Free Night of the Golden Butterfly by Tariq Ali Page A

all going up that mountain. Mukshpuri. A path leads to it from the other side of this hotel. The grown-ups usually stop halfway up, at Lalazar, where everyone eats lunch after we kids have returned from the summit.’
    ‘And after lunch?’
    ‘We pick daisies, sing, listen to Zahid play the accordion, tell stories and then come down and light a fire.’
    ‘Where will you light the fire?’
    Before I could control myself the words slipped out. ‘In your heart.’ She became agitated and stood up as if to leave. I was spared the agony of her departure by the appearance of an out-of-breath Confucius.
    ‘One more thing, Jindié,’ I said, wanting to make up for my mistake. ‘You must walk a lot over the next few days to acclimatize. Otherwise your legs will be stiff after we climb the mountain.’
    ‘I suppose your legs are never stiff.’
    ‘Only because I walk several miles a day.’
    ‘On horseback?’ She laughed again and disappeared. I sighed with relief. I took Confucius to the bazaar and introduced him to Younis. Later that day Zahid arrived to stay with me for a few days and prepare for the Mukshpuri climb. In the evening I hobbled with him to the club. While everyone was playing tennis and ping-pong, I retired to the library and relieved the volunteer librarian for a few hours. Jindié came in to look at the books and said, ‘Colonial rubbish.’
    I had no idea she was that way inclined and was quite delighted, but felt the library had to be defended.
    ‘The best books have been stolen. Only the rubbish is left, but there are a few others. Pearl S. Buck is quite readable.’
    ‘What? Are you mad or just stupid? Every literate Chinese laughs at her.’
    ‘Could that be because she describes the lowest depths of Chinese society and some literate Chinese find that embarrassing? I have to admit I learned a great deal from her books.’
    ‘That’s only because you’re ignorant and know nothing about China.’
    ‘True. One has to start somewhere. She got the Nobel Prize for no reason?’
    ‘Those idiots in Stockholm were ignorant, just like you. They were taken in by missionary sensitivities. Have you read The Dream of the Red Chamber ?’
    ‘I tried, but the official translation is unreadable. Is it available in English?’
    ‘How do I know? My father is the expert on all this and will also know the best translation.’
    ‘In Punjabi, I hope. Confucius is a true Punjabi. He has assimilated every Lahori prejudice, including that profound malice against the cultured refugees who crossed the Jumna and found themselves in an illiterate hell.’
    She laughed and lit the room, just as a whole gang of kids arrived to borrow books, disturbing our very first conversation. The day we climbed the mountain, Jindié, forgetful of her customary reserve, suddenly took my arm—a coup de foudre if ever there was one—and as come of the party looked askance, she pretended she had slipped. The gesture, however, had been noticed, and knowing looks were exchanged. Strange how the exchangers of knowing looks never realize that one can see them.
    Lailuma arrived the following day, together with her extended family, and instantly became part of our crowd. She was in remarkably good spirits, understood perfectly that Jindié and I had become close and played the part of chaperone to perfection. She was now engaged to a lawyer she liked and thanked me again in Jindié’s presence for all my help last year. Strange, I thought to myself, how my desire for her had disappeared so completely. Love of the sort I felt for the Butterfly had a side effect, in the shape of what can only be the drollest of virtues: chastity.
    Once we were alone, Jindié wanted to know the whole truth. Instinctively she had guessed that my motives in helping the Peshawari princess had not been totally pure. I told her the truth, concealing nothing, but made her pledge she would never reveal the sub-postmaster’s role. She agreed, but let me know that she