The King Read online

  Shirazi smiled and said, ‘God be praised. You look just like your father, like an apple sliced down the middle. Your father was a great cleric.’

  ‘Thank you. I am here with a friend. We have come from Tehran to discuss an important matter with you. The subject is of concern to both the nation and to Islam. We would like to have a private conversation with you, if you will allow it.’

  ‘If it is an important matter come to my home tomorrow afternoon before afternoon prayer,’ said the ayatollah.

  The next day Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza went to his home, a simple Persian house with a pool in the middle of the courtyard and an old weeping willow that cast a shadow over a nearby bench.

  The ayatollah’s servant led them to the library, where the ayatollah, seated on a carpet, was waiting for them. They took off their shoes and sat down on the floor beside him. The servant brought each of them a glass of tea and then withdrew.

  The delicious fragrance of the tea and the sweet taste of the sugar cubes eased the gravity of the meeting. Shirazi took a sip of tea and glanced at Jamal Khan, who was sitting closest to him.

  Mirza Reza was first to speak. He introduced Jamal Khan and gave a brief summary of his travels in many countries and of the fame he enjoyed among the intellectuals of India and the Middle East.

  Then Jamal Khan took over. ‘Ayatollah,’ he said, ‘as you are probably aware, the living conditions in other countries are much better than they are here, where almost everyone is weighed down by the cares of a hard life. God will not allow Muslims to live such a merciless existence. We want to speak with you today about Islam and commerce.

  ‘The foreign powers, especially Great Britain, have our country and our religion in a stranglehold. Our simple merchants are going broke, one by one. Even the fabrics our women use for their veils are imported from England.’

  The ayatollah listened, but he didn’t understand what they were driving at. Jamal Khan was about to enlarge on the oil reserves and the massive presence of the British in the south, but he was afraid the aged cleric would be unable to follow him and would fall asleep. So he started in on the telegraph system, since the cables ran past the ayatollah’s own home and continued to the British telegraph office in the centre of the city.

  ‘Ayatollah, you probably know that the British have run some of their cables right through our houses and mosques to make it easier for them to steal from our neighbour India. In India mass demonstrations against the British are being held as we speak.’

  The ayatollah straightened his back and looked out the window. A telegraph cable was hanging right over the wall of his home. He put a sugar cube in his mouth and took a sip of tea.

  ‘The British are also hard at work plundering our country. England has already taken the Shiraz bazaar. I don’t mean to startle you, but the British have even forced their way into the home of the ayatollah.’

  Much alarmed, the ayatollah put down his glass of tea and stared gravely at Jamal Khan.

  ‘These fragrant sugar cubes are not made from our own crops. They come from Sheffield, England. England has enriched no one but the shah, his relatives and a whole lot of politicians. The rest of the population are left in poverty and suffer from diseases that could be prevented. Who is going to show us the way out of this dreadful situation?’

  Ayatollah Shirazi sat staring at them. ‘But what can I do for you?’

  Jamal Khan nodded to Mirza Reza, who took his turn to speak. ‘The people of this land are like a flock of sheep that have lost their way. They need a shepherd with a staff to drive them back together.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘We need a strong leader.’

  ‘We thought of you. We need you, Ayatollah,’ said Mirza Reza.

  The ayatollah looked at the two men. He was speechless. He had been prepared for anything they might have said, except when they began talking about cables and sugar cubes.

  In need of fresh air he picked up his walking stick and left the room. The servant accompanied him. When they reached the pool the ayatollah leaned on the servant’s shoulder and dipped his bare right foot into the water. Then he sat down on the wooden bench in the shade of the old weeping willow. After a hookah was brought to him he invited his guests to join him outside. Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza took their places on the bench next to the ayatollah.

  ‘I don’t know what you expect from me, but there’s nothing I can do about telegraph poles and sugar cubes,’ said the ayatollah modestly.

  ‘Let your voice be heard,’ said Jamal Khan.

  ‘But I’m an old man with one foot in the grave. I no longer understand the ways of the world.’

  ‘We’ve brought something with us that you can use as a weapon,’ said Mirza Reza.

  The ayatollah looked at the faces of the two men as if he were seeing them for the first time.

  ‘The British control the rights of import, export and production of all the major products in the country,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘Take tobacco. We have no say over the production of our own tobacco, which is used every day by thousands upon thousands of our countrymen. The tobacco dealers and the farmers on the tobacco plantations are having a hard time of it, and many have no money left. The tobacco that the ayatollah has in his hookah right now is a British product. Anyone who buys tobacco in this country is depositing his money directly into the cash box of the British tobacco company. Ayatollah! We need a powerful leader to cry out, “Down with British tobacco!”’

  The ayatollah put down his hookah. It was as if he had touched something unclean, and he inadvertently wiped his hands on the carpet. ‘These kinds of things are complex,’ he said softly. ‘We can shout all we want, but it changes nothing. The only thing I can lean on in this world is my walking stick, and I can’t do any damage to England with that.’

  ‘Ayatollah, may I show you something?’ asked Jamal Khan. The aged ayatollah looked with suspicion at the two persistent men who had shaken his daily rhythm so profoundly.

  Jamal Khan took from his bag the photograph of the British director of the National Tobacco Company and handed it to him.

  Shirazi held the photo at a distance, but he saw nothing unusual. It was just a photo of a fat imam smoking a hookah in a somewhat comical way.

  ‘Gentlemen, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. All I see is an imam, or am I mistaken?’

  ‘You’re not mistaken,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘But the man in the photo is no imam. He’s a Brit in a turban who has put on the robes of an imam and pasted a fake beard on his face. This is the British director of the tobacco company.’

  The face of the aged ayatollah became instantly ashen. He reached for a sugar cube but pulled back his hand, picked up his glass and took a draught of bitter tea.

  46. The Letter

  Every Monday afternoon the shah and Sheikh Aqasi sat down to discuss important current affairs. This time, after dealing with dossiers and signing documents, the sheikh pulled a sealed letter from his bag.

  ‘Who is this letter from?’ asked the shah.

  ‘From Ayatollah Mirzaye Shirazi.’

  ‘Who is Mirzaye Shirazi?’

  ‘The ayatollah of Shiraz,’ answered Sheikh Aqasi.

  ‘What does he want from us?’

  ‘He has also written a letter to me, a letter written in very crude language. I was torn as to whether I should give it to you or not, but I think Your Majesty ought to be kept informed.’

  ‘Read it,’ said the shah, and he handed the letter back.

  ‘If it’s all the same to Your Majesty I would prefer not to. I suspect the contents are rather uncouth,’ said the sheikh cautiously.

  ‘Read it!’ repeated the shah, and he leaned back in his chair.

  The vizier broke the wax seal.

  Besmellah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim,

  In the name of Allah the Compassionate and the Merciful.

  To the king of the country.

  We have already written a long letter to the vizier dealing with a few matters of na
tional interest, of which this is a summary. The shah has placed the fate of his subjects in the hands of the British.

  It is a scandal to Muslims that a foreign power is being permitted to encroach so deeply into their daily lives.

  Out of respect for Islam and in the interest of the homeland, we demand that the shah relieve the British of the tobacco trade and return it to his own subjects.

  God be with you. Awaiting your reply.

  Wassalam

  Mirzaye Shirazi

  With this brief but severe letter the ayatollah was giving the shah an ultimatum. The shah was furious, but he controlled himself and said, ‘This man is old and senile, I presume. There is no reason to respond to his letter in writing. I shall send a messenger to him with a firm answer.’

  ‘I beg Your Majesty to be patient. This cleric is widely respected. First we need to find out why he has suddenly felt the need to take pen in hand. It is a sign that the dissatisfaction among the tobacco merchants of the bazaars is getting out of control. We have to know more before we take action.’

  The shah ignored the vizier’s advice. ‘The tobacco merchants can come and kiss our boots. We have arranged for them to get tobacco that is fully cut and ready for use. What more do they want? We’ve made it easier for them. The imams don’t understand such things. They have to learn that they can’t interfere with business. This ayatollah must be put in his place.’

  He tore up the letter and added, ‘We’re going to teach him a lesson! If we don’t, more ayatollahs will start showing up with new demands!’

  With the dust of the road still fresh on his face and shoulders, the shah’s messenger arrived at the home of the ayatollah a few days later. The servant let him in and offered him tea and something to eat, but the messenger refused and said he wanted to discharge his duty first.

  Shirazi was in the library, sitting on the floor at his writing table. The messenger greeted him, bowed his head and took off his shoes.

  The appearance of the ayatollah surprised him. He had expected a sturdy, powerfully built man who could stand up to the shah’s threats, but when he saw this fragile elder sitting on a threadbare Persian rug, it drained his hard-hitting message of all its strength. He had been on the road for several days and nights, riding straight through the country to put this man in his place.

  The ayatollah bade him sit beside him. The messenger knelt at his table and said, ‘I have a message for you from the shah.’

  ‘You may give it to me,’ said the ayatollah, extending his hand.

  Hesitating, the messenger said, ‘I’m sorry, but I have no letter for you. I have been told to whisper the message in your ear.’

  The ayatollah understood immediately that this was an unusual message. ‘You don’t need to whisper. Just tell me.’

  The messenger glanced towards the door with some uncertainty. He suspected that the servant was standing behind it.

  ‘Don’t worry. No one will hear you,’ said the ayatollah.

  ‘The shah brings you the following message: “Do not interfere in royal matters, or I will pay you a visit with a cushion in my hands.”’

  With bowed head the messenger waited for the ayatollah to respond.

  ‘Was that all?’ asked Shirazi calmly.

  ‘Yes, that was all.’

  ‘I thank you for the trouble you have taken. Please have something to eat and drink. Take your time and get some rest.’

  Time passed, and the shah was not at all certain what effect his threat had had on the ayatollah. He took it for granted that his message had been clearly understood and that he would hear no more from the cleric.

  In the meantime he issued arrest warrants for anyone suspected of having had anything to do with the unrest in Tehran. He slowly began to believe that he had actually torn out the protest by the roots.

  Jamal Khan, Mirza Reza Kermani and Amir Nezam remained in Shiraz, using it as the base from which to organise the resistance.

  For all the shah knew his hard line had worked, but suddenly he started receiving reports that all the tobacco merchants of Shiraz were refusing to do business with the British tobacco company or to pay their overdue bills. The head of the Shiraz police was given a direct order by the shah to come down hard on the defaulters.

  The shah underestimated the merchants’ protest. The British, however, took it seriously right from the start. They were afraid the troubles in Shiraz would spread to the bazaars of other cities, and that the merchants would jeopardise the import of British sugar cubes, tea, textiles and other products. Almost immediately the British ambassador came knocking on the door of the palace, advising the shah to come to an agreement with the merchants of Shiraz. The shah asked for time to reflect.

  Sheikh Aqasi’s religious background made it difficult for him to provide the shah with the right kind of advice. And now that the resistance movement had taken on a religious tone he was becoming even more stricken by doubt. He often simply adopted Mahdolia’s opinion.

  The shah also regularly conferred with his son-in-law Eyn ed-Dowleh, gradually involving him – as the husband of his daughter Taj – in the governing of the country. But in this situation he needed someone who could untangle thorny problems, someone with experience. He turned to his mother.

  Mahdolia was resolute: ‘Ignore the advice of the British ambassador and increase the pressure on the merchants.’

  Armed guards burst into the bazaar and emptied the tills of the tobacco merchants in order to pay their debts to the British company. One leading merchant, acting on behalf of his fellows, tried to stop the officers, but he was so badly beaten that he fell to the ground and broke his shoulder.

  The humiliated merchants turned to the aged ayatollah, who tried to lift up their spirits. Taking up his walking stick, and followed by all the merchants of the bazaar, he went to the home of the wounded man. Upon leaving the house after the visit he urged the nervous merchants to calm down and then announced, ‘The bazaar of Shiraz is closing its shops in protest!’

  The merchants acted without a moment’s hesitation.

  In the middle of the night Amir Nezam climbed onto the roof of the bazaar and hung a large banner across the front of the gate. By the next morning a crowd had gathered and were pointing to the text on the banner. Most of these people were illiterate and they asked each other what the banner said. When they finally found out, it sounded like a cryptic message: ‘The Shiraz bazaar no longer sells British tobacco. The merchants of Shiraz demand a national telegraph network for the advancement of trade.’

  No one knew who had hung the big banner above the gate. It hadn’t even occurred to most of the shopkeepers that the bazaar could use the telegraph service for its own purposes. This gave the protest a totally different twist.

  The chief of police had the banner pulled down. He also ordered the merchants to open their shops. If they refused, the officers would no longer guarantee the shops’ safety. But the order fell on deaf ears. That night the chief of police released dozens of thieves and bandits from prison and sent them to the bazaar to plunder the shops. They forced the doors, took whatever they could carry and threw the rest into the street.

  The next day the merchants gathered in front of the ayatollah’s home to hear his decision. Shirazi sent a courier to the merchants of the Tehran bazaar, calling on them to shut their shops in solidarity with Shiraz. The merchants of Tehran complied, after which the shah sent in bandits to ransack the Tehran bazaar, just as they had done in Shiraz.

  The very thing that England feared was now happening. The protest quickly spread across the entire country. Even ordinary people lent their support. In the meantime the ayatollahs of all the major cities had been sent prints of the photograph of the British director in imam garb. Their verdict was unanimous: Islam was in danger. A collective slogan was chosen: ‘England! Hands off our tobacco!’

  The shah refused to consent to this demand and, egged on by his mother, he increased the level of violence. But the people only b
ecame more resolute. For the first time in history they had the chance to resist the reigning rulers. The merchants gathered at the ayatollah’s house. They could only keep their shops closed for a short time or the public mood would turn against them.

  The shah had run out of patience. He ordered that the merchants be driven out of the ayatollah’s home and that the aged ayatollah be removed to a secret address.

  The police had not counted on the ferocity of the merchants’ resistance. Fearing for their own lives the officers opened fire. One person was killed. The people in the courtyard attacked the police, who began shooting at random. The inhabitants in the surrounding streets were awakened and stormed out of their houses, heading for the home of Ayatollah Shirazi. Hundreds of people filled the streets and stood on the roofs, so the police were closed in on all sides.

  Shirazi then emerged from the library, accompanied by Jamal Khan and Amir Nezam. Amir Nezam set the ayatollah’s reading table in front of him. Leaning on the shoulder of Jamal Khan the ayatollah heaved himself onto the table with difficulty. He raised his walking stick and a deathly silence fell. ‘I am issuing a fatwa. From this moment on tobacco is prohibited. No one in the country is to smoke any more tobacco. Anyone here who fails to comply is declaring war on God.’

  A fatwa was always used as a form of legal advice. When the Islamic judges were unable to pass judgement on a particular matter they would seek the advice of an ayatollah, who would offer them instructions. These matters always had to do with Muslims and their way of life, involving such questions as eating pork, drinking alcohol and Muslim women associating with non-believers. But this was the first time a fatwa with political overtones had been issued. This fatwa was momentous and sensitive because it was aimed at the shah and the greatest power in the world, England. The old ayatollah had no way of knowing what the consequences of his fatwa would be over the next hundred years, or how his words would alter relations in the Middle East.

  Ayatollah Mirzaye Shirazi had spoken, and when he was done he went back to his room. His words would prove more powerful than a thousand cannons. For one long moment it was silent in the courtyard, silent in the alley, silent in the country, silent in the shah’s palace and silent in London.