The Devils’ Dance
I buried inside me the spark of love,
Deep in the canyons of my brain.
Yet the spark burned fiercely on
And inflicted endless pain.
When I heard ‘Be happy’ in calls to prayer
It struck me as an evil lure.
So I told the angel my personal myths;
They seemed to me more pure.
But playing with her hair, the angel said:
‘Your legends are needed no more!’
Her words buzzed noisily in my ears:
‘You’re swimming in blood and gore.’
The king of lies told me to swim on:
‘Your fortune’s waiting there.’
But my soul arrayed in funeral black
Is already awaiting there.
Leave now, Satan; I am afraid.
Go! My sword’s smashed, my shield holed.
Don’t you see? I am lying underneath
A mountain of troubles, crushed and cold?
Oh angel, one last breath, the last of all:
One last look, then may the skies fall!
Cho’lpon
Chapter 1
Polo
Autumn was particularly fine that year.
Wherever you happened to be – walking home down the empty streets from the new tram stop, casting an eye over the clay walls of Tashkent’s Samarkand Darvoza district, or going out into your own garden after a long day – every imaginable colour was visible under a bright blue sky. In autumns like this, the yellow and red leaves linger on the branches of trees and shrubs, as if they mean to remain there right until winter, quivering and shining in the pure, translucent air. But this motionless air and the tired sun’s cooling rays already hint at grief and melancholy. Could this bitterness emanate from the smoke of dry leaves, burning some distance away? Perhaps.
Abdulla had planned to prune his vines that day and prepare them for the winter. He had already cut and dried a stack of reeds to wrap round the vines; his children, playing with fire, had nearly burnt the stack down. But for the grace of God, there would have been a disaster. Walking about with his secateurs, Abdulla noticed that some of the ties holding the vines to the stakes were torn, leaving the vines limp. He couldn’t work out how this had happened: had the harvest been too plentiful, or had the plants not been cared for properly? Probably the latter: this summer and early autumn, he hadn’t managed to give them the attention they needed, and the vines had had a bad time of it. He was uneasy. He had the impression that some devilish tricks had been at play ever since he freed the vines from their wrappings in early spring. Almost daily, you could hear bands playing loud music, and endless cheering in the streets. Enormous portraits hung everywhere from the building on Xadra Square as far as Urda. Every pole stuck into the earth had a bright red banner on its end. As for the nights, his friends were being snatched away: it was like a field being weeded.
Not long ago, the mullah’s son G’ozi Yunus turned up – dishevelled and unwashed from constantly having to run and hide – and asked Abdulla to lend him some money, pledging his father’s gold watch as a token of his trustworthiness. Then Cho’lpon’s wife Katya came, distraught, bursting into tears and begging Abdulla to write a letter of support. ‘They’ll trust you,’ she said. But who would trust anyone these days? These were vicious, unpredictable times; clearly, they hadn’t finished weeding the field. As the great poet Navoi wrote, ‘Fire has broken out in the Mozandaron forests’. And in the conflagration everything is burnt, regardless of whether it is dry or wet. Well, if it were up to him, he would have been like a saddled horse, raring to go. Just say ‘Chuh’ and he’d be off.
With these gloomy thoughts in mind, Abdulla bent down to the ground to prune the thin, lower shoots of the vines. He systematically got rid of any crooked branches. If only his children would come running up in a noisy throng to help. Sadly, the eldest had fallen ill some time ago and was still in bed; otherwise he would have joined his father and the job would have been a pleasure. The youngest, Ma’sud, his father’s pampered favourite, might not know the difference between a rake and a bill-hook, but he was an amusing chatterbox. The thought made Abdulla smile. The toddler found everything fun: if you put a ladder against a vine stake he would clamber to the top like a monkey, chattering, ‘Dad, Dad, let me prune the top of the vine…’ ‘Of course you can!’ Abdulla would say.
Possibly, Abdulla wouldn’t have time to prune, tie back and cover all the vines with reeds today. But there was always tomorrow and, if God was willing, the day after that. Soon after he’d protected his vines, the cold weather would pass, the spring rains would bring forth new shoots from the earth, and the cuttings he had planted in winter would come into bud. It was always like that: first you pack and wrap each vine for the winter; the next thing you know, everything unfurls in the sun and in no time at all it’s green again. Just like literature, Abdulla thought, as he wiped a drop of sweat from the bridge of his nose.
The flashes of sunlight coming through the leaves must have dazzled him, for it was only now, when he tugged at a vine shoot bearing an enormous, palm-shaped leaf, that he discovered a small bunch of grapes underneath it: the qirmizka which he’d managed to get hold of and plant last year with great difficulty. The little bunch of fruit hiding under a gigantic leaf had ripened fully and, true to its name, produced round, bright-red berries, as tiny as dewdrops, so that they looked more like a pretty toy than fruit. Abdulla’s heart pounded with excitement. He had been nurturing an idea for a book: the story of a beautiful slave-girl who became the wife of three khans. The autumn discovery of a bunch of berries as red as the maiden’s blushing cheek, hidden among the vine’s bare branches, had brought on a sudden clarity and harmony. Turning towards the house, he called out joyfully, ‘Ma’sud, child, come here quick!’ But suppose the first fruit is too bitter? He plucked a berry from the bunch that he meant to give the toddler, and put it in his own mouth. Ramadan had just ended: he had forgotten the feel of food in daylight. The large pip crunched between Abdulla’s teeth, and its sweet flesh dissolved like honey through his entire body.
And suddenly he had a revelation: he knew how to begin his book. It would be a terrific story, surpassing both Past Days and The Scorpion from the Altar. Ahmad Qori, who lived at the top of Abdulla’s street, had lent him a stack of books by the classic historians, and he had already researched the fine details. If he could get the supplies in quickly he could then be on his own, sitting in front of the warm coal fire of his sandal. Surely the three months of cold would be long enough for him to finish his novel.
Abdulla didn’t wait for his youngest child to toddle out from the ancestral house: he picked one more berry of the unexpected gift, tucked the tiny bunch of grapes behind his ear and got down to work.
On 31 December, 1937, a freezing winter’s day, Abdulla was taken from his home and put in prison, neither charged nor tried. So he did not begin his narrative with that early-ripening bunch of grapes in the shade of a broad leaf. Instead, Abdulla began his novel by describing a typical game of bozkashi, where players fight for a goat carcass…
—
Nasrullo-xon, ruler of Qarshi, was very fond of bozkashi, though as a spectator rather than a participant. Today, mounted on a bay racehorse which had only just been brought out from the stables, he rode onto the boundless meadow that lay outside the city. He preferred bay horses to those of any other colour, possibly because he could whip the horse’s croup or slash its leg with his sword and the blood would barely be noticeable against its copper coat. When they saw their ruler and his courtiers, the people raised their voices i
n welcome. Nasrullo glanced at his lively mount with satisfaction: tiny golden bells were attached to its mane, and it quivered nervously each time it caught the faint sound of their ringing. The soft leather bridle was decorated with mother-of-pearl, the saddle edged in red gold, while the saddle-cloth was made of white baby camel wool felt. ‘Damn you,’ the corpulent ruler barked at his horse every time he was jolted. And what a wonderful gold-embroidered gown he wore! It shone so bright that it dazzled the eyes. But even more bewitching was his belt with its pure gold buckle and a jewel the size of a horse’s eye. A scabbard and sword were attached by a strap to the belt. Nobody would doubt that the khan’s horse alone was worth more than all the possessions of the crowd that had gathered here. Ah, what a treasure, Nasrullo thought, bursting with pride as he gave his horse a slap on the croup.
As he rode up to a spacious open marquee, one of his eager guards immediately seized the reins of his horse and deftly hobbled it, while two servant boys worked the fans on either side: the applause was immediately replaced by silence. The khan’s chef and the city mufti stepped out. The mufti made a long speech in praise of the holy city of Bukhara and the dynasty of the Mangits who had brought Islam to their world, and also in praise of this dynasty’s precious jewel, Prince Nasrullo. He stepped aside only when the ruler waved his riding whip, after which the court chef came forward. Today he spoke as the master of the games: he shouted out orders to the riders while their horses stamped their hooves and snorted. ‘Firstly,’ the chef roared, ‘don’t pull each other off your horses, and don’t hit each other with your whips. Secondly,’ his throat straining a little with the effort, ‘don’t let your horses bite or kick. Thirdly, don’t let anyone who falls off his horse be trampled.’ ‘Quite right! Quite right!’ the people shouted in approval, punctuating these announcements. Just then, two horsemen came rushing up on black steeds, clutching to their thighs the carcass of a goat, the size of a calf. The horsemen pulled up about ten yards from the ruler’s marquee, just long enough to let the carcass thud to the ground. Then they wheeled around and galloped off, shoulder to shoulder, towards the crowd.
‘The goat’s been lifted!’ the master of the games cried out, disappearing all of a sudden behind the cloud of dust left behind by the riders rushing into the fray. It was like the Last Judgement: the wild horses barely controlled by their riders; the sound of hooves hitting the ground, of riders urging their mounts on, and of the spectators roaring; it was as if tight reins had been loosened, everything had leapt into motion and been drowned in noise. In the distance a flock of crows, tempted by the carcass, soared into the air.
‘Grab it,’ one man yelled. ‘Hold it,’ another said. The thousands who had assembled to watch echoed such cries. There was such confusion that it was hard to work out what was happening. A dog wouldn’t have been able to recognise its own master.
The snorting of the horses as they joined battle either frightened or excited Nasrullo’s bay – it too tried to rush forwards, despite its fetters. It managed to keep its balance, but lashed out furiously with its hind hooves. The Prince gripped the reins hard to hold the horse back, and two guards clung to the stirrups on either side. The horse twisted its head and foam spattered from its mouth while Nasrullo’s whip rained down blows. How could the ruler see the game like this?
All he could make out was brief glimpses of necks colliding against necks. His heart was pounding. He wanted to push his guards aside and ride into the thick of the game, using his sword to clear a path if necessary, then bend down and pick up the dead goat, his whip poised between his teeth… As if it had guessed what its master was thinking, the bay horse rushed forward again. If a piercing, heart-stopping cry had not just then come from the crush of circling horses, then who knows? Perhaps Nasrullo would have overlooked his royal status and thrown himself into the skirmish.
The flanks of the horses on the outer edge shifted and he caught a glimpse between their hooves of a carcass, not a goat’s but a man’s, being picked up by the ankle and flung onto the back of a horse.
‘He’s been trampled, trampled!’ the people clamoured, and the court chamberlain hurried over to the scrum, which stopped moving. Then a rider burst forth from the mass of horse flesh: the body of his fellow contestant hung lifelessly from his horse’s back. The riderless horse, a young dun not much more than a colt, followed: its reins were grabbed and passed along until they reached the chamberlain, who bowed and looked enquiringly at the Prince. Nasrullo nodded. Two servants brought a brocade gown from the marquee and threw it over the dun horse’s back. The chamberlain handed the reins to the rider who had brought the contestant’s body out of the crush, and the man trotted off, leading both horses towards the lamenting spectators.
Despite the hysterical tears of the dead man’s relatives, the game resumed, the goat’s carcass thrown back to be torn apart. This time the horsemen who had been waiting at the edge of the meadow galloped to the centre.
A week earlier, Haydar, Emir of Bukhara and Nasrullo’s father, had visited Qarshi. Today the Emir’s vizier, Chief Minister Hakim, had sent a courier with the following message, ‘Your father and noble benefactor fell ill on his return: despite the doctor’s efforts, His Majesty’s condition worsens with each day.’ The Chief Minister also added an oral message: ‘Make your preparations.’
Nasrullo’s father was devoted to intellectual pursuits, and the Mangit dynasty had weakened with him; the Emirate was swamped with intrigues and betrayal spread like a contagion. Recently, a group of armed men from the Chinese-Kipchak district had raided the viceroy of Samarkand and Umar, Emir of Kokand, had taken advantage of the situation by besieging Jizzax castle.
Meanwhile Nasrullo’s father’s condition was worsening. Could that plotting chef have put something in the food during his visit to his Majesty? He had been boasting that he had a stock of arsenic which could kill a horse with a single drop. Could he have snuck it into some dish of plov? The man would have to be interrogated… But never mind that now. First, Nasrullo had his duties to carry out.
There was more whooping from the riders, then uproar and a deafening cry. ‘The goat, the goat’s been lifted!’ As the goat was held up, one man tried to grab it, only to have his arm violently knocked away by another rider’s knee. There was a general clamour while the second rider snatched the carcass and galloped away at great speed. This rider was very young, his horse the same bay colour as the prince’s. He was pursued by other horses of every conceivable colour and breed: chestnuts, blacks, greys and browns, whites and piebalds, Akhal-Teke and Karabair, duns and light bays. There was no chance of the chamberlain’s orders – ‘Don’t hit, kick, bite or unhorse!’ – being observed now. Men lashed out with their whips wherever they could, at faces or heads; horses harrumphed as they knocked each other over; fallen riders, trampled by hooves, lay on the turf.
The bay horse had barely made fifty yards when it stumbled and came to a sudden halt. Immediately, two other riders came galloping up on both sides and the battle broke out again. At full tilt, the bay horse’s rider hit one of his competitors in the side with the handle of his whip, then veered off to the left. He directed his knee at the hand of the second – who had just managed to clutch the goat – and threw him from his saddle, dragging his victim a few yards.
‘What a rider!’ Nasrullo exclaimed. He couldn’t help comparing himself with this youth who had not only managed to snatch the goat from someone else’s firm grip, but to carry it off, too, out of the scrum. If his father, the sovereign, had been present now, Nasrullo would certainly have summoned the master of the games to his presence and reprimanded him for allowing the rules to be breached; but now, in thrall to his own private thoughts, he merely expressed his admiration for the horseman. If anything happened to his father, then Nasrullo’s brothers, the eldest Husein, the younger Umar, Zabair, Hamza and Sardar, would each try to take the throne, just as these horsemen had scuffled over the goat carcass. But that pri
ze would not go to anyone like these dolts on their clumsy nags; it would of course be him, Emir Nasrullo, dominating all on his lively bay steed.
Not sparing even a glance for his bewildered courtiers, the ruler left just when the game was at its nail-biting peak and – his horse no longer hobbled – he rode off towards the palace.
—
It was significant that Abdulla’s novel began not with the miraculous discovery of the bunch of grapes, but with the game of bozkashi over the carcass of a goat.
On 31 December, they had broken into his house, ignoring the shrieks and cries of his children and wife who had gathered round the dinner-table for the New Year’s feast. The NKVD men overturned the dinner table and stormed through the house, ransacking everything, rummaging through Abdulla’s books and papers: just then, the spectacle of that game of bozkashi passed through Abdulla’s mind. Just as I was imagining myself to be a horse ready and saddled, waiting to be told ‘Chuh’, these ‘riders’ seem to be grabbing me as they would a goat’s carcass, Abdulla was thinking, when the men handcuffed him, dragged him out into the yard and bundled him into the sleek car parked by his gates, as his weeping household looked on.
While crossing Xadra square, Abdulla heard the explosions of fireworks, and fragments of a celebratory speech booming from a loudspeaker. What a pity: the New Year presents which he’d brought back after a cultural evening at the Railway Workers’ Palace were tucked away at home. There were packets of confectionery from Moscow and oranges, the colour of the setting sun, fruit for each child. Would his wife, Rahbar, hand them out once the children had calmed down, or would she be too upset to remember?
Abdulla had been arrested once before, eleven years ago, so he was not particularly bewildered or aghast on this occasion. Then, his soul had rebelled against the injustice; now he felt nothing much. His only regret was that his children were being deprived of the joys of New Year’s, and that the work he had planned for the winter had been interrupted.
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