Night of the Golden Butterfly

by Tariq Ali

  When pleasure has entirely run its course it is clear one sinks back into indifference, but an indifference which is not the same as before. This second state differs from the first in that it appears we are no longer able to take such delight in enjoying the pleasure we have just experienced ... but if in the midst of pleasure we are wrenched away from it, suffering will result.

  I showed it to Zahid, who gave an appreciative whistle.

  ‘You’ve struck gold.’

  ‘She didn’t write that. It’s from Stendhal, whom I know you haven’t read.’

  ‘At least she knew where to look. You seem happy and relaxed. The children well?’

  ‘Yes. And the grandchildren.’

  ‘What did you think of Jindié’s notes on China and her diary?’

  ‘Both were incomplete, but the China material was gripping. I was looking forward in the diary to a few salty references to our youth, but they had been destroyed.’

  ‘I read them. They weren’t that hot. I keep telling you that she’s not a passionate person.’

  ‘Shut up about that, and anyway I’m not sure your assessment is accurate on that front. It’s too late. How many nurses and fellow doctors did you find to make up for Jindié’s deficiencies?’

  ‘Not that many.’

  ‘Nothing serious.’

  ‘One could have been, but Jindié moved swiftly and put a stop to it. The details are dull.’

  ‘She told me about Anjum and your chance meeting in Norfolk.’ He stopped walking. We found a bench.

  ‘Dara, that was truly depressing. She was a complete wreck. She looked like a very old Christian lady, with a stoop. Remember when we first started going to Nathiagali? There used to be old English ladies who were nice to us. They couldn’t bear returning to England. They were old but still full of life, active, going for long hikes. Anjum was the exact opposite. It wasn’t just that her appearance was shrivelled. She had dried up inside. I felt very sad when she told me her story. Her first husband an alcoholic disaster, the second a teetotalling religious maniac. No children from either.’

  ‘Why didn’t her sisters fly over and rescue her?’

  ‘I asked her. She hasn’t told anyone where she is now. She gave me her address and phone number, but only for emergencies. She’s the one in an emergency. Anyway I e-mailed Nazleen, her younger sister, and gave her the details. She must be taken away from this monster.’

  ‘And the old flame?’

  ‘That went out in the last century when I received reports of her family life. A scene out of a Russian novel.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Bastard. Dog. Catamite. Should I try Dostoevsky?’

  ‘Good guess. You were saying?’

  ‘When I heard what was going on from mutual friends, I did make one attempt to see her.’

  ‘Pre-or post-Jindié?’

  ‘Pre. I drove to Sahiwal. We met at a prearranged spot and I followed her car to some godforsaken place. A tiny stream and a few trees is all I can remember. We talked for a few hours, but she was not prepared to walk out on the drunkard, who often assaulted her in and out of his cups. There were no children. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t leave him.’

  ‘Oh, I can. Shame at having failed, fear of parental displeasure, a society scandal, all of that affected her, but there was a basic problem that you avoided discussing with me, and when I hinted at it on one occasion, you told me to shut my mouth and gestured that if I didn’t, you would.’

  ‘I don’t remember, but what was it?’

  ‘She wasn’t that bright. I’m sorry, but it’s true. She was very beautiful, she could hold her own at social gatherings, but apart from money and being a society wife there was nothing else. She twittered nonstop about her holidays abroad, like a squawking parrot. A cheerful little birdbrain. Nothing more. Affluence had made her obnoxious. You got so angry when I suggested you ask her if she had ever read a book. And finally, desperate and feeling hopeless, she jumps into bed with some idiot Irish engineer who offers salvation, but not of the variety she wanted. I wonder what you would have done with her.’

  He became thoughtful.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps you’re right. Sometimes I think if she’d had children and come to the States it might have worked out.’

  ‘Suburban bliss as the solution. Is that what you think? Other women like her, all leading empty lives. She might have fitted in. You’re right. She would have learned to cook and bake and everything she made would have been so delicious, and then one day she would have realized it was all going nowhere with you, since you were permanently at the hospital, and run off with the first guy who made a pass. It might have been better for her, but what about Ziddi Mian? You would have cracked, boy. Gone to the dogs. Jindié may not have turned you on, but she was a good mother and extremely sharp-witted. You were never bored.’

  ‘True, but she’s been a bit rough on Neelam, which reminds me that a chicken biryani is waiting for us at home.’ Jindié said on your last visit you complained nonstop about her cooking.’

  ‘She meant her noncooking.’

  ‘Neelam is a great cook. Even you will admit that.’

  We walked back to the house.

  ‘What have you done with all your properties? Four locations? Four homes? Why did you do that?’

  ‘My accountant did on my behalf. Two were gifted to Neelam and the other two to Suleiman. I think Neelam has sold the beach house in Miami. We kept an apartment in New York, which you’re welcome to use whenever you wish.’

  Jindié’s description of her daughter had given me the impression of a young born-again fanatic wedded to her refound faith and uninterested in the rest of the world. This was not my opinion, and not just because she was a wonderful cook. The way she dealt with her children, addressed her father and put me at my ease was admirable. There was much of the young Jindié in her.

  After the children had gone to bed the three of us sat in the living room, which was marred by a grotesque deer head, which had escaped my notice on earlier visits and which I now pleaded with Zahid to remove. He did so on the spot and took the antlered object out of the room. In his absence Neelam became much more forthcoming. I had not raised the subject, but she spoke of Jindié with great affection and said her mother’s life had been neither easy nor particularly happy.

  ‘She wanted me to have the life she never had, and when I fell in love with Rafiq she never tried to stop me, but I knew she disapproved. He was too brash, too full of himself, and my mother’s instincts told her I would not be happy with him. Unfortunately, this turned out to be true. I never told my parents even a quarter of what happened. Late nights fuelled by alcohol and women. Drunk before the children—that I could not forgive. His women ringing home nonstop and pretending to be friendly to me. Army life. I made a terrible mistake, but mercifully the children came early. They became the only thing I cared about. Now they’re older. I was planning to leave Rafiq and told him so the week before he was killed. Mom was horrified when I became religious, but believe me, it was the only way I could cope with life. The children needed a set of rules, and in our country, as you know, there are few role models. So I turned to the Prophet. Mom thinks I’m a fanatic, but that is not true. I needed Allah to deal with Rafiq and his friends.’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘Not the Taliban or the Talibu or any group like them. That’s clear enough. It wasn’t suicide terrorism, but a clinical operation, like the one Abu performed on Dick Cheney. Everything carefully planned. No traces at all. He was killed by his own people, for telling the Americans too much. That horrible Naughty Lateef is worse than a prostitute. They do it for the money. Have you seen the way she’s been picked up by the West? Are they that stupid? She could never have written that foolish book. She’s illiterate.’

  I wondered whether I should tell Neelam about the goings-on in Paris. Instinct sounded an alarm. I refrained, saying only, ‘She’s being educated.’

  Neelam
burst out laughing. ‘I suppose that’s good.’

  ‘Neelam, it’s not for me to say, but is there no way you can make friends with your mother again?’

  ‘You can say what you like. I think you’re the only person she regards as a close friend. She adores the children, and that is always an important bridge. I will try. I’m taking the children to Beijing to see their Uncle Suleiman and meet Great-Uncle Hanif Ma. My son wants to learn Chinese. That will make Mom happy. Why didn’t you and she work out?’

  ‘I was never the marrying kind. You look disapproving, despite your own marriage and how you describe your mother’s life.’

  ‘It was not a disapproving look at all. Nobody told me that.’

  ‘Were you upset at reading about me in her diary?’

  ‘Did she say that? It’s not true. I was touched and began to ask why she had married my father. It was she who overreacted and tore the pages up. She was in a real state. I was not shocked at all. If anything, pleased—but I did have a few questions.’

  ‘Dai-yu.’

  ‘That Dream of the Red Chamber. She’s read it at least a dozen times. It’s her Honoured Classic.’

  Mention of the Holy Book made me think of Zaynab and her dinner guest. In a few days I would be seated at the same table as the woman who had altered Neelam’s biography, possibly for the better.

  ‘Neelam, what are your plans? I hope you have some project.’

  ‘Nice you asked. I did law at Washington State. I’m qualified, you know. Never practised, and that was another reason for Mom’s anger,

  Now I’m studying Islamic law. The sharia courts will need a few women lawyers to defend women and I hope a few women judges as well, like in Iran. And I’m going to start work soon.’

  I suggested that she might consider working in ordinary courts as well, just in case work opportunities in the others dried up. Quite a few Sunni theologians would argue against women being permitted to practise.

  ‘Possibly, but we can organize a special Sunni NGO to pay them off, and find other theologians to overrule them.’

  Her cynicism was pleasing.

  ‘It’s getting late. Sure you won’t stay? The bed is very comfortable and there’s an en suite bathroom.’

  ‘Is there any decent coffee in the house?’

  ‘Of course. My father can’t do without it and will make you an espresso or whatever you want for breakfast. Just stop him boasting too much about it. We’ve all heard his coffee stories a million times.’

  ‘Then, I’ll stay.’

  SIXTEEN

  I DETECTED A SLIGHT panic when I embraced and kissed Zaynab. It turned out that Naughty, sounding strained and distant after her US tour, had asked to bring her publicist-agent to dinner tonight. The auguries were bad. Zaynab had been firm in her refusal. It was a private occasion, she told her interviewee. After several agitated exchanges, Madame Auratpasand, as we should now have been referring to her but couldn’t, had agreed to come alone as long as the meal was at home. Her publicist did not want her to be seen in a public place unless photographers had been arranged and there was at least one other celebrity present.

  Zaynab had asked Eugénie Grandet’s to prepare a meal in advance and deliver it half an hour before her guests arrived. Apart from Naughty, the only other person invited was Henri, who had expressed a desire to see the monster from close up.

  It was barely midday, but I was despatched to go and buy some wine. Zaynab was distracted, and the reason for that was obvious, at least to me. She had, not unnaturally, developed a great deal of sympathy for Naughty and had begun to see her exclusively as a victim. My attempts to wean her from this view had been rebuffed. Henri, too, was sceptical, which was why he had been invited to supper.

  Naughty was late, as celebs are supposed to be, but it was her attire that surprised all of us. She wore a loose tracksuit made of some indefinable dark green material and a white silk headscarf that she pulled off and threw with abandon on the sofa. We smiled. Then I complimented her on her clothes.

  ‘Very patriotic of you to dress up in Fatherland colours.’

  ‘Deliberate, deliberate,’ she said in a funny accent, as if trying to cultivate a nasal twang. ‘My publicist in the States also does makeover jobs on Fatherlandi politicians. He told me I should wear Fatherland colours. Just to show I support our government against terrorism. I wore this on the habshi lady’s show. Copra Freedom. Very popular show. Miss Copra advised me not to wear white brassiere underneath green top.’

  ‘That was an intelligent suggestion by Mademoiselle Freedom. So you switched to a green brassiere during the advertising break, Madame Auratpasand?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur. Copra has bras of every colour just in case the guest is wearing one that can be seen. Many families and children watch Copra Freedom show.’

  As we sat down to dinner, Naughty looked uncomfortable, but a few restorative glasses of wine relaxed her a great deal. When Henri praised her interview and her courage, Naughty decided to hurl her first grenade. After a slight pause, she asked politely, ‘Quelle interview, Monsieur?’

  Zaynab erupted, ‘Our interview, Naughty!’

  ‘Oh, that one. I thought that was just informal, Zaynab. By the way, Jean-Pierre Bertrand wants to write my biography for very big New York publisher.’

  Before Zaynab could speak again I addressed Naughty in Punjabi. She appeared delighted and replied in a potwari dialect of the language, much sweeter and softer than the Lahori version. I shifted to potwari, the language of my childhood, because I preferred it and still spoke it when visiting northern regions of Fatherland. Naughty grabbed my arm and dragged me from the kitchen into the living room, where the following conversation transpired in dialect.

  ‘Listen, kind sir. You explain it to the lady. I can’t allow her to publish the interview. I know I agreed, but in America they loved me. Look, dear sir, I’m just a village girl. I only went to school for five years. Captain Lateef was a distant relation. My father gave me to him because he didn’t want a dowry. I just want her, he told my father. Never treated me well. He gets home from the office and drags me to bed. “Open your legs, girl. Hurry up.” Then he mounts me like a dog, and after his business is finished he goes and bathes and says his afternoon prayers. That was life with him for ten years. Two children I gave birth to, and then a kind lady said to me it’s better get your tubes tied. Or this man will just make you a machine to produce sons.’

  I asked who the lady was, and Naughty’s hitherto untroubled face became clouded with anxiety. ‘Such a kind lady. She suggested I learn some English and helped me do it. I’m filled with shame. She was General Rafiq’s wife. He first saw me when I was having English lessons with Begum Neelam. One day he sent his car for me. I thought the car would take me to Begum Neelam. It took me to a small hotel in Isloo. General Sahib was waiting for me. He talked a lot, asked many questions and then touched my breasts and said they were nice. So I opened my legs for him. Lateef knew. He said, “Open your legs for the general, you prostitute. It’s good for me.”’

  I asked whether her legs had been opened for other generals and if so, how many.

  ‘Three, including the big chief, but Rafiq, may he be safe in heaven, was the only general who talked to me. Asked afterwards how I felt. What gave me real pleasure. Rafiq was really a very kind man. The other generals made me betray him. Once I betrayed him, my life was finished. What could I do? That’s when I met the Frenchman.’

  Once again I interrupted her and asked with as much delicacy as I could muster whether the Frenchman, too, had asked her to open her legs. Her response was accompanied by raucous laughter.

  ‘No, no, sir. He liked boys. He worked hard on their bums. But he was very kind to me. His name was Gibril, like the angel. Please, sir, please ask the lady and the French monsieur to forget the interview. If it is published, my life will be finished.’

  ‘Have you told anyone about this interview?’

  ‘Only my American publicist, Mr Jon
athan. He said if the interview was made a book it would be the end of my career. He was very angry. Then I said there was no contract. I had not signed anything. Then he became happy. He wants me to go to Israel, where my book will be published in six months. Sir, is it good idea?’

  ‘Very bad idea. Listen to me carefully, Naughty. Don’t demand anything of the French publisher now. Tell them you’ll think about it and decide in a few months’ time.’

  She agreed. She had sent Lateef a great deal of money for their two sons and had been invited back for a family get-together later in the month, but it was to be a private visit. No publicity at all. Before we rejoined the others I couldn’t resist one last question.

  ‘I saw a photograph of you in New York. Did anyone in the photograph ask you to open your legs?’

  ‘The French television guy tried again. I said no. The bald writer pursued me like an animal. I finally agreed but his tablets didn’t work. He made all sorts of promises to get his way. He would review my book in the New York Book Review and New Yorker Book Review and many other things.’

  Back in the kitchen, Naughty did as I had suggested and feigned indecision. The rest of the evening passed peacefully, except for the constant ringing of her cell phone. Finally she said her publicist was waiting in a wine bar for her with other people. She left.

  Zaynab was now thoroughly disillusioned. ‘Your conversation with her is on tape. Henri suggested we tape everything.’

  I was astonished and reprimanded them.

  ‘I do understand a lot of Punjabi’, Zaynab volunteered, ‘but what language were you speaking? Most of it was incomprehensible.’

  Ordinary people measure satisfaction in a variety of ways. A chef who knows he forgot to include some key ingredients in the dish he has just served will not be pleased with the result, regardless of the plaudits received from every customer. A writer may be delighted with her own work, regardless of anything the critics might say. For celebrities there is only one measure. The amount of exposure they receive in any given week in the media, the number of paparazzi skulking in hidden places hoping for an unusual photograph, all this feeds the insatiable desire for publicity that has become, for so many, the transplanted heart of an empty world.