slightly protruding, with a vacant, sated expression which may have been due to drink or the recent attentions of the wrestler – a bit shaky, he looked to me – but as I made my bow they widened in what was either drunken interest or yearning lechery – the same thing, really, with her.
Considering the size of her endowments, she was quite small, light coffee in colour, and fine-boned under her smooth fat – a tung bibi, as they say; a ‘tight lady’. Like Mangla, she was decked out as a dancer, with a crimson silk loin-cloth and flimsy bodice, but instead of bangles her legs and arms were sheathed in gauze sewn with tiny gems, and her dark red hair was contained in a jewelled net.
To see her then, you’d never have guessed that when she wasn’t guzzling drink and men, Mai Jeendan was another woman altogether; Broadfoot was wrong in thinking debauchery had dulled her wits. She was shrewd and resolute and ruthless when the need arose; she was also an accomplished actress and mimic, talents developed when she’d been the leading jester in old Runjeet’s obscene private entertainments.
Just now, though, she was too languid with drink to do more than struggle up on one elbow, pushing her masseur away to view me better, slowly up and down – it reminded me of being on the slave-block in Madagascar, when no one bought me, rot them. This time, so far as one could judge from the lady’s tipsy muttering as she lolled back on her cushions, fluttering a plump hand at me, the market was more buoyant.
‘You were right, Mangla … he’s big!’ She gave a drunken chuckle, adding an indelicate remark which I won’t translate. ‘Well, must make him comfortable … have him take off his robe … come sit down here, beside me. You, get out …’ This to the wrestler, who salaamed himself off in haste. ‘You too, Mangla … draw the curtains … want to talk with big Englishman.’
And not about the Soochet legacy, from the way she patted the cushions and smiled at me over the rim of her glass. Well, I’d heard she was game, but this was informality with a vengeance. I was all for it, mind you, even if she was as drunk as Taffy’s sow and spilling most of the drink down her front – if any ass tells you that there’s nothing so disgusting as a beauty in her cups, I can only say she looks a sight more interesting than a sober schoolmarm. I was wondering if I should offer to help her out of her wet things when Mangla got in before me, calling for a cloth, so I hung back, polite-like, and found myself being addressed most affably by a tall young grandee with a flashing smile who made me a pretty little speech, welcoming me to the Court of Lahore, and trusting that I would have a pleasant stay.
His name was Lal Singh, and I still give him top marks for style. After all, he was Jeendan’s principal lover, and here was his mistress cussing like Sowerberry Hagan and having her déshabillé mopped in the presence of a stranger whom she’d been about to drag into the woodshed; it didn’t unsettle him a bit as he congratulated me on my Afghan exploits and drew me into conversation with Tej Singh, my fat little warrior of the afternoon, who bobbed up grinning at his elbow to tell me how well I suited the robe he’d given me. By this time I was beginning to feel a trifle confused myself, having in short order survived an assassination plot – what a long time ago it seemed – been filled with strong waters and (I suspected) aphrodisiac, trotted up and down by a half-naked slave-girl, verbally assailed in public by the Wazir of the Punjab, and indecently ogled by his drunken flesh-trap of a sister. Now I was discussing, more or less coherently, the merits of the latest Congreve rockets with two knowledgeable military men, while a yard away the Queen Regent was being dried off by her attendants and protesting tipsily, and at my back a vigorous ballet was being danced by a score of young chaps in turbans and baggy trousers, with the orchestra going full steam.
I was new to Lahore, of course, and not au fait with their easygoing ways. I didn’t know, for example, that recently, when Lal Singh and Jawaheer had quarrelled publicly, the Maharani had composed things by presenting each of them with a naked houri and telling them to restore their tempers by doing honour to her gifts then and there. Which, by all accounts, they had done. I mention that in case you think my own account is at all exaggerated.
‘We must have a longer talk presently,’ says Lal Singh, taking me by the arm. ‘You see the deplorable condition of affairs here. It cannot continue – as I am sure Hardinge sahib is aware. He and I have had some correspondence – through your esteemed chief, Major Broadfoot.’ He flashed me another of his smiles, all beard and teeth. ‘They are both very practical and expert men. Tell me, you have their confidence – what price do you suppose they would consider fair … for the Punjab?’
Well, I was drunk, and he knew it, which was why he asked the impossible, treasonable question, in the hope that my reaction would tell him something. Even fuddled, I knew that Lal Singh was a clever, probably desperate man, and that the best answer to the unanswerable is to put a question of your own. So I said, ‘Why, does someone want to sell it?’ At which he gave me a long smile, while little Tej held his breath; then Lal Singh clapped me on the shoulder.
‘We shall have our long talk by day,’ says he. ‘The night is for pleasure. Would you care for some opium? No? Kashmiri opium is the finest obtainable – like Kashmiri women. I would offer you one, or even two, of them, but I fear my lady Jeendan’s displeasure. You have aroused some expectation in that quarter, Mr Flashman, as I’m sure you noticed.’ His smile was as easy and open as though he were telling me she’d be bidding me to tea presently. ‘May I suggest a fortifying draught?’ He beckoned a matey, and I was presented with another beaker of Mangla’s Finest Old Inspirator, which I sipped with caution. ‘I see you treat it with greater respect than does that impossible sot, our Wazir. Look yonder, bahadur … and have pity on us.’
For now Jawaheer was to the fore again, reeling noisily in front of Jeendan’s booth, with his black tart trying vainly to hold him upright; he was delivering a great tirade against Dinanath, and Jeendan must have sobered somewhat under Mangla’s ministrations, for she told him pretty plain, with barely a hiccough, to pull himself together and drink no more.
‘Be a man,’ says she, and indicated his wench. ‘With her … practise for acting like a man among men. Go on … take her to bed. Make yourself brave!’
‘And tomorrow?’ cries he, flopping down on his knees before her. He was having another of his blubbering fits, wailing and rocking to and fro.
‘Tomorrow,’ says she, with drunken deliberation, ‘you’ll go out to Khalsa –’
‘I cannot!’ squeals he. ‘They’ll tear me to pieces!’
‘You’ll go, little brother. And speak to them. Make your peace with ’em … all will be right …’
‘You’ll come with me?’ he pleaded. ‘You and the child?’
‘Be assured … we’ll all come. Lal and Tej … Mangla here.’ Her sleepy gaze travelled to me. ‘Big Englishman, too … he’ll tell the Malki lat and Jangi latfn6 how the troops acclaimed their Wazir. Cheered him!’ She flourished her cup, spilling liquor again. ‘So they’ll know … a man rules in Lahore!’
He stared about vacantly, and his face was that of a frightened ape, all streaked with tears. I doubt if he saw me, for he leaned closer to her, whispering hoarsely: ‘And then – we’ll march on the British? Take them unawares –’
‘As God wills,’ smiles she, and looked at me again – and for an instant she didn’t seem drunk at all. She stroked his face, speaking gently, as to a fractious infant. ‘But first … the Khalsa. You must take them gifts … promises of pay …’
‘But … but … how can I pay? Where can I –’
‘There is treasure in Delhi, remember,’ says she, and glanced at me a third time. ‘Promise them that.’
‘Perhaps … if I gave them this?’ He fumbled in his belt and brought out a little case on a chain. ‘I shall wear it tomorrow –’
‘Why not? But I must wear it tonight.’ She snatched it from him, laughing, and held it beyond his reach. ‘Nay, nay – wait! It is for the dance! Would you like that, little brother-who-wishes-he-weren’t-a-brother?