Free Night of the Golden Butterfly by Tariq Ali

asked, that his tenderness alternated with fury? If so, his jealous temperament would create insurmountable problems and for no reason at all. If he even saw her talking to a girlfriend he didn’t know, he would lose control. I carried on in this way, describing the worst characteristics of many of my acquaintances. To my astonishment, her startled eyes fixed their gaze on mine and she nodded strongly in agreement.
    ‘Your friend must know him really well. I’m beginning to think exactly the same. I was thinking of breaking off all contact with him, but I delayed writing the letter. I really don’t want him to think my parents have anything to do with it. They’re just stupid. Just because his father sells shawls and furs.’
    ‘That alone would be reason to wed the boy’, I said, ‘especially if the father has a treasure trove of old pashminas and shahtoosh.’
    For the first time ever, she laughed. My heart missed a few beats. There is an awful Punjabi saying that attaches great importance to laughter as an adjunct of sexual conquest, ‘ hasi te phasi’ (if she laughs, you’ve trapped her). It was not true, but for once I did believe I had improved my chances. Younis, too, was convinced that this was the case.
    ‘I know these Pashtun girls. They’re much more advanced than your Punjabi beauties. Make your move, my friend. Cement the Punjabi—Pashtun alliance. Give Fatherland something to be proud of.’
    But it was too late to make any further moves that summer. She left a few days later, after we’d exchanged English novels. I had suggested she send the break-off letter from here so that she could start a new chapter in her life when she reached Peshawar and not be bothered by him. She thought this was a good idea. Younis and I both agreed that the letter was beautifully written, extremely dignified and far too generous. She went up even more in my estimation.
    It would have been disloyal if I had kept Plato and Younis in the dark about Jindié, and in Zahid’s absence I needed to talk about her with someone. I told them. Plato was philosophical.
    ‘These things happen. You just need a tiny bit of hope for love to be born. Has she given you cause for hope?’
    ‘Not sure.’
    ‘Then you think she has. Well, we’re all here to help.’
    Younis was disappointed. ‘I was imagining you with the moonlit Lailuma, but Allah decides. There is no reason to seal off that option. Am I to open all the letters addressed to the Chinese lady?’
    ‘No,’ I said, mortified by what Jindié might think if she ever found out. ‘Let’s wait.’
    I had sprained my ankle while playing tennis and was incapacitated the day they arrived, but ordered a horse and rode over to the Pines the next day to pay my respects and drag Confucius to the old club. When Jindié saw me being helped down from the horse she burst out laughing, stopping only when she noticed that I was limping with the help of a stick.
    ‘I’m sorry, but I just never imagined you on horseback. You’re hurt?’ I explained. Confucius had gone in search of me. How we missed each other I don’t know, but Mrs Ma ordered some tea and Bostaan duly arrived with a tray and some truly terrible cucumber sandwiches made with stale bread, lightly soaked in water to make it appear fresh. He gave me a knowing smile, which could only mean that Younis had alerted him to my state of mind.
    I warned Jindié and her mother against eating too often in the hotel and told Bostaan to offer the sandwiches to my horse, which he promptly did, only to have them rejected by the animal. This caused general merriment and a cheerful Mrs Ma went indoors to unpack.
    ‘It’s really beautiful here. You’ve been here every summer since you were two?’
    I nodded, trying not to look at her too openly. She was wearing a blouse over a pair of black trousers and her hair was in a bun held together by ivory clips.
    ‘My foot is on the mend and in a few days I’ll be walking again. We’re