INCARNATION

by Daniel Easterman

  He sighed and began again, wondering if there was some way round the problem. A tiny breeze touched him from the open window, and he sneezed, then sneezed several more times. In the few hours since his arrival in Kashgar, his hay fever had grown steadily worse. His eyes were permanently red and puffy, his nose streamed. Almost all his antihistamines had gone, not that they seemed to be doing any good.

  He looked up at the enormous light fitting above his head, a relic of the old days. It looked as though it hadn’t been dusted since the Communist takeover. He picked up his pen again.

  Darling, there’s something I need to tell you ... He crossed it out and started again. Darling, there’s something you ought to know. You must have wondered why Sam didn’t come to visit you at the clinic ... He put down the pen again. His own emotions about Sam were still too raw. And, on reflection, he knew Dr Rose would vet any letters before they got to Maddie. He looked round the room again.

  His father had told him about life here in the late thirties. The Chini Bagh had been the old British consulate. Since the imperialists left in 1949, it had decayed slowly to its present state, a dilapidated relic of worse and better times. Birds nested on its flat roof, insects walked with invisible hushed feet along its dark corridors, its walls were crumbled and torn like ancient silk.

  Someone knocked on the door. David looked up and shouted ‘Come in.’ No one answered. A second knock followed. He got up and went to the door.

  A man was standing patiently in the corridor, a young man dressed in a long black chapan. ‘Ruzi Osmanop?’ David nodded. ‘Come with me, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry - how can I come with you? I don’t know who you are, or what you want.’

  The young man looked at him as if he was mentally retarded.

  ‘I’ve been sent by Dr Muhammadju. She says you are to come right away.’

  ‘Does she? I have to get my jacket first.’ The young man took a step closer and looked into the room. David almost felt ashamed of it. It had been grand in its day, but now paint and carpet and woodwork looked worn and shabby, as if the life had gone out of them.

  ‘This is not a good hotel,’ the young man said. ‘If you have anything of value, don’t leave it in your room.’ David had had no intention of doing so.

  ‘Wait for me there,’ he said. The stranger nodded, and took a couple of steps back. David closed the door. Unwatched, he hurriedly gathered together anything valuable or potentially incriminating and put it in a small shoulder bag.

  A pony cart was waiting outside, not many yards from the Public Security Bureau. Holding the reins was an old man wearing a white dopa, his long beard falling to his chest. He turned as David and his companion approached, and his eyes fixed on David for a moment; but he said nothing. David climbed on to the seat next to the driver. They set off in silence broken only by the clip clop of the pony’s feet and the rhythmic tinkling of the little bells round its thin neck. The driver urged it on with gentle clicks of his tongue. A bicycle with a dim light passed them and vanished behind the old city walls. There were no cars or buses. They turned left into a narrower street that led towards the Idgah Mosque and the Old City. Bit by bit, the modern world let go its grip on things.

  As they approached the bazaar, a haze of fluorescent lamps illuminated a scene that had not changed since the middle ages. The stalls and booths that lined the streets were swarming with customers. Barbers worked on the pavement, lathering, scissoring, razoring and pummelling, attacking their victims’ heads with vicious-looking knives and cleavers that seemed to have been dug up from some ancient battlefield. Behind them, stalls offered ripe yellow melons, fat peaches, and swollen grapes. Others displayed tall leather boots or hand-crafted silverware, bolts of silk, or layers of carpet. All lit with a high, naked light.

  Among them, small restaurants drew a constant stream of flagging shoppers inside. There was not a Chinese face in sight.

  They left the mosque and the bazaar behind. The noise faded, and they came to an alleyway that was too narrow for the cart to pass through. David and the young man got down, and the old man drove off, still saying nothing, and they were left standing in the unlit street while the moon worked its slow way between the roofs above.

  ‘Down here,’ said the young man, plunging into a lane that snaked its way between high blank walls. The moonlight made a brief appearance as they turned a corner, then disappeared again. Their feet were loud on the broken cobblestones. David fingered the gun in his pocket.

  They reached a tall, dark door, and the man in black reached up to pull on a bell-handle set high on the right-hand side. A bell jangled somewhere far within.

  A bent creature with slow, blank eyes opened the door and stepped aside to let them in. They waited while he closed the door, then he led the way along a short passageway and into the courtyard.

  David halted, struck with amazement. All in front of him, the courtyard sang with light. The moon, trembling high above, seemed as though bought and hung there, to bring light each evening into this little space. Great trees soared to the roof - palms and cedars and poplars, their branches frosted by light. At their feet lay a pool of sparkling water in which the moon floated like a swollen fruit. In the pool, brightly coloured carp and goldfish darted in and out of the silver disc. Everywhere, tall glazed pots stood filled with flowers. He stood entranced, as though he’d been brought to some sort of paradise, a place of rest. He thought of Sam, and he thought of Maddie, and the moonlight seemed to shake, as though on the point of breaking. And on a thin breeze, music wafted across the stars, an old waltz tune from another time and another place.

  He looked up. His escort had gone, leaving him standing alone by the pool’s narrow edge. On the other side of the courtyard stood Nabila, watching him, her face half-hidden in a shadow that fell from a wind tower high on the corbelled roof. As she stepped forward, her features formed quickly in the light, and he caught his breath and held it tight inside him for a while.

  ‘What do you think of the Chini Bagh?’ she asked. She sounded very different here. He guessed it was her father’s house.

  ‘Not much,' he said.

  ‘I haven’t been inside,’ she said, ‘but I’ve heard it’s a little grim.’

  ‘Why’d you send me there, then?’

  ‘History,’ she said. ‘Let’s go inside. My father’s waiting.’

  She led him from the courtyard through a low door in a mud-brick wall.

  ‘Your father?’ he asked.

  ‘He wants to see you. I explained you’d be working with me at the hospital.’

  ‘But why ...?’

  An intricate brass lamp hung from the ceiling overhead. The walls were bare, devoid of any ornament. Nabila stopped and turned to him. ‘My father gives me a great deal of freedom,’ she said. ‘I was allowed to study medicine, to practise in the hospital. I’m even allowed to live in quarters supplied by the authorities for medical staff. To travel alone to Urumchi. But my father is still a sheikh, he still has the right to make demands on me. A strange man is a potential threat to his honour.’

  ‘It’s not your father I’m falling for.’ The words were out almost before he knew what he was saying. Nabila looked at him, her eyes startled. He could not tell if she was angry or moved or frightened.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t joke about it. My father is a very serious man.’

  ‘Why did you tell him about me in the first place?’

  She looked at him as though he’d asked why the grass was green.

  ‘Nothing happens in Kashgar that my father doesn’t know about.’

  ‘I thought he was just a holy man.’

  Her eyes grew wide. High on the wall above her head, a light flickered and became still.

  ‘Much more than that,’ she said. ‘He is the pivot. If he crooked his finger, the people of Kashgar would rise up against the Chinese. And after them all the people of Sinkiang. My father can decide whether there will be war or peace. You should be careful of him
.’

  A few yards more brought them to a green-painted door. Above it, in Chinese-Arabic lettering, hung an inscription. It was a verse from the Koran: "O you that believe. Fight those who are not believers, dwelling near to you, and let them find you harsh towards them. Know that God is with those who fear Him".

  A man approached them out of shadows further down the corridor. He bowed to Nabila, then turned to David, explaining that he had to frisk him.

  ‘That isn’t necessary,’ Nabila said. ‘Dr Osmanop is a friend of mine.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Nabila, but your father gave explicit orders. You know I can’t go against his instructions.’

  The frisking was fast and thorough, and David realized that Nabila’s father must have surrounded himself with professionals. Both the young man who had picked him up at the Chini Bagh and this one had that unmistakable quality of men trained to kill. He hoped they would not notice the same thing in himself.

  'I’ll have to hold on to this,’ said the guard, holding up the pistol he’d found in David’s waistband. ‘You can have it back when you leave.’

  ‘I heard it can be ... dangerous here in Sinkiang.’ The man did not answer, but put the gun away and opened the door. David stepped inside, followed by Nabila. The door closed behind them.

  Sheikh Azad sat on cushions arranged on a high kang projecting from the wall facing the door. The kang was a platform used for sitting, eating, and sleeping: in the winter, a fire would be lit underneath, making it the perfect place to pass the day. Round the walls, several of his followers sat, neither hostile nor friendly, waiting to see what their leader would make of the new arrival. The old man waved David forward, welcoming him. ‘Al-salam alaykum. Marhaba! Marhaba! ‘Sit down here,’ said the sheikh, motioning David to join him on the kang. Nabila remained standing near the door.

  Sheikh Azad was a man of about seventy, dressed, like his followers, in simple black garments. His wrinkled skin hung to his face like a mask that has been worn too long. But the eyes that looked back from it were black and shining, and danced like a twelve-year-old’s. Except that the brain behind them was that of a man, not a child. ‘You do me honour,’ said David, ‘asking me here.’

  ‘On the contrary, you honour me by your visit.’

  ‘And you honoured me by sending such a fine pony to carry me here.’

  Sheikh Azad smiled.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you know the difference between a pony and a donkey,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me if you know the difference between a man and an ape.’ The conversation moved circuitously through a maze of subjects, and however David tried to introduce his own topics, his host made sure he was always the one to initiate or close. They talked of God and His prophets, of Alma-Ata and Kazakhstan, of medicine and the curing of souls. Politics was not mentioned once. Nor the Chinese. Only David and Sheikh Azad spoke. Nabila remained standing by the door, listening.

  Over an hour later, the sheikh grew silent. He nodded his head several times, muttered "good" to himself once or twice, and turned abruptly to the men on either side of him, telling them to leave. No one acted surprised. David made to go with them, half-rising from the kang, but the old man grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him down.

  ‘Not you,’ he whispered, ‘not you.’

  When the other men had gone, David noticed that Nabila still remained in her position by the doorway. She smiled at him, and her father gestured to her to join them. She sat on his other side, away from David.

  ‘I would like you to join us at our meal this evening, Dr Osmanop,’ Sheikh Azad said. ‘I hope that is no inconvenience.’

  David shook his head. Even if it had been, he’d hardly have turned down the invitation.

  ‘Excellent. There will be poshkal and jarkop. Made in the Kashgar way. Perhaps it won’t be to your taste.’

  'I think it will suit me very well.’

  ‘Good. Now, I wish you to tell me something. My daughter here is a very great doctor. Perhaps that is just the opinion of her father. But I hear she does good.’ He paused. Between his fingers, the amber beads of his tasbih glided like thoughts. ‘She tells me you may know how to stop the deaths.’

  David found it hard to answer.

  ‘I ... don’t know. That’s not what I said to her. I said I might be able to help. I can have her data analysed at an important laboratory. If their findings allow us to take action, perhaps we can stop the deaths.’

  The old man looked at him. The merriment had gone from his eyes. Now, there was only sadness. A great burden was weighing him down.

  ‘Dr Osmanop,’ he said, 'I have watched you tonight and listened to you. I have no wish to pry. But I do know that you are not from Alma-Ata. I do know that only half of you is Uighur. I do know that there were ten more deaths today, in Karghalik. And I know that earlier today the Chinese authorities increased the number of closed zones in this region from five to seventeen. Now, perhaps you can tell me - what is causing these deaths?’

  David did not hesitate. He knew that, before all this was over, he would need the old man’s help. Azad Muhammadju would not betray him.

  ‘A weapon,’ David said.

  ‘A nuclear weapon?’

  David shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps. But not a conventional one. At this stage it seems to be poisoning the atmosphere. If it were possible to perform autopsies ...'

  Nabila shook her head.

  ‘The hospitals have strict instructions. All the bodies are shipped to Urumchi, then returned for burial in sealed coffins. The burials take place under police guard.’

  They talked for a little longer, then it was time for dinner. Sheikh Azad led the way to the family quarters, where a large cloth had been laid on the floor of the main room. The house was not large or grand in any way, just adequate for the needs of Sheikh Azad’s household and his wider family of followers when they came to seek his blessing or ask his opinion. Nabila’s brothers, Omar and Osman, were there. David regaled them with stories of Alma-Ata and a trip he’d made to Moscow. Everyone was happy. Nabila’s mother did not appear. It was after midnight when he left.

  ‘Stay at the Chini Bagh tonight,’ said Nabila. ‘Tomorrow we’ll find you somewhere more congenial, with a friend.’

  She walked with him as far as the courtyard. A light had come on to take the place of the vanished moon. Its weak light softened and remoulded everything, giving the courtyard a sense of diminished scale, of peace and intimacy. David heard footsteps behind them. A guard, his face hidden by shadow, handed his gun back to David, and apologized for its confiscation. No one asked why a doctor should want to go about armed.

  He stepped down to the level of the pond. Someone had scattered water about, and it was very cool. She stepped down beside him, almost close enough to touch.

  ‘I liked your father very much,’ he said. ‘He’s down to earth. I imagine he’s extremely popular.’

  ‘Be careful of him, David,’ Nabila cautioned. ‘Trust him only as long as you do nothing to offend or hinder him. He’s completely devoted to one thing: Islam. That’s why he wants Sinkiang to be free, so he and his followers can set up an Islamic Republic’

  ‘And what about you? Is that what you want?’ His eyes were growing accustomed to the light; he could make out her face.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘I’d like my father to be happy, I’d like my people to have the final say in their own lives. If that means having an Islamic Republic, I’ll go along with it. Anything would be better than Communist rule. But ... Islamic rule will mean restrictions. Women like myself won’t be able to have careers, maybe not even lives apart from being daughters, wives, and mothers. I don’t want that.’

  ‘What did your husband want?’

  ‘Da’ud?’ She hesitated, and he thought she might close the subject again. They were standing close together at the edge of the pool. A fish darted silently between water-lily pads.

  ‘Da’ud is a martyr,’ she said. ‘He was killed three ye
ars ago, during a raid on a government arms store. He was my father’s right-hand man. The possibility of an Islamic state meant everything to him. I don’t have such aspirations. I’d live in Peking if it meant I could have him back again.’

  ‘Did you have children?’

  She shook her head. A soft desert wind fanned the leaves high above them.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  He was about to tell her about Elizabeth when a window opened on the second floor.

  ‘Miss Nabila! Miss Nabila, it’s getting late. Your mother is asking for you.’

  ‘I have to go. Mehmed will take you back to the Chini Bagh. I’ll call for you first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Nabila Khenim!’

  ‘I’m coming!’ She accompanied him to the door.

  ‘Until tomorrow, then,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Take care.’

  A small red flower grew in a pot at his feet. He bent down and plucked it, then held it out to her.

  ‘It’s not much,’ he said.

  She took it from him, and as she did so their fingers grazed, and she looked into his eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, before turning and running back to the house.

  He went outside into the alley. Mehmed, the man who had come for him at the Chini Bagh, was waiting a few yards away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Peking Airport

  ‘Passenger announcement.’

  The little bell that followed struck everyone into immobility and silence.

  ‘Will Dr Az Kung, travelling to London on flight AC 105, please make himself known at one of the Air China desks?’

  The announcement faded and everyone relaxed. The departure lounge was filled with an extraordinary mixture of humanity. Professor Kirim Ishmail had never been abroad in his life before, had never seen so many people on the move. He was growing excited. Take-off was half an hour away. Every time he glanced up at the clock, the hand was a little closer to its destination. He’d be on the plane by then, of course. The bell rang again.