Ismailov The Devil's Dance

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-911284-12-3
Verlag: Tilted Axis Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 416 Seiten

Winner of the EBRD Literature Prize 2019 On New Years' Eve 1938, the writer Abdulla Qodiriy is taken from his home by the Soviet secret police and thrown into a Tashkent prison. There, to distract himself from the physical and psychological torment of beatings and mindless interrogations, he attempts to mentally reconstruct the novel he was writing at the time of his arrest - based on the tragic life of the Uzbek poet-queen Oyhon, married to three khans in succession, and living as Abdulla now does, with the threat of execution hanging over her. As he gets to know his cellmates, Abdulla discovers that the Great Game of Oyhon's time, when English and Russian spies infiltrated the courts of Central Asia, has echoes in the 1930s present, but as his identification with his protagonist increases and past and present overlap it seems that Abdulla's inability to tell fact from fiction will be his undoing. The Devils' Dance brings to life the extraordinary culture of 19th century Turkestan, a world of lavish poetry recitals, brutal polo matches, and a cosmopolitan and culturally diverse Islam rarely described in western literature. Hamid Ismailov's virtuosic prose recreates this multilingual milieu in a digressive, intricately structured novel, dense with allusion, studded with quotes and sayings, and threaded through with modern and classical poetry. With this poignant, loving resurrection of both a culture and a literary canon brutally suppressed by a dictatorship which continues today, Ismailov demonstrates yet again his masterful marriage of contemporary international fiction and the Central Asian literary traditions, and his deserved position in the pantheon of both.

Hamid Ismailov is an Uzbek writer who was forced to flee Uzbekistan in 1992 due to what the state dubbed 'unacceptable democratic tendencies'. He came to the United Kingdom, where he took a job with the BBC World Service. His works are banned in Uzbekistan. Several of his Russian-original novels have been published in English translation, including The Railway (Vintage, 2007) ,The Dead Lake, which was long listed for the 2015 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, and The Underground (both Restless Books). The Devils' Dance was the first of his Uzbek language novels to appear in English, and won the EBRD Prize in 2019.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Ismailov, Hamid

Weitere Mitwirkende

Rayfield, Donald

Leseproben

Chapter 1

Polo

Autumn was particularly fine that year.

Wherever you happened to be – walking home down the empty streets from the new tram stop, casting an eye over the clay walls of Tashkent’s Samarkand Darvoza district, or going out into your own garden after a long day – every imaginable colour was visible under a bright blue sky. In autumns like this, the yellow and red leaves linger on the branches of trees and shrubs, as if they mean to remain there right until winter, quivering and shining in the pure, translucent air. But this motionless air and the tired sun’s cooling rays already hint at grief and melancholy. Could this bitterness emanate from the smoke of dry leaves, burning some distance away? Perhaps.

Abdulla had planned to prune his vines that day and prepare them for the winter. He had already cut and dried a stack of reeds to wrap round the vines; his children, playing with fire, had nearly burnt the stack down. But for the grace of God, there would have been a disaster. Walking about with his secateurs, Abdulla noticed that some of the ties holding the vines to the stakes were torn, leaving the vines limp. He couldn’t work out how this had happened: had the harvest been too plentiful, or had the plants not been cared for properly? Probably the latter: this summer and early autumn, he hadn’t managed to give them the attention they needed, and the vines had had a bad time of it. He was uneasy. He had the impression that some devilish tricks had been at play ever since he freed the vines from their wrappings in early spring. Almost daily, you could hear bands playing loud music, and endless cheering in the streets. Enormous portraits hung everywhere from the building on Xadra Square as far as Urda. Every pole stuck into the earth had a bright red banner on its end. As for the nights, his friends were being snatched away: it was like a field being weeded.

Not long ago, the mullah’s son G’ozi Yunus turned up – dishevelled and unwashed from constantly having to run and hide – and asked Abdulla to lend him some money, pledging his father’s gold watch as a token of his trustworthiness. Then Cho’lpon’s wife Katya came, distraught, bursting into tears and begging Abdulla to write a letter of support. ‘They’ll trust you,’ she said. But who would trust anyone these days? These were vicious, unpredictable times; clearly, they hadn’t finished weeding the field. As the great poet Navoi wrote, ‘Fire has broken out in the Mozandaron forests’. And in the conflagration everything is burnt, regardless of whether it is dry or wet. Well, if it were up to him, he would have been like a saddled horse, raring to go. Just say ‘Chuh’ and he’d be off.

With these gloomy thoughts in mind, Abdulla bent down to the ground to prune the thin, lower shoots of the vines. He systematically got rid of any crooked branches. If only his children would come running up in a noisy throng to help. Sadly, the eldest had fallen ill some time ago and was still in bed; otherwise he would have joined his father and the job would have been a pleasure. The youngest, Ma’sud, his father’s pampered favourite, might not know the difference between a rake and a bill-hook, but he was an amusing chatterbox. The thought made Abdulla smile. The toddler found everything fun: if you put a ladder against a vine stake he would clamber to the top like a monkey, chattering, ‘Dad, Dad, let me prune the top of the vine…’ ‘Of course you can!’ Abdulla would say.

Possibly, Abdulla wouldn’t have time to prune, tie back and cover all the vines with reeds today. But there was always tomorrow and, if God was willing, the day after that. Soon after he’d protected his vines, the cold weather would pass, the spring rains would bring forth new shoots from the earth, and the cuttings he had planted in winter would come into bud. It was always like that: first you pack and wrap each vine for the winter; the next thing you know, everything unfurls in the sun and in no time at all it’s green again. Just like literature, Abdulla thought, as he wiped a drop of sweat from the bridge of his nose.

The flashes of sunlight coming through the leaves must have dazzled him, for it was only now, when he tugged at a vine shoot bearing an enormous, palm-shaped leaf, that he discovered a small bunch of grapes underneath it: the qirmizka which he’d managed to get hold of and plant last year with great difficulty. The little bunch of fruit hiding under a gigantic leaf had ripened fully and, true to its name, produced round, bright-red berries, as tiny as dewdrops, so that they looked more like a pretty toy than fruit. Abdulla’s heart pounded with excitement. He had been nurturing an idea for a book: the story of a beautiful slave-girl who became the wife of three khans. The autumn discovery of a bunch of berries as red as the maiden’s blushing cheek, hidden among the vine’s bare branches, had brought on a sudden clarity and harmony. Turning towards the house, he called out joyfully, ‘Ma’sud, child, come here quick!’ He plucked a berry from the bunch that he meant to give the toddler, and put it in his own mouth. Ramadan had just ended: he had forgotten the feel of food in daylight. The large pip crunched between Abdulla’s teeth, and its sweet flesh dissolved like honey through his entire body.

And suddenly he had a revelation: he knew how to begin his book. It would be a terrific story, surpassing both and . Ahmad Qori, who lived at the top of Abdulla’s street, had lent him a stack of books by the classic historians, and he had already researched the fine details. If he could get the supplies in quickly he could then be on his own, sitting in front of the warm coal fire of his . Surely the three months of cold would be long enough for him to finish his novel.

Abdulla didn’t wait for his youngest child to toddle out from the ancestral house: he picked one more berry of the unexpected gift, tucked the tiny bunch of grapes behind his ear and got down to work.

On 31 December, 1937, a freezing winter’s day, Abdulla was taken from his home and put in prison, neither charged nor tried. So he did not begin his narrative with that early-ripening bunch of grapes in the shade of a broad leaf. Instead, Abdulla began his novel by describing a typical game of bozkashi, where players fight for a goat carcass…

—

Nasrullo-xon, ruler of Qarshi, was very fond of bozkashi, though as a spectator rather than a participant. Today, mounted on a bay racehorse which had only just been brought out from the stables, he rode onto the boundless meadow that lay outside the city. He preferred bay horses to those of any other colour, possibly because he could whip the horse’s croup or slash its leg with his sword and the blood would barely be noticeable against its copper coat. When they saw their ruler and his courtiers, the people raised their voices in welcome. Nasrullo glanced at his lively mount with satisfaction: tiny golden bells were attached to its mane, and it quivered nervously each time it caught the faint sound of their ringing. The soft leather bridle was decorated with mother-of-pearl, the saddle edged in red gold, while the saddle-cloth was made of white baby camel wool felt. ‘Damn you,’ the corpulent ruler barked at his horse every time he was jolted. And what a wonderful gold-embroidered gown he wore! It shone so bright that it dazzled the eyes. But even more bewitching was his belt with its pure gold buckle and a jewel the size of a horse’s eye. A scabbard and sword were attached by a strap to the belt. Nobody would doubt that the khan’s horse alone was worth more than all the possessions of the crowd that had gathered here. Ah, what a treasure, Nasrullo thought, bursting with pride as he gave his horse a slap on the croup.

As he rode up to a spacious open marquee, one of his eager guards immediately seized the reins of his horse and deftly hobbled it, while two servant boys worked the fans on either side: the applause was immediately replaced by silence. The khan’s chef and the city mufti stepped out. The mufti made a long speech in praise of the holy city of Bukhara and the dynasty of the Mangits who had brought Islam to their world, and also in praise of this dynasty’s precious jewel, Prince Nasrullo. He stepped aside only when the ruler waved his riding whip, after which the court chef came forward. Today he spoke as the master of the games: he shouted out orders to the riders while their horses stamped their hooves and snorted. ‘Firstly,’ the chef roared, ‘don’t pull each other off your horses, and don’t hit each other with your whips. Secondly,’ his throat straining a little with the effort, ‘don’t let your horses bite or kick. Thirdly, don’t let anyone who falls off his horse be trampled.’ ‘Quite right! Quite right!’ the people shouted in approval, punctuating these announcements. Just then, two horsemen came rushing up on black steeds, clutching to their thighs the carcass of a goat, the size of a calf. The horsemen pulled up about ten yards from the ruler’s marquee, just long enough to let the carcass thud to the ground. Then they wheeled around and galloped off, shoulder to shoulder, towards the crowd.

‘The goat’s been lifted!’ the master of the games cried out, disappearing all of a sudden behind the cloud of dust left behind by the riders rushing into the fray. It was like the Last Judgement: the wild horses barely controlled by...