The Devils’ Dance

282 Pages·2018·2.36 MB·English

by  Donald Rayfield

T H E D E V I L S ’ D A N C E

I buried inside me the spark of love,
Deep in the canyons of my brain.
Yet the spark burned fiercely on
And inflicted endless pain.
When I heard ‘Be happy’ in calls to prayer
It struck me as an evil lure.
So I told the angel my personal myths;
They seemed to me more pure.
But playing with her hair, the angel said:
‘Your legends are needed no more!’
Her words buzzed noisily in my ears:
‘You’re swimming in blood and gore.’
The king of lies told me to swim on:
‘Your fortune’s waiting there.’
But my soul arrayed in funeral black
Is already awaiting there.
Leave now, Satan; I am afraid.
Go! My sword’s smashed, my shield holed.
Don’t you see? I am lying underneath
A mountain of troubles, crushed and cold?
Oh angel, one last breath, the last of all:
One last look, then may the skies fall!
Cho’lpon
CHAPTER 1
P
OLO
Autumn was particularly fine that year.
Wherever you happened to be – walking home down the empty streets from
the new tram stop, casting an eye over the clay walls of Tashkent’s Samarkand
Darvoza district, or going out into your own garden after a long day – every
imaginable colour was visible under a bright blue sky. In autumns like this, the
yellow and red leaves linger on the branches of trees and shrubs, as if they mean
to remain there right until winter, quivering and shining in the pure, translucent
air. But this motionless air and the tired sun’s cooling rays already hint at grief
and melancholy. Could this bitterness emanate from the smoke of dry leaves,
burning some distance away? Perhaps.
Abdulla had planned to prune his vines that day and prepare them for the
winter. He had already cut and dried a stack of reeds to wrap round the vines; his
children, playing with fire, had nearly burnt the stack down. But for the grace of
God, there would have been a disaster. Walking about with his secateurs,
Abdulla noticed that some of the ties holding the vines to the stakes were torn,
leaving the vines limp. He couldn’t work out how this had happened: had the
harvest been too plentiful, or had the plants not been cared for properly?
Probably the latter: this summer and early autumn, he hadn’t managed to give
them the attention they needed, and the vines had had a bad time of it. He was
uneasy. He had the impression that some devilish tricks had been at play ever
since he freed the vines from their wrappings in early spring. Almost daily, you
could hear bands playing loud music, and endless cheering in the streets.
Enormous portraits hung everywhere from the building on Xadra Square as far
as Urda. Every pole stuck into the earth had a bright red banner on its end. As
for the nights, his friends were being snatched away: it was like a field being
weeded.
Not long ago, the mullah’s son G’ozi Yunus turned up – dishevelled and
unwashed from constantly having to run and hide – and asked Abdulla to lend
him some money, pledging his father’s gold watch as a token of his
trustworthiness. Then Cho’lpon’s wife Katya came, distraught, bursting into
tears and begging Abdulla to write a letter of support. ‘They’ll trust you,’ she
said. But who would trust anyone these days? These were vicious, unpredictable
times; clearly, they hadn’t finished weeding the field. As the great poet Navoi
wrote, ‘Fire has broken out in the Mozandaron forests’. And in the conflagration
everything is burnt, regardless of whether it is dry or wet. Well, if it were up to
him, he would have been like a saddled horse, raring to go. Just say ‘Chuh’ and
he’d be off.
With these gloomy thoughts in mind, Abdulla bent down to the ground to
prune the thin, lower shoots of the vines. He systematically got rid of any
crooked branches. If only his children would come running up in a noisy throng
to help. Sadly, the eldest had fallen ill some time ago and was still in bed;
otherwise he would have joined his father and the job would have been a
pleasure. The youngest, Ma’sud, his father’s pampered favourite, might not
know the difference between a rake and a bill-hook, but he was an amusing
chatterbox. The thought made Abdulla smile. The toddler found everything fun:
if you put a ladder against a vine stake he would clamber to the top like a
monkey, chattering, ‘Dad, Dad, let me prune the top of the vine…’ ‘Of course
you can!’ Abdulla would say.
Possibly, Abdulla wouldn’t have time to prune, tie back and cover all the vines
with reeds today. But there was always tomorrow and, if God was willing, the
day after that. Soon after he’d protected his vines, the cold weather would pass,
the spring rains would bring forth new shoots from the earth, and the cuttings he
had planted in winter would come into bud. It was always like that: first you
pack and wrap each vine for the winter; the next thing you know, everything
unfurls in the sun and in no time at all it’s green again. Just like literature,
Abdulla thought, as he wiped a drop of sweat from the bridge of his nose.
The flashes of sunlight coming through the leaves must have dazzled him, for
it was only now, when he tugged at a vine shoot bearing an enormous, palm-
shaped leaf, that he discovered a small bunch of grapes underneath it: the
qirmizka which he’d managed to get hold of and plant last year with great
difficulty. The little bunch of fruit hiding under a gigantic leaf had ripened fully
and, true to its name, produced round, bright-red berries, as tiny as dewdrops, so
that they looked more like a pretty toy than fruit. Abdulla’s heart pounded with
excitement. He had been nurturing an idea for a book: the story of a beautiful
slave-girl who became the wife of three khans. The autumn discovery of a bunch
of berries as red as the maiden’s blushing cheek, hidden among the vine’s bare
branches, had brought on a sudden clarity and harmony. Turning towards the
house, he called out joyfully, ‘Ma’sud, child, come here quick!’ But suppose the
first fruit is too bitter? He plucked a berry from the bunch that he meant to give
the toddler, and put it in his own mouth. Ramadan had just ended: he had
forgotten the feel of food in daylight. The large pip crunched between Abdulla’s
teeth, and its sweet flesh dissolved like honey through his entire body.
And suddenly he had a revelation: he knew how to begin his book. It would be
a terrific story, surpassing both Past Days and The Scorpion from the Altar.
Ahmad Qori, who lived at the top of Abdulla’s street, had lent him a stack of
books by the classic historians, and he had already researched the fine details. If
he could get the supplies in quickly he could then be on his own, sitting in front
of the warm coal fire of his sandal. Surely the three months of cold would be
long enough for him to finish his novel.
Abdulla didn’t wait for his youngest child to toddle out from the ancestral
house: he picked one more berry of the unexpected gift, tucked the tiny bunch of
grapes behind his ear and got down to work.
On 31 December, 1937, a freezing winter’s day, Abdulla was taken from his
home and put in prison, neither charged nor tried. So he did not begin his
narrative with that early-ripening bunch of grapes in the shade of a broad leaf.
Instead, Abdulla began his novel by describing a typical game of bozkashi,
where players fight for a goat carcass…
—
Nasrullo-xon, ruler of Qarshi, was very fond of bozkashi, though as a spectator
rather than a participant. Today, mounted on a bay racehorse which had only just
been brought out from the stables, he rode onto the boundless meadow that lay
outside the city. He preferred bay horses to those of any other colour, possibly
because he could whip the horse’s croup or slash its leg with his sword and the
blood would barely be noticeable against its copper coat. When they saw their
ruler and his courtiers, the people raised their voices in welcome. Nasrullo
glanced at his lively mount with satisfaction: tiny golden bells were attached to
its mane, and it quivered nervously each time it caught the faint sound of their
ringing. The soft leather bridle was decorated with mother-of-pearl, the saddle
edged in red gold, while the saddle-cloth was made of white baby camel wool
felt. ‘Damn you,’ the corpulent ruler barked at his horse every time he was
jolted. And what a wonderful gold-embroidered gown he wore! It shone so
bright that it dazzled the eyes. But even more bewitching was his belt with its
pure gold buckle and a jewel the size of a horse’s eye. A scabbard and sword
were attached by a strap to the belt. Nobody would doubt that the khan’s horse
alone was worth more than all the possessions of the crowd that had gathered
here. Ah, what a treasure, Nasrullo thought, bursting with pride as he gave his
horse a slap on the croup.
As he rode up to a spacious open marquee, one of his eager guards
immediately seized the reins of his horse and deftly hobbled it, while two servant
boys worked the fans on either side: the applause was immediately replaced by
silence. The khan’s chef and the city mufti stepped out. The mufti made a long
speech in praise of the holy city of Bukhara and the dynasty of the Mangits who
had brought Islam to their world, and also in praise of this dynasty’s precious
jewel, Prince Nasrullo. He stepped aside only when the ruler waved his riding
whip, after which the court chef came forward. Today he spoke as the master of
the games: he shouted out orders to the riders while their horses stamped their
hooves and snorted. ‘Firstly,’ the chef roared, ‘don’t pull each other off your
horses, and don’t hit each other with your whips. Secondly,’ his throat straining
a little with the effort, ‘don’t let your horses bite or kick. Thirdly, don’t let
anyone who falls off his horse be trampled.’ ‘Quite right! Quite right!’ the
people shouted in approval, punctuating these announcements. Just then, two
horsemen came rushing up on black steeds, clutching to their thighs the carcass
of a goat, the size of a calf. The horsemen pulled up about ten yards from the
ruler’s marquee, just long enough to let the carcass thud to the ground. Then they
wheeled around and galloped off, shoulder to shoulder, towards the crowd.
‘The goat’s been lifted!’ the master of the games cried out, disappearing all of
a sudden behind the cloud of dust left behind by the riders rushing into the fray.
It was like the Last Judgement: the wild horses barely controlled by their riders;
the sound of hooves hitting the ground, of riders urging their mounts on, and of
the spectators roaring; it was as if tight reins had been loosened, everything had
leapt into motion and been drowned in noise. In the distance a flock of crows,
tempted by the carcass, soared into the air.
‘Grab it,’ one man yelled. ‘Hold it,’ another said. The thousands who had
assembled to watch echoed such cries. There was such confusion that it was hard
to work out what was happening. A dog wouldn’t have been able to recognise its
own master.
The snorting of the horses as they joined battle either frightened or excited
Nasrullo’s bay – it too tried to rush forwards, despite its fetters. It managed to
keep its balance, but lashed out furiously with its hind hooves. The Prince
gripped the reins hard to hold the horse back, and two guards clung to the
stirrups on either side. The horse twisted its head and foam spattered from its
mouth while Nasrullo’s whip rained down blows. How could the ruler see the
game like this?
All he could make out was brief glimpses of necks colliding against necks. His
heart was pounding. He wanted to push his guards aside and ride into the thick
of the game, using his sword to clear a path if necessary, then bend down and
pick up the dead goat, his whip poised between his teeth… As if it had guessed
what its master was thinking, the bay horse rushed forward again. If a piercing,
heart-stopping cry had not just then come from the crush of circling horses, then
who knows? Perhaps Nasrullo would have overlooked his royal status and
thrown himself into the skirmish.
The flanks of the horses on the outer edge shifted and he caught a glimpse
between their hooves of a carcass, not a goat’s but a man’s, being picked up by
the ankle and flung onto the back of a horse.
‘He’s been trampled, trampled!’ the people clamoured, and the court
chamberlain hurried over to the scrum, which stopped moving. Then a rider
burst forth from the mass of horse flesh: the body of his fellow contestant hung
lifelessly from his horse’s back. The riderless horse, a young dun not much more
than a colt, followed: its reins were grabbed and passed along until they reached
the chamberlain, who bowed and looked enquiringly at the Prince. Nasrullo
nodded. Two servants brought a brocade gown from the marquee and threw it
over the dun horse’s back. The chamberlain handed the reins to the rider who
had brought the contestant’s body out of the crush, and the man trotted off,
leading both horses towards the lamenting spectators.
Despite the hysterical tears of the dead man’s relatives, the game resumed, the
goat’s carcass thrown back to be torn apart. This time the horsemen who had
been waiting at the edge of the meadow galloped to the centre.
A week earlier, Haydar, Emir of Bukhara and Nasrullo’s father, had visited
Qarshi. Today the Emir’s vizier, Chief Minister Hakim, had sent a courier with
the following message, ‘Your father and noble benefactor fell ill on his return:
despite the doctor’s efforts, His Majesty’s condition worsens with each day.’
The Chief Minister also added an oral message: ‘Make your preparations.’
Nasrullo’s father was devoted to intellectual pursuits, and the Mangit dynasty
had weakened with him; the Emirate was swamped with intrigues and betrayal
spread like a contagion. Recently, a group of armed men from the Chinese-
Kipchak district had raided the viceroy of Samarkand and Umar, Emir of
Kokand, had taken advantage of the situation by besieging Jizzax castle.
Meanwhile Nasrullo’s father’s condition was worsening. Could that plotting