Night of the Golden Butterfly

THIRTEEN

ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH DAY after the murder of General Ilyas Rafiq, commanding officer of the Special Services Assault Battalion, I went to have dinner with his mother-in-law. Incapable of stomaching any further hypocrisy, Jindié had refused to stay for the chehlum, the fortieth day after burial that concludes the ritual of official mourning. She left Zahid to console their daughter and returned to London. Her offer to bring the grandchildren back with her to give them and the widowed Neelam a break had been turned down.

The meal she served, unlike the story that accompanied it, was on the skimpy side, a bit too healthy for my tastes, but all I wanted to know that evening was who killed Rafiq and why. No real evidence had emerged so far — though this tiny fact has yet to spoil a good story from circulating in Fatherland. According to Jindié, each of his colleagues suspected different people with varying motives. I rubbed my hands together in delight. It was a classic Fatherland conspiracy. Three versions were floating in cyberspace, she told me, and any of them could be true, but she no longer cared. As far as she was concerned, her son-in-law had been a reprobate and had come to the bad end he deserved. Yet another Rashomon moment for our debased elite, I thought to myself. Assassins are rarely uncovered in Fatherland, which adds to its many charms.

The first and most-believed account linked the death to the machinations of a fellow general, Muhammad Rifaat, who commanded a garrison in a crucial town on the edge of badlands where drone-rockets rained down regularly on the villages and the streams had turned red. Reputedly, the two generals, close friends since their school days, were sharing a mistress, Khalida ‘Naughty’ Lateef, the spirited spouse of a junior officer desperate for promotion. Naughty Lateef’s charms had on one occasion led to fisticuffs between the two men, and all this in the presence of fellow officers. Adultery, especially with the wife of a junior officer, and breach of discipline were both punishable offences.

General Rifaat, who had not provoked the assault, had been officially reprimanded, a black mark that presaged early retirement to a foreign embassy, Kazakhstan or, if he was lucky, Austria.

General Rafiq was reprimanded in private by his chief and told in strong language that such clashes were unseemly. Nothing more. He was an important component in the local ‘war on terror’ and a regular at the US embassy in Fatherland. An angry General Rifaat decided that this state of affairs was unacceptable and planned a private revenge with the help of his old schoolmate, General Baghlol Khan, a weak-kneed Pashtun, in command of the Inter-Services Intelligence but famed neither for his own intelligence nor for anything else, except obeying orders from his superiors. Baghlol loathed Rafiq because of departmental rivalries, but there were a few other reasons as well. The latter, soon after taking command of the Assaulters, as his battalion was known, had uncovered two ISI plants amongst his senior officers. He ordered them to be returned immediately to their base with his compliments. These took the form of some choice insults, including a throwaway reference to the ISI chief as General Camel’s Arse, not an indigenous epithet but one which Rafiq had first encountered as a young officer during his days in Saudi Arabia many moons ago, when Fatherland soldiers defended the kingdom against internal threats. News of the sobriquet had spread, increasing Rafiq’s popularity with the soldiery. Camel’s Arse was what they thought as well.

Given this history, General Baghlol Khan was only too happy to respond to a personal request from his old friend General Rifaat. He called in one of the officers whom Rafiq had insulted and sent back; together they prepared a crude but effective trap. Naughty was brought in to ISI HQ and told that unless she did what she was asked to do, her husband, Major Lateef, would be provided with ISI videos showing her in action with at least three generals. She was shown clips from all three videos, in which she played a starring role. A stunned Naughty fell into line. She rang Rafiq and arranged a rendezvous. Her task was to lure him into making a few unsavoury remarks about the amorous adventures of their boss, the chief of army staff, whom Washington was plotting to remove for reasons unconnected with this sordid affair.

Rafiq, in a relaxed mood, was only too delighted by the unscheduled rendezvous and happily provided Naughty with a salty account of their chiefs amorous exploits, with exact details of the localities in each city where his many lovers lived, houses that therefore required round-the-clock security, diverting some of his assaulters from the war against the terrorists. How could he have guessed that Naughty had a hidden recording device attached to an orifice she knew he had yet to explore? Through this tiny device, a nose-ring, the entire conversation was monitored by Rifaat’s chums in the ISI, who, unsurprisingly, were aware that everything said by Rafiq was true. Meanwhile, in case the encounter became so passionate that the ring fell out, a secret video camera had been set up, which filmed the entire afternoon. Some of this unedited material was sold by ISI operatives in the thriving porno-markets all over the country and played exceptionally well in the war zones, where men were starved of affection.

Baghlol went to the chief of staff and played the tape. General Sohail Raza became livid. Not because of the women. That did not bother him at all, but because of the potential risk to his own life. Rafiq was confronted and fired that same week, but Sohail was fond of this brash general who reminded him of his own youth and he knew that in a similar situation he might have behaved in exactly the same way.

He offered General Rafiq a sinecure: head of a key commercial sector of the military-industrial complex where he would have double the salary he had enjoyed as a serving general, with regular kickbacks from potential contractors in the West that would triple the doubled salary. In addition, there was a large mansion attached to the job that he could, of course, buy at a reduced price as he approached his retirement. There was nil responsibility, since all the key decisions were taken by rocket fuel experts and other specialists. Rafiq, by now in a blind and stupid rage, refused what was, after all, an extremely generous offer. His pride was hurt. He felt he was being unfairly punished and he knew who was behind it all.

He resigned from the military on his bare pension, nothing compared to what he had been offered, but sufficient to feed a hundred poor families in Fatherland each month. After a few weeks of sulking in his tent and then numerous visits to the imperial bunker in Isloo, Rafiq wrote a letter to his most senior contact in the Defense Intelligence Agency at the Pentagon. It was sent in a top-security code from the bunker. The general was immediately summoned to DC and interrogated at length.

He had not simply broken ranks but divulged an important state secret to Fatherland’s fair-weather ally, a nation that many inside the armed forces considered more an enemy than a friend. The information he provided was explosive. Generals Rifaat and Baghlol were accused of having leaked to the enemy secret plans for his battalion to assault terrorist encampments in the border zones. On three occasions, he told his minders, his highly trained, hand-picked soldiers had been ambushed and killed by the terrorists. He suggested that the DIA carry out its own investigation into the two generals concerned and left behind a carrier bag full of clues and evidence. Not surprisingly, seeing that they were funding Fatherland’s army, the Pentagon decided to act swiftly. This was, he had told them, not so much a question of breaching a country’s sovereignty but a necessary audit to protect imperial financial interests in bad times. He hoped they were touched by his concern.

When news of this treachery reached its intended targets in Fatherland, the targets decided to eliminate General Rafiq and discredit him in the country at large as a traitor. They did, and the mechanics of how they did are of little concern. This was the end of the first version.

‘Does it sound credible to you, Dara?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘That whole world is so murky that anything is possible. If General Rafiq actually did what this version alleges, then I think the theory is believable.’

‘That’s what poor Neelam thinks. She’s convinced it was an army decision.’

‘Just so that we can exclude them, what are the other two possibilities?’

The first of these, which was virtually the same as an official briefing given by the army to select journalists, suggested that the death was a well-planned Talibu execution. Rafiq had been known as a no-nonsense general, closely linked to Western intelligence agencies. His team had targeted and killed a number of senior Talibu commanders, and once they discovered that he was no longer protected by the military, they got information on his regular movements from Naughty’s husband, Major Lateef of military intelligence. And they made no mistakes. The Talibu, according to Jindié, are a special squad of the Taliban whose task is to penetrate Fatherland military and police. They are intelligent, beardless and usually dressed in Western clothes and dark glasses. When one of them was captured and tortured, the US officer supervising his interrogation complimented him on his clothes and remarked to the torturer that people now dressed like that in Malibu. The prisoner replied angrily in a West Coast accent, ‘We are Talibu, not Malibu.’ That was how they discovered the existence of this special unit, or so they claim. The prisoner gave no more information and was killed.

‘Well?’ said Jindié when she finished.

‘Can’t be ruled out.’

‘No. Except that one of the Talibu visited Neelam in secret and swore on the Koran that they were not responsible.’

‘Could be disinformation. And the third?’

‘Too stupid for words, but believed by many people Rafiq used to refer to contemptuously as the common herd. They say it was the Americans.’

I snorted with delight. ‘I wondered about that. Usually it’s the first answer. And it can’t be denied that when it comes to procuring assassinations here and elsewhere they find some very clever pimps.’

‘Yes, Dara, but it is ridiculous in this case. The whole world knows that Rafiq was one of the staunchest pro-West generals in the country. Three British intelligence people came to our house and sat in this room to offer Zahid and me their condolences before we left to attend the funeral. Why should they kill their own? Oh, you are joking. I’d forgotten that side of you. Last time we met you were so proper. Have you had enough to eat?’

‘No.’

She burst out laughing and that reminded me of our youth. We moved from the kitchen table to the living room. I wanted to talk about her diaries and related matters, but she was worried about her daughter.

‘What makes them so religious, Dara?’

‘Philandering husbands, a desire to cling to something in a world dominated by money, pure desperation?’

‘By that criteria I should be in a nunnery… but we’ll discuss that some other time.’

‘When did Neelam move in this direction? Your diaries suggested it was while she was at school in Washington.’

‘Yes, but she got over that particular variety. Her best friends were two African-American kids from Muslim families. When she went to Vassar, which is now mixed, by the way, there was no trace of any of this in her life. She seemed happy. Suleiman says she had a Chinese boyfriend who wasn’t religious at all, and everything seemed fine.’

‘Where did she met Rafiq?’

‘At our house in Washington, I’m afraid. He was a military attaché at the embassy. Zahid invited him to address a gathering of Fatherland Physicians for Bush. Rafiq said he would not come unless it was a mixed gathering. So wives and daughters and nieces and female hangers-on were present. She and Rafiq liked each other. He asked permission to see her. Two years later they married.’

‘Then it must be to do with him. Did you like him?’

‘No, but she did. Neither Zahid nor I were keen that she marry into the army.’

‘It must be Rafiq-related. Doesn’t make sense any other way. Have you asked her?’

‘She would never tell me. She’s become an alien as far I’m concerned. We had an old woodcut of our Sultan Suleiman of Yunnan. It belonged to Elder Granny and was probably inherited from her mother. Neelam had it framed and still treasures it, but Dù Wénxiù’s sultanate was never like what she imagines Islam should be and how it must impose itself on society. I said that to her once and she snapped back like a little dog. Sultan Suleiman was defeated because he wasn’t a true Believer; he allowed people too much freedom and that is corruption. I lost control at that point and slapped her face. She gave me a triumphant smile and left the room. I know it was stupid of me. What really makes me angry is the way she’s bringing up those children. They’re being indoctrinated. The boy is ten and is told not to talk to girls. The girl aged eight is being taught how to wear the hijab. Is she crazy? No wonder Rafiq went elsewhere for his pleasures.’

We discussed Neelam for a few hours without reaching any conclusion. I was about to leave when I remembered something. What, I asked her, had she written in the destroyed section of the diary that had so upset the teenage Neelam? Might that have prompted her conversion? Jindié coloured slightly.

‘It’s simply an account of our youth, of how close we once were and of my love for you. Some of it may have been expressed in strong and emotional language. I really can’t remember now except that I headlined it with an old saying: Fame is sweet, but youth is sweeter.’

‘Surely that can’t be a Chinese proverb, or have you substituted “youth” for “venerated ancestors”. As we know, they’re sweeter than everything else, a sentiment I’m beginning to appreciate more with each passing year.’

‘It’s Roman, not Chinese.’

‘Now they always did appreciate young men. There must have been something in what you said that upset young Neelam.’

‘She thought it was a secret from her father. Zahid was a sensitive and loving father. I have no complaints on that score. He told her all about the story of his friendship with you and that he knew about us long before we were married. I thought all that was good for her. Her parents were very open. I shouldn’t have destroyed those bits. I was in a temper.’

As I rose and thanked her for the healthy meal, she asked if I wanted to stay. There was a comfortable spare room and we could carry on talking. I asked for some coffee. There was none. But when it was midnight she did offer me a glass of red wine.

‘Why did you continue to stay with Zahid after he had become a Republican? The anger in your diary surprised me, but there seemed to be no follow-up.’

‘The children…’

‘After the children had left home?’

‘Perhaps because I had nowhere else to go. Sometimes I’ve bitterly regretted my decision.’

‘Jindié, how could that ever be a reason for someone like you? What an absurd idea. You could have lived comfortably anywhere in the world, and very comfortably in Lahore or Dali.’

‘Even though Zahid has changed a great deal, sometimes he is very much like you. He said almost exactly that at a very bad period in our relationship and made it clear that I would never be in need. It was when he suggested that we separate that I changed my mind.’

‘Just to be difficult?’

‘Partially. There was no other alternative, and by then I had got used to living with someone who did not mean much to me. I used to send his money to the Democrats and Ralph Nader. Everything changed after 9/11. He learned his lesson.’

‘Did he really save Cheney’s life in 2000, or is that another Fatherland myth?’

‘It’s true, but he was part of a team. He was so boastful. The children didn’t speak to him for a month.’

‘That was a good enough reason to walk out.’

‘Within twenty-four hours of 9/11, Cheney instructed his staff to make sure that Zahid was removed from his medical team. The Muslim name was enough. He came home that night looking like a beaten dog. We sold everything and left for London some months later. Did you know that he literally ran into Anjum by accident?’

‘These things happen. Who would have thought I would have met you again? Or him. Where did he meet Anjum? In Isloo?’

‘No, in some sweet-sounding Norfolk town. He was at some exclusive medical conference and had gone out for a walk by the sea. She recognized him. Zahid was stunned. She was wearing a skirt and blouse and a cross round her neck.’

‘What? She became a Catholic? What happened to that idiot she married?’

‘Alcoholic. Useless. Infertile. Impotent on every front. All his business projects failed. The last was an attempt to link up with an Irish building firm to build roads in the interior of Sind. Work was slow. They lost the contract. The chief engineer was staying with them. Anjum left Fatherland with him. He turned out to be a non-drinking Catholic fundamentalist linked to Opus Dei. Are they anything like the Falun Gong? Can you imagine? He forced her to convert, attend church every Sunday and make regular visits to the confessional. Zahid said she was so miserable that she started weeping as the horror stories poured out of her.’

‘Why didn’t he offer her refuge in Richmond?’

Jindié laughed.

‘He did, but she said her husband would track her down. She was really scared of him. That upset Zahid greatly.’

‘Just as well she dumped him when she did.’

‘Why? They both might have blossomed. I’m sleepy.’

‘You can’t stay up all night?’

She started laughing. ‘Too old now to spend a night with you in the garden.’

‘Neither of us is young. It’s pointless deceiving each other or exaggerating what were strong but youthful emotions. I still haven’t forgotten that you screamed Hsi-men at me. What were you doing reading the Chin Ping Mei at that age?’

‘It was at home, a very old edition in my father’s collection. Both Confucius and I used to read it in secret, but carefully, so that the volumes weren’t damaged. No self-respecting Chinese teenager in those days could admit to not having read some of it. At least in our language, it’s very funny as well as erotic.’

‘True, and even in translation, but how do you explain that there is not a single character, male or female, one can identify with?’

‘The anonymous author probably belonged to some obscure religious sect which saw human nature as evil and unchangeable.’

‘A bleak view of humanity.’

‘Not at all surprising in sixteenth-century China, where corruption, extravagance and the use of women as pleasure machines had affected everyone. There was a reason for the author to remain anonymous. The sex that Western readers enjoy so much was joyless. It was part of the degeneration of Chinese society and that is what he was exposing.’

‘Jindié. I’m not sure the author described lovemaking as joyless. Exploitative, male-dominated, but not joyless.’

‘It appeared so to me.’

She left the room and returned with one of her books.

‘I want to read something to you. It’s by Hsun-tzu, who was very hostile to the argument of Mencius that human nature is essentially good, but becomes corrupted by society.’

‘I agree with Mencius.’

‘The author of Chin Ping Mei didn’t. He agreed with Hsun-tzu that man’s disgrace is but an image of his virtue. Listen: “Meat when it rots breeds worms; fish that is old and dry brings forth maggots. When a man is careless and lazy and forgets himself, that is when disaster occurs.” He was attacking the rulers of the time for their refusal to accept moral responsibility.’

‘A universal disease as far as rulers are concerned, then and now. I’m still not too convinced by any of this… I wonder how my old friend Confucius-your-brother would have interpreted the novel.’

‘It’s obvious. A degenerate work reflecting a degenerate age. That was the Maoist line on everything classical during the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution.’

I wondered which of the men who’d led the Chinese revolution to victory had read the novel. Mao would certainly have enjoyed it, and some of his later life gave the impression of being modelled on that of Hsi-men, though the fictional character never had to contend with a tough-minded wife like Chiang Ching. I never liked her, but I couldn’t help admiring her poise and arrogance as she confronted her prosecutors in court before being sentenced to a life in prison after the collapse of the Gang of Four. It contrasted well with the demeanour of broken Bolshevik intellectuals in the Stalinist show-trials of the Thirties, confessing to ‘crimes’ they had never committed. What had our Lahori Confucius made of it all? His testimony would really be something. I willed him to be alive. Did Jindié think he was? She shook her head.

‘I think he must have died under a false identity.’

‘I feel he’s still alive and keeping an eye on us from afar. Just a feeling. Pure irrationality. Is your son Suleiman still in Yunnan?’

‘Yes, I’m going to see him next month. I’ve never been, you know. Time to go and bid farewell to the ancestors. Want to come? Zahid would be very happy.’

It was a tempting offer and I promised to think about it.

‘China is going through a remarkable cycle in its history. How will it end?’

‘Don’t know. Sometimes a nation grows more in a decade than in a century, but there have been so many decades and centuries in the Chinese past that prophecy is impossible. If I can I will accompany you to China. There is nobody else I would rather be with in Yunnan.’

‘I will accept that as a compliment.’

I graciously declined her offer of the guest room, though grace is not generally regarded as one of my virtues and is frowned upon as an affectation in most of the Punjab.

‘It was a really nice evening, Jindié. I’m really happy we finally spent a night together without quarrelling.’

She kissed my forehead. ‘Why did you decide not to stay? Frightened of being raped by me disguised as Hsi-men?’

‘I just don’t like waking up in a house where there is no coffee.’

She pushed me gently out the doorway.

I drove back to North London just as dawn was breaking. Whatever the time of year, this has to be the nicest time of day to be awake in London, just before the big city wakes up. I crossed the river at Kew, stopping for a few minutes to see if a house I’d shared with friends after leaving university was still there. It wasn’t, and, slightly disappointed, I drove on and was home within fifteen minutes. There are advantages to living in an early Victorian square within ten minutes of St Pancras station. Novelists and bachelors share this in common: both are permanently at the mercy of capricious impulses. I espressoed myself two coffees, shaved and showered, left a message for Zaynab on her machine asking her to get some croissants, rush-packed a bag, adding a few books, earphones and my iPod, and walked to the station. At six-fifteen in the morning I was on the train to the Continent.