The Impressionist by Hari Kunzru Page B

brothel-keeper assured us that he had been well taught.’
    ‘He’s certainly a pretty one.’
    ‘I told them to get the best they could.’
    His mouth suddenly feeling rather dry, Pran looks from one face to another. The twin discs of the Picturewallah’s glasses; Flowers’s slicked cheeks; the Diwan’s turban jewel – unpleasantness is reflected back at him by them all. Beyond the dull orange sphere of lamplight the darkness hides further mirrors. More light would not necessarily improve things.
    Flowers says again, plaintively, ‘But you can’t make me do this.’
    The Picturewallah shakes his head. ‘Once again, Mr Flowers. You have been part of the Political Mission for how long? Eight months? Nine months? You have a comfortable life here. Certainly you never hesitate to take the hospitality of Prince Firoz – polo, shikar, tennis, his unusual film parties. You are an unmarried man. You have desires. Most understandable. But your choice of entertainment was certainly – individual. You obviously need another reminder.’
    He produces a large manila envelope and draws out of it a sheaf of photographs. Pran cannot tell what they depict, but they produce an impressive effect on Flowers, who groans piteously and starts to bang his forehead on the table. The Diwan looks disgusted at this performance and mutters something in Urdu about those who are men and those who are not men and those who are little girls.
    ‘Click-click,’ says Picturewallah, looking with pride at what is evidently his handiwork. ‘It looks most insanitary,’ he comments. ‘Surely is there not some government of India ordinance against it? But then you people eat and wipe with either hand. I suppose one thing leads to another.’
    ‘All right, all right’ groans Flowers. ‘Just put the bloody things away. I’ll do it.’
    ‘Naturally. You will tell Major Privett-Clampe that you have procured the boy. He will be waiting in the Chinese room. Be careful that you say exactly what you have been told. We will be listening.’
    Flowers rises from the table. The Picturewallah follows him.
    ‘I will accompany you, Mr Flowers. I must get my equipment.’
    The Diwan spits, peremptorily, on the floor.

Pran does not have a good feeling about the conversation in the mirrored room. These people do not appear to have his well-being uppermost in their minds. Maybe they have mistaken him for someone else. Maybe he should leave. He suggests this to the Khwaja-sara, who slaps him on the face and tells him that if he tries, he will be hunted down. He decides that he might not leave.
    As they are making their way back through the palace to the zenana, there is a commotion in one of the corridors. The Khwaja-sara pulls Pran out of sight behind a life-sized marble discobolus as a completely naked European girl speeds past on a bicycle, a mirror balanced precariously on the handlebars. She is chased by a number of men and women in varying states of undress. For some reason, several of the women seem to be wearing military hats: kepis, shakos, bearskins and forage caps which go oddly with their slips and stockings. They are all shouting at the girl to come back with their cokey. One dark-haired man, dressed in the remains of black tie, is carrying a shotgun. ‘I’m going to bring her down!’ he growls. ‘Get out of my way! Let me get a clear shot at her!’ In the midst of the rout is Prince Firoz, supporting himself on a bewildered servant.
    ‘Don’t be a ninny, De Souza!’ he drawls. ‘If you shoot her, shell spill it!’
    They run off down the corridor, screaming and giggling, leaving an empty Dom Pérignon bottle spinning in their wake. The Khwaja-sara looks disgusted.
    ‘You see what we have to contend with?’ he mutters, as much to himself as to Pran. ‘How does that puppy think he is fit to rule Fatehpur?’
    Back in the zenana he squats down at a low table crammed with a variety of pots and stoppered jars. Monkey-like, long fingers