Empire of the Soul by Paul William Roberts

Author:Paul William Roberts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stoddart Publishing Co. Ltd
Published: 2011-09-19T00:00:00+00:00

Nothing.

‘Hey! Oi!’

When the spiteful, biting spasms in my lower east side had subsided, I washed myself wearily with water and hand. I’d long since ceased missing toilet paper, it didn’t trouble me in the least. But the prospect of spending a night in this dungeon with whatever else inhabited it did trouble me. I tottered over and tugged at the unyielding bulk of the door. It was not about to budge. Briefly I contemplated running at it with my rugby shoulder, but I soon faced up to facts. Finally I looked up at the small barred rectangle: surely I could squeeze through it, no? A few minutes’ investment of tearing flesh and fingernails and I’d slid over all manner of vile and slimy things, pushed aside bars that crumbled into sharp flakes of rust, and found myself outside the palace walls, in a forlorn and dormant thoroughfare.

Trekking along in the security of towering shadows, I soon reached a yawning recess that looked like the main entrance. Its mighty gates were closed. There was no doorbell, and the anguished thumping of my fists brought not even a hint of response. Plodding on in search of an alternate entrance, I came across part of the palace wall that, with the aid of a vendor’s cart, a conveniently situated tree, and some stone protrusions, it looked fairly possible to climb over. Feeling, in my damp, soiled underpants, like some crazed old Tarzan, I bounded from cart to branches and then protrusions, managing at length to drag myself up and over onto a parapet – only scraping off half the skin on my knees and chest in the process.

Hanging from my hands, I let myself drop to the ground. It was a good deal farther than I’d imagined – such things usually are – and my right foot hurt savagely from the impact. Hissing curses, I stood to find out where exactly it was I’d landed. A walled second-floor courtyard was the answer – but a courtyard littered with the forms of women swaddled in saris sleeping unsheltered on flagstones beneath the heavens’ track lighting.

This was not good for a foreigner wearing only Y-fronts. This was bad – very bad. Even trusted old retainers were forbidden in the purdah quarters.

Expecting some shrill, panicked voice to raise the alarm at any moment, I tiptoed past snoring rolls of tangled cloth, edging around the courtyard’s perimeter. Miraculously, I came across a doorway that led right into my own princely chamber. I peeked out. No one seemed to be shrieking for the guards, and I was able to enjoy the sight for a moment. There was something ancient and beautiful there: the moonlight on exquisite faces, saris muted in colour and lacquered with silver.

I spent the entire next day stretched out in my oven with Mickey Spillane. I timed the spurts of current that moved my fan overhead, to see if there was any pattern to Venkatagiri power cuts. There wasn’t. I counted the holes in my purdah screens: one had 235, the other 198.

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