Everyone watched while Abdulla went to the corner. Once he got to the bucket he felt the pressure on his neck of other men’s gazes, and at first couldn’t unbutton his trousers; when he thought about the queue of desperate men, however, his fingers quickened. But he couldn’t urinate, and had to try and distract himself by looking at the ceiling. Later, when he recalled this moment, he sensed that the cell elder had guessed what was happening and had rounded on a prisoner whom he had spotted wiping his face and hands on someone else’s shirt. Everyone’s attention was drawn to another corner of the cell, and so Abdulla relieved his bladder. Washing his body seemed impossible, so he made do with washing his face and hands as thoroughly as he could. Instead of washing his feet, he symbolically ran his wet fingers over his slippers, praying ‘May God forgive me!’
Returning to his place, he greeted Muborak. To judge by the latter’s accent, he was a native of Bukhara, but there was also a trace – just a nuance – of another dialect, which Abdulla didn’t recognise. Abdulla racked his memory, but didn’t think it right to ask questions. By now Sodiq had washed and come back. After greeting him, Abdulla asked what had happened to Cho’lpon. Both his neighbours shrugged their shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t know, he must have been locked up before we came.’ Discreetly, because of the darkness all around, Abdulla moved away, but whether it was because the cell was so dark, because of the recent confusion, or the constant seething in this wasp’s nest, he couldn’t find a single familiar face. Which of them had called out ‘Abdulla Qodiriy’? Could they have recognised him or have read any of his books? Abdulla’s crowded thoughts had again dispersed, like a nest of bees. No, this was not a market or a crowd; the cacophony was reminiscent of a poetry-reading, the kind which Abdulla and Cho’lpon used to attend together.
—
Poetry readings in Umar’s palace were occasions for pomp and ceremony. The ruler was very fond of hunting, of the pursuit of a quarry, and poetry gatherings were, for him, no different. First, he was like the hunter who hides in wait, relying only on his eyes and ears, reaping a sort of modest satisfaction if someone shot a wild sheep or a pheasant, because he himself was holding out for a rather bigger beast. While waiting for a poem that could be considered a lion, or even just a hyena, Umar would from time to time amuse himself by inciting the gathering of poets and scholars to outdo each other in their praises.
Husayn, the younger brother of Haydar, Emir of Bukhara, abandoned Persian speech and recited an ode in pure Turkic.
After we, destitute and homeless, had roamed the world,
Finally we found a home with his Majesty Emir Umar.
We have girded ourselves with the belt of bonds of devotion,
The sight of generous sympathy has made us give thanks to God.
The king is our king, the ruler is our ruler,
The times are our times, the epoch is our epoch.
Umar took the fur gown off his own shoulders, a gown worth five hundred gold coins, and draped it over Husayn’s shoulders. The odes of praise continued to sound out, gifts and offerings were distributed to the eloquent writers. Waiters and servants served delicious dishes, the cup-bearers poured out wines and sherbets. Soloists sang and instrumentalists played with subtle skill.
At the height of the festivities, the palace’s chief poet Mavlono Fazliy whispered something in Umar’s ear then loudly clapped his hands. The gathering instantly fell silent, and, pointing to a screened-off corner, Fazliy said, ‘The contest now continues between the poet Fazliy and the poetess Mahzuna.’ Fazliy started with his own impromptu:
A hundred times I praise your words, without seeing to the heart of things,
Unless the mirror is silvered, it won’t reflect the clothing.
Some shouted their admiration, some clapped, some guffawed. Once the noise had died down, a gently quivering woman’s voice rang out from behind the screen:
Unless the liver bleeds, who will speak any words,
The pearl won’t be revealed, unless you break the shell…
The noise aroused by these words was twice as loud. ‘Bravo!’ someone exclaimed; ‘Brilliant!’ someone else responded. Mavlono Fazliy bowed and continued:
Chaste words need a modest covering,
I will not see the sense of your syllables unless I see a veil.
A response came the moment this was said, before shouts could burst out:
There is no blame if my words are not polite,
As if grass can grow green without seeing sunlight…
Again, cries of delight came in response. ‘What did she say? What did she say?’ people asked one another, and, after a delay, the whole audience was in high spirits. In all this uproar not everyone could hear some of the verses, but those who heard them enjoyed them so much that they ignored the sense, so fired up were they by the festivities. Finally Mavlono Fazliy clapped his hands again to get attention:
You are so refined, who was your teacher?
The moon cannot give light without sight of the sun…
From behind the screen the silence was broken:
As great value is gathered by a river of light,
So this poor poet gets her learning, without a master for even a single night…
Now you could see a real uproar. It was known to some, but not to everyone, that the girl whose pseudonym was Mahzuna was in fact Mavlono Fazliy’s latest and best loved pupil. Could you hide the moon behind a skirt? The last verses that she had recited were drowned out in the enthusiastic applause; at this point, like a hunter stalking a large beast, Umar stood up and, watched by the amazed spectators, went to join Mavlono Fazliy. He gave the poet his bejewelled silver-buckled belt and in the general silence addressed the screen, asking in Persian:
Assuage my suffering, saviour, with a glimpse of your clothing.
A rather teasing voice replied from the corner:
A deer’s eye is best perceived through a frame of autumn leaves.
All was quiet. Umar spoke:
Throw a stone at me, so I can drive your image from my heart!
The girl responded from behind her curtain:
When the dew falls on the petals, the flower shuts its door.
Now the festive gathering had its day: Umar was drowning in a sea of ecstasy. He tore off his collar and shouted, ‘I give you all everything that you can find here!’ There was nothing left around the Emir: everything was stripped bare. ‘Strip it,’ said the Emir. ‘Take it!’
‘Take it!’ This was Muborak and Sodiq offering Abdulla the morning millet gruel with a tea leaf stuck to the bowl.
‘You’re a strange sort of man,’ said Sodiq. ‘You really are in a dream world. You’re not thinking straight, you’re somewhere else…’
Abdulla was indeed like someone emerging from of a sea of wonder, looking around as if half-blinded.
—
After spending a few days in a solitary cell, Abdulla had got into the habit of giving his thoughts free rein. If he went on behaving that oddly in this cell, too, he would become a laughing stock. It might not be a bad idea for him to yank his head out of the clouds and study the people who were around him. Abdulla chewed the bread with his millet gruel as he sized them up. After all, the soldier who brought everyone their gruel had turned out, upon investigation, to be an Uzbek. Oh, you’re being clever, comrade writer! Hadn’t Cho’lpon spoken about failing to see the most important things?
My thought goes on flying skywards,
Now I am giving it free rein.
How do I actually hold it back?
It touches my tenderest cords…
Sunnat must have sensed Abdulla’s gaze: making a furtive gesture, he asked, ‘Shall I give you another helping?’ At any other time, Abdulla wouldn’t have choked down even a single helping of this vile food, but he had caught the tone of the young man’s remark, and, his heart pounding with
anxiety, he quickly licked the steel spoon attached by a piece of wire to the metal plate, and stepped towards the soldier.
There was a lot of noise, as spoons were banged on plates: for the moment, nobody paid attention to the young soldier’s whispers.
‘Boss, I’ve brought what you asked for, it’s between these two pieces of bread…’ he said, and banging his ladle against the jerry-can of gruel, he offered Abdulla two pieces of bread.
Abdulla now deftly put the two pieces up the sleeves of his gown and went back to his place with half a ladle-full of gruel. His heart was pounding so hard that it seemed it would burst through his shirt and red gown. But neither Muborak nor the prisoners on either side of him had noticed anything. Somehow, Abdulla managed to eat his gruel and finish swallowing the bread crumbs, then, while the bowls were being handed back, put the sheet of paper and a pencil stub into his trouser pocket, and secretly gave the second piece of bread back to the Uzbek lad.
It worked. Bless your father, Muslim son! It worked! Abdulla had difficulty concealing his excitement as he returned to his place. So his manuscripts would now be safe. If, with God’s help, he got out of here, it would take just one more summer, one more winter at his desk to get it all finished. And even if, God forbid, he was kept here longer, everything would remain intact.
Here the day had begun: some were taken off for interrogation, some were moved to a different cell, or were sent off with their possessions to Siberia. Some seemed engaged in purposeful discussion, others had nothing to do but engage in idle chitchat: in other words, the cell hummed just like a wasp’s nest. Abdulla, however, was too distracted to answer Muborak and Sodiq’s questions properly.
It is flying… it is flying… It passes through
A thousand layers, in close embrace.
It goes on, never bored or idle,
Sometimes perturbing an insane heart…
This evening he would write, if it could be sent, a guarded explanation to his wife Rahbar, then, God grant, the letter would reach her in a few days and she could hide the manuscripts. Who would she entrust them to? One of her relatives? Rahbar was sharp-witted, she would think it all through. When Abdulla thought about his wife, tears came to his eyes. Her memory was sheer torture to him in his unhappy state. The first time he was put in prison, she already had three small children to think of, and was pregnant with a fourth. Fortunately, that first term of imprisonment had been reduced. But how long would he be away this time? Once again, she had been left to fend for herself. Abdulla had a bit of money set aside, but he had been saving it for a rainy day, and hadn’t told her where it was. Pain stung his heart. His mind had been wandering all over the place, back as far as the nineteenth century, yet he hadn’t spared a thought for Rahbar’s financial situation. Abdulla was ashamed of himself, he was burning with shame! ‘A so-called writer can never be a human being,’ he reproached himself.
The previous year his mother Josiyat had passed away. On the second day of the funeral, Abdulla and Cho’lpon had been sent by the Union of Writers to a congress of Tatar writers in Kazan. It was left to his neighbour to preside over the funeral rites. The night he came back from Kazan, Rahbar sobbed as she put the children to bed. ‘God forbid,’ she said to him, ‘but suppose I die one day, and you can’t get away from your writers’ meeting: will you leave my corpse unwashed?’ When he considered it, his unhappy wife was right. After all, would the heavens have fallen if he hadn’t gone to Kazan? There it had been all wit and jokes, as they passed the time in pleasures, parties and indulgence… was that all he had gone there for?
Though if he had stayed at home and mourned, those with nothing better to do would have dropped by to bother him with their idle chat: ‘This year we did farm work, nothing but trouble. Digging everywhere, ditching, grafting vines with grease, hay-making… you don’t get time even to fart! Yesterday, my friend, I weeded the potatoes, then I only have to water them and it’s time to unearth them…’
‘Old man, it’s after watering them that you should weed them. Anyway, do potatoes need watering?’
‘None of your jokes! I’m knackered.’
‘No, I’m not joking, you can ask anyone you like!’
Everyone would then nod their heads.
‘All right then, what does it matter if I weed them or not?’
‘If you don’t, then you get a better harvest. If you do, you’ll only get seed potatoes.’
‘Oh dear, I’ve been wasting my time with all this vegetable growing: marvellous thing,’ and with these words loud laughter burst out in a house in mourning.
More jokes, more witty remarks…
Abdulla pricked up his ears: the people around him were either telling jokes, or mocking others. In a word, they were passing the time, busting a gut laughing. Typical Uzbeks.
—
Once Nasrullo had exterminated all his close relatives and officials, he began to suspect his Chief Minister Hakim, who had put him on the throne. True, there were no flaws in his capabilities, no dark spots as far as the Emir could see, but could he expect anything good from that old fox, a vizier who had served four emirs? Although the Emir’s mind was uneasy – might he fall into the man’s nets? – he was softened by the vizier’s sweet talk: flattery and ingenuity gradually undid the knot of suspicions. When Nasrullo asked him about the characters of the former emirs, he had a way of talking that made it impossible to determine whether he was inventing praise of their great eminence or simply laughing at them.
‘One day, your distinguished father Haydar told this amusing story about Emir Sodiq-biy of Shahrisabz. “Sodiq-biy was returning to Kitob from Shahrisabz, and at the market he met an Uzbek leading a piebald ox; the emir asked him in Turkish ‘What is your cow?’ The simple-minded Uzbek didn’t know what to say, and had to pretend he hadn’t heard. The emir asked him again. The Uzbek really couldn’t understand what the emir wanted, until finally the emir lost his temper and lashed out with his stick. The wretched Uzbek finally said, ‘My ox’s name is ox!’ and tried to run away. One of the emir’s friends guessed what he wanted and explained to the wretched Uzbek, ‘The emir was asking what the price of the ox is!’ The emir then realised he’d expressed himself in bad Turkish. The ox’s owner said that he hadn’t bought the ox, and so he didn’t know what it cost, and that he regretted that he had been beaten with a stick when he had done nothing wrong…’ Should Abdulla put this anecdote in his work? Would it be understood? Or would he sit there suspicious as any Uzbek would, wondering, much like Emir Nasrullo, whether he was somehow the butt of the joke?
—
The women are what he should talk about, yes, the women. If four men are gathered together, doesn’t the conversation automatically turn to them? He should talk about Umar’s harem.
Nodira’s peace of mind disappeared again when she found out about Umar’s extravagance at the last poets’ contest. She put all her female charm to work to ensure that any such contest should, in future, take place in the Emir’s harem. She invited every well-born woman who had a claim to being a poet, both those who composed their own verses and those who simply recited, including Uvaysiy and her pupils. The older maidservants were ordered to bring female lute and viol players, whose music was not allowed to be heard outside the women’s quarters of their houses.
Nodira had a secret wish. She told nobody about this wish, but the two women — Uvaysiy and Oyxon — who kept a constant eye on her were well aware of it. Nodira regretted that she hadn’t been born when the Baburid dynasty ruled India. She was influenced by the books she had read in her youth: for her, the poetesses Dildor, Gulbadan, Arjuman, Zeb-un-Nissa, Nurjahan and Jahonaro lived not so much in her thoughts as in paradise, while Mumtaz, for whom Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal, tugged at her heartstrings.
If only I could see in my dreams my beloved Gulbadan,
If only I could hear in my dreams her lips’ sweet words…
/> At Nodira’s poetry evening no one adorned themselves in the royal satin and patterned silk that was the usual style. Instead, they dressed in fabrics imported from India: brocades and fine silks. Fragrant breaths perfumed the air, while Nodira’s two peacocks promenaded through the spacious hall, displaying their colourful tail feathers. The serving women were dancing; the peacocks, instead of being frightened, kept arrogantly pecking and upsetting the guests with their harsh cries. The poetesses’ cheeks burned like embers, becoming as red as the pomegranate and grape juice they drank. Then poems of praise were recited in honour of the royal Nodira, the hostess of the festivities.
There is no treasure so ‘precious’ in the world,
My lady’s soul is eternally generous.
A shepherdess of wit and virtue,
She has gathered every clan to her palace.
She shows her mastery in her first poem,
Every poet is to recite a lyric…
The panegyrists were presented with clothes and footwear brought from India by Andijan merchants. In one corner odes and lyrics were sung, drums began to play, and dances and part-songs started up.
Nights of pale moonlight,
Pure and silvery moonlight.
Infused with rose and basil scent:
The streets through which my true love went.
And I will sweep with my own hair
The cobbles that his feet trod there
And if the dust swirls up and flies
May dampening tears flow from my eyes.
The ebullient women left all inhibitions behind. After performing, they threw off their headscarves to wave them about as they danced and ululated; their laughter and clapping rose to the ceiling. The aromatic perfumes faded, there was an oppressive smell of sweat. The peacocks, huddled in a corner, had now ceased their cackling.
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