The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
because I was in that state of blind funk and shock where talk don’t matter, and I made it worse – once I’d recovered the strength to crawl indoors – by emptying my pint flask of brandy in about three great gulps, while Jassa asked damfool questions.
That brandy was a mistake. Sober, I’d have begun to reason straight, and let him talk some sense into me, but I sank the lot, and the short result was that, in the immortal words of Thomas Hughes, Flashy became beastly drunk. And when I’m foxed, and shuddering scared into the bargain … well, I ain’t responsible. The odd thing is, I keep all my faculties except common sense; I see and hear clearly, and remember, too – and I know I had only one thought in mind, seared there by that tartan villain who was bent on murdering me: “The durbar room – his best refuge!” If there’s one thing I respect, drunk or sober, it’s a professional opinion, and if my hunters thought I’d be safe there then by God not Jassa or fifty like him were going to keep me from it. He must have tried to calm me, for I fancy I took him by the throat, to make my intentions clear, but all I’m sure of is that I went blundering off along the passage, and then along another, and down a long spiral staircase that grew lighter as I descended, with the sound of music coming closer, and then I was in a broad carpeted gallery, where various interesting Orientals glanced at me curiously, and I was looking out at a huge chandelier gleaming with a thousand candles, and below it a broad circular floor on which two men and a woman were dancing, three brilliant figures whirling to and fro. There were spectators down there, too, in curtained booths round the walls, all in extravagant costumes – aha, thinks I, this is the spot, and a fancy dress party in progress, too; capital, I’ll go as a chap in a green silk robe with bare feet. It’s a terrible thing, drink.
“Flashman bahadur! Why, have you received the parwana, then?”
I turned, and there was Mangla walking towards me along the gallery, wearing a smile of astonishment and very little besides. Plainly it was fancy dress, and she’d come as a dancer from some select brothel (which wasn’t far out, in fact). She wore a long black sash low on her hips, knotted so that it hung to her ankles before and behind, leaving her legs bare; her fine upper works were displayed in a bodice of transparent gauze, her hair hung in a black tail to her waist, she tinkled with bangles, and there were silver castanets on her fingers. A cheering sight, I can tell you, at any time, but even more so when you’ve been hanging out of windows to avoid the broker’s men.
“No parwana, I’m afraid,” says I. “Here, I say, that’s a fetching rig! Well, now … is that the durbar room down yonder?”
“Why, yes – you wish to meet their highnessses?” She came closer, eyeing me curiously. “Is all well with you, bahadur? Why, you are shaking! Are you ill?”
“Not a bit of it!” says I. “Took a turn in the night air … chilly, eh?” Some drunken instinct told me to keep mum about my balcony adventure, at least until I met higher authority. She said I needed something to warm me, and a lackey serving the folk in the gallery put a beaker in my hand. What with brandy and funk I was parched as a camel’s oxter, so I drank it straight off, and another – dry red wine, with a curious effervescent tang to it. D’you know, it settled me wonderfully; a few more of these, thinks I, and they can bring the nigger in. I took another swig, and Mangla laid a hand on my arm, smiling roguishly.
“That is your third cup, bahadur. Have a care. It is … strangely potent, and the night has only begun. Rest a moment.”
I didn’t mind. With the liquor taking hold I felt safe among the lights and music, with this delectable houri to hand. I slipped an arm round her waist as we looked down on the dancers; the guests reclining in the booths around the floor were clapping to the music and throwing silver; others were drinking and eating and dallying – it looked a thoroughly jolly party, with most of the women as briefly attired as Mangla. One black charmer, naked to the waist, was supporting a shouting reveller as he weaved his way across the floor, there was excited laughter and shrill voices, and one or two of the booths had their curtains discreetly closed … and not a Pathan in sight.
“Their highnesses are merry,” says Mangla. “One of them, at least.” A man’s voice was shouting angrily below, but the music and celebration continued uninterrupted. “Never fear, you will find a welcome – come and join our entertainment.”
Capital, thinks I, we’ll entertain each other in one of those curtained nooks, so I let her lead me down a curved stair giving on to an open space at one side of the floor, where there were buffets piled high with delicacies and drink. The angry man’s voice greeted us as we descended, and then he was in view beside the tables: a tall, well-made fellow, handsome in the pretty Indian way, with a curly beard and moustache, a huge jewelled turban on his head and only baggy silk pantaloons on the rest of him. He was staggering tight, with a goblet in one hand and the other round the neck of the black beauty who’d been helping him across the floor. Before him stood Dinanath and Azizudeen, grim and furious as he railed at them, stuttering drunkenly.
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