Читать книгу The Mulberry Empire - Philip Hensher - Страница 38

The court scattered in overpowering embarrassment, almost before the double doors had swung shut on them. Khushhal found his way back to the anteroom where the boy Hasan still stood, waiting nervously. He beckoned to his son with the underside of his palm, a small flapping gesture, and together they walked through the mid-afternoon quiet of the palace’s public rooms.

‘Was that the Emperor?’ Hasan said after a time. He seemed nervous; but he usually seemed nervous, shrinking back within his skin from the unpredictable effects he had on people.

‘Have you never seen him?’ Khushhal said.

‘I think I have, years ago, when I was too small to know whom I was meeting and too long ago to remember his face afterwards. Of course I know the noble Akbar the Emperor’s son. Or I know who he is, not know him to be greeted by him. But I wasn’t sure of his father the Emperor.’

Khushhal gave him a sideways glance. ‘The Amir knows you, it seems. Or he has seen you, at least.’

‘I don’t know when that can have been,’ Hasan said reflectively, ‘for it’s not to be expected that the Amir’s life and mine take similar paths. He is not as I thought he would be.’

‘It is not for you to think how the Amir will appear, or consider what so great a man as he should be like,’ Khushhal said. Then he relented, as, with Hasan, he usually did relent, and said, ‘Of course, no one could expect you not to wonder what Akbar’s father would be like. They talk – at least the Amir talks – of sending Akbar as ambassador to the English in London.’

‘What for, father?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. Perhaps the Amir has a lot to discuss with the English, and after all, they paid him the compliment of coming to visit him, so it would only be polite to send an ambassador to them with gifts, in return.’

Hasan’s attention had been drawn by a merchant of cloth, bringing materials into the fortress of the Bala Hissar. By now, they had passed beyond the state rooms and were in the outer shell of the palace, which resembled a market as much as anything, as the tradesmen of the city came to service and supply the court and the palace guard. An oddly silent market; when a baker, now, laden with the bread for the household, collided with a butcher with a bound calf over his shoulder, neither made the smallest protest as they surely would have outside, but walked away briskly, humbled and silenced by the sudden importance of their roles, the gravity of the shady palace. The cloth merchant was a little man, and waddled before three apprentices, meandering helplessly as they half-ran behind him, arms stretched out under the weight of brilliant bolts of rough silk, red and blue and gold. Hasan’s attention was taken like a child’s with a cloud of hummingbirds. Then he shut his mouth and said, ‘Where is London?’

‘Where the English live, who rule India,’ Khushhal said, despairing a little. ‘Though England is far away in one direction and India far in the other direction, beyond the great mountains beyond the empire of the Amir. Do you remember the English, when they came last year, when they lived with the Newab Jubbur Khan for a month, and brought the marvellous clock, the clock of gold and crystal?’

‘I remember,’ Hasan said, dimly. ‘Those English, they looked nothing like the merchants from India, the ones who come in the spring.’ Then he brightened, as if sunlight had fallen on his face, and said, ‘There is another English in the city, though he is dressed strangely, and talks strangely, the women say. Is he perhaps a Russian, that Englishman?’

‘Perhaps so,’ Khushhal said. They were in one of the little courtyard gardens which appeared from time to time in the great rude mass of the Bala Hissar. A pool of clean water at the centre, dripping with a delicious cooling sound into a trough; a plum tree, casting shade in the blunt-bright heat of the afternoon. The cool smell of water on marble, of the shade of a fruit tree; here was luxury, here in the silent quarter of the palace, and Khushhal and Hasan hitched their robes up to their knees and squatted in the cool shade.

‘The Amir has very bad teeth,’ murmured Hasan, as if he were thinking of something else. ‘I saw as he passed. He started to smile, as he may, and then he seemed not to want to smile, because his teeth are bad, perhaps.’

‘That is enough, boy,’ Khushhal said. ‘Remember you are in the house of the Amir before you insult him so childishly.’

‘I’m sorry, papa,’ Hasan said. ‘I was only making an observation.’

‘That’s all right,’ Khushhal said. They fell silent for a moment; somewhere, nearby, there was the rush of women’s voices, somewhere walled, enclosed and veiled, and they both listened to the lovely liquid sound. ‘The Amir, you must know, has a task for you. To do with the Englishman – it’s good that you know of him, since it concerns him.’

‘A task for me?’ Hasan said. ‘But how can it be that the Amir should need me to do anything for him? Why has he chosen me?’

Khushhal looked at his slow-lidded son. It was almost worrying, the boy’s lack of consciousness of his beauty. In his shy moods, he seemed to be shrinking back from his own face, disowning it, wanting to hide, preferring not to be looked at, not understanding why he was looked at. But it was wilfulness to question the decision of the Amir. Hasan’s strangely hot blue eyes – like Khushhal’s own, a sign of a direct and pure descent from the Jews, the founders of the Afghan nation – his high smooth brow and small beardless chin, his fine strong hair and teeth, his soft skin. It must have been obvious to Hasan, without too much concentration, what use he could be in the present case.

Khushhal explained slowly what was wanted. Hasan said nothing, merely listened, occasionally nodding. When Khushhal had come to the end of his explanation, Hasan sighed and salaamed to his honourable father. There had not been so much to explain, after all, and it was clear even to Hasan, who was always the last to shut his mouth and understand the point of a story or a joke, that his father did not quite know what Hasan was supposed to do. The Englishman, down there, in his disguise! Wasn’t that enough to have found out?

‘When shall I go there, papa?’ Hasan asked. He concentrated on working out some dirt from under his toenails with the point of his dagger.

Khushhal clapped him on the back, almost making him drive the knife deep into the ball of his toe. ‘As soon as you may choose,’ he said. ‘The Amir will send for you in seven nights.’

‘Now, then?’ Hasan said. He could not see why not, and his father nodded, dismissing him.