Dust on the Paw
Page 44
Even Colonel Rodgers’ interest was flagging when the last truck-load of soldiers trundled past. But not many people had sneaked away early; most shared Mrs Mossaour’s curiosity, and so, when the King, exchanging politenesses with his guests, descended and was driven off, not many gave him their full attention. Nor was much interest taken in Voroshilov’s departure. Everyone was watching Mrs Habbibullah. It was noticed the King himself had turned to gaze toward her before he left. The Prime Minister, the Princes, and the other Ministers remained in their places. Somewhere the army band kept playing, over and over again, the national anthem. The lady sat on, as if waiting for a sign.
Even if she does remove it, thought Alan Wint, well, what of it? It should have been done years ago. This atmosphere of suspense and expectancy, as if Christ were about to rise again, is ridiculous and unhealthy; it means that far too many hopes are being placed on what, after all, has been commonplace in more civilized countries for centuries, the sight of a woman’s face in public. Yet, despite this smooth functioning of his intelligence, he found his heart hammering as loudly as anyone’s; and as he gazed at Paula’s face, now glistening with sweat and grim with curiosity, he felt, in an inspiration that lasted less than a second, what this seeing of his wife’s face in the public street must mean to an Afghan. A second after, such was the incalculableness of the human mind, he found himself reflecting that perhaps there was something to be said for purdah; there ought surely to be some things a man should be allowed for his own secret pleasure, and one of those things could arguably be the beauty of his wife’s face.
His introspections were ended by many gasps, cries, and even groans. Mrs Habbibullah had at last risen. As if she had rehearsed it well, she clutched her shaddry by the skirts and slipped it over her head so skilfully that her magnificent coiffure was not disturbed. The shaddry, of fine silk, could be held easily in one red-nailed hand. She did not, though, as many expected, toss it from her with a gesture of aversion; she merely dropped it at her feet. Then, head high, she faced the multitude.
Those who had wondered why the Minister of Justice’s wife had been chosen now saw the many reasons. She was an excitingly beautiful, exquisitely groomed, superbly dignified woman. Turning from her to Paula, Alan Wint was for a moment dismayed; he had to recall his children and those thousands of loyal intimacies in order to restore her confidently to her supremacy in his mind. At the same time, he had to admit, as he was sure every married or affianced man there was admitting, Harold Moffatt included, that, granted this was truly an historic occasion for Aghanistan, then this black-haired woman, dark as Cleopatra, was more fitted to adorn it than his own wife or sweetheart. Paula – and he thanked God for it – was domestic in comparison; she was home to him, as a lush green field with cows in it, was home; her loveliness was as English as buttercups or honeysuckle. Mrs Habbibullah, on the other hand, was remote and predatory; but he would not, for the rest of his life, forget her as he now saw her, standing in the front of the stand, smiling and representing not only the dignity and courage, but also the mystery and menace of her sex.
Not far from her, a mouse to a tigress, stood little Miss Johnstone, unconsciously or perhaps consciously, he could not be sure, imitating the posture of defiance of the taller, more beautiful woman; but in her, so puny, so ordinary, so obviously transplanted, it was pathetic and ludicrous.
Yet as he turned to look down at the thousands of turbaned Afghans below, and watched them becoming agitatedly aware that this dark-skinned woman staring at them was not an Indian or Pakistani but an Afghan like themselves, he had again that same feeling which he once before had felt as he had tried to imagine the destiny of Harold and Lan Moffatt’s children, that, for all the clarity and smoothness of his brain, there were still in the world many exciting, unexplored, sunlit roads leading to opportunities of fulfilment, which he himself could not even imagine, far less journey along and reach. That the mob below began to hoot rather than cheer, and policemen gathered in strength, increased rather than diminished his feeling. As he clapped and shouted, sharing in an abandon that had seized everyone about him, especially Bob Gillie, he noticed, among many other things, that Wahab had taken Miss Johnstone’s hand as if he was about then and there to go running with her along, yes, along one of those perilous sunlit roads.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM POLYGON BY ROBIN JENKINS
POVERTY CASTLE
Poverty Castle is an absorbing work of contrasts and subtle irony centred around an idealistic family in Argyll. A compelling novel, it deals with human nature, as always with Jenkins, and the socialism of industrial Glasgow.
SOME KIND OF GRACE
Two British travellers, Donald Kemp and Margaret Duncan, have disappeared in the wild mountainous region of northern Afghanistan; a terrain into which western Europeans seldom penetrate. The authorities in Kabul say that they have been murdered by the inhabitants of a small and primitive village and that retribution has already been exacted in the form of wholesale reprisals. John McLeod, a friend of the missing couple who has spent some years in Afghanistan as a diplomat, is deeply suspicious of these explanations. He returns to Kabul and starts his own enquiries, but everywhere he is met with obstruction and evasion, though McLeod is deterred neither by the devious courtesies of local officials nor by the discreet negations of his own embassy. The quest becomes an obsession in which physical pursuit is linked with a personal desire to discover the truth of Donald and Margaret’s whole strange relationship.
DUST ON THE PAW
Abdul Wahab, an Afghan science teacher, is eagerly anticipating the arrival of his British fiancee, Laura Johnstone, in the capital of his home country. Having met while Abdul was a student at Manchester University, the couple are eager to settle down in Isban. However, Abdul is not the only one interested in Miss Johnstone’s arrival. Prince Naim, one of the sons of the king, sees the marriage as a symbol of a successful union between East and West, and in his hurry to cement this union, promotes Abdul into a position of power he is far from ready for. Meanwhile, the employees at The British Embassy are in turmoil at this new arrival and all the disaster they are sure this mixed marriage will bring.
LEILA
Robin Jenkins returned to the Far East in the 1950s for “Leila”, a tender love story involving a Scottish teacher, Andrew Sandilands, and Leila, the exotically beautiful daughter of a local politician. Leila is, like her father, implicated in the revolutionary tremors shaking the small country and the lovers are soon torn between the small-minded mores of the expatriate community and Leila’s determined efforts to play a role in her country’s future. The masked oppression of the regime forms the backdrop to a novel where personal dramas collide with the legacies of colonialism.
THE PEARL FISHERS
When a family of travelling pearl-fishers arrives in a small Scottish town, the inhabitants react in their own different ways, from warmth to outright rejection. But how will they respond when love seems to blossom between local man Gavin Hamilton and the beautiful pearl-fisher Effie? The Pearl-fishers is a classic love story and the master storyteller’s last novel.