Mulberry Empire [NOOK Book]

Overview

With Tolstoyan sweep and Dickensian vitality, this epically involving historical novel relates England’s tragic adventure in Afghanistan, which began with the triumphant arrival of the Army of the Indus in 1839 and ended three years later in rout and massacre.

At the center of The Mulberry Empire is Alexander Burnes, a Scots explorer who travels to the unfathomably remote kingdom of Afghanistan and first befriends and then reluctantly betrays ...
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Mulberry Empire

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Overview

With Tolstoyan sweep and Dickensian vitality, this epically involving historical novel relates England’s tragic adventure in Afghanistan, which began with the triumphant arrival of the Army of the Indus in 1839 and ended three years later in rout and massacre.

At the center of The Mulberry Empire is Alexander Burnes, a Scots explorer who travels to the unfathomably remote kingdom of Afghanistan and first befriends and then reluctantly betrays its wise and impeccably courteous Amir. But he is only one character in a cast that includes ladies and generals, princes and deserters, all brilliantly and sympathetically realized. At once stirring and harrowing, exotic and cautionary, and as vividly colored as a Persian miniature, the result is a tour de force of re-creation and invention.


From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Hensher's ambitious new novel (his first to be published in the United States) concerns a lesser-known chapter of Afghan history the British occupation of Kabul in 1839. In the mid-1830s, Alexander Burnes, a British officer, became the London sensation du jour after publishing a book on his adventures in the East, including his encounters with the Afghan prince, Amir Dost Mohammed Khan. His book roused British interest in Afghanistan, a possible new colony and market. Fearing that the Russians might take Kabul first, the British marched into the city, ousted the Amir, and replaced him with one favored by their ally, the Punjabi king. Though the British troops succeeded and remained encamped outside Kabul for three years, the Afghanis at last attacked and sent 16,000 British troops retreating through the valley of their death: they were ambushed, and only one survived. Adopting a part timeless, part ironic storytelling voice, Hensher follows several characters in this vast tapestry: Burnes, of course, and the Amir, but also Bella Garraway, the woman the Amir courts during his year in London; Charles Masson, a British deserter who finds refuge in Kabul; and Vitkevich, a Wilde-like Russian emissary, among many others. Mastering the light touch necessary for a complex history, Hensher moves easily from realm to realm, though he best captures the vanities of society whether of Britain's "upper few thousand" or Moscow's salons. The shifting focus weakens the drama, but what Hensher loses in tension he makes up for in information. Thus the reader learns Persian has six words for mulberry a holy fruit of Islam and Pushto, uncountable. For the post-modern, post-empire reader, ironies abound, and gently as Hensher tells it, the tale is cautionary: any nation should think twice before unseating a foreign prince. (Sept. 3) Forecast: The novel's desultory pace may deter some readers, but the subject matter could hardly be more timely, and prominent reviews will drive demand. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
In 1839, about 50,000 British troops entered Afghanistan to replace the amir with someone more palatable to the Empire. In this fictionalized account, we meet Burnes, a British explorer who ventures into the capital city of Kabul and befriends the soon-to-be-ousted Amir Dost Mohammed Khan. Through no planning of his own, Burnes becomes an emissary for the British government and attempts to forge a relationship with Afghanistan. The novel switches between Afghanistan and England, and in addition to Burnes, the reader meets many other characters, among them Bella, the woman who falls for Burnes but won't follow him on his exotic journeys; Charles Masson, a deserter of the English forces who one day finds himself in Kabul and who later plots the downfall of Burnes; and Vitkevich, Burnes's Russian counterpart, who is attempting to double-cross the amir. Hensher, winner of the Somerset Maugham Award for Kitchen Venom, combines numerous characters, plot lines, locales, and time shifts to tell an incredibly complex saga of rulers, empires, politics, imperialism, and revolt. The past events of which he writes mirror the present and maybe the future, giving the book a timeless quality. This well-executed work will appeal to serious fans of historical fiction. Recommended. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 5/1/02.]-Robin Nesbitt, Columbus Metropolitan Lib., OH Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
From the Publisher
“A rich and rumbling . . . historical novel . . . moving deftly between Afghanistan, England and Russia. . . . Beautifully drawn.” –The New York Times Book Review

“A book of epic ambition. . . . The Mulberry Empire contains, like one of those glinting gold leaf domes in Central Asia, clusters of jewels, elegantly calligraphed wisdom and pleasing lines.” –The Washington Post Book World

“Brilliantly composed. . . . Splendid. . . . A wonderfully rendered historical novel.” –San Francisco Chronicle

“Stunningly accurate. . . . Full of riches. . . . Inspires an endless procession of gasps.” –The Christian Science Monitor

“[A] fine, fine work. . . . Masterfully drawn. . . . [Hensher] creates a distinct sense of a moment in history.” –Minneapolis Star Tribune

“Prepare to be dazzled. . . . The Mulberry Empire is . . . executed with flair, confidence and great energy. . . . It’s a really terrific read and one hell of an achievement.” –Daily Telegraph

“Feverishly learned. . . . Riotously fertile. . . . [Hensher’s] Afghanistan is often strikingly imagined, as are his characters. . . . A giant compendium of Victorian styles, an empire of allusions.” –Chicago Tribune

“Brilliantly realised. . . . A delightful entertainment, a timely social and political commentary, and a highly literary and ambitious novel.” –Ahdaf Soueif, The Guardian

“Hensher depicts with Tolstoyan brio the terrifying chaos and dizzy unpredictability of war [and] reaffirms our confidence in the novel to shock, to challenge and, most usefully, to stir political change.” –St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“[A] wonderfully dramatic and idiosyncratic epic [with a] splendid cast of larger-than-life characters.” –Alan Cheuse, All Things Considered (NPR)

“A remarkable achievement. . . . The rich imagery and the vivid characterization of a splendidly varied cast make The Mulberry Empire a truly tremendous read.” –Mail on Sunday

“Ambitious. . . . His lush descriptions are a testament to his imagination’s ability to grow a few seeds of historical truth into a verdant narrative.” –The Seattle Times/Post-Intelligencer

“A joy to read for its structure, the scope of its conception and its imaginative use of historical detail. . . . You will be hooked.” –The Plain Dealer

“Exuberant, overflowing with life, highly-coloured, entrancing: a novel to lose yourself in.” –The Scotsman

“A grand tableaux. . . . Remarkably subtle. . . . Big, colorful and clearly timely. . . . [Hensher] is a splendid stylist.” –The Sunday Star-Ledger (Newark, New Jersey)

“Irresistible. . . . Loaded with exotic local detail, from London to Calcutta, St. Petersburg to Kabul.” –Daily Mail

“Deeply human, gorgeous, glittering. . . . A huge, perhaps unique achievement.” –Independent on Sunday

“Lavish. . . . Engaging. . . . A panorama of the age of imperialism [with] a wealth of interesting cross-cultural insights.” –The Baltimore Sun

“Everything is massive, sumptuously-made and finished, the characters rich, lively and unexpected, the decor Victorian in its precision, variety and profusion.” –Evening Standard

“Wonderfully entertaining. . . . An expansive and ambitious novel, full of wit and intelligence, masterfully capturing a moment in history that reverberates to this day. . . . The Mulberry Empire is a joy.” –Toronto Star

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307429018
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 12/18/2007
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 496
  • Sales rank: 465,748
  • File size: 653 KB

Meet the Author

Philip Hensher is a critic and the author of five works of fiction, including Kitchen Venom, winner of the Somerset Maugham Award. One of Granta’s Best Young British Novelists for 2003 and a finalist for the W. H. Smith Literary Award for The Mulberry Empire, he is a columnist for The Independent and chief book reviewer for The Spectator. He lives in South London.


From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Read an Excerpt

ONE

The Amir Dost Mohammed Khan had fifty-four sons. And his favourite among these sons was Akbar. One day Dost Mohammed feared that he was ill, and close to dying, and he called his fifty-four sons to him. They came from the far peaceful corners of the kingdom of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan to the great city he had caused to be built, and as they rode through the country, they were not troubled or threatened. The wisdom and strength of their father made straight roads for them, and the justice he had wrought smoothed their passage.

One after another, his four-and-a-half dozen sons came to the great city of Kabul, and the people of Kabul, seeing that the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan had summoned his sons, turned their dust-filled eyes to the dust in grief. One after another, his sons rode through the wide streets, which were crowded but silent in sorrow. They came to the great palace, and came to the bedchamber of their father, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan. And to each he said with kindness, as he came in, that his speed had been that of one driven by the Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days. But the great Amir lied, for each had been driven to him by love.

At the end of three days, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan lay in his bed, and looked around at the silent crowd of his sons, and bid them count themselves. The living counted themselves, and then the dead sons, and then the sons to come, who were not yet born, whom Dost Mohammed loved best, said their names, but only to Dost Mohammed in the dark shade raised over his head. He counted them, and there were fifty-three. It seemed to Dost Mohammed that one was missing.

"Great King," the second youngest of the sons said. "Akbar is not yet here. But he must be fast approaching." Dost Mohammed nodded, and the rough cloth of his bed cover seemed to whisper a denial. "That is not so," the youngest of the sons said. "Akbar my brother has sent a message that he will not come. He has sent a message to the great King my father that he is occupied, and may not turn away from the borders of the country, to mop my father's face and hold my father's head." And the brothers looked away in shame that their father should hear the truth.

But Dost Mohammed nodded, and was pleased by what the youngest of the brothers had said. "He has done right," he said, just that. He raised his head, and looked at the sons who were there, and the sons who were dead, and the sons who were not yet born, and the single son who had better things to do, and the Amir was pleased. And the sons--Afzal, and Azam, and Shams-i Jahan, and Ghulam Haidar, and Sher Ali, and Amin, and Sharif, and Akram and Wali and Faiz and Hawa and Hajira and Ahmad and Zaman and Umar and Ummat al-Mustafa and Bibi Zumurrud and Salih and Muhsin and Nur Jahan and Hasan and Husein and Wafa and Aslam and Qasim and Sher and Nek and Hashim and Sadiq and Shuaib and Rahim and Azim and Sadiq and Sarw-i Jahan and Yusuf and Azim and Habibullah and Mamlakat and Sharaf Sultan and Durr Jan and Sahib Sultan and Bibi Saira and Aisha and Bilqis and Sadiq and Rahim and Saifullah Khan Wakil and Agha and Fatima and Zainab and Banu and Mulk-i Jahan and Badr-i Jahan, youngest of the brothers (for it is written that the women who are born to a great Emperor may be considered sons, too)--the sons of the great King looked at him and saw him revive, and start to live again as he heard that everything was well with his kingdom. Glory be on the names of the sons of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan, greatest of the Afghans, wisest of his people!

In time, Akbar found that his strength had secured his father's kingdom from his enemies, and, leaving his people with the instruction to be awake and vigilant, hastened to his father's house. But he found the Dost well, and recovered, and merry, and full of love for the greatest of his sons, and Akbar embraced his father. "My son," the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan said. "You did right not to come to my call, but to remain at the call of the kingdom that will be yours. You, alone among my sons, are truly my son." And after that embrace, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan lived in peace and plenty for years to come, in the knowledge of his wisdom and the knowledge of the wisdom of his son.

TWO

1

"Emperor of the Afghans," Burnes chanted, "Lord of the most distant horizon, King of the far hills, Heir of Israel, Lord of the Wind of a Hundred, of a Hundred, of a Hundred--"

He opened his eyes, and made a deflating noise. "Ppphhhhhwah," he said. "I always get stuck there."

Outside, in the courtyard, a fight was breaking out between a gang of boys; the sudden close yelling was like a flock of geese, diving over the roofs of the mud-brick house. Burnes knocked his fist against his forehead, as if pretending to think. Dr. Gerard got up from the corner of the room where he had been squatting, awkward as a camel, and went to the shutters to see what, if anything, the fight outside was about.

"Very good," Mohan Lal said smoothly. "Your Persian is really excellent, if I may say so."

There was an embarrassed sort of silence, since Mohan Lal, naturally, ought not to say so. Certainly, it was not for him to tell Burnes whether his Persian was good or not. Still, he seemed to take it upon himself not just to compliment his betters, but, on occasion, to correct them. Anywhere else, of course--but this was not anywhere else, and, knowing that all of them had to rely on Mohan Lal's goodwill, the party had taken a tacit decision to put up with the guide's elegant superiority, perpetually bordering on the supercilious.

"What is it, anyway?" Burnes said finally. "I can't remember. I'm sorry."

"Lord of the Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days," Mohan Lal said, smiling faintly, as if giving a child the answer to a terribly obvious Christmas puzzle. "An interesting title. The Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days is a summer wind, a phenomenon fascinating in the abstract, although not something one would wish to experience. It is regarded as a unique property of the kingdom, and therefore an appropriate title for the Amir."

"Not something I'd want to boast about," Dr. Gerard said, turning back to the room, disappointed in the small drama of the courtyard outside. "And I hope we're not here long enough to have to put up with it."

"If he keeps us waiting here long enough," Burnes said, "we may simply have to grit our teeth and endure."

Outside, Kabul continued its usual life.

Burnes found it hard to be quite sure whether, here, they were prisoners or not. Ten days before, they had arrived at the gates of the city--or what passed for the gates, a waist-high mud wall full of holes. An inadequate rampart, one might have thought, but the Afghans came and went quite happily, as if never fearing an enemy, giving no thought to invaders or infidel. Until now, Burnes had remained swathed in his cloth, blanketed up, his face browned first by colouring and after by the weeks trekking in the mountain sun, his blue eyes becoming more startling by the day. Arriving at Kabul, however, it seemed wise to admit to what they were immediately, and take their chances.

Kabul had surprised Burnes. He had read what there was to read about the country, looked with every appearance of care at the drawings, the prints of the city. They hadn't been wrong, exactly; but still the city was not what he expected. No commentator, no artist, had captured what Burnes saw; it was as if they had seen only the outlines of the city, or rather, as if they, like Burnes, had seen it whole, and only cared to convey the city in part. Burnes tried to think of what it was his guides had left out. He could only think of it in two words: the fragrance; the filth.

In other cities, the fruit-and-flower smell of the street, the stench of the shit, human, canine, equine, and more, would have seemed the inessentials of the city's life. It had seemed like that to the observers of the city whose work they had so relied upon; they had removed the fragrance and the filth from their gaze as lying above or below what substance truly mattered. Buildings, thoroughfares, population numbers could be set down, and that was what, it seemed, really counted; not the mere smells of this city. It seemed always in danger of turning into an orchard, a stable, or a vast latrine. To Burnes, on the other hand, it was the intangible but overpowering fact of smell which seemed central to the place. Sitting in this half-prison, with all the time in the world to practise the address to the Amir and pursue absurd speculations, he found himself wondering about a map of the city which would convey this sense of his. In his head was a map of Kabul which did not describe the streets and the buildings, but set down the intangible and rich sudden odours of the place; described where a whiff of horse-shit mingled with the heavy perfume of rotting mulberries, where dead dog and fruit blossom competed. He closed his eyes, and there, in his head, was a weighty flush of sensation, a wave like the colour purple, arriving in his head, foreign, uninvited, irresistible. You did not need to walk the streets to map them in this olfactory manner; you only needed to sit by the window, and wait for a breeze. He had seen nothing of the city, in truth, nothing but a few streets as they had arrived, nothing but the few buildings around the house where they now lived, when their guards occasionally escorted them out. The city came to them, its perfumes carried on the wind.

2

They had arrived, and stood there at the wall, for a moment or two, as if their mere stance could announce their purpose. In front of them, there was the city. It was hard to think of it as a prize worth taking, now. Now that it was here in front of them, it seemed very unlike the great imperial jewel London and Calcutta so easily dreamed of. The hills and hollows of the land had been scattered, it seemed, with detritus; rambling, temporary houses, plastered smooth, scattered where they would fall. It was a city set high in the mountains, and the chill at night was fierce. Between the houses of the city paths, roads of packed-down mud ran; between them a thousand pedlars of goods set up their stalls to sell what they would. But it seemed to Burnes, as he stood there with his companions and waited for the Afghans to come and discover what he wanted, less like a city than a great wild garden. The groves of this high city joined, rambled with fruit trees, with what must be mulberries, blotting on the street and casting their high scent to the wind. What had London and Calcutta dreamed of? A city which could turn into an imperial jewel, certainly, a great imperial city, and not this random assembly, like the careless evening settlement of some wandering people.

Burnes, Mohan Lal the guide, and Gerard had dismounted. They stood there for a while, and it was not long before the curious little boys were succeeded by some more authoritative figures. Mohan Lal had stepped forward, but Burnes spoke first. They had listened to his explanation intently, had exchanged the ritual compliments calmly and gracefully, and, without consulting, had allowed them to remount, and led them into the city. A mounted group approached, shouting hoarsely, wheeled hungrily, curiously, around them like circling buzzards, and, before Burnes could start his explanation again, had ridden off.

First the customs house. The three of them had been hurried into a low white house, its door barely on its hinges. As the eager crowd of short, beakily featured men, all shouting, poured into the garden of the house, a flock of magpies rose clattering like knives from the fruit trees. The packhorses were tied up outside, and quickly stripped of their bundles. Inside, an immensely fat man emerged with great state from a back room, chewing and wiping some grease from his mouth with the bottom of his coat. All the Afghans fell abruptly silent. He gazed at them as mournfully as a dog as their luggage was brought in and dumped on the floor.

Burnes began his explanation. May the sun ever shine, glorious empire of the Afghans, long heard rumours of the wisdom and greatness of the kingdom. All received with gracious nods; tea was called for and brought by two boys of strongly corrupt appearance. Flat sweet bread followed, politely picked at by the Europeans, wolfed by the Afghans. Burnes pressed on. He and his companions were Europeans, returning home from India overland. Long heard rumours of the beauty of Kabul and promised, etc. (A brief pause here as one of the tea boys, after setting down a glass for Burnes, tried to stroke his neck. Burnes pushed him off gently, and the nearest adult hit the boy very hard with the butt of his rifle, to everyone's colossal amusement.) Hoped to stay in Kabul for a month, and their great dream was to meet and talk with the great and famous Emperor of the Afghans, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan.

Burnes came to the end of his speech, and the customs officer gave a brief side-to-side nod of approbation. It wasn't quite clear what this meant; Burnes, to be sure of indicating what sort of people they were, got out his letters of introduction to the Amir, each carefully prepared in India with a grandiose seal. The official, however, showed almost no interest in them after a quick glance or two. "Oh God," Gerard said in English. "They're going to search the bags." Burnes ignored him; there was nothing to be done about it, and the best way to stay calm was to try not to remember what on earth there was in there.

"My books," Burnes said, as they extracted a dog-eared copy of Marmion and flicked through it. A sketchbook he feared might worry them more, but they looked at it cursorily, and set it down.

"Tell me," the customs officer said. "In your country, it is said that pork is eaten. Can that be true?"

Burnes was prepared. "It is a food eaten only by the very poorest people in our country. I myself have never tried it, but it is said that it has the taste, somewhat, of beef. That's a sextant."

From the Hardcover edition.

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First Chapter

ONE

The Amir Dost Mohammed Khan had fifty-four sons. And his favourite among these sons was Akbar. One day Dost Mohammed feared that he was ill, and close to dying, and he called his fifty-four sons to him. They came from the far peaceful corners of the kingdom of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan to the great city he had caused to be built, and as they rode through the country, they were not troubled or threatened. The wisdom and strength of their father made straight roads for them, and the justice he had wrought smoothed their passage.

One after another, his four-and-a-half dozen sons came to the great city of Kabul, and the people of Kabul, seeing that the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan had summoned his sons, turned their dust-filled eyes to the dust in grief. One after another, his sons rode through the wide streets, which were crowded but silent in sorrow. They came to the great palace, and came to the bedchamber of their father, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan. And to each he said with kindness, as he came in, that his speed had been that of one driven by the Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days. But the great Amir lied, for each had been driven to him by love.

At the end of three days, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan lay in his bed, and looked around at the silent crowd of his sons, and bid them count themselves. The living counted themselves, and then the dead sons, and then the sons to come, who were not yet born, whom Dost Mohammed loved best, said their names, but only to Dost Mohammed in the dark shade raised over his head. He counted them, and there were fifty-three. It seemed to Dost Mohammed that one was missing.

"Great King," the second youngest of the sons said."Akbar is not yet here. But he must be fast approaching." Dost Mohammed nodded, and the rough cloth of his bed cover seemed to whisper a denial. "That is not so," the youngest of the sons said. "Akbar my brother has sent a message that he will not come. He has sent a message to the great King my father that he is occupied, and may not turn away from the borders of the country, to mop my father's face and hold my father's head." And the brothers looked away in shame that their father should hear the truth.

But Dost Mohammed nodded, and was pleased by what the youngest of the brothers had said. "He has done right," he said, just that. He raised his head, and looked at the sons who were there, and the sons who were dead, and the sons who were not yet born, and the single son who had better things to do, and the Amir was pleased. And the sons--Afzal, and Azam, and Shams-i Jahan, and Ghulam Haidar, and Sher Ali, and Amin, and Sharif, and Akram and Wali and Faiz and Hawa and Hajira and Ahmad and Zaman and Umar and Ummat al-Mustafa and Bibi Zumurrud and Salih and Muhsin and Nur Jahan and Hasan and Husein and Wafa and Aslam and Qasim and Sher and Nek and Hashim and Sadiq and Shuaib and Rahim and Azim and Sadiq and Sarw-i Jahan and Yusuf and Azim and Habibullah and Mamlakat and Sharaf Sultan and Durr Jan and Sahib Sultan and Bibi Saira and Aisha and Bilqis and Sadiq and Rahim and Saifullah Khan Wakil and Agha and Fatima and Zainab and Banu and Mulk-i Jahan and Badr-i Jahan, youngest of the brothers (for it is written that the women who are born to a great Emperor may be considered sons, too)--the sons of the great King looked at him and saw him revive, and start to live again as he heard that everything was well with his kingdom. Glory be on the names of the sons of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan, greatest of the Afghans, wisest of his people!

In time, Akbar found that his strength had secured his father's kingdom from his enemies, and, leaving his people with the instruction to be awake and vigilant, hastened to his father's house. But he found the Dost well, and recovered, and merry, and full of love for the greatest of his sons, and Akbar embraced his father. "My son," the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan said. "You did right not to come to my call, but to remain at the call of the kingdom that will be yours. You, alone among my sons, are truly my son." And after that embrace, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan lived in peace and plenty for years to come, in the knowledge of his wisdom and the knowledge of the wisdom of his son.

TWO

1

"Emperor of the Afghans," Burnes chanted, "Lord of the most distant horizon, King of the far hills, Heir of Israel, Lord of the Wind of a Hundred, of a Hundred, of a Hundred--"

He opened his eyes, and made a deflating noise. "Ppphhhhhwah," he said. "I always get stuck there."

Outside, in the courtyard, a fight was breaking out between a gang of boys; the sudden close yelling was like a flock of geese, diving over the roofs of the mud-brick house. Burnes knocked his fist against his forehead, as if pretending to think. Dr. Gerard got up from the corner of the room where he had been squatting, awkward as a camel, and went to the shutters to see what, if anything, the fight outside was about.

"Very good," Mohan Lal said smoothly. "Your Persian is really excellent, if I may say so."

There was an embarrassed sort of silence, since Mohan Lal, naturally, ought not to say so. Certainly, it was not for him to tell Burnes whether his Persian was good or not. Still, he seemed to take it upon himself not just to compliment his betters, but, on occasion, to correct them. Anywhere else, of course--but this was not anywhere else, and, knowing that all of them had to rely on Mohan Lal's goodwill, the party had taken a tacit decision to put up with the guide's elegant superiority, perpetually bordering on the supercilious.

"What is it, anyway?" Burnes said finally. "I can't remember. I'm sorry."

"Lord of the Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days," Mohan Lal said, smiling faintly, as if giving a child the answer to a terribly obvious Christmas puzzle. "An interesting title. The Wind of a Hundred and Twenty Days is a summer wind, a phenomenon fascinating in the abstract, although not something one would wish to experience. It is regarded as a unique property of the kingdom, and therefore an appropriate title for the Amir."

"Not something I'd want to boast about," Dr. Gerard said, turning back to the room, disappointed in the small drama of the courtyard outside. "And I hope we're not here long enough to have to put up with it."

"If he keeps us waiting here long enough," Burnes said, "we may simply have to grit our teeth and endure."

Outside, Kabul continued its usual life.

Burnes found it hard to be quite sure whether, here, they were prisoners or not. Ten days before, they had arrived at the gates of the city--or what passed for the gates, a waist-high mud wall full of holes. An inadequate rampart, one might have thought, but the Afghans came and went quite happily, as if never fearing an enemy, giving no thought to invaders or infidel. Until now, Burnes had remained swathed in his cloth, blanketed up, his face browned first by colouring and after by the weeks trekking in the mountain sun, his blue eyes becoming more startling by the day. Arriving at Kabul, however, it seemed wise to admit to what they were immediately, and take their chances.

Kabul had surprised Burnes. He had read what there was to read about the country, looked with every appearance of care at the drawings, the prints of the city. They hadn't been wrong, exactly; but still the city was not what he expected. No commentator, no artist, had captured what Burnes saw; it was as if they had seen only the outlines of the city, or rather, as if they, like Burnes, had seen it whole, and only cared to convey the city in part. Burnes tried to think of what it was his guides had left out. He could only think of it in two words: the fragrance; the filth.

In other cities, the fruit-and-flower smell of the street, the stench of the shit, human, canine, equine, and more, would have seemed the inessentials of the city's life. It had seemed like that to the observers of the city whose work they had so relied upon; they had removed the fragrance and the filth from their gaze as lying above or below what substance truly mattered. Buildings, thoroughfares, population numbers could be set down, and that was what, it seemed, really counted; not the mere smells of this city. It seemed always in danger of turning into an orchard, a stable, or a vast latrine. To Burnes, on the other hand, it was the intangible but overpowering fact of smell which seemed central to the place. Sitting in this half-prison, with all the time in the world to practise the address to the Amir and pursue absurd speculations, he found himself wondering about a map of the city which would convey this sense of his. In his head was a map of Kabul which did not describe the streets and the buildings, but set down the intangible and rich sudden odours of the place; described where a whiff of horse-shit mingled with the heavy perfume of rotting mulberries, where dead dog and fruit blossom competed. He closed his eyes, and there, in his head, was a weighty flush of sensation, a wave like the colour purple, arriving in his head, foreign, uninvited, irresistible. You did not need to walk the streets to map them in this olfactory manner; you only needed to sit by the window, and wait for a breeze. He had seen nothing of the city, in truth, nothing but a few streets as they had arrived, nothing but the few buildings around the house where they now lived, when their guards occasionally escorted them out. The city came to them, its perfumes carried on the wind.

2

They had arrived, and stood there at the wall, for a moment or two, as if their mere stance could announce their purpose. In front of them, there was the city. It was hard to think of it as a prize worth taking, now. Now that it was here in front of them, it seemed very unlike the great imperial jewel London and Calcutta so easily dreamed of. The hills and hollows of the land had been scattered, it seemed, with detritus; rambling, temporary houses, plastered smooth, scattered where they would fall. It was a city set high in the mountains, and the chill at night was fierce. Between the houses of the city paths, roads of packed-down mud ran; between them a thousand pedlars of goods set up their stalls to sell what they would. But it seemed to Burnes, as he stood there with his companions and waited for the Afghans to come and discover what he wanted, less like a city than a great wild garden. The groves of this high city joined, rambled with fruit trees, with what must be mulberries, blotting on the street and casting their high scent to the wind. What had London and Calcutta dreamed of? A city which could turn into an imperial jewel, certainly, a great imperial city, and not this random assembly, like the careless evening settlement of some wandering people.

Burnes, Mohan Lal the guide, and Gerard had dismounted. They stood there for a while, and it was not long before the curious little boys were succeeded by some more authoritative figures. Mohan Lal had stepped forward, but Burnes spoke first. They had listened to his explanation intently, had exchanged the ritual compliments calmly and gracefully, and, without consulting, had allowed them to remount, and led them into the city. A mounted group approached, shouting hoarsely, wheeled hungrily, curiously, around them like circling buzzards, and, before Burnes could start his explanation again, had ridden off.

First the customs house. The three of them had been hurried into a low white house, its door barely on its hinges. As the eager crowd of short, beakily featured men, all shouting, poured into the garden of the house, a flock of magpies rose clattering like knives from the fruit trees. The packhorses were tied up outside, and quickly stripped of their bundles. Inside, an immensely fat man emerged with great state from a back room, chewing and wiping some grease from his mouth with the bottom of his coat. All the Afghans fell abruptly silent. He gazed at them as mournfully as a dog as their luggage was brought in and dumped on the floor.

Burnes began his explanation. May the sun ever shine, glorious empire of the Afghans, long heard rumours of the wisdom and greatness of the kingdom. All received with gracious nods; tea was called for and brought by two boys of strongly corrupt appearance. Flat sweet bread followed, politely picked at by the Europeans, wolfed by the Afghans. Burnes pressed on. He and his companions were Europeans, returning home from India overland. Long heard rumours of the beauty of Kabul and promised, etc. (A brief pause here as one of the tea boys, after setting down a glass for Burnes, tried to stroke his neck. Burnes pushed him off gently, and the nearest adult hit the boy very hard with the butt of his rifle, to everyone's colossal amusement.) Hoped to stay in Kabul for a month, and their great dream was to meet and talk with the great and famous Emperor of the Afghans, the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan.

Burnes came to the end of his speech, and the customs officer gave a brief side-to-side nod of approbation. It wasn't quite clear what this meant; Burnes, to be sure of indicating what sort of people they were, got out his letters of introduction to the Amir, each carefully prepared in India with a grandiose seal. The official, however, showed almost no interest in them after a quick glance or two. "Oh God," Gerard said in English. "They're going to search the bags." Burnes ignored him; there was nothing to be done about it, and the best way to stay calm was to try not to remember what on earth there was in there.

"My books," Burnes said, as they extracted a dog-eared copy of Marmion and flicked through it. A sketchbook he feared might worry them more, but they looked at it cursorily, and set it down.

"Tell me," the customs officer said. "In your country, it is said that pork is eaten. Can that be true?"

Burnes was prepared. "It is a food eaten only by the very poorest people in our country. I myself have never tried it, but it is said that it has the taste, somewhat, of beef. That's a sextant."
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Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews
  • Posted July 17, 2010

    Afghanistan 200 years ago.

    At last a book written by someone who knows how to write. So many writers these days turn out pulp every six months that isn't worth the time it takes to read. Mr. Hensher puts you in the story, in the place, in the time and interested in his characters - most of whom were real people.

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  • Posted September 9, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Fascinating Historical Fiction

    In 1839, fifty thousand British Army soldiers marched into Afghanistan, quickly capturing the capital of Kabul. Three years later, a solitary English soldier from that force rode out. The rest were killed by the Afghans, who used tactics that the British never saw coming.

    Philip Hensher's The Mulberry Empire tells the story of this early encounter between the West and the Muslim forces of the region. But, there is much more. Along with detailing the intricate beliefs and dealings of the region, Hensher contracts his story overseas with the intricate beliefs and dealings of the "upper crust" of British society. The truths that the Upper Ten Thousand held as dogma were believed unfailingly, and it was with unbelief that they realised that there were other beliefs and other cultures in the world that could hold sway, and yes, even defeat their armies.

    It is also the story of the men of this time, and the story of their loves. There is Alexander Burnes who spends so much time in the region that it is unimaginable to him to ever live again in England. There is Bella Garraway, the creme of the debutantes the year that he is the rage of "the season", and with whom he falls madly in love. There are Muslim rulers, who tempt the English to be involved in their territorial wars, and then turn savagely on them when they have served the rulers' purposes. There is the grand sweep of history and a light shone on a time and place that few readers have considered before.

    I enjoyed this book quite a bit. Nominated for the Booker Prize in 2002, it shines a light on a period of history I didn't know much about, illuminating the reasons why the West is often in conflict with the peoples of the region. This book is recommended for lovers of historical fiction, for those who seek to understand the results actions can have decades later, and for those ready for a rip-roaring trip into the past.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2004

    Dosen't Work

    I wanted to like this book, but in the end I could not. I picked it up because I wanted to find out how one man survived a British invasion of Afghanistan, but the plot wanders aimlessly and develops so slowly that that story is relagated to the novel's last few pages. As historical fiction, I know Hensher must adhere to events as they unfolded, but maybe it's because of this that the novel washes out on an emotional level. I didn't really like any of its characters, although, again, I wanted to. One more thing: a literary conceit is used involving an airplane's contrail that is meant to transition the narrative -- temporarily, as it turns out -- to a near-contemporary time. It didn't transition the narrative so much as completely derail it. It was so absurd that I thought for a moment that I was reading science fiction.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 8, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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