From the other women’s manner towards the Malik’s wife, Lily judged that Halima was, regardless of age, top of the pile, reflecting her husband’s status in the tribe. Even a middle-aged, dark-haired woman with the same hatchet features as the Malik and whom Lily assumed to be his sister appeared to defer to her. But all, judging by the smiles and laughter which abounded, liked her. As Halima stopped in mid-sentence to lay a protective hand on her stomach, women scurried to fetch water and extra cushions, hands were extended in support and, judging by the giggles, racy remarks were made. Lily knew nothing about pregnancy but, having once got Halima’s bulge in focus, she decided two things: firstly that the birth must be imminent and secondly that it was a physical impossibility. She compared the ante-natal treatment Halima was enjoying – the jokes and the cosseting – with what she speculated would have been the hand-out in Chicago: a stiff doctor in morning coat, striped trousers and a butterfly collar dispensing calomel. Lily had shaken hands with a gynaecologist once and the memory of his bony fingers still made her shudder.
A swift calculation told her that, following his first wife’s death, the Malik must have made Halima the happiest of women with indecent speed. ‘In American culture, anyway. Keep a hold on that, Lily Coblenz,’ she told herself. Perhaps the Malik had always had an eye on this girl and had deliberately neglected to arrange a marriage for her, putting her in cold storage so to speak until his elderly princess dropped off the twig. A seriously cold thought pushed the more frivolous ones from her mind. Zeman! The Malik’s last remaining son was now dead. Oh, Lord! There was more riding on this than they knew.
Once the meal was cleared away and hands – and faces in the case of the children – had been washed, excited chattering broke out again. Lily knew most of it had to do with her but she sensed also from the women’s gestures and the way they hurried at the slightest sound from the courtyard below to stand by the window looking down that there were more earth-shaking events to be witnessed and discussed than the arrival among them of an ‘American princess’. Something was about to happen. Was, indeed, happening.
Left to herself in Halima’s company Lily shyly began to congratulate her on her forthcoming child. Halima’s initial broad smile and returned thanks faded and turned to a look of anxiety. Afraid that she might have broken some unknown convention Lily could only grasp her hands and begin to stammer out an apology.
‘No. No,’ said Halima hurriedly. ‘I am pleased that child come. But now since news this morning… since Zeman dead… most important that son – another son come!’
‘You know that Zeman is dead?’ said Lily in surprise. ‘Did Iskander tell you? I didn’t hear him mention Zeman’s name?’
‘Letter come from fort. Gor Khatri. Since three hours. Letter for Iskander. Ramazad read it. He tell me but no one else. It say Zeman his son is dead. Ramazad say fort commander with red hair kill Zeman. Ramazad say he put head of soldier with red hair on gate of Mahdan Khotal!’ Halima gave a vivid mime of the impaling of a head on a spike.
Lily was silent for a moment working out the significance of the information. If James had sent a letter to Iskander care of the fort that meant he knew where she was, didn’t it? Clever old James! Or was it clever old Joe? They’d thought their way around all Iskander’s meanderings in the hills! A spurt of hope was soon extinguished as she recalled the impregnable position and defences of Mahdan Khotal. No, the only way out of here was by diplomacy or trickery, she decided. Either way she was going to need help.
‘The red-haired soldier,’ she said, ‘is called James Lindsay and he didn’t kill Zeman. I’ll tell you what happened… ’
Lily stuck closely to the official Grace Holbrook version of the death and to her relief Halima seemed to follow what she was saying with ease. ‘… so you see, if Iskander hadn’t taken it into his head to run off into the wilderness with Lord Rathmore – and me incidentally – there wouldn’t be a problem.’
She had obviously said the wrong thing. Halima frowned and stuck her chin out in disagreement. ‘Iskander very clever man! Very good man. He always Zeman’s friend. He take badal for Zeman. If he take this Rathmore, then this Rathmore kill Zeman! Rathmore die,’ said Halima flatly.
Lily remembered the warmth of the greeting between these two and wondered if she had stumbled on a Queen Guinevere-Sir Lancelot situation. ‘I think you are very fond of Iskander?’ she asked tentatively.
The reply was decisive. ‘Of course! My brother is the best man of the tribe after Ramazad. He teach me English. He learn English at school in Peshawar. Strong man. Never tell lies.’
A fluttering and an intensification of noise at the fretted window above the courtyard drew their attention. ‘Jirga start,’ Halima announced. ‘Jirga is village meeting.’ Women made way at the window for them and they stood to look down at the men gathering below. With excited squeals the older children pulled cushions to the window, piling them up to stand on for a better view.
Lily saw about two hundred men, talking and gesticulating, arrive and settle themselves on the ground around the spreading tree in the centre of the square. Iskander approached and stationed himself, standing, arms folded, on one side of the gathering. With a pang, Lily saw Rathmore escorted on to the scene and told to sit, exhibit A, at centre stage. Someone seemed to have tidied him up a bit. His clothes were brushed, his hair likewise and he walked with his usual jaunty step. ‘Good old Rathmore!’ she couldn’t help thinking. ‘He’s keeping his pecker up at least!’ She found herself admiring the way he settled to scan the assembly as though he were taking a board meeting, nodding and smiling and confident. ‘That’s the style, Dermot old boy! You show ’em!’ she muttered.
The Malik then entered to a roar of greeting and stood opposite Iskander. Imposing and noble, he dominated the crowd merely by his presence. He held his hand up and, taking a letter from his bosom, began slowly to read. All listened with breathless and unwavering attention, Halima amongst them.
‘What’s he saying?’ said Lily but she was waved to silence and the account wore on accompanied by sharp exclamations and intakes of breath from the listeners until at last Ramazad closed the letter, folded it and put it away. At once there was a howl of dismay, of horror, of anger. He had obviously just announced the death of Zeman to the crowd and Halima confirmed this. The howls from below turned to raucous and angry shouts. Men stood up and waved their fists, some brandished their rifles. Lily needed no translation. This was a call for revenge, for badal.
Iskander waved his arms to silence the crowd but it was not until the Malik had intervened that he could make himself heard. In a voice free of emotion Iskander appeared to be telling it as it was, Lily thought, and again Halima’s translation bore this out. ‘He is saying that soldier from fort kill Zeman. Red-haired soldier. Iskander has demanded this man’s death and if this is not granted then the hostage Rathmore die instead. In five days’ time.’
There were mutterings from the floor and one or two men stood up, pointing at Rathmore and calling out with savage gestures what appeared to be suggestions for making his death more interesting. As Halima did not translate these, Lily assumed her guess was right. The Malik began to speak again and all fell silent. He spoke for a very long time. The children standing around them began to get bored and drifted away but the women were riveted by the speech. Halima’s face was tense and she began to bite her lip, her gaze running constantly from Ramazad to her brother. Her commentary had dried up and Lily was going mad with suspense. The old devil, she was convinced, was up to something. His tone conveyed a blend of blatant honesty, charm and conviction. Lily had heard much the same delivery from a snake-oil salesman in Sioux City.