There and then, the first spark of a new secret was lit inside Abdulla, and Ra’no, the heroine of The Scorpion under the Altar, was deposed from her prime position in his heart. However hard he tried to find Oyxon’s other poems, he had no success; no one he encountered had ever seen her writing in any anthology, and people could recite no full poems, only odd lines. Yet these odd lines of Oyxon’s were every bit the equal of Nodira’s and Uvaysiy’s couplets.
The lure of a lost manuscript is one of humanity’s eternal temptations. Our ancestor Adam’s first poem; the Mushaf of Fatima, daughter of the Prophet; Ibn-Sina’s Eastern Logic; Yassawi’s secret aphorisms… and these were just the Islamic works. If you included the lost books of other cultures, the list would number thousands, from St Margaret’s gospel to the history of Genghis Khan.
Abdulla, too, had fallen into the trap. For over ten years he roamed Bukhara and the Fergana valley in search of Oyxon’s collected works. In the course of these searches he managed to reconstruct the odd couplet here and there, but he found no trace of the compendium he was after.
He was convinced that if he had found a collection of Oyxon’s poetry, it would have been acknowledged as the most powerful ever written by an Uzbek woman, topping even that of Nodira. Abdulla’s enthusiasm really knew no bounds: if he had found that collection, he thought feverishly, not only would it provoke a revolution in the history of oriental classic literature, but all the secrets of the woman’s life would be revealed. Somehow, it had come to seem to him that only when he knew Oyxon’s life from beginning to end would he be able to bring his own life to its conclusion, to resolve the thoughts that had been plaguing him.
The previous year he had cast the net wider, touching on his quest in a conversation with Cho’lpon, who hailed from Andijan in the Fergana valley. Soon after, he brought Abdulla a whole lyric by Oyxon. Abdulla pressed him to reveal where he’d got hold of such a find, but Cho’lpon refused to give up the secret: eat the grapes, don’t ask about the vineyard. Abdulla knew that Cho’lpon’s father and mother both wrote lyrics. Might he have got it from an anthology kept in their house? Was that how Cho’lpon became famous – plagiarising the work of long-forgotten poets? Then he laughed at himself. His friend was fond of jokes: might he not have written the poem himself? Abdulla could still remember every line:
You have turned to look with tears, oh my beloved, what did I do to you?
You have thrown a stone at a mare, my beauty, what did I do to you?
What I knew as earth – the anvil, the grain – is strewn in my dreams.
The sharp wits are with you, I am ignorant, my pomegranate, what did I do to you?
Water and blood were my eyes’ tears, my patience swelled in my blood,
Close and trusted friends are strangers to me, my talisman, what did I do to you?
The caravan passes, my beloved departs, the open road for you, sobbing for me,
I have constant business in the market – my face, what did I do to you?
The night you died at my feet, where’s Iraq, China – where?
Today you take your stick and we part, my smoke, what did I do to you?
I stand, mother of a bastard, alone at the scene of the Last Judgement,
I ask even in the midst of fire – my flame, what did I do to you?
My question to you, oh blanket, why is my loneliness so uncanny,
The scythe reaps, the barley falls, I’m asking, what did I do to you?
You have put me into the fire, then you have taken me into ice and snow,
Look what you have done to me, my game of chance, what did I do to you?
I see everything this moment, in this matter my blindness is a lie,
Once love has gone, death is the gardener, my anguish, what did I do to you?
Whether she is a tree, your Oyxon, or a spike, the apple has lost its dust,
Give pardon, grace and absolution, oh my Absolute, what did I do to you?
No, Cho’lpon hadn’t written this. If Cho’lpon’s pseudonym had replaced Oyxon’s in the poem’s refrain, it wouldn’t have fitted the rhythm. And its cry was clearly that of a woman. There was real thirst for love, Mashrab’s madness and ambition in it, which was something that Cho’lpon’s poetry lacked. That was why, years before, Abdulla had jokingly wished him madness. Just when he was pestering Cho’lpon, ‘If you could find one complete poem, then you really ought to find the collected poems in the same place!’, his friend was sent to prison. This single lyric was all that was left to indicate the existence of a collection. Abdulla still wasn’t sure which part of his novel to put it in.
A few days previously, and in as casual a way as he could manage, Abdulla had asked Muborak whether he happened to know anything about a collection by Oyxon; Muborak had responded with his usual alacrity, ‘When I was in London, a relative of mine showed me Conolly’s diary, which mentioned a manuscript collection, brought from Bukhara. He wanted me to read it; unfortunately, I was due to leave the next day.’
Could Oyxon’s collected poems be preserved in faraway London? If so, was there any way to retrieve them? Abdulla had to laugh at himself. This truly was a kind of madness! Did he think he himself could fly as free and far as these wild dreams of his? Here he was in prison in Tashkent, contemplating a trip to London; worrying about a long lost manuscript – which might not even exist – when his own novel, the culmination of his life’s work, was unfinished; as for what he had written down, Allah alone knew where those manuscripts were now.
Basically, this temptation, the nature of the discussion was too exalted: in this black place the works of Oyxon or of Abdulla would, faithfully or erratically, interpret the radiance and reflection of tablets written in heaven, while anyone else’s emulation or capitulation would be equal to rebellion, even outrage… In this sense, there was no question but that the dark place to which our father Adam and mother Eve were expelled was far worse than this trivial prison.
—
At dawn on Wednesday 23 Safar 1258, when the solar drum beat out the rhythm for the start of battle and the dawn shawms chased away the army of darkness, Emir Nasrullo had his army assembled for inspection and ordered Abdusamad, with a vanguard of furious red-turbaned artillery soldiers, to prepare the cannon. The governors of Samarkand and Urgut took up position on the right flank with their forces, while the Chief Counsellor and the ruler of O’ratepa moved towards the city under the Nasrullo’s command.
The citizens of Kokand were now under Mahmud’s rule; day and night, their new khan kept his soldiers and mercenaries busy digging a moat around the city, ringing it with stakes, earth and rocks: the whole thing was completed in under three days.
But when Abdusamad’s Shi’a gunners starting shelling the city from the west, its fortifications very soon turned to ruins. When battle broke out, the common people showed a lot of courage. Where the Bukharans breached the walls, these breaches were quickly filled; the Kokanders counter-attacked on all sides; armed with sabres and rifles, they made sorties against the enemy.
It was then that in the centre of the city two sheikhs led their followers in a revolt, proclaiming to all: ‘The spirits of Holy Bukhara have told us that the ancestors have rejected Madali and his family, and that from now on all Fergana shall forever be the fief of the Emir of Holy Bukhara!’
One group went to loot the markets and shops, another set off to rob the treasury. Another battle began inside the town against the rebels; several Kokanders were martyred in this conflict.
Thanks to this internal rebellion and the constant pounding from Abdusamad’s artillery, the Bukharans broke through the defences and entered the city. By noon, Kokand was completely encircled and was left to await its fate.
Seeing that the outcome was hopeless, the two royal brothers lost all interest in crown and throne: united in their approval of the principle, that only a coward wouldn’t flee, they
both fled the city, in opposite directions.
Then looting and robbery broke out in Kokand. Streaming into the ruined palace, Abdusamad’s red turbans got to work. If in Khojent they filled just one cannon barrel, here they managed two or three, with gold and silver, pearls and rubies.
Also on 23 Safar, but in 1938, Abdulla’s name was called out and he was taken out into the corridor. When he is wholly absorbed in his own thoughts, it is hard for a man’s mind to surface from their embrace. One can imagine the writer’s situation, as he drifts in his fantasies. As he was leaving the cell, Abdulla was asking himself, ‘Were our outer defences fortified? Were barriers built outside? There mustn’t be a rebellion within the city. Who can be trusted to deal with it? The enemy is at the gates, the guns and cannon are ready to fire. Merciless, pitiless. They’ll massacre your mother, your wife and children, they’ll loot all your possessions…’
A door was opened, Abdulla was pushed into a room; only Vinokurov was there. For a moment Abdulla seemed to come back to reality, but then the vortex governing his thoughts began seething again.
Hadn’t Abdusamad said, “The best way to deal with the Russian threat would be for Bukhara, Kokand and Khiva to unite. By creating one single empire out of three khanates, it can be a shield against any enemy who attacks us…” And didn’t Nasrullo reward him with a boot in the mouth? Perhaps Vinokurov, too, would kick Abdulla in the face with his steel-tipped leather boot.
‘Abdulla, it’s me, what’s wrong with you?’ Vinokurov was quivering with amazement and alarm. ‘Do you still not trust me? Here, Cho’lpon has sent this for you.’ Vinokurov offered him a sheet of paper.
Abdulla took the paper: he was assailed with doubts. Whether this was all an illusion, or nervous exhaustion, Abdulla’s thoughts couldn’t escape from the abyss, however hard he resolved to return to reality. ‘Who is this letter really from?’ Vinokurov stared long and hard at Abdulla.
‘You still don’t trust me, do you? What do I have to do to earn your trust?’ Vinokurov pulled his revolver out of its holster and waved it in Abdulla’s face. ‘He’s bound to shoot me now,’ thought Abdulla. ‘So that’s why my mind has been falling apart – somehow, I knew the end was coming’ Suddenly, everything inside him went quiet, as quiet as falling snow. Then Vinokurov grew hysterical.
‘There’s only one bullet in the barrel, I’m going to spin it now. Now, let’s see what happens: I’ll hold the revolver to my head. See if I’m pretending!’ Vinokurov pressed the trigger. The revolver clicked, and Abdulla’s heart nearly burst.
‘Do you trust me? Now do you trust me?’ Abruptly enfeebled, Vinokurov let himself slump heavily onto a stool.
Silence ensued. Abdulla’s trembling fingers unfolded the piece of paper:
An empty cemetery in the pitch-black night:
Imagine a lonely traveller strayed.
Yes, you’re afraid! You’re afraid!
But on the horizon a little light,
Three or four stars always shimmer –
You can just see by the light they made.
Your frightened heart stops, but a glimmer
Of hope towards your eyes is born.
This is the light of freedom’s dawn!
At the bottom was a postscript: ‘Abdulla, remember this sinner in your prayers.’
Chapter 9
Russian Roulette
Summer in the prison began with ominous news. In the notorious Room No. 42, Vinokurov had shot himself. Some believed the news, some didn’t, some seemed to know the details: he had been drinking and decided to play a game of Russian roulette. Others, determined to put the most favourable interpretation on it, said that he had been exposed for beating prisoners. Only Abdulla could truly say he was sorry; not just sorry, he found himself waking abruptly at night, remembering what had passed between them. True, he had never trusted the Russian; he had hated him from the start, and his heart had not thawed on further acquaintance. Vinokurov had frightened him with his night-time game of Russian roulette, but this hadn’t given Abdulla any faith in him as a human being. No, as Rahbar always said, Abdulla didn’t understand people, he merely invented them.
Death never comes singly. A week after Vinokurov’s suicide, at first light, Muborak’s name was called. The wretched Jew ran from one end of the cell to the other, as if hoping for a place to hide.
‘Brother, tell them, I’m no crook,’ he said, clutching Abdulla to his chest and sobbing quietly. But two soldiers seized him by the armpits and dragged him off.
When the sun is in Gemini and heading for Cancer, the season of death begins, thought Abdulla. This season of death had been already on his mind. However much Abdulla sought to delay it, his narrative rushed ever faster towards its tragic finale, like water racing into a river’s vortex.
When the news that Kokand has been captured reached the palace, Madali gathered up everything left in the treasury and set off for O’zgan castle, the most heavily fortified place in Fergana. Mahmud, seeing that the situation was hopeless without support, fled Kokand with his closest companions. The abandoned city was victim to such looting that nothing was left of the houses except for the carved woodwork and the cobwebs in the reception rooms. The common people had not even been left anything to cover their naked bodies! The Bukharans raped their women and girls; all the wells were filled with blood, and the streets with puddles of tears. The girls, their heads and feet bare, were mounted behind the Bukharan riders; women slung onto their horses as if they were goat carcasses, and taken off wherever the soldiers wanted.
As for Madali, he was galloping over the steppes and the foothills with his bodyguards towards O’zgan, but his horses and pack animals were quickly exhausted, and they were forced to stop for the night in Marg’ilon.
In the morning, they set off again. Mahmud-xo’ja Marg’iloniy, a Bukharan who had been brought up in Fergana, decided on his own initiative to hand over Madali-xon and Sultan Mahmud-xon to Emir Nasrullo: this man sent squads of his men in different directions. Meanwhile, Madali, who had lost his horses and become separated from his courtiers, reached a village in Andijan province. He stopped here in the house of the village elder, dressed up two of his adjutants as merchants and sent them to Andijan market to buy horses and pack animals. He sent another close associate to Shahrixon with a supplicatory letter to Oyxon, who was hiding there with her younger sisters.
We know what happened when Madali’s envoy reached Shahrixon, so let’s listen to what happened to the two idiots who had gone, dressed as merchants, to Andijan’s horse market. When they had bought the horses and pack animals and were riding back to Madali, they were intercepted by one of Mahmud-xo’ja’s fast-moving horsemen. After some words had been exchanged, the quick-witted horseman realised who they were and who the horses and pack animals were meant for. The horseman got the envoys to tell him everything: where Madali was staying, and in whose house.
When the two hapless ‘traders’ got back to the elder’s house and Madali realised what had happened, he hurried to get his horses ready for departure; but it was too late.
By now Mahmud-xo’ja and his fifteen horsemen had surrounded the elder’s house. When Madali saw this, he and his warriors decided to fight back. If a fight broke out, Madali could not be killed, as Nasrullo had not passed a death sentence on him. So Mahmud-xo’ja cunningly dismounted, kissed the ground in front of Madali and, bowing low, said: ‘Your highness, I was about to declare holy war against the Emir of Bukhara and raise the flag for the nation of Fergana, but a courier has ridden in from Kokand to say that the Emir wants to make peace between your two states, with the intention of returning to Bukhara after restoring you to your throne.’ Mahmud-xo’ja swore so many oaths that Madali, trusting the word of a Haji, set off back to Kokand.
As he approached the outskirts of Shahrixon, Madali once again sent a trusted companion with a letter for his wife Oyxon. In this letter he
informed her that the Emir of Bukhara was restoring him to his throne: ‘Oh faithless woman, who has broken her marriage vows, whatever tricks you may be up to, go back to my harem!’ He entered Shahrixon on the pretext of needing to shoe his horse. When the messenger found the family where Oyxon was hiding and handed her the letter, this unforgiving beauty responded: ‘Go and tell that womaniser Madali that a man who expects a pretty girl to be faithful must have a temperament expert in patience, if he is planting a flowerbed in burning heat. Has he not heard this poem by Hafiz?
I said, learn to show love to those who have shown fidelity,
She said that very little will come from the moon-faced beauties.’
When the messenger whispered this message to him, Madali fell off his horse and wept loudly. His tears mingled with the dust, he yelled out a quatrain by Shah Babur:
Separated from you, this night is one of grief for the heart,
I have not kept my tryst with you, this was the point.
The fumes of my groans, together with the tears from my eyes
Made the path muddy, the night was dark…
—
Vinokurov’s suicide in cell No. 42 led Abdulla to recall the fate of Jan Witkiewicz.
Before bringing Witkiewicz into the novel, Abdulla had used his friend Aleksei Tolstoy to obtain a number of relevant documents from the Russian archives. Among them was Witkiewicz’s report on his journey to Bukhara in 1836, on a reconnaissance mission on behalf of General Perovsky of Orenburg.
Abdulla had already sketched out the episode in which Witkiewicz arrived in Bukhara with his caravan. But he hadn’t yet written about his encounter with the Chief Minister Hakim.
The Devils' Dance Page 31