pawed with such ardour that they tumbled down and sprawled in a drunken embrace at the stair foot, while Dinanath and Azizudeen stood speechless. The drunkard raised his face from between her boobies once, blubbering at Dinanath that he daren't go out to the Khalsa, they'd do him a mischief, and then went back to the matter in hand, trying to climb on top of her with his great turban all awry.
Mangla and I were standing only a few steps above them, and I was thinking, well, you don't often see this at Windsor—the astonishing thing was that no one else in the durbar room was paying the least heed; while the drunkard alternately mauled his wench and whimpered and snarled at the two counsellors, the dance was reaching its climax, the band piping away in fine style, the spectators applauding. I glanced at Mangla, and she shrugged.
'Raja Jawaheer Singh, Wazir,' says she, indicating the turbaned sportsman. 'Do you wish to be presented?'
Now he was struggling to his feet again, calling for drink, and the black girl held the cup while he gulped and slobbered. Azizudeen turned on his heel in disgust, and Dinanath followed him towards one of the booths. Jawaheer pushed the cup away, staggered, and clutched at a table for support, calling for them to come back, and that was when his eye fell on us. He goggled stupidly, and started forward.
'Mangla!' cries he. 'Mangla, you bitch! Who's that?' 'It is the English envoy, Flashman sahib,' says she coolly.
He gaped at me, blinking, and then a crafty look came into his eyes, and he loosed a great shout of laughter, yelling that he'd been right—the British had come, as he'd said they would.
'See, Dinanath! Look, Azizudeen! The British are here!' He swung round, stumbling, weaving towards them in a sort of crazy dance, crowing with high-pitched laughter. 'A liar, am I? See—their spy is here!' Dinanath and Azizudeen had turned in the entrance of one of the booths, and as Jawaheer capered and fell down, and Mangla brought me to the foot of the staircase, I saw Dinanath white with fury—shame and loss of face before a foreigner, you see. The dancing and music had stopped, folk were craning to look, and flunkeys were running to help Jawaheer, but he lashed out at them, staggering round to point unsteadily at me.
'British spy! Filth! Your Company bandits will come to plunder us, will they? Brigands, wilayati,*(*Foreigner.) vermin!' He glared from me to Dinanath. 'Ai-ee, the British will come—they will have cause to come!' shrieks he, pointing at me, and then they'd hustled him off, still yelling and laughing, Mangla clapped her hands, the music began again, and folk turned away, whispering behind their hands, just as they do at home when Uncle Percy's had one of his bad turns during evensong.
I dare say I should have been embarrassed, but with a couple of quarts of mixed brandy and puggle inside me, I didn't mind one little bit. Jawaheer was plainly all that rumour said of him, but I had deeper concerns: I was suddenly thirsty again, and beginning to feel so monstrous randy that if Lady Sale had happened by she'd have had to look damned lively, rheumatics and all. Doubtless the curious liquor Mangla had plied me with was responsible for both conditions; very well, she could take the consequences … there she was, the luscious little teaser, by the booth where Azizudeen and Dinanath had been a moment since. I lurched towards her, gloating, but even as I hove to beside her a woman spoke from beyond the open curtains.
'Is this your Englishman? Let me look at him.'
I turned in surprise—not only at the words, but at the slurred, appraising arrogance of the tone. Mangla stepped back, and with a little gesture of presentation, said: 'Flashman sahib, kunwari,'*(*Kunwar-=the son of a maharaja, and kunwari is presumably the female honorific.) and that title told me I was in the presence of the notorious Maharani Jeendan, Indian Venus, modern Messalina, and uncrowned queen of the Punjab.
Here and there in my memoirs I've remarked on the attraction of the female sex, and how it's seldom a matter of beauty alone. There are breathtakers like Elspeth and Lola and Yehonala whom you can't wait to chivvy into the shrubbery ; equally classic creatures (Angie Burdett-Coutts, for example, or the Empress of Austria) who are as exciting as cold soup but appeal to the baser aesthetic senses; and plain Janes who could start a riot in a monastery. In each case, Aphrodite or the governess, the magic is different, you see; there is always some unique charm or singular attraction, and it can be hard to define. In Mai Jeendan, though, it stood out a mile: she was simply the lewdest-looking strumpet I ever saw in my life.
Mind you, when a young woman with the proportions of an erotic Indian statue is found reclining half-naked and three parts drunk, while a stalwart wrestler rubs her down with oil, it's easy to leap to conclusions. But you could have covered this one with sackcloth in the front row of the church choir, and they'd still have ridden her out of town on a rail. You've heard of voluptuaries whose vices are stamped on their faces—mine, for example, but I'm over eighty. She was in her twenties, and lust was in every line of her face: the once perfect beauty turned fleshy, the lovely curves of lip and nostril thickened by booze and pleasure into the painted mask of a depraved angel—gad, she was attractive. She looked like those sensual pictures of Jezebel and Delilah which religious artists paint with such loving enthusiasm; Arnold could have got enough sermons out of her to last the half. Her eyes were large and wanton and slightly protruding, with a vacant, sated expression which may have been due to drink or the recent attentions of the wrestler—a bit shaky, he looked to me—but as I made my bow they widened in what was either drunken interest or yearning lechery—the same thing, really, with her.
Considering the size of her endowments, she was quite small, light coffee in colour, and fine-boned under her smooth fat—a tung bibi, as they say; a 'tight lady'. Like Mangla, she was decked out as a dancer, with a crimson silk loin-cloth and flimsy bodice, but instead of bangles her legs and arms were sheathed in gauze sewn with tiny gems, and her dark red hair was contained in a jewelled net.
To see her then, you'd never have guessed that when she wasn't guzzling drink and men, Mai Jeendan was another woman altogether; Broadfoot was wrong in thinking debauchery had dulled her wits. She was shrewd and resolute and ruthless when the need arose; she was also an accomplished actress and mimic, talents developed when she'd been the leading jester in old Runjeet's obscene private entertainments.
Just now, though, she was too languid with drink to do more than struggle up on one elbow, pushing her masseur away to view me better, slowly up and down—it reminded me of being on the slave-block in Madagascar, when no one bought me, rot them. This time, so far as one could judge from the lady's tipsy muttering as she lolled back on her cushions, fluttering a plump hand at me, the market was more buoyant.
'You were right, Mangla … he's big!' She gave a drunken chuckle, adding an indelicate remark which I won't translate. 'Well, must make him comfortable … have him take off his robe … come sit down here, beside me. You, get out …' This to the wrestler, who salaamed himself off in haste. 'You too, Mangla … draw the curtains … want to talk with big Englishman.'
And not about the Soochet legacy, from the way she patted the cushions and smiled at me over the rim of her glass. Well, I'd heard she was game, but this was informality with a vengeance. I was all for it, mind you, even if s he was as drunk as Taffy's sow and spilling most of the drink down her front—if any ass tells you that there's nothing so disgusting as a beauty in her cups, I can only say she looks a sight more interesting than a sober schoolmarm. I was wondering if I should offer to help her out of her wet things when Mangla got in before me, calling for a cloth, so I hung back, polite-like, and found myself being addressed most affably by a tall young grandee with a flashing smile who made me a pretty little speech, welcoming me to the Court of Lahore, and trusting- that I would have a pleasant stay.
His name was Lal Singh, and I still give him top marks for style. After all, he was Jeendan's principal lover, and here was his mistress cussing like Sowerberry Hagan and having her deshabille mopped in the presence of a stranger whom she'd been about to drag into the wood-shed; it didn't unsettle him a bit as he congratulated me on my Afghan exploits and drew me into conversation with Tej Singh, my fat little warrior of the afternoon, who bobbed up grinning at his elbow to tell me how well I suited the robe he'd given me. By this time I was beginning to feel a trifle confused myself, having in short order survived an assassination plot—what a long time ago it seemed —been filled with strong waters and (I suspected) aphrodisiac, trotted up and down by a half-naked slave girl, verbally assailed in public by the Wazir of the Punjab, and indecently ogled by his drunken flesh-trap of a sister. Now I was discussing, more or less coherently, the merits of the latest Congreve rockets with two knowledgeable military men, while a yard away the Queen Regent was being dried off by her attendants and protesting tipsily, and at my back a vigorous ballet was being danced by a score of young chaps in turbans and baggy trousers, with the orchestra going full steam.
I was new to Lahore, of course, and not au fait with their easygoing ways. I didn't know, for example, that
