Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [188]
… An eleven-year-old boy, Padma, knew very little about the internal affairs of Pakistan; but he could see, on that October day, that an unusual dinner-party was being planned. Saleem at eleven knew nothing about the Constitution of 1956 and its gradual erosion; but his eyes were keen enough to spot the Army security officers, the military police, who arrived that afternoon to lurk secretly behind every garden bush. Faction strife and the multiple incompetences of Mr. Ghulam Mohammed were a mystery to him; but it was clear that his aunt Emerald was putting on her finest jewels. The farce of four-prime-ministers-in-two-years had never made him giggle; but he could sense, in the air of drama hanging over the General’s house, that something like a final curtain was approaching. Ignorant of the emergence of the Republican party, he was nevertheless curious about the guest-list for the Zulfikar party; although he was in a country where names meant nothing—who was Chaudhuri Muhammad Ali? Or Suhrawardy? Or Chundrigar, or Noon?—the anonymity of the dinner-guests, which was carefully preserved by his uncle and aunt, was a puzzling thing. Even though he had once cut Pakistani headlines out of newspapers—FURNITURE HURLING SLAYS DEPUTY E-PAK SPEAKER—he had no idea why, at six p.m., a long line of black limousines came through the sentried walls of the Zulfikar Estate; why flags waved on their bonnets; why their occupants refused to smile; or why Emerald and Pia and my mother stood behind General Zulfikar with expressions on their faces which would have seemed more appropriate at a funeral than a social gathering. Who what was dying? Who why were the limousine arrivals?—I had no idea; but I was on my toes behind my mother, staring at the smoked-glass windows of the enigmatic cars.
Car-doors opened; equerries, adjutants, leaped out of vehicles and opened rear doors, saluted stiffly; a small muscle began to tic in my aunt Emerald’s cheek. And then, who descended from the flag-waving motors? What names should be put to the fabulous array of moustaches, swagger-sticks, gimlet-eyes, medals and shoulder-pips which emerged? Saleem knew neither names nor serial numbers; ranks, however, could be discerned. Gongs and pips, proudly worn on chests and shoulders, announced the arrival of very top brass indeed. And out of the last car came a tall man with an astonishingly round head, round as a tin globe although unmarked by lines of longitude and latitude; planet-headed, he was not labelled like the orb which the Monkey had once squashed; not MADE AS ENGLAND (although certainly Sandhurst-trained) he moved through saluting gongs-and-pips; arrived at my aunt Emerald; and added his own salute to the rest.
“Mr. Commander-in-Chief,” my aunt said, “be welcome in our home.”
“Emerald, Emerald,” came from the mouth set in the earth-shaped head—the mouth positioned immediately beneath a neat moustache, “Why such formality, such takalluf?” Whereupon she embraced him with, “Well then, Ayub, you’re looking wonderful.”
He was a General then, though Field-Marshalship was not far away … we followed him into the house; we watched him drink (water) and laugh (loudly); at dinner we watched him again, saw how he ate like a peasant, so that his moustache became stained with gravy … “Listen, Em,” he said, “Always such preparations when I come! But I’m only a simple soldier; dal and rice from your kitchens would be a feast for me.”
“A soldier, sir,” my aunt replied,