The Mulberry Empire

by Philip Hensher

  It was two years now since he had seen Hasan. Hasan had spent a single week in the house of the widow Khadija with Masson; seven days and seven nights. In that stretch, they did not move outside, but stayed where they were, telling each other the thousand tales of their lives. The servants were sent away, and the doors were locked, and Masson and Hasan lived lifetimes in a week. He had come through the door, and said, ‘My name is Hasan,’ and the other boys, without needing to be told, left as if he had dismissed them. That week; seven days and seven nights, and Masson lived it over and over again, in his poor imperfect memory, in his dreams.

  Afterwards, he depicted that moment of Hasan entering the house in the oddest way. It was as if he had found Hasan, and not the other way round. For months – perhaps his whole life – Masson had been burrowing through dark narrow underground tunnels, and now he had edged forward an extra foot and found that the rock above him had fallen upwards to an immense height, and a blaze of light illuminated what had been the close uninterrupted darkness of his existence. And rising to his feet, he had found himself facing a man, standing upright in an immense jewelled cavern, blinking in a brilliant light. A man was there who had waited patiently to be found. The oddest fact was that at no point did Masson conceive of Hasan as having a similar subterranean existence; he walked, surely, in light and air, and it was only his long-held desire for Masson that had led him to descend, his long-held certainty that what he could do, now, for the foreigner was to take him by the hand and lead him, step by step, upwards to the sun and the sky.

  Masson could not bear to be separated from Hasan, all those days, and every tiny separation which occurred struck him with pain. When he slept, he longed to wake, to be with Hasan; if Hasan was in the house, but not in the same room, that, too, was unbearable; when they were in the same room, but not touching, the spaces between them were a torture to Masson. Only when they lay together, pressed so tight, pressed so that every surface of their bodies touched, their lips, their flesh, one’s eyelashes fluttering against the other’s, did Masson begin to feel that they were close enough together. No closeness could fill the longing in Masson’s heart, the longing for Hasan; a desire he, surely, had always had, a desire he had not known how to name until he saw the man who could fulfil it.

  His memory of the week was not, oddly, of sexual pleasure, although that had been there – pleasure so overwhelming, so unqualified, so pure that he wondered what pleasure had meant to him before. In an hour, Hasan, never seeming to exert effort, moving over him as gracefully as a dancer, as if there were all the time in the world, showing nothing like the usual greed, reduced him to a state of amazed helpless rapture, as if with the small pressures of his hands, limbs, mouth, organs, he had removed all that was solid of Masson, and left what had once been a man abandoned, boneless, trembling beneath him. Masson looked, astonished, into those deep eyes, his flesh turned to marzipan, and the deep eyes looked back with an expression of calm surrender. But in his dreams and in his thoughts that was a willed, a conscious memory, summoned by concentration. The involuntary thought of Hasan that came, always, on waking, was of the man standing naked, or clothed, in a doorway, looking with quiet consideration at Masson, lit by the clear sunlight through an upper window. And then those other hours, those short golden hours, when they lay together, and told the thousand tales of their lives, as if they knew that all that had happened to them before Hasan entered the widow’s house would soon mean nothing, and must now be told. Masson talked and talked and talked, and told everything, told of London in his fantastic proliferating Persian, told of the voyage and the sea and the arrival in India, told of Calcutta, and Suggs and Sale and McVitie and Hastings and Das, told of his long journey, of his life in Kabul, told everything, emptying the vessel of his thoughts, telling everything that he had ever seen or heard in a single marvellous rush. And Hasan listened silently, his eyes like saucers, the king of the world listening to the inexhaustible tale of the life of his newest favourite concubine, and when Masson drew breath, Hasan talked too; talked of …

  His memory failed. Masson did not know, now, what Hasan had told him. And yet his memory was of Hasan telling a thousand and one tales, stroking Masson’s hair to keep him from sleep. His memory failed there; the words were like the sentences in dreams, which as they fall on the dreamer’s ear are thunderous shining proverbs, and which fade in the helpless light of day. He had once heard everything Hasan had to tell, and now did not know whether he had been told anything at all. He knew nothing of Hasan. That was what, in the two years since Hasan had departed, he had had to realize.

  On the eighth day, Masson had woken, and there was no Hasan by his side. He knew, immediately, that he had gone, and gone for good. There was such a sense of loss in Hasan, even when he was there, that when he departed, it was more like a fulfilment of promise than a bereavement. He had had a week with him, and on the eighth day he had gone; but Masson had always known that would be so. He had not seen him since then, and only after Hasan left had he realized how very large Kabul was, how very many people there were in it, and all of them, except one, were not Hasan. Only once – perhaps only once – there, at the far end of the street, had he seen a man passing whose radiance was unmistakable. Masson had run, and the blessed place where he had walked was empty. For the rest, for two years, he had been tortured with the sight of men who could, just, be Hasan, but who were not. Because there was no one like Hasan, no one in the world, and now he was gone for ever, filling only Masson’s dreams. The question Masson never asked himself was what Hasan had wanted from him.

  5.

  Masson woke early, and he had already made a decision; he would go back to the hall of the butchers, at the same time, and wait for the Englishman. It was absurd, he knew, but there was nothing better he could think of to do. He would not go to the Bala Hissar, and to wait in the hall of the butchers was the best thing he could think of. Somehow, he felt that it was not entirely absurd. He had an idea that the Englishman had seen him, and been shocked, and would return to the same place, at the same time, to find out what he could.

  He went to the hall of the butchers at the same time, at roughly the middle of the morning, and waited there, pretending to be interested in chickens. And then he was right. Across the hall, in exactly the same way, picked the same tall figure, coming from precisely the same direction, wearing precisely the same stately robes. Masson stood there and waited for the man to approach him. He did not seem to have observed Masson, but, all the same, he came in his direction. When he was five yards away – and still did not seem to have seen Masson – Masson cleared his throat, and spoke to him.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. The man looked at him, in exactly the same way, as if he had never seen him before, and as if his presence there startled him. Masson started again. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I am Masson.’

  That was not what he meant to say. It just came out. The man looked at him again, and said nothing. For a moment, it occurred to Masson that he might be terribly wrong, that this might be a man who had never heard English spoken. Then he looked again, and saw that he was right.

  ‘You must be English,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Scotch,’ Burnes said finally. Masson waited for him to go on, but he said nothing more. Then, idiotically, one of the butchers ran up, clutching a squawking chicken by its heels and waved it at the two tall foreigners. Burnes simply turned away, as if waiting for a subordinate to deal with an inconvenient interruption, and Masson dismissed the butcher as briskly as he could. Burnes turned back, and looked at Masson levelly.

  ‘These people …’ Masson said. ‘It is a pleasure to see a fellow countryman in this place. My name is Masson.’

  ‘I have heard that there was an Englishman here,’ Burnes said.

  ‘I have lived here for three years,’ Masson said. Then, idiotically, he said, ‘My name is Masson,’ again.

  ‘I had wondered what your name could be,’ Burnes said. ’I had heard it, but in somewhat altered form.’r />
  ‘It would give me great pleasure to talk at more length,’ Masson said. ‘It is some years since I have met with a fellow countryman.’

  ‘I am Scotch,’ Burnes said again, and bowed. Masson bowed back, oddly aggrieved. ‘Tell me something. Why does the Amir wear blades of grass in his headgear? Something I have often wondered.’

  Masson looked at him; it was not an inquiry for knowledge, since in Burnes’s assessing look there was no curiosity. He was testing him to see if he knew the right answer, to see what use he could be. ‘It is a coronation ritual,’ Masson said. ‘The Amir at his coronation has three blades of grass placed there, and always wears it. An interesting tradition, though I have not been able to discover how ancient it is; I understand that the practice had fallen into desuetude until Dost Mohammed revived it. It is said to be an ancient rite, but there is no evidence to support the claim. It seems entirely possible that it is a picturesque practice invented ten years ago.’

  ‘I see,’ Burnes said, looking Masson up and down once more. ‘How interesting. We must discuss more, sir, and at greater length.’ There was no sign of warmth in this fellow’s guarded manner, and, as he walked away, Masson tried to reconcile his two feelings, that now he had been reminded why he had left the British, and that he still wanted to meet with this man. He told himself that, of course, he was curious; he reassured himself that he wanted to find out what this embassy to the Amir was all about; but it was not quite true. In fact, he wanted to sit and talk English, and he stalked off, pretending to be on some urgent errand, with a feeling of annoyance that was not entirely directed at Burnes.

  6.

  ‘Hearts,’ Burnes said, laying the cards down on the floor. ‘Seven, eight, nine, ten, knave, queen. Ace of hearts, diamonds, clubs, spades. That is fifty-one, is it not? And …’ He laid the two of hearts on the open pile, and sat back with the four remaining cards.

  ‘At least fifty-one,’ Mohan Lal said, smiling. ‘Ninety-eight points, in fact. I am impressed.’

  He took a card from the other pile, the face-down cards, and compressed his lips together. Over the candle, Burnes looked at his impassive face.

  ‘You force me to play, Burnes,’ Mohan Lal said. ‘Ah well. Now, let us see …’

  Hearts, two, three, four, five; diamonds, five, six, seven; knave of clubs, spades, diamonds, clubs; joker, nine of spades, ten of spades, joker; and Mohan Lal laid his last card down on the pile.

  ‘My hand,’ he said.

  ‘Naturally,’ Burnes said. ‘One day, I hope to win a single hand against you, sir. But I have no expectations of an early victory. You are the devil.’

  ‘Thank you, Burnes,’ Mohan Lal said, gathering up the pile of cards. ‘I think you are too rash in your play; it is always better to delay, you know, until you can set down your whole hand. When will you learn, Burnes?’

  ‘Well, I could not have done better than that,’ Burnes said. ‘Since you would have set down that turn in any case and left me with my entire hand. No, it is you who have the luck of the devil, and not I who lack skill. Another hand?’

  ‘As you choose,’ Mohan Lal said, dividing the double pack for Burnes to deal. ‘And how do the accounts now stand?’

  ‘I believe I am in your debt to the tune of a hundred and sixty-three pounds,’ Burnes said.

  ‘My dear sir,’ Mohan Lal said. ‘Another hand?’

  The cards were decidedly greasy. They had travelled from Calcutta in Burnes’s pack, along with all the other supplies and necessities – cigars, polo sticks, guns, pink hunting coats, gifts for the Amir (rather reduced in opulence from what Burnes had relied on, thanks to a momentary fit of parsimoniousness by the Governor General’s nazir) – which had so loaded down their four extra camels. Unlike those other requisites, the cards had proved of use, and since they had arrived with the full pomp of Empire in Kabul, they had gamed nightly. This time, there was no question of being lodged with some minor nobility; they had passed unquestioned through the city gates, and been conducted with great splendour to the Bala Hissar itself, honoured guests of the Amir. Nor had they been required to wait days until being admitted to the Presence; the very next morning, the Amir had sent for them, and on their admittance to the throne room, he had risen – the Pearl of the Age had risen – and walked all of ten paces to embrace Burnes. Now, he was an honoured guest – a cousin, it seemed, from the Amir’s warm encomium – and there seemed nothing that could not be achieved with a little deference. The Governor General’s idea of ousting this splendid and charming Emperor and installing the dreadful old Shah Shujah to rule over this delightful city and country had been nagging away at Burnes for weeks; now, he felt absolutely assured that nothing so awful would come to pass, and he could lead Dost Mohammed by the hand like a small child to wherever he chose.

  They had talked and talked, and after hours of conversation, the Dost had dismissed them to their quarters, where they subsided in exhaustion. And the next day, again, the summons had come, and, again, Burnes had gone and talked, alone, with the great Emperor, his court dismissed. And the next day, and the next, and … Was there anything which could not conceivably interest the Amir and his marvellous mind? He had asked endless questions about the new Queen of the English, with all the astonishment of the Islamic king for the idea of a solitary Empress; asked about the diet of the English, for details of their agriculture, for information about the railway now carving up that faraway island kingdom (‘on grooves – no, rails –’), about the practices of soothsaying; he talked of the arts of England, of industry, of horses and hounds and hunting, of the domestic arrangements of the English, of the shape of their houses and the manufacture of bricks, of the times of their dining, of the clothes of their women (‘Aiee!’), of fishing, of the activities subject to taxation and the means of collection, of the structure of the army, of weapons, of guns, of ships, of communications, of the delivery of letters from the Queen to her subjects, of paper, of mining, of music, of manners, of poets, of the mending of boots, of the diet of the poor, of India, of the cure of diseases, of Napoleon, of the manufacture of mirrors, of the means of punishment, of transportation and prisons and execution, of the cat of nine tails, of mutiny, of prostitutes, of the building of roads, of the holy sites, of the mullahs of Christ, of Burnes’s childhood, of absolutely everything. Everything was inquired into with a fierce gaze and unflagging curiosity, and Burnes had the joyous feeling of wriggling, a small child pinned down and interrogated in the most fascinating way.

  Within days they were friends. A dizzying sensation, to realize that one was the friend of an Emperor, and one which Burnes at first dismissed, but had in the end to accept. Dost Mohammed liked him, that was clear, and liked him even when (‘And, please, what number of fish might a sea vessel hope to obtain on a single trip?’) his knowledge failed. After these long sessions, Burnes was left without resources, could hardly speak more, so energetic had the Emperor’s inquisitions been, and could only return limply to his quarters, to rest and mumble. Hence the cards. Anything more demanding was, he found, beyond his capacities.

  It was clear he was being a great success, but two things remained to disturb his peace of mind. The gifts from the Governor General had not gone down well, and the Amir had picked through the mean little offerings with a mild expression of distaste, passing the little clock and the ell of cloth to the youngest member of his court without glancing at them. It had taken some days of discreet inquiry before Burnes understood that the memory of Elphinstone’s long-ago embassy, bearing gifts of a truly stupendous lavishness, had burned itself into the collective mind of the court and that he, as an envoy from the Indian Empire – from the Company – from the Queen of Engelstan herself – was expected at the very least to live up to that splendour. However surprising this attitude was from a ruler who lived so simply, it was a quite undeniable fact, which was evidently never very far from the mind of the Amir. Still, although Dost Mohammed referred, rather touchily, to the subject from time to time in a man
ner which left no room for apology or redress, it did not seem to have harmed their prospects in any serious way. Rather a relief; Burnes hardly thought that he was going to be able to acquire any supplementary gifts from the Kabul bazaar.

  Considerably more worrying, in the event, was what Burnes had discovered quite by chance; that the Russians were in the city, and presenting themselves daily at the gates of the Bala Hissar where he and the Emperor were so securely ensconced in their mutual admiration. For the moment, they were being dismissed, but, as Mohan Lal calmly said, the whim of the Emperor was a powerful thing, and if, for any reason, the esteem between the Scotchman and the Afghan prince should flag, it was entirely likely that the representative of quite a different empire would be sent for. It was up to Burnes to convince the Amir that the friendship of the English was the thing. Indeed, that was the thing Burnes never permitted himself to forget; that the Amir’s professions of friendship concealed a whim of steel. And he had a decided advantage; he knew, and had known for some weeks, that Vitkevich was here, and could guess at his purpose.

  7.

  There, in the desert, he had seen a glittering object approach, and waited. The object approached, divided under the single cold light of the desert sun into a caravan much like their own; divided again, and there was a group of men, in military dress, on horses leading camels. The men dismounted, and approached Burnes and his men. They were Europeans, and Burnes addressed the leader of the group in a series of languages, to no avail. He knew, immediately, that they were Russians, but they refused to speak French with him. The leader, after listening to a series of questions from Burnes with a look of careful inexpressive blankness, made a long speech in what must be Turkoman, fell silent, and examined Burnes questioningly, his head cocked on one side, assessing him; and for all Burnes knew, he could have been talking complete gibberish. They rested together, peaceably, speaking only in their different languages. After an hour or so, the Russians rose, salaamed in the oriental manner, and went on their way. Burnes watched them go. They were going to Kabul, he had no doubt.