The Impressionist (12 page)

and in this trap seem to have fallen?’

‘And over there,’ says the Khwaja-sara, ‘is the man for whom you have been brought to Fatehpur.’

Pran follows the hijra’s gaze. Intently watching them is an elderly man with a hennaed beard and clothes that are even more jewel-encrusted than those of his neighbours. The Khwaja-sara makes a gesture towards Pran and the man nods.

‘Him?’

‘No, that is the Diwan, of whom you should be most respectful. I mean the man at the back there, the fat Englishman.’

A line of foreigners is half asleep on cane chairs, the only chairs in the room. Accompanying them is an elegant Indian, dressed in European clothes, his glossy black hair slicked back with pomade. Most of the men are young and wear Civil Service uniforms. One, little more than a blond boy, looks over at the Khwaja-sara and winces as if in pain. By his side, his head lolling on his chest, is a florid middle-aged man. He appears completely, unashamedly asleep.

‘Him?’

‘Yes, him. That, child, is the accursed Major Privett-Clampe, who is the British Resident here. He is a very powerful man, and a very stupid one. Though he is pickled in gin, he holds the fate of our beloved kingdom in his hands. Luckily, little Rukhsana, he has a weakness.’

‘A weakness?’

‘Yes. He likes beautiful boy-girls. Like you.’

After the mushaira has ended, Pran is given a meal and dressed in a blue silk sari. ‘Now,’ says the Khwaja-sara, ‘there are some people who wish to have sight of you. Come.’

Lighting a lamp, he leads Pran up a wrought-iron staircase to a region of the palace decorated in a warped version of French Baroque. Gilt mouldings flare from corners and ceilings. Spiralling foliage and faintly obscene curlicues worm around the huge mirrored panels that encrust every flat surface. In places even the floors are mirrored, disorientating and treacherous underfoot.

Pran is ushered through a set of tall double doors into a room where a group of men sit in almost total darkness. Their faces are illuminated only by a pair of oil lamps, their wicks trimmed so that they give off the feeblest orange glow. Pran recognizes the jutting beard and hooked nose of the Diwan. The second face belongs to a thin courtier, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles hovering beneath a tall turban. The third is that of the young blond Englishman who looked so uncomfortable at the mushaira. Now he looks worse. His hair is plastered to his scalp with sweat, its perfect wax dressing sliding down over his cheeks, giving him the appearance of a varnished wooden puppet. His uniform tunic is unbuttoned to the waist. He is voraciously smoking a cigarette.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he swears, catching sight of Pran. ‘You meant it. This is insanity. You can’t expect me to do this.’

The speech is addressed to the Diwan, who shrugs. The young courtier laughs. ‘Humbly begging your pardon, Mr Flowers.’ he says, ‘but we can.’

‘You’re a swine, Picturewallah,’ spits the Englishman. ‘I ought to –’

‘You ought to?’ asks the courtier politely. The Englishman groans, and lowers his head to the table.

‘Click-click,’ says the Picturewallah, with a giggle.

‘Go to hell,’ he replies, his voice muffled by his forearms.

The Khwaja-sara turns to Pran. ‘Meet Mr Jonathan Flowers, who is a member of the very fine Indian Political Service. He is one of Major Privett-Clampe’s very fine junior officers. If Major Privett-Clampe asks you, you are to say that he brought you here, and hid you in the zenana. Do you understand?’

Pran nods.

‘Jesus Christ,’ repeats the Englishman, who appears to be on the verge of tears.

The Diwan scowls at Pran. ‘This is him? I hope he was worth the money. Where did you say you got him?’

‘Agra,’ lisps the Khwaja-sara.

‘Oh well,’ says the Picturewallah with satisfaction. ‘There you are, then.’

‘The brothel-keeper assured us that he had been well taught.’

‘He’s certainly a pretty one.’

‘I told them to get the best they could.’

His mouth suddenly feeling rather dry, Pran looks from one face to another. The twin discs of the Picturewallah’s glasses; Flowers’s slicked cheeks; the Diwan’s turban jewel – unpleasantness is reflected back at him by them all. Beyond the dull orange sphere of lamplight the darkness hides further mirrors. More light would not necessarily improve things.

Flowers says again, plaintively, ‘But you can’t make me do this.’

The Picturewallah shakes his head. ‘Once again, Mr Flowers. You have been part of the Political Mission for how long? Eight months? Nine months? You have a comfortable life here. Certainly you never hesitate to take the hospitality of Prince Firoz – polo, shikar, tennis, his unusual film parties. You are an unmarried man. You have desires. Most understandable. But your choice of entertainment was certainly – individual. You obviously need another reminder.’

He produces a large manila envelope and draws out of it a sheaf of photographs. Pran cannot tell what they depict, but they produce an impressive effect on Flowers, who groans piteously and starts to bang his forehead on the table. The Diwan looks disgusted at this performance and mutters something in Urdu about those who are men and those who are not men and those who are little girls.

‘Click-click,’ says Picturewallah, looking with pride at what is evidently his handiwork. ‘It looks most insanitary,’ he comments. ‘Surely is there not some government of India ordinance against it? But then you people eat and wipe with either hand. I suppose one thing leads to another.’

‘All right, all right’ groans Flowers. ‘Just put the bloody things away. I’ll do it.’

‘Naturally. You will tell Major Privett-Clampe that you have procured the boy. He will be waiting in the Chinese room. Be careful that you say exactly what you have been told. We will be listening.’

Flowers rises from the table. The Picturewallah follows him.

‘I will accompany you, Mr Flowers. I must get my equipment.’

The Diwan spits, peremptorily, on the floor.

Pran does not have a good feeling about the conversation in the mirrored room. These people do not appear to have his well-being uppermost in their minds. Maybe they have mistaken him for someone else. Maybe he should leave. He suggests this to the Khwaja-sara, who slaps him on the face and tells him that if he tries, he will be hunted down. He decides that he might not leave.

As they are making their way back through the palace to the zenana, there is a commotion in one of the corridors. The Khwaja-sara pulls Pran out of sight behind a life-sized marble discobolus as a completely naked European girl speeds past on a bicycle, a mirror balanced precariously on the handlebars. She is chased by a number of men and women in varying states of undress. For some reason, several of the women seem to be wearing military hats: kepis, shakos, bearskins and forage caps which go oddly with their slips and stockings. They are all shouting at the girl to come back with their cokey. One dark-haired man, dressed in the remains of black tie, is carrying a shotgun. ‘I’m going to bring her down!’ he growls. ‘Get out of my way! Let me get a clear shot at her!’ In the midst of the rout is Prince Firoz, supporting himself on a bewildered servant.

‘Don’t be a ninny, De Souza!’ he drawls. ‘If you shoot her, shell spill it!’

They run off down the corridor, screaming and giggling, leaving an empty Dom Pérignon bottle spinning in their wake. The Khwaja-sara looks disgusted.

‘You see what we have to contend with?’ he mutters, as much to himself as to Pran. ‘How does that puppy think he is fit to rule Fatehpur?’

Back in the zenana he squats down at a low table crammed with a variety of pots and stoppered jars. Monkey-like, long fingers manipulate a pestle and mortar, sprinkling in a little from one container, then the next, and crushing the mixture into a fine red powder. Pran rustles about in his sari, nervously shifting from foot to foot. Perhaps if he hid? Or if he climbed down the outside wall?

‘What kind of child have they brought me?’ groans the Khwaja-sara. ‘Why must I do everything myself?’ He digs a small pouch from the folds of his clothing. Sinking further into a voluminous black shawl, her gender seems to fade, recessing into the background to leave behind a neutral, indistinct being. Pran wonders if the Khwaja-sara can become invisible, if the power to remove oneself from sight is merely a deeper form of androgyny. Already, but for the hands, the thing before him is just a shadowy bundle of rags.

Card-trick deft, the fingers hold up a seed pearl, then drop it into the mortar and grind it up. ‘This,’ they say, less by speech than gesture, ‘is asha, the drink of princes. I have crushed thirty-seven ingredients into this cup and it has taken me more time than should ever be spent on anyone not of royal blood, let alone a motherless fatherless little blankness such as you. Now drink.’

Pran hesitates, remembering the consequences of Ma-ji’s special lassi. Then, seeing the curved knife appear in the hijra’s hands, he changes his mind, and drinks. The asha tastes pungent and bittersweet. Not at all unpleasant.

The Chinese room is not, as Pran expected, decorated with porcelain, silks and images of dragons or parasol-carrying ladies. It is windowless and entirely black. Walls, floor, ceiling and the few sticks of furniture it contains are all either lacquered or stained the same pitchy colour. A simple wooden chair stands in front of a desk. On the desk are writing materials, a few old dictionaries and a pile of little tiles with Chinese characters on one side and English letters on the other; relics, presumably, of some word game. In the middle, dominating the scene, is an ominously expansive bed.

At first Pran does not feel downcast. The asha is warming him from the inside, supplying an intense, almost animal sensation of well-being. He strides around the room, his manly swagger somewhat impeded by the sari. His confidence breaks only at the last moment, when he hears a key fumbling at the double-locked door.

Flowers walks into the room, accompanied by Major Privett-Clampe. The Major wears an expression of beatific joy.

‘Oh my boy,’ he says throatily. ‘Oh my dear dear boy. How can I thank you?’ he says to Flowers, thickly. Both are evidently extremely drunk.

‘Think nothing of it.’

The Major looks momentarily worried. ‘You won’t say anything, will you? I mean, if anyone found out – you know – my wife –’

‘Of course not. Look, old man, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Someone will come and pick him up afterwards.’

‘Jolly good,’ says the Major. Flowers hastily steps out and closes the door. The two of them are left alone.

Major Privett-Clampe is a man of middle years. He has the kind of sandy reddish hair that afflicts so many northern Europeans, blending in with their sandy reddish skin so that the distinction between one and the other is oddly blurred. This disturbing colouring is accentuated by a finger-thick military moustache. He is wearing the same mess uniform he wore at the mushaira, campaign medals and patent-leather shoes glinting raffishly in the low light. The tight-fitting red jacket and trousers would look good on a younger man, and probably did on the Major himself at some time in the distant past. However, the years have not been kind, made up as they have been of days bracketed by kedgeree at breakfast and port and cigars after dinner, so that his body appears to be at risk of exiting its clothing altogether. Alcohol has not helped his appearance. Over his period of service the Major has, like so many imperial warriors, inched forward the moment of his first ‘sundowner’ gin of the day. Since the time he was seconded from the army into the Political Service it has been stuck fast at around nine in the morning.

‘My dear boy,’ he repeats, releasing his beefy jowls from a restraining collar stud. ‘They have brought you to me.’ Then his joy at the happy occasion overflows altogether. Waving his arms in a windmilling mad-conductor motion, he bounds forward across the room.

Delicacy suggests that this juncture might be suitable for a short survey of the history and geography of the principality of Fatehpur, a fascinating subject which has largely escaped the attentions of scholars of the Punjab. Physically, it is a narrow strip two hundred miles long and about sixty wide, consisting mostly of farmland, though to the east this shades into broken, rocky plain. To the south-east, on the side nearer the course of the Grand Trunk Road, lies a marshy area dotted with small lakes, home to a teeming population of wild birds. Once considered the least productive part of the kingdom, the Fatehpur lakes now play a vital role in the state’s social and political life. The presence of such good shikar, with bags sometimes measured in the thousands, means that trigger-happy British officials and other useful personages are always keen to wangle invitations to shoot. Naturally such invitations are more easy to come by for those who do Fatehpur’s business, a fact which is well (if only tacitly) understood at the offices of the Lieutenant-Governor, the Punjab States Agency and other such places.