The King Read online

  Jamal Khan and his comrades understood that they could no longer stir up the masses by means of hit-and-run operations. Campaigns that led to violence tended to frighten people, and frightened people lost all interest in the activists’ ideas. When Jamal Khan told them their children had the right to a pair of shoes, they didn’t understand what that had to do with the shah.

  He talked about oil reserves in the nation’s soil, but they didn’t see what was so important about oil reserves.

  He talked about the need for children to have schools, but they were far from convinced that reading and writing were of any use to their offspring.

  These were not the kinds of subjects that would win the allegiance of the man in the street. The shah, after all, was regarded as the shadow of God on earth. Jamal Khan and his comrades knew it would be a mistake to borrow and adapt the tactics of the resistance leaders in Moscow or other countries. They would have to develop their own strategy, one that was in line with a recognised Persian tradition. And they would have to end their perilous and exhausting travels and concentrate on Tehran.

  During one of their meetings Mirza Reza Kermani came up with a suggestion. Usually he was a man of few words, but whenever he did speak everyone listened.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think I’m close to a solution.’

  ‘Let’s have it,’ said Jamal Khan.

  ‘I don’t think we’re ever going to be in a position to convince the masses. We’re not the obvious people to lead them. They don’t know us and they don’t believe us. What they need is their own leader, someone from their own ranks, a popular leader.’

  ‘But that’s just the problem. There is no such person.’

  ‘There are plenty of them,’ answered Mirza Reza.

  ‘Who?’ asked Talebof.

  ‘The ayatollahs!’ cried Mirza Reza. ‘Look, in Russia the leaders of the resistance have put all their hope in the power of the industrial workers. But we have no industry, let alone workers. We have the bazaar merchants and the enormous mass of illiterate unemployed. The people obey the ayatollahs. What we need is a powerful ayatollah.’

  Everyone was dumbstruck by this insight.

  ‘You forget that the ayatollahs constitute the most conservative force in the country,’ said Mostashar Aldoleh. ‘The world is totally foreign to them. They have no interest in technology, and the only cities they know anything about are Mecca, where God’s house is; Medina, where the Prophet Muhammad is buried; Najaf, where Ali was killed; and Karbala, where the holy Hussein was beheaded. What we need is science, change. We have to be careful that we don’t let the country fall into the hands of such conservative forces.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Amir Nezam. ‘The ayatollahs are insensitive to things like oil and telegraphy. They’ve got close ties with the royal house, and they really believe that poverty, begging and illness are a normal part of life – that God has so decreed it.’

  ‘We mustn’t lump all the ayatollahs together,’ said Mirza Reza. ‘Surely there are a few powerful clerics who think about the country as we do and are suffering under so much misery.’

  ‘Name one,’ said Jamal Khan, sincerely curious.

  ‘I’m thinking of the ayatollah of the city of Shiraz. Haji Sheikh Ali Akbar Mujtahid-e Shirazi, better known as Mirzaye Shirazi. He’s never sold his soul to the powers that be.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Eighty, eighty-five, I believe. Maybe eighty-seven.’

  ‘Eighty-seven!’ said Akhondzadeh. ‘Then his days are numbered. He probably can’t even walk any more. He won’t be of any use to us. We need a leader who’s strong and young.’

  ‘A spiritual leader doesn’t have to be big and tough. He doesn’t even have to get out of bed. With just a couple of words he can stir the shah’s heart and put the fear of God into him, if he wants. He’s got so much power because he’s old, and I happen to know him personally,’ Mirza Reza explained.

  ‘How well do you know him?’ asked Talebof.

  ‘He’s an old friend of my departed father, and I had him as a teacher for a while in the Jameh mosque in Shiraz. I can put us in touch with him if you all agree.’

  ‘But what are we going to say to him? What can we ask him to do?’

  ‘We’ve got to have something concrete if we’re going to convince a man like that,’ said Amir Nezam. ‘I’ve been thinking. We can’t talk to him about our country or our people or about telegraphy. But we can talk about religion. We’ve got to convince him that Islam is in danger.’

  Everyone flinched and the room grew silent. Mirza Reza poured tea.

  This suggestion was a turning point in their line of reasoning. What could an elderly ayatollah say to turn the people away from the corrupt regime of the shah? How could they convince him that Islam was in danger? Mirza Reza had made an excellent suggestion, but they had to let the idea sink in.

  ‘Let’s stop here. We’ll continue this discussion next week,’ said Jamal Khan.

  When they got together a week later no one had come up with a solid plan of action – until one of them said there were rumours of Persian women regularly spending the night with British engineers.

  ‘That may be it,’ said Talebof.

  ‘It won’t work,’ said Akhondzadeh. ‘You don’t just launch into a conversation about the whores of Tehran.’

  ‘We can talk to the ayatollah about British domination in the Muslim world,’ Maraghei suggested.

  ‘It has to be straightforward, otherwise people won’t be able to follow it. British domination means nothing to them,’ responded Jamal Khan.

  That evening the discussion got bogged down once more. But during their next session Amir Nezam and Talebof devised a plan that, if they set about it properly, would cause an earthquake.

  Talebof was the first to speak. He was the man who had studied in Moscow and he spoke excellent Russian. He was often called in to act as a mediator between the Persian merchants and the Russian businessmen, and he maintained close contact with the Russian embassy in Tehran.

  ‘Last year the shah sold all the import and export rights for our tobacco production to the British. He receives a small annual percentage of the income, but the British earn a fortune. The man in charge of our tobacco is a Brit.’

  ‘Everybody knows that. What are you trying to say?’ said Akhondzadeh.

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Amir Nezam. ‘This Brit has sacked all the Persian tobacco inspectors and has hired Indian inspectors to take their place. He has lowered the price of tobacco leaves and driven up the price of British tobacco products. The British and Indian employees treat the tobacco farmers very badly and there’s friction between the tobacco merchants in the bazaars and the British company.’

  Everyone was listening, but no one understood what he was getting at.

  ‘Don’t forget that in our country tobacco is as important as bread. Almost all the men carry a pouch or box of tobacco, and all the women smoke hookahs,’ said Amir Nezam. His eyes were ablaze.

  ‘Go on,’ said Jamal Khan.

  ‘The British boss of the tobacco company is an amusing man. He’s fat, a real bon vivant,’ said Talebof. ‘I have met him personally, and he has done something extraordinary, something that will probably be of help to us.’

  ‘Does it have to do with women?’ asked Maraghei.

  ‘No, not that. He’s not such a ladies’ man. He enjoys eating, smoking and drinking and the good times that go with it,’ said Amir Nezam.

  ‘Did he drink alcohol in public?’

  ‘No, not that either,’ answered Talebof.

  ‘Don’t keep us hanging. Tell us!’

  Smiling, Talebof took an envelope from his bag and said, ‘Finally God has come to our aid. This piece of evidence may be invaluable to us.’

  Talebof showed them a black-and-white photograph of a plump imam sitting on a Persian carpet, smoking a hookah and laughingly blowing out the smoke.

  ‘An imam smoking a hookah. What’s wrong with th
at?’ asked Mirza Reza.

  ‘That’s no imam,’ answered Amir Nezam.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘It’s a Brit dressed as an imam, with a fake beard, a robe and a turban,’ Talebof continued. ‘I’m serious. This is that British director of the National Tobacco Company. He put on a turban and a fake beard as a joke. And look, he’s sitting on a Persian prayer rug with his shoes on. It’s conclusive evidence of a religious and national affront.’

  ‘How did you get this photo?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say,’ said Amir Nezam. ‘But I’m assuming that Talebof has his contacts.’

  Everyone looked at Talebof, but his lips were sealed.

  ‘This photo gives us something to work with,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘It may determine our entire course of action.’

  45. Mirzaye Shirazi

  It was early in the evening and still warm outside. Seated in his study on a beautiful carpet at a low table, and in the light of a lantern shaped like a red tulip, the shah was writing in his diary.

  To his left, standing at a suitable distance, a servant was waving long peacock feathers to cool his damp brow. Sitting opposite him was a young chronicler who calmly dried the shah’s handwriting with an ink blotter, sentence by sentence. Standing to his right another servant with a jug of fresh albaloo juice was patiently waiting for a gesture from the shah to refill his glass.

  Sometimes we forget whether we have already described certain events. There’s so much going on that we no longer have a mind to call our own. I don’t remember what I wrote about Taj’s wedding. It already seems like so long ago. But I’ll say a few words about it anyway, for besides the wedding there is even more happy news.

  Our Taj was married several months ago. We held a feast in a castle outside Tehran. All the wise men of our tribe were there. Taj was distressed – we saw it in her face. But she is still young, and young girls have their own fanciful dreams.

  Taj told me again she does not like Eyn ed-Dowleh. But if she has a child by him, that will change. I have discussed this with her many times, but it doesn’t do any good. This time I used harsh words. I told her she must stop all this whimpering, that it wasn’t about her but about all of us. After that she listened. I told her that we too would prefer not to be shah, but this is the way it is.

  Fortunately everything went as planned. The feast was unforgettable. We have also provided her with a lovely home so later she can live a happy life.

  He took a sip of juice, thought for a moment, picked up the pen and continued writing.

  Now that Taj’s wedding is over a great burden has fallen from our shoulders, and we can focus our attention on other important matters.

  Sometimes we do not understand what it is we can and cannot do. When we speak to the British, the Russians feel passed over. When we speak to the Russians, the British ignore us.

  Yesterday that bearded Russian came to see us – I no longer remember his name. He looks quite amusing. A full beard like that is very becoming on an official. Maybe we ought to ask our public officials to let their beards grow.

  The Russians brought proposals for building us a railway. They’re acting out of their own interest, of course, for we have no need of a railway. Our horses and coaches are more than adequate. Why should we start riding around on two iron rails? Our vizier, Sheikh Aqasi, agrees with us. Such changes are not in the national interest. But others have warned that we aren’t keeping up with the times, that we’re going to weaken our position with respect to our neighbouring countries, India and Turkey. We’ve been taking more walks lately to think things over, and this is why. God will lead us onto the right path: the path of those on whom He pours his mercy, not the path of those He does not favour, nor those who go astray. We are waiting for a sign from God.

  In the meantime, albaloo season has arrived. The albaloos are big and red, and they hang from the branches like rubies. Our mouth waters as we write about them. This year is the year of the mouse. A mouse is filthy, untrustworthy and a bringer of calamity, so we must remain vigilant. Praise God and fear Him. Fortunately we have everything under control, and nothing has happened that we have not been able to handle.

  There is more important news, but we hesitate to record it here. The glad tidings concern our daughter Taj Olsultan. Her servant has whispered something to us, a royal communication. We are not going to write about it for fear of bringing bad luck. We will wait patiently.

  It is warm here. We’re going to stop writing and take a nap before the evening meal.

  He waved the servants away and went to lie down, after which the chamberlain came in and pulled a thin blanket over his legs.

  Soon Malijak came in with his pop gun over his shoulder. He was covered with crumbs. He had just been with the cook and had eaten a whole plateful of butter biscuits with powdered sugar. The cook was afraid of Malijak. Whenever he went into the kitchen and aimed his gun at the poor man, the cook would give him a whole plate of rich, sweet delicacies. It was the only way to keep him quiet.

  ‘Where were you all day?’ asked the shah.

  Malijak said something unintelligible, put his gun down, crept up to the shah on his hands and knees, lay down beside him and shut his eyes. The shah stroked his head and shoulders and said with a yawn, ‘You stink, Malijak. You ought to let them wash you. Don’t be so afraid of the water. You’re not a child any more. You’re almost a man.’

  Carelessly he gave Malijak a little nudge, and as he did so he laid his hand on Malijak’s jacket. He thought he could feel a piece of paper. He felt again and sure enough it was a little roll of paper.

  ‘What do you have in your pocket?’ he asked. He pulled the paper out of Malijak’s jacket and said sharply, ‘What is this? How did you get it?’

  The shah unrolled the paper, glanced at it and shouted angrily, ‘Who gave you this? Who put this in your jacket?’

  Malijak, who couldn’t bear it when anyone raised their voice, looked at the shah with fear in his crossed eyes. The shah pushed Malijak away, at which the boy burst into tears and crept behind the curtain. The shah was trembling with rage. Someone had dared to tuck a pamphlet into Malijak’s jacket. The pamphlet called on the people to rise up in revolt against the shah and the British.

  He opened the window to call the head of the guards but realised it would be pointless to do so. There were so many people living in the palace, and so many who came to the palace every day, that no one would ever find out who had smuggled the pamphlet in. He would have to control himself and pretend nothing had happened.

  It was dark outside and a slight breeze was blowing. He told the chamberlain he would partake of his evening meal out in the courtyard next to the pond. Instinctively he inspected his cannon, which stood in the middle of the courtyard. He strolled to the gate and made sure he was clearly visible to the guards. After that he looked at the horses through the little stable window, walked back to the pond, washed his hands and face, took off his hat and ran his wet fingers through his hair.

  The big couch had been made ready for his dinner. But the shah wasn’t hungry. He ate a few spoonfuls of each dish and pushed the tray aside. The servants tidied everything up and brought him a hookah along with a tea set and a plate of sweets.

  Malijak plucked up his courage and moved cautiously towards the couch. The shah tossed him a sugar cube. With the sugar cube in his mouth he crept up to the shah and laid his head on his lap.

  It was a clear night. The moon was shining, the frogs were croaking in the gardens and the bats skimmed over the courtyard.

  ‘A beautiful night,’ said the shah, and he took a draw on the hookah. He patted Malijak and blew smoke into the air, which helped calm him down.

  The cats began making a racket, and for a moment the shah thought of Sharmin. Raising his eyes he suddenly saw a whole stack of pamphlets flutter down from the roof. The shah pushed Malijak off his lap, turned towards the roof and roared, ‘Seize him!’

  The head of the guards, who
didn’t know whom to seize, took a couple of his men and hurried to the roof, but no one was there.

  That same evening, and in the same moonlight, Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza rode to the city of Shiraz to meet the aged Ayatollah Shirazi. The British had used money and gifts to purchase the allegiance of the ayatollahs of all the major cities, but Ayatollah Shirazi was too old to be interested in politics any more. So the British had passed him over. Ayatollah Shirazi was seen as an independent spirit, and his authority was acknowledged throughout the country.

  Shiraz lay a thousand kilometres south of Tehran. It had once been the nation’s capital, and the old Persian kings had built imposing castles and mosques there. The city’s bazaar had always played an influential role in the country’s various social movements.

  Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza, disguised as merchants, entered Shiraz with a caravan and spent the first night in a caravanserai. They awoke well rested the next morning, and as evening approached they went to the city’s Jameh mosque, where the aged ayatollah himself led prayers every Tuesday.

  Tuesday prayers were less well attended than Friday prayers, and the congregation consisted mostly of elderly people. The old ayatollah took his time and the elderly considered it an honour to be in attendance when he led prayers.

  The two men waited for the ayatollah at the door of the mosque. He arrived on an old donkey led by a group of young imams. The small, scrawny cleric with his long grey beard got off his donkey and continued walking with the help of a stick. As soon as he entered the mosque the old men stood up and shouted, ‘Salawat!’

  Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza joined them and sat down on the floor.

  In the past the ayatollah would climb up to the pulpit to give a talk, but he no longer had the strength for such an exertion. When he was finished he would meet with the representatives of the bazaar or the city officials who had something to discuss with him.

  Mirza Reza shot forward, kissed the ayatollah’s hand, and said, ‘I am Mirza Reza, your disciple and the son of the late Ayatollah Kermani.’