The King Page 11

  When Shah Naser was informed that the Báb was now sitting in a jail cell in Tehran, he wanted to see him. The coming of the messiah had been the source of inspiration for all the great Persian tales. After all the things that had been said about the Báb, the shah wanted to marvel at the ‘false prophet’ up close.

  One day in the late afternoon he rode to the prison with an armed escort. Carrying a torch the prison supervisor led him to the cell. They went down several dark, damp corridors until they came to a room that was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face without a torch.

  The supervisor went down a few more steps, pointed to a spot at the end of the corridor and handed the torch to the shah. The shah produced a couple of deliberate coughs and walked on hesitantly. He saw the iron bars, but he could not make out the Báb in the darkness. Then he held the torch aloft and saw a silhouette. A man in torn clothing was manacled to the wall with a heavy iron chain. His green scarf glittered in the torchlight like a riddle. The shah took another step forward. There was a momentary flash of lightning in the Báb’s eyes. He had recognised the king.

  ‘The messiah,’ whispered the shah.

  With childish fascination the shah touched the iron bars and whispered again, ‘The messiah.’

  Suddenly the Báb drew closer and spat in the shah’s face. The shah recoiled, wiped the spittle away with his sleeve and shouted, ‘String him up!’

  The next day the Báb, the false messiah, was hung from a gallows before the great gate of Tehran. His green scarf fluttered over his shoulder.

  22. The Cats

  The tsar received Mahdolia in his palace, and during one of their talks he revealed to her the message that the Russian delegation had planned to tell the shah at Sheikh Aqasi’s country home.

  The talks with the tsar were encouraging. Mahdolia had regained his trust. She spent two weeks on an estate outside Moscow, and whenever she left the estate to take a stroll in the city she was accompanied by a group of older ladies from the Russian royal family.

  Her plans to return to her homeland were hindered by a heavy snowfall that struck the northern part of Russia. The roads were covered with a thick white blanket. The temperature plummeted, and no one dared venture out on the roads. Mahdolia was forced to remain indoors until the snow began to melt.

  In Tehran winter was still far off. The shah walked through his palace in a panic. Sharmin had not shown her face that night, which had never happened before. She would walk through the palace and the gardens, but she always came back to the hall of mirrors to sit at the window.

  When Sharmin failed to show up the shah was unable to sleep. He spent the night wandering the corridors, peeking into all the rooms and calling her name. He was afraid he might find her dead somewhere. He searched through dark storerooms and under old cupboards and couches, but she was nowhere to be found.

  The next day he sent out the guards, but there was no trace of Sharmin anywhere. Tired and disappointed the shah lay in bed and listened to the outdoor noises. The wild cats were making a racket on the roofs of the palace. Had they seduced Sharmin? Would she have chosen the warmth of a feral cat over the warmth of her master’s arms?

  The caterwauling of the cats drove the shah to distraction. He got out of bed and went out to the courtyard. When he reached the pool he called out, ‘Sharmin, are you there?’

  The guards saw him. The head of the guards asked if he could be of any help.

  ‘Bring us a torch!’ ordered the shah.

  The guard did what was he was told.

  Torch in hand the shah climbed the stairs leading up to the roof. The cats, who saw the shah coming towards them, jumped to the other roofs of the palace. There must have been at least a hundred of them. The shah had never seen them in a group like this before. During the daytime each cat went his own way, but in the evening they all gathered together. Astonished, the shah held the torch aloft. The fat wild cats regarded the palace as their own territory, and each day they feasted on leftovers from the harem and the palace kitchen. These were the descendants of the cats that had been living on the roofs of the palace for generations. The animals knew where the borders were drawn. They never entered the palace; the roofs, the back garden of the harem and the rubbish shed at its far end were their domain. Now, face to face with the shah, they knew they were not to get any closer and that they had to behave themselves.

  ‘Sharmin!’ the shah shouted. The cats flew in every direction. Sharmin did not appear.

  Back in his bedroom the shah could not bear the empty spot at his feet. He rang his little bell and cried, ‘Taj!’

  Rapid footsteps told him that the chamberlain was on his way to fetch the shah’s daughter.

  Taj Olsultan was still living with her servant in a separate apartment at the end of the harem, which had its own entrance to the gardens. The shah continued to pay regular visits to her classroom, where she was tutored by the French woman. An experienced statesman came to teach Taj the history of the country, but it was the shah himself who told her about events that had taken place during the rule of his father and grandfather.

  ‘Remember everything. As princess you must know these things.’

  The secrets that the shah shared with her strengthened the tie between father and daughter, but they also caused her to worry about his health and well-being.

  Taj Olsultan had quickly slipped into a dressing gown when the chamberlain told her the shah was having another sleepless night.

  ‘What is it, Shah-my-Father?’ she asked as soon as she saw him.

  He embraced her and kissed her long dark hair. ‘Sharmin is gone.’

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’ asked the girl with surprise.

  ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘She’s bound to come back. You’re tired. You really must sleep,’ said Taj.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ replied the shah.

  ‘I’ll read to you then,’ she said, and she put the shah to bed.

  Taj picked up a French book from the stack on the bedside table. She sat on the edge of the bed and began reading from the page where the shah had made a dog-ear.

  ‘“La vicomtesse était liée depuis trois ans avec un des plus célèbres et des plus riches seigneurs portugais, le marquis d’Ajuda-Pinto …”’

  But the shah’s mind was elsewhere. He sat up and said, ‘The women of the harem have a hand in Sharmin’s disappearance.’

  Taj pushed him back gently and continued reading.

  ‘“C’était une de ces liaisons innocentes qui ont tant d’attraits pour les personnes ainsi liées …”’

  ‘They take away everything that is dear to me,’ said the shah, and he got out of bed.

  ‘Where are you going, Father?’ asked Taj, putting the book back on the bedside table.

  ‘I still don’t have an heir. No son of those women could ever succeed me.’

  The girl poured out a glass of water and handed it to him.

  ‘I don’t need water,’ said the shah. ‘Taj, listen, you are my only hope. You must give me an heir. I must find you a suitable husband.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Taj, clearly startled. ‘I’m only a girl.’

  ‘Your mother was also a girl. She was about fourteen when she gave birth to you. How old are you now? Almost fourteen, surely?’

  ‘No, far from it,’ said Taj.

  ‘You’ll soon be thirteen, and thirteen is the same as fourteen. You must watch what you eat. The older and prettier you become the more likely they are to poison you. They’ve taken Sharmin from me and with you they’ll do exactly the same,’ he said, and he left the bedroom.

  ‘Where are you going, Father?’

  ‘To the harem. Whoever harms Sharmin will die. You! Go to your own room. Watch what you eat. And keep the door firmly bolted when you sleep. I’ll have them hung if they so much as point a finger at you,’ he said.

  It was deep in the night. Khwajeh Bashi, the harem overseer, was asleep. The shah ki
cked the door so hard that the man awoke with a start. Only the shah would ever do such a thing. Khwajeh Bashi unbolted the door. The shah probably had need of a woman.

  ‘Your Majesty!’

  The shah ignored him and walked on. The air of the harem was heavy with the smell of tobacco.

  ‘Sharmin!’ the shah bellowed.

  Khwajeh Bashi’s heart was in his mouth. He had heard that the shah’s cat was missing. He knew the shah was capable of murder if he didn’t calm down, but Khwajeh Bashi dared not open his mouth for fear that he would be the first victim. He followed him at a safe distance.

  ‘Sharmin! Sharmin!’ called the shah.

  He stumbled over a chair and a bucket in the dark. Then he knocked over a hookah. Blind with rage, he kicked the pipe against the wall and it shattered noisily. Grumbling sounds could be heard from the rooms. The women had woken up and locked their doors from the inside, afraid the angry shah would come in.

  Khwajeh Bashi, who thought there was a good chance that the women were behind the cat’s disappearance, went to get help. The women fell silent.

  ‘Where are you, Sharmin?’ called the shah.

  Suddenly the terrified whine of a cat could be heard and the creature tore past the shah’s leg. The shah thought he had seen from which room the cat had been tossed, and he threw his full weight against the door.

  ‘Stop, Shah-my-Father! Stop!’

  Khwajeh Bashi had rushed to get Taj and warn her. The girl took the shah by the arm and led him out of the harem.

  23. A Secret Message

  Mahdolia was back. After a day of rest she received the shah in her palace. She wanted to keep their conversation beyond the knowledge of the vizier. The Russians had expressed negative opinions about him.

  ‘Mother, how was your journey? How did they receive you?’

  ‘Far beyond my expectations. I was accepted with open arms – just like a blood relation – by the tsar’s wife, his mother, his sisters and his daughters. The atmosphere was one of trust. The tsar said he knew we had nothing to do with the attack on the embassy.’

  ‘You make us happy, Mother,’ said the shah.

  ‘The visit to Moscow was another unforgettable experience. The majestic churches and the impressive historic buildings all underscore human mortality. Everything, from the streets and bridges to the theatres, is so completely different from what we have in Tehran. There were a few times that I found myself silently weeping in the streets of Moscow.’

  ‘Why, Mother?’

  ‘For you, my son. It wasn’t until I reached the palace of the tsar that I realised the kind of misery in which my son, the shah of Persia, is living. That was when I became fully aware of what history has done to us, and especially to you. Once we had magnificent cities and palaces that made Moscow look like a simple village. Now my son has become the king of a land of ruins.’

  The shah offered her a handkerchief.

  ‘But in the presence of the tsar I behaved as if I were the mother of the mightiest shah in the world.’

  ‘We are grateful to you for that,’ said the shah. ‘What did you discuss with the Russians?’

  ‘Sheikh Aqasi has all the documents. Tomorrow he is coming to hand everything over to you. It all comes down to the following: the Russians are prepared to withdraw from the occupied regions of Azerbaijan, but under certain conditions.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said the shah guardedly.

  ‘They want access to the Persian part of the Caspian Sea, so they can freely sail there.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ answered the shah. ‘We ourselves have no ships. Must we fully surrender our northern waters to the Russians? Must we stand aside and admire the Russian warships? No, never.’

  ‘Son, if we have no ships, what do we need that sea for?’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Listen. The Russians are prepared to withdraw, but in exchange they want us to give up our authority over the islands in the Caspian Sea and the steppe above Afghanistan for a period of fifty years. We wouldn’t be giving anything away; only lending.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mother, but this is utter madness!’

  ‘Madness? Of what use to us is that wild, uninhabited steppe above Afghanistan? Even the Mongolian donkeys detest it. And then that handful of islands. Has one single Persian even set foot on them since the creation of the world?’

  ‘What do the Russians want with them, then? They’ll be colonising our land. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  ‘Why? I’m doing everything I can to keep our land intact,’ said Mahdolia defensively. ‘I know what our tribe has sacrificed to serve this people. I have seen the bodies of so many of our brave men who were killed in the wars or murdered by the spies of foreign powers. You act as if I were betraying our nation. I want to protect you. I’m tired. I think you should go. Tomorrow I’ll share the tsar’s most important message with you,’ said the queen mother, and she stood up.

  ‘No. Sit down, Mother.’

  ‘Only if you sit down too, and stop speaking to me from such a great height, like your father.’

  The shah sat down beside her.

  ‘You know the Russians want access to the Indian Ocean?’ she continued.

  ‘Let them dream. We’re not giving them our land.’

  ‘The tsar has made the following proposal: if the shah wants to free Herat from the hands of the British he can count on us.’

  A light flickered in the shah’s eyes. ‘How do they think they’re going to do that?’

  ‘If we agree to their plans, they will withdraw from the occupied regions. The tsar will then provide us with cannons and rifles. If the shah requests it the Russian officers will assist our warlords and fight alongside them in our army uniforms.’

  ‘Did the tsar really propose this?’ asked the shah.

  ‘He promised me this personally and no one else knows about it, not even Sheikh Aqasi. Listen, my son, if you can give our beloved Herat back to the nation you will go down in history as a hero.’

  ‘But the Russians cannot be trusted,’ said the shah.

  ‘Son, what have we got to lose?’

  ‘The vizier will never agree to it.’

  ‘You are the shah. And by the way the tsar hasn’t got a single good thing to say about the vizier.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘The tsar told me in confidence that according to the report of the Russian embassy, a possible takeover by the vizier should be taken into account.’

  The shah sank in his chair.

  ‘But don’t worry,’ said Mahdolia. ‘The Russians have agreed that if your throne is in danger they will step in and take action.’

  The shah stood up, took his mother’s hand, kissed it and left her alone.

  On his way to his palace he wondered when he ought to inform the vizier of the tsar’s proposal. While the shah saw the possibility of recapturing Herat just within reach, the vizier was concentrating on domestic concerns.

  The shah decided to wait for a suitable moment.

  24. The Print Shop

  The shah was still living in Tabriz as crown prince when the vizier sent a group of bright students to Europe to study. Now that they had graduated the vizier needed them to build up the country.

  The engineers, who knew all there was to know about modern technology, provided Tehran with a new road network. The doctors were put to work in new hospitals, where people stood in long queues day and night waiting to be helped. Those who had learned new languages and had been introduced to modern academic disciplines became the teachers of teachers and would later be sent to work in schools that were yet to be built.

  One of the young men was of particular importance to the vizier. He was the son of their family cook. Long ago, when the vizier was helping his own children with their French lessons, he noticed the cook’s son hiding behind the door and following everything he said. The vizier called him in, put the French textbook down in front of him, and said, ‘Read this alou
d.’

  To his astonishment the boy began to read. Recognising an exceptional talent the vizier had made him part of the family and had him join his own children in their private lessons. Later he sent the boy to Paris, and now that he was back he worked as the vizier’s right-hand man. His name was Tagi, but the vizier, who was convinced that this young fellow would later become a national leader, gave him an honorary name: Amir, a synonym for prince.

  Another of the vizier’s dreams for the country was to open a print shop. He wanted a newspaper for Tehran. He had seen newspapers for the first time in Moscow when he went there with his father.

  The vizier wrote poetry, and he also kept a diary for recording the day’s events. He hoped to publish his poems in book form one day. Poetry gave him peace of mind, and he always carried poems around with him to correct. It was a way of cutting himself off from the outside world. He also liked to write letters: letters as political documents, as historical markers.

  The vizier wrote a new kind of prose. The Persian language was ponderous and complex, but the vizier’s style had a unique clarity. It all came from serving as chronicler for his father and from translating so many letters from Russia, France, England and India into Persian for the father of the shah, work that brought him into close contact with the direct European style of writing. The father of the shah had once given him a royal quill as a reward for his beautiful handwriting.

  His most moving writings were the letters he wrote to his wife.

  My love,

  When I arrived home yesterday you were not there.

  Our house seemed like the empty nest

  of a rare bird that had flown away forever.

  Always be home, my love, when I return,

  or I am forced to go from room to room,

  calling your name until you come.

  This brief, simple letter provided a whole new glimpse into the relationship between men and women. Persian poetry was full of men’s declarations of love to women, but not a single man had ever written a letter to his own wife.