The Impressionist (19 page)

It is merely their visitor’s due. Sir Wyndham Braddock, IPS, KCIE, His Majesty’s Resident in the Combined Punjab States, is an imperial demi-god. His tours of the twenty-five principalities under his tutelage always take place in this cloud of gifts and entertainments and durbars, and are conducted according to protocols so fine and rare as to be almost ethereal, the Platonic form of politicking. This year, Sir Wyndham has left Fatehpur until very late in the season. The hot weather is coming, when Englishmen become irritable and indecisive. It looks as if he will have to be pleasured even more vigorously than usual. Cars travel back and forth to pick up supplies from Lahore. Silver is polished, glassware is shined. Much rests on tiny details.

Among the Nawab’s faction, there is despair. It is surely too late now. They have no way of making Privett-Clampe do their bidding. Firoz will inherit, and the future will be a European horror of production lines and grinning faces. The Diwan cannot control himself and strikes Pran across the mouth, splitting his lip. Pran sprawls on the floor of the Baroque room, watching drops of blood multiply on the mirrored surface by his head.

Elsewhere in the palace it is all his friends can do to calm Firoz down. Dom Miguel De Souza, whose hangover is already tightening a ratchet around his temples, is sure everything will work out for the best. Firoz cannot believe the attitude of these freeloading fools. For the best? Easy for him to be blasé with property on three continents and a million head of beef cattle chomping grass in the far-off Mato Grosso. For the best? Does he know how insecure Firoz’s finances really are?

De Souza thinks that if Firoz is going to behave like this he will have to order a prairie oyster. That might help. Would it really be too much to ask? In reply, Firoz launches a well-aimed highball glass. Brief curtain of Tom Collins. De Souza ducks. One of the women, the famous ‘Eastern’ dancer (Swedish star of the ‘Rite of Shiva’, as performed for all the crowned heads of Europe), screams and runs out. Firoz reflects that she is really very highly strung. Someone is dispatched to go and find her, before she gets herself into trouble.

In the darkness of the hour before dawn the Nawab, eyes gummed with sleep, gives orders for the chauffeur to ready a car. He carries his troubles into a curtained rear compartment and is driven down a bumpy road, sliding from side to side on the leather-upholstered banquette seat.

There are layers to the confusion at Fatehpur, a millefeuille of guilt going back years into the past. The Old Nawab spent more than usual one summer, and found himself embarrassed for funds to buy the uncut ruby shown to him by a Rajput jeweller, the one which caught the light
just so.
For political reasons the loan had to be made in secret, so the Nawab approached an outsider, a Hindu banker of the Charan caste. The terms were easy, the ruby changed hands; it was duly set into a turban jewel which the present Nawab still wears on official occasions. It is a badge of secret shame. Shame because there were other creditors, many others, and the Charan lived in far-off Mewar. Shame because the Old Nawab weighed up his obligations and defaulted on the debt, thinking there would be no real consequences. Shame because the Charan still followed the old, hard traditions of his caste, and when he realized he would not be paid he mixed a poison and committed ritual suicide. On his deathbed he grabbed his son by the collar, and, pulling him down close enough to whisper, cursed the family which had brought such shame on his own.

Deathbed curses are the strongest kind. But what was the curse’s substance? That is the question. Only the Charan’s relatives know for certain, but the rumour persists that the Nawab’s house is doomed to die out within a generation. All the signs are there. Harvests have been bad in recent years. Astronomers have noted unhealthy conjunctions of the moon and Venus. And of course there are less publicly visible phenomena, eased out of loosened pyjamas only in the lamplit secrecy of the zenana. Cold fingers of destiny are cupped tight around the Nawab’s testicles, stunting the sperm and softening the erection which ought to be securing Fatehpur’s future. Fate has him firmly by his silk-wrapped balls.

The Nawab is en route to an obscure hill village, his difficulty curled between his legs like a small sick animal. As the sky lightens, the big British car grumbles over a rutted cattle-path that leads to the hut of the only bona fide saint currently resident within the Fatehpur borders. There the Sublime Ruler, Confounder of Darkness and True Sword of Islam, prostrates himself before a blind pauper, touches his calloused feet and begs him to lift the curse.

Charlie Privett-Clampe is also up as early, keen to fit in a morning ride before the day’s labours begin. She takes Brandywine for a quick canter and is already back, washed and ready for her chota hazri, before the head cook has even made an appearance in the kitchen. This is only a temporary delay. Soon enough tea and toast has been delivered, and the Burra Mem’ is supervising the unpacking of cups and saucers, cutlery and plates, the first stage in the preparation of tomorrow’s official garden party. Two hundred to be fed and watered on the lawn. A big job, no doubt about it. But she is an Old Hand at garden parties, and more than up to the task.

Charlie would be in the thick of it, were she not interrupted by that insufferable Firoz, arriving out of the blue with an escort of over-dressed dagos and some kind of fancily wrapped present which he insists on giving to Gus right away. Gus, the bloody fool, is barricaded in his room with a bucket, looking like the victim of a railway accident and refusing even to let the boy in to dress him. So the unctuous Prince is under Charlie’s feet, and she has to drop everything to dispense lime soda and small talk while all around her the extra help is visibly slacking on the job. What a bore!

The sun climbs higher and the Diwan discovers there is not enough gunpowder for the salutes, and the red carpet is a little threadbare and should have been replaced. Then he recalls Lady Braddock’s embarrassing kleptomaniac tendencies and orders that all small objects in the audience rooms be removed for safekeeping.

In the zenana the question of What to Wear is uppermost in everyone’s minds, and errands are urgently run for new and hard-to-find cosmetic supplies. The legion of dirzis encamped in the outer courtyard sew as if their lives depend on it, which in some cases is exactly what they have been told. All this chaos takes place despite the fact that no one will actually see these outfits. The essence of dressing up for the zenana women lies more in preparation than in actual display. In a snatched moment the Khwaja-sara pincers Pran’s chin between ring-encrusted fingers, examines the broken lip and informs him in a vivid tone that the time has come for concentration. The choice is a simple one and Pran will not be told again. There will be one last attempt. It will succeed. If he seduces Privett-Clampe, and they get a suitable picture, then he will be given money and allowed to leave. If not, there will be no further use for him. The silence between the words falls away, grey and heavy. Pran realizes, with a chill, that his options are running out.

He would be even less happy were he to bump into a certain casual stroller in the palace. Jean-Loup stalks the corridors, a purposefully aimless flâneur. He suspects he has a rival. Jean-Loup hates rivals. Jean-Loup’s rivals get cut. So he looks around the palace for a good-looking boy dressed in English school uniform. He will not be so pretty soon, hein?

Later that morning the Nawab emerges from the hut somewhat lighter of heart. The pir has assured him that, despite his family’s past misdeeds, it is not Allah’s will that he lose his throne. They have sat together and the old man has laid his hand on the affected part, an experience which was not altogether unpleasant. He has assured Murad that his potency will return soon. The ruler is taking away a little newspaper cone containing a concoction of herbal ingredients. He has been instructed to think of himself as a tiger. If he follows this advice, he will soon feel the power of his ancestors coursing through his veins. The pir waves him off, and stoops to gather up the gold mohurs the grateful ruler has sprinkled in front of him on the floor.

The sun reaches its zenith, and Major Privett-Clampe says how kind and how nice as he unwraps the framed print of a pink-tinted King-Emperor. A good safe present. One which lets you know on which side the giver’s loyalties lie. Prince Firoz wishes his fervent apologies to be conveyed, his sincere apologies. Surely the Major will be able to find it in his heart to forgive and forget. Last night? An aberration. A lamentable failure of taste. The Major grunts gruffly and hands the present to a servant. Firoz departs with all his doubts still intact. If only he had not been so drunk last night.

Firoz spends a mildly diverting afternoon looking through Cornwell Birch’s new titles.
The Yellow Man and the Girl, Three Little Negro Maids, Country Stud Horse, Jazz Godiva
and the latest of the
Big Bellhops
series he distributes to his more discerning clientele. But Prince Firoz is more interested in Birch’s next project. A hunting picture. A
tiger
-hunting picture.

The light fails. Darkness inks in corners, passageways. An orange dot waxes momentarily bright in the shadows of the zenana’s outer courtyard. The tailors finished long ago. Everyone should be asleep. But Jean-Loup is still wandering. He throws the cigarette butt on the floor, grinds it flat under the sole of a handmade two-tone co-respondent shoe. Things have become clearer during the day. The zenana seems to be where the little fool is hiding. And here he comes, shuffling sleepily down the stairs, on his way to the latrine, picking up his skirts as he walks. La mignonne! Jean-Loup is grateful. He was starting to get bored.

This is his cue. Unsheathed from a snug hip pocket is a razor, glinting as it is opened out, twirled in practised fingers. This is what they call the Marseilles grip. Pran scratches his arse, thinking of nothing but his bladder, as he shuffles along. Jean-Loup walks faster, gaining, coming up behind – but is suddenly met by light and voices. A group of people hurrying towards them. He shrinks back behind a pillar.

The unknowing seventh cavalry consists of the Nawab and a pair of sleepy torchbearers. He wants them to pick their feet up, because there is an unaccustomed stirring in his loins. He barely notices the little hijra salaaming to the floor as he passes. He has better things to think about. Those women are going to see something. They are going to see Magnificence! Make way! It is satisfying to yell in the darkened courtyard and to watch the scurry and tumble as the doors are opened. Nothing like a surprise visit for keeping them on their toes.

Lila Bai, junior wife, has the rudest of awakenings. The Nawab framed in the doorway. Behold him! Indeed, the pir’s herbal decoction has had a noticeable effect. See that? Damascus steel. And she knows where that is going. Lila Bai barely has time to beg for mercy before he is on top of her. Tonight he knows he is fantastic. He is first class. The drug does, however, seem to be making him very vocal. Not words. Roaring. He finds he has to growl, deep full-throated growls that stretch his jaws and rattle his chest. This is not normal. Still, it is working. Really. Really. Really. Working. And then, with a mighty roar, the royal climax occurs, every drop of it worth its political weight in gold. At once he pins her down, panting into the hollow between neck and shoulder. She rubs his back. He pulls himself together, makes a speech about how she will never doubt him again, slaps her face a couple of times and departs well pleased with himself. Wah!

Sir Wyndham Braddock smiles and waves. Lady Aurelia smiles and waves. The little brown people smile and wave. They wave paper Union Jacks and stare up at the decorated elephant parading through the streets of their town. The band marching behind the elephant plays ‘The British Grenadiers’, with a distinct nasal wail. Sir Wyndham winces. However long he is in India, Sir Wyndham will never get used to native orchestras.

The streets are packed. People sit in rows along the roofs. They have climbed on to awnings and dangle their legs from windowsills. Sir Wyndham looks about nervously. Swaying inside the howdah he feels exposed. He peers into windows and scans the swelling, shoving mass of people, kept out of his path by lathi-wielding policemen. The Nawab has organized a good turn-out. A three-line whip, most probably. Like all native chiefs, this one is doubtless no stranger to coercion.