a great deal, and I sheepishly confirmed much of the information that Jindié had accumulated regarding my life. She even recalled a few episodes that I had totally forgotten. Jindié had kept a strict watch on me even from afar. She asked for details of my life that I had also long forgotten.

  ‘You see’, said Zahid, ‘we never really lost touch with you even though we could never be in contact for all those years. Jindié’s spies reported on your every movement. Once when you came to give a lecture at Georgetown, we sat right at the back in dark glasses and funny hats so you wouldn’t recognize us.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you without a hat, you turnip.’

  I chattered away in Punjabi, pleased that the thought of Zahid would no longer plunge me into a gloomy reverie tinged with repugnance. The mother tongue encourages imprudence and indiscretions, but both of us were enjoying the reunion. Jindié was silent, even though she was probably more fluent in Punjabi now than Zahid. I thought I detected an anxious look from her at one point, but it soon disappeared. Just as I was about to leave, I realized that we had not yet discussed Plato’s plight. Zahid had no idea to whom or why he had got married or whether this, too, was a fantasy. He admitted that he neither liked nor could understand Plato’s paintings. Jindié disagreed very strongly and we both united, to accuse him of philistinism. I suggested that I. M. Malik’s decorative work should be removed to his study or the washroom. He said that he had paid a great deal for the gouaches and asked why I owed Plato a favour in the first place. Jindié could not totally conceal her nervousness at this. I mumbled something about the distant past and fog-bound memory, but promised I would speak with Plato the following day.

  The evening had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Just before I left, Jindié disappeared briefly, returning with a large packet that obviously contained a manuscript.

  ‘All those years ago you told me I should write the story of my family and the long march that brought us from Yunnan to India. I did, and here it is. At first I thought I was writing it for Neelam, but when she went religious I knew she could never understand her mother. For her, all freedom leads to moral corruption. But I carried on writing. Since it was your idea, I thought I’d give it to you. It’s for the grandchildren really. Not to be published, but I would like to know what you think. Sorry it turned out so long.’

  I took the manuscript with delight, wondering whether it held up a mirror to the drawing rooms of Lahore. This little butterfly could always sting like a bee. Her waspish descriptions of visits undertaken with her mother to the great houses of the city had always made me laugh.

  ‘Jindié, I’m touched and honoured. If there is anything I can’t understand, may I ring you for an explanation?’

  Zahid looked at both of us in turn and smiled. ‘You’re in the same town again. You’re always welcome here. And you should know that I was never given a chance to read the manuscript.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘You gave up reading a long time ago. Only medical journals and the less demanding airport thrillers. Too wearisome to read proper books. He only bought yours last week.’

  ‘He told me.’

  It was time to take my leave. I rose and shook hands with Jindié. The tremor was unmistakable. Zahid walked me to my car.

  ‘Seeing you again was a pleasure.’

  This time we embraced warmly, as old friends do. I thought about the evening all the way home and for some days afterwards. It was neither political treachery nor the hard school of misfortune nor my pride and ill humour nor his incessant frivolity that had led to the breach. It was Jindié. Somehow this didn’t ring true. I recalled him telling me that he never found her attractive and couldn’t understand what I saw in her. He would always insist that my love for her was neither tender nor pure. I’d strongly denied the charge. My love was certainly tender. As for the other, the love that is pure verges on religious ecstasy and worship and that never meant anything to me. It also separates love from passion. The first for the wife, the latter for a courtesan and later a mistress.

  True, he had been obsessed with the general’s daughter at the time, but how could he have changed his mind about Jindié within a few years? And what had possessed her to marry him? These puzzles remained, but, most importantly, he had not betrayed Tipu. Looking back, it wasn’t a surprise that Jamshed was the traitor. His politics and sexuality—ever transient—went in tandem. His charm had once disguised his ambition. He came from a modest Parsi background. All he wanted was to be rich, like the other Parsi businessmen, who had prospered throughout South Asia and especially a great-uncle whose name when pronounced in Punjabi meant testicle. When Jamshed had achieved this aim, the charm disappeared and he became a gangster. His appearance, too, underwent a change. He was bloated and with his awful dark glasses looked like three pimps gone mouldy. Was he paid in cash to betray Tipu? Was that how he had begun his descent to the sewers of big business in Fatherland?

  Plato had never trusted him. He would often leave abruptly when Jamshed arrived at the college cafeteria to join our table. The country we grew up in was permanently swathed in cant, and the most tiresome forms of hypocrisy flourished. That was why Plato became so special for us. He urged us to ignore religion, renounce state-sponsored politics, pleasure ourselves in whatever fashion we desired and laugh at officialdom. How in Allah’s name had this man become engulfed in an emotional crisis so late in his life?

  THREE

  ZAHID HAD TOLD HIM to ring at a decent hour, and when the phone hissed that morning at nine, I knew it must be him.

  ‘Plato?’

  ‘You recognized my voice before I spoke.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Never been so happy in my life. I’m not joking.’

  ‘Then why did you swear so much when talking to Zahid?’

  ‘How much time do we have?’

  ‘The morning’s free.’

  ‘Then let me start by telling you why I now sometimes use abusive language.’

  Slowly, the tale unfolded. Plato was never one for shallow sentimentality and his voice grew harder as he progressed. In brief, Ahmed, a painter friend of his, had abandoned his wife and children for a younger mistress. This was banal and predictable, but he was uneasy and kept returning to the wife and mounting her every Friday afternoon, before having lunch with his boys. One day his wife, Zarina, could take it no longer and lost control. She abused him nonstop: your mother’s cunt, sisterfucker, fuck yourself, sodomite, catamite, dogfucker, daughterfucker ... stay with the camel-cunted bitch you’ve found and don’t come to me again. How long this would have lasted is a matter of speculation. Ahmed covered her face with a pillow and smothered her. Then he wept uncontrollably. The older son rang the police, who took him away.

  ‘I couldn’t understand’, Plato continued, ‘why the use
of bad language had led to violence and murder. After all, it was only her way of telling him how angry she was at being abandoned and mistreated. I went to see him a number of times in prison. He was filled with shame and at first did not want to discuss what he had done, but after I pressured him the following explanation emerged. His wife had never used bad language before and had often punished the children when their tongues let slip an obscenity. This is a family that lives in the heart of the old city, where each lane has its own special obscenities. Ahmed told me that the sight of the woman he had chosen to mother his children suddenly transformed by hatred was a blow to his self-esteem, his idea of himself: he had been filled with anger at the thought that he’d married a woman who had turned out to be so vulgar. It was the discovery of this unknown side of her that made him lose control and kill her.’

  ‘Did they hang him?’

  ‘What world do you live in? He was released three months later. His lawyer argued it was an “honour killing”, and the judge was paid in advance. Ahmed now lives peacefully with his new wife. The two boys have been sent off to a cadet college and will soon become young army officers. I don’t speak to the dog, but occasionally I indulge in obscene language to express my solidarity with his late wife. Do you believe me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s true. Your old friend Zahid loves being abused anyway. Makes him feel he’s back home. How was the butterfly?’

  ‘Reserved and dignified as always. More than I can say for you. What do you want of me?’

  ‘Could you write a long essay about me?’

  ‘Your paintings?’

  ‘Yes, but more about my life. She wants it and I can’t deny her anything.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fifty-two.’

  ‘Not bad. Only twenty-seven years younger than you. I was hoping she might be one of your younger models. When did her husband die?’

  ‘Who told you it was dead? It will never die. It’s still alive and present. In fact she keeps it close to her bed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Prepare yourself for a surprise, Mr Dara. My Zaynab is married to the Koran.’

  ‘Allah help us.’

  ‘He never does, as we know.’

  ‘So she’s the daughter of some Sindhi feudal engaged in sordid calculations about his property.’

  Plato was overcome by a fit of bitter laughter. ‘Yes, but in her case it was the brother, not the father, who forced her to marry the Holy Book. He must have made a lot of money selling her share of the land. It’s not that old age has made him generous. He dropped dead a few years ago. The younger brother adores Zaynab. He bought her an apartment in Clifton overlooking the sea. She wanted to buy one of my paintings. I showed her a selection. She bought them all. Then I did an imagined portrait of her on her wedding night. That made her laugh so much that I fell in love. Can you imagine?’

  I could, but Plato still wanted to go through it in great detail and I didn’t stop him. I preferred Plato in love to Plato melancholic, filled with whisky-soaked despair and suicidal. He preferred living on the edge and in a way his love for Zaynab fell into that category. For the ignorant she was the equivalent of a Catholic nun, except that she was wed to the Koran, not Jesus. The tradition refused to die out. To become her lover was to defy heaven and become a passionate sinner. I was sure that her marital status was the turn-on. Plato paid no heed to official morality, took great pleasure in defying public opinion and enjoyed startling his conformist contemporaries. His life and his paintings reflected these feelings.

  He recounted in some detail how the first meeting had been brief, but profitable. He described her clothes, the colour of her hair underneath the diaphanous dupatta. The way her eyes changed colour and so on. She summoned him a week later to explain the allegorical side of his work. Then he asked her to pose for him. She did so fully clothed, but he painted her lying naked in her bed waiting for her Holy Book—husband. He said the picture was inspired by Magritte, but if it were ever shown in public he would be DD’d (disembowelled and decapitated) by some fanatic. I challenged this assertion. Given that the grotesque practice of Koran-marriage was regularly denounced as un-Islamic by every clerical faction in Fatherland and had even united Shia and Wahhabi, surely it was the men in these families who should be DD’d for misusing the Holy Book to safeguard their property.

  I thought my logic was impeccable, but Plato ignored me and continued with his story. Zaynab, he said, was not a virgin. I sighed with relief. The advantage of this type of marriage, she had told him, was that there was no need to dissemble. Every pretty woman Zaynab knew in Fatherland had a husband, and quite a few in addition to a husband had a lover as well and, as an extra, another person to keep her from getting too bored during the day. Talk like this had entranced Plato. He was still gripped by madness, torment and joy, the process clinically described by Stendhal in Love as ‘crystallization’.

  ‘Plato, are you living in her apartment?’

  ‘Why not? She pretends I’m her cook-butler-chauffeur, and whenever her friends or relations visit I act the part, as I once did for you and the Golden Butterfly.’

  None of his obsessions with women had ever lasted very long, and I enquired gently how long he gave Zaynab.

  ‘Listen, catamite ... sorry, that slipped out by mistake. Zaynab will make sure my body is bathed and enshrouded before the burial. I’m too old to move on anywhere now. Will you tell my story and hers?’

  ‘Yes to yours, but I don’t know her at all.’

  ‘She’s coming to your town next month. You’ll meet her.’

  ‘Are you coming, too?’

  ‘How can the cook-chauffeur travel abroad with the lady? Her friends aren’t that stupid.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Plato. They are stupid. Your photograph has been in Dawn. Your paintings have featured on television, and none of them recognized you?’

  ‘Servants are invisible.’

  ‘Till they cut their master’s throat.’

  We had been speaking for three hours and now at the risk of offending him I said farewell and noted his phone number. Plato’s submissive, shy, please-ignore-me-I’m-a-nobody exterior had been carefully cultivated over the years and always worked with those who didn’t really know him. It wasn’t totally fake, or else he would have promoted his own work more energetically, but when I pushed him on this he would simply reply that if the work was any good it would last and he was not too interested in money. His attempted blackmail of me was crude and ineffective, since Zahid knew the whole story, but it was undoubtedly a sign of Plato’s desperation, his fear of dying just as he had met a woman he really liked.

  Plato entered our lives almost half a century ago. Zahid and I had left our respective high schools and joined the college in Lahore, where we were blessed with a truly enlightened principal. A biologist by training, he was also a gifted Punjabi scholar and had translated some of our epics into Urdu. They were not quite the same thing in Fatherland’s shiny, ornate state language, but he had done them better than anybody else. He had also commissioned a Punjabi translation of Shakespeare. The success of The Tempest, staged the previous year, had been helped by the actor playing Caliban, who bore an unnerving resemblance to the military dictator entrusted by Washington to run Fatherland. We had returned to Lahore from the mountains in time for the Punjabi premiere of Hamlet. Expectations were high: Ophelia was being played by a very pretty Kashmiri boy called Ashraf Lone, and a number of older students who lusted after him had decided they loved the theatre. Hamlet was to be performed in the Open Air Theatre in September, when the heat had abated, the monsoon and accompanying humidity of August had retired for another year and the evenings were pleasant with the scent of jasmine and queen-of-the-night wafted by soft, refreshing breezes across the college lawns to the amphitheatre. The translator was a distinguished Punjabi poet.

  A new theatrical production was a big event in the cultural life of the city. The opening night
of Hamlet was attended by numerous parents and the intellectual elite of Lahore. Those with sensitive posteriors brought their own cushions to place on the circular rows of redbrick seats overlooking the stage. There was a sense of expectation, an evening away from the vulgar interests of everyday life: what could be loftier than Shakespeare translated into the language of our city by one of Fatherland’s most respected authors? The latter’s arrival at the theatre was greeted with enthusiastic applause.

  The play began. All went well till the ghost scene. The actor playing the ghost was a young professor of English, slightly neurotic and very arrogant. He had studied at Edinburgh University and spoke Punjabi with a slight Scottish accent. He had never acted before, but had lobbied forcefully to be part of the play and finally the harassed director had given him the small role of the ghost. When his turn came to speak he was paralyzed with stage fright and forgot his lines. The excessively short senior student playing Hamlet began to panic. The third time he repeated ‘Hai, mayray pio da bhooth’ (‘Oh, my father’s ghost’) without eliciting any response from the ghost, an irritated voice from the audience shouted a loud prompt: