Hussein. Patrick O’Brian

hastily.

      When he had finished, she said, ‘What a pity I have read Hafiz too!’

      Hussein was very much taken aback, but he did not show it. ‘How singular!’ he said. ‘So you can really appreciate him. Do you know “The Gazelle of Quarasmia”?’

      ‘By heart: and the “Rose of Frangistan”.’

      ‘Bismillah! But you are fortunate. I have never been able to get the “Rose”.’

      They talked for a long while, until the moon came up, and then Sashiya had to go.

      ‘When may I come again?’ asked Hussein.

      ‘Next week, perhaps.’

      ‘Oh, before then, please. To-morrow at the same hour?’

      ‘Well … it will be difficult: you will wait in the tree if I am late?’

      ‘All night, if need be.’

      She found him quite stiff with waiting in the tree the next night, but she rewarded him with the ‘Rose of Frangistan’. They talked only of themselves that night: strangely enough they found it extraordinarily interesting.

      In the morning Jehangir sniffed at Hussein and gave a little discontented rumble deep in his throat. As he lifted him up on his back the elephant gave him a little squeeze and shook him.

      ‘Jealous, old fat pig?’ said Hussein, pulling Jehangir’s ears, and the elephant muttered again.

      The next night he came to see Sashiya, and the next and the next: each time he liked her more than the last time.

      Jehangir became really jealous, and he swallowed the ‘Rose of Frangistan’ because it smelt of Sashiya.

      One evening, as Hussein was climbing over the courtyard wall, he was suddenly jerked to the ground and his head was enveloped in a cloak. A hearty blow stunned him, and he remained unconscious for nearly an hour.

      When he came to himself, he was only aware of a violent headache, and he thought for a moment that he must have fallen from the tree.

      Then a voice said, ‘He is awake.’

      Hussein opened his eyes and looked around: he was in a small low room with four men in it. They all had their faces covered.

      ‘We had better peg him out,’ said someone. Hussein was seized, and his hands and feet were tied to stout pegs driven deep into the ground. The four men gagged him, and then without saying a word they beat him very grievously indeed.

      He could only grunt and strain at the ropes. The men said nothing: the only sound was that of their panting breath, and the heavy thud of the lathis.

      At length the pain grew so intolerable that Hussein ceased to move, in the hope that they would think him to be dead; but they went on and on, so that he writhed again. Then one of the men, missing his stroke, hit Hussein on the head, and he was stunned. He came to himself on a heap of rubbish near the elephant lines: the sun was beating down on him: he was entirely stiff, but his wounds had stopped bleeding. He could hardly move for his extreme soreness, but little by little he managed to creep into the shade. Time passed, and the shadow slid away from him: he lacked the strength to crawl after it now, and a host of flies tormented him cruelly. Some people passed fairly near, and he tried to shout, for he was still just conscious, but he could only achieve a cracked groan that went unheard.

      High up out of human sight a vulture swung on motionless wings: it was watching the rubbish heap intently. There were other vultures watching it too. One of them rolled over on to its side and dropped towards the earth. The others followed. Suddenly there was a rush of wings as the first vulture perched on a nearby tree: it looked meditatively at Hussein, with its head on one side, wondering how soon it could safely get to work. At intervals the other vultures joined it: three crows came. For about a quarter of an hour they all stared unwaveringly at Hussein, who stirred now and then.

      Several more crows came, and they began to quarrel among themselves. The noise they made attracted some people who were passing. A child ran to see what they were squabbling about, and he found Hussein twitching gently, just enough to keep the birds off. The little group soon became a crowd, all gaping at Hussein, but far too busy talking to do anything for him. With real Indian ineffectiveness they wondered shrilly how he had come there, while he was very nearly dying in front of them.

      Their chatter attracted the mahouts, who came running from the elephant lines to see what was happening.

      In spite of what he had been through they recognised Hussein, and they carried him to the Englishman who was in charge of that section; then he was taken into the hospital in Haiderabad.

Six

      After a week it was obvious that he had come by no permanent injury, and in no long time he came out of hospital quite whole again.

      Jehangir received him with great joy; the elephant had become thin and anxious, for although Hussein had been away from him before for more than a month, he had felt that something was wrong, and had gone off his feed.

      Hussein went to his hut; it was just as he had left it, except that a letter lay on the floor. He ran to it, hoping that it might be from Sashiya. All that it said was: ‘If you go to see Sashiya again we shall beat you more seriously.’

      The writing — it was in Urdu — was not that of anyone he knew. It looked like that of someone who was accustomed to writing, and that narrowed things down a bit. For a long time he meditated, lying on Jehangir’s back while the elephant wandered slowly about by the banks of a pool, picking out tender branches from among the bushes. Suddenly Hussein had an idea.

      ‘It is probably a letter-writer,’ he thought. There was one of these always seated by the Temple of Hanuman, near the elephant lines. He was a fat Bengali: Hussein showed him the letter. ‘I might know something about it,’ he said, ‘but of course I could not tell you anything — my work is most confidential.’

      Hussein dropped some money negligently: the scribe covered it with his foot, trying hard to feel how much it was before imparting any information.

      At length he said, ‘Now that I come to think about it, it seems to me that that is the writing of Abd’Arahman, who writes in the Krishnavi bazaar. Yes, I feel quite sure of it.’

      Hussein went into the city, to the bazaar of Krishnavi, and he found Abd’Arahman the letter-writer sitting before his pen-case and paper.

      ‘Peace upon your house, Imâm,’ he said, squatting in the dust.

      ‘Salaam aleikum, hâthi-wallah,’ replied the old man courteously, who knew Hussein well.

      ‘A friend and I,’ said Hussein, ‘have had a dispute about the Q’ran. Now we have agreed to seek the arbitration of one whose judgment is infallible and whose learning is as deep as the well Zem-zem. So I have come to one who is not only a hadji, but also an Imâm.’

      Abd’Arahman stroked his long white beard: he swelled with pride. ‘What little learning I may have,’ he said, ‘is always at the service of the Faithful.’

      ‘The point, then, of our disagreement is in the Sura called “The Ant”, wherein it is related that Suleiman ibn Daoud (on whose soul be peace) desired to know who among his followers would fetch him the throne of Balkis, Queen of Saba, and two answered him. Then it is related that the throne appeared instantly before him, but it is not said by whom the miracle was performed; is it not so?’

      ‘Assuredly.’

      ‘Now I contend that it was performed by the Wazir Asaf ibn Barrachia, the true believer, who answered saying, “I will bring it unto thee, in the twinkling of an eye”. Whereas he obstinately holds that it was done by the Djinni Dhakwan, who said, “I will bring it unto thee, before thou arise from thy place”.’

      ‘You are both wrong. It was