‘This is how history is written these days. Leave it be. But let’s suggest that Eugénie Grandet might be a better name for the place. It’s a merciless assault on stinginess and might encourage their customers to spend more. A number of apposite quotations from that could be found to embroider their menus and enhance the impact. They’re doing it all to increase custom. Making money. A true homage to Balzac.’
‘How should I introduce you to the other guests? I don’t mean what you do, but…’
‘What we do?’
‘Something like that. One of the Frenchmen is married to a fading beauty from Karachi, so whatever is said will reach Fatherland. Of that we can be sure. It’s awful how I’m picking up your stupid jargon.’
We discussed the issue for far too long. Alternatives were considered and discarded. Zaynab often indulged in the most rash judgements, a trait not unrelated to her early years of enforced piety and isolation.
‘I could say you’re my brother-in-law who’s visiting for a few days.’
‘Does the Koran have a brother?’
‘You fool. I meant my brother’s brother-in-law.’
‘You mean your sister-in-law’s brother,’
A fit of giggling temporarily immobilized her. I suggested a simpler solution: I would be just another guest. This would avoid any unnecessary rigmarole. Agreement was reached. A phone call in the afternoon from the fading beauty was a relief. An emergency had arisen and she and Jean-Claude had to go and comfort their son in Lyon. Zaynab was two guests short, and this worried her. I suggested one of my nonfiction publishers. If Henri de Montmorency were in town he would be fun and she would realize that Paris still contained critical minds, even more disgusted with official culture than she appeared to be. He was available. He had a new young Tunisian woman, Samira, in tow and they would happily join us for supper. There was a tiny glitch. He had agreed to meet a Chinese author writing a book on Shanghai for a drink and they might be a bit late. I suggested he bring his Chinese author along to dinner. Suddenly the party began to feel more promising. Zaynab had originally organized the dinner to be polite, returning the hospitality of the Islamophobes who had fed her over the past month. She knew this had all the makings of a dire evening and that since she was the hostess, sitting through it in disdainful silence, a satisfying option on other occasions, was excluded.
In fact, the evening proceeded smoothly till Henri de Montmorency and his party arrived. Samira had not bothered to dress up, which surprised some. The Chinese author graciously beamed at us all. It was Henri who became argumentative early on, just as we were busy consuming the first course. He announced that he had just returned from Gaza and began to speak of crimes and atrocities that were being committed by Israel. Even at the best of times this is not a subject greatly appreciated in polite society in Paris. One of the women present, the wife of a liberal newspaper editor, excused herself and we heard her being loudly sick in the lavatory. Her husband rushed to her help as silence reigned at the table. Then the couple returned, the journalist apologized for his wife, who was not feeling well, and they left.
Henri, whose surname concealed his Sephardic origins, of which he was immensely proud, remained unrepentant. ‘This is not the first time, you know. She was sick at another dinner party where I was present a few years ago. That year I was returning from Jenin. I don’t think she’s really sick at all. It’s an act of protest. The minute I saw her I knew that a mention of Gaza would send her straight to the toilet.’
We carried on with the main course. Another of her guests, who worked for Credit Suisse, asked me where I was staying. As I was thinking of a suitable hotel, Zaynab interrupted.
‘At my place. And not in the guest room.’
‘Ah’, said Henri, ‘you are lovers. Very pleased. Very good news, Dara.’
Till then the Chinese author, Cheng Chiao-fu, had remained silent. I looked at him more closely. He smiled. I was sure we had met somewhere.
‘What book are you writing for Henri, or is it a secret?’
‘Henri thinks it’s on a famous banking scandal in Shanghai that led to three public executions. That will be a small book. I’m working on a much larger book, on the history or, more accurately, the sociology of festivals in China. There are so many of them and their origins have always interested me. The existing work on them is not good.’
Chiao-fu’s English was perfect, not a trace of any Chinese accent, but before I could question him, Zaynab attempted to engage Henri’s companion in conversation.
‘Do you work for Henri?’
‘You could say that I work on him.’
We were just finishing at this point, but not wishing to hear more in this vein, Zaynab’s other guests pleaded the constraints of time and left us. There was a relieved burst of laughter from her. A more relaxed atmosphere prevailed. It was only ten, and more wine and cheese was laid on the table. I asked Chiao-fu whether he’d studied in Britain or the United States.
‘Neither.’
‘Where did you learn English?’
‘I can’t remember.’
The way he said that was familiar. I looked at him more closely.
‘Do you think we’ve met before?’ he asked. ‘That might be interesting.’
‘Do you mind removing your spectacles?’
He did as I asked and I was almost sure. I spoke to him in Punjabi, using a phrase that he had often deployed in the old days.
‘You dog, Confucius, you cold-hearted catamite. Where have you been all these years?’
He answered in Punjabi. ‘Who are you? Have we met?’
‘We met in Lahore. I knew your parents and Jindié. She lives in London now.’
He looked blank, and something none of us had considered as a possibility was now a certainty, unless he was fooling. But it soon became clear that he had lost his memory, at least partially. I carried on speaking to him in Punjabi, and he replied and asked questions.
‘Did you give up physics?’
‘I don’t know. I did economics at Beijing University.’
Zaynab saw that I was close to tears. She said, ‘Confucius, do you remember Plato?’
‘Yes, I think so. He made me laugh. What happened to him?’
‘He died a few months ago.’
‘I’m sad to hear that. And you knew him, too?’
Henri had immediately realized that what was taking place was serious. I explained rapidly in broken French who Chiao-fu really was and was told in return that he was regarded as one of the top economists in the country, but had been sidelined because of the scathing criticisms he had made of the direction in which China was headed. I couldn’t restrain a few tears. Something of the old Hanif Ma-Confucius had stayed in him. What happened to this boy? Whose identity had he assumed or been given and in what circumstances? His confusion was now palpable. The fact that he could suddenly speak a totally different language that he’d had no idea was in him had shaken his self-confidence. I asked whether I could ring his sister and inform her.
‘Later, please. Let’s just talk now. In Punjabi.’
Zahid and Jindié arrived the next morning and we all met later that day. Confucius was still bewildered. He didn’t recognize Jindié, but accepted rationally that she could be his sister despite her stumbling Chinese. She would often revert to Punjabi, reminding him of their childhood, using mixed Punjabi-Mandarin phrases from their past that were known only to them. Occasionally he would smile, his only tiny flicker of recognition. More would take time. I could see that she had been crying and attempted to comfort her.
‘Thank you for finding him.’
‘Pure luck.’
‘But you were convinced he was alive.’