The King Read online

  ‘Your Majesty, those are the words of my enemies. They are thirsty for my blood. I knew the shah would bring this up, so I brought a Quran with me.’

  The vizier pulled the holy book from his bag. He placed his right hand on it and said, ‘I swear by this book that whatever I do, I do it for the glory of the shah. If this is not enough I will step down and the shah may appoint another vizier.’

  The shah motioned to the vizier to put the Quran away. Evidently the vizier’s words had restored his trust. The shah walked to the window and pulled back the curtain slightly. He needed the vizier’s advice.

  ‘We have been given a letter written by my father, a very personal letter. He was distressed about Herat. He asked me to do everything I could to recapture the city.’

  ‘Herat is our national heartache,’ agreed the vizier, ‘but we are not in a position to drive the British out. Not only that, but times have changed. Afghanistan is a sovereign state and England has equipped all the Afghan tribal leaders with weapons. And they have stationed an Indian army in Herat. We cannot recover the city by force of arms.’

  ‘Is the vizier suggesting that we must abandon our beloved city to the British, the Afghans and the Indians?’ asked the shah. ‘This is not about the city. It is about our country’s honour. It surprises me that the vizier does not realise this.’

  ‘Certainly I realise it. There is only one solution: the path of diplomacy. We must be just as cunning and clever as the British.’

  ‘Every king has a mission in life,’ said the shah. ‘My mission is to reclaim the city of Herat for the nation. This we will do, at any price. I do not want to go down in history as a cowardly king.’

  ‘I share the shah’s sense of purpose, but Your Majesty also knows that our country has been constantly at war for the past fourteen hundred years. Our strength is exhausted. Another war would cause us to lose our honour, not to regain it. The British have all of India in their possession. It is not India that is our eastern neighbour now, but England. The Russians and the British have cannons and rifles and other war machines beyond anything we can imagine. Our army is an army of beggars. The Persians have played out their role on the battlefield. Fighting a war against our Afghan brothers is exactly what the English are hoping for. It would put an end to all our plans for renewal. I have a series of projects in the cities—’

  ‘What projects? Why do we know nothing of these projects?” asked the shah with suspicion.

  ‘You will be told everything, of course, when we’re further along. Now we’re preoccupied with the struggle against your rebellious brothers. We had not expected that their resistance would cost the army so much time and trouble. But once this is behind us our hands will be free to pursue other projects. It all boils down to this: we think we ought to promote the development of our own products and make them great, just as the powerful nations do.’

  ‘What products?’

  ‘Carpets, for example. There are none better anywhere in all the world. Our saffron, caviar, pistachios, tea leaves, tobacco, dates and much, much more are of exceptional quality. If we could produce them on a large scale we would help thousands of people earn a living. Now we are negotiating joint venture agreements with entrepreneurs from European countries. Our mines are rich in gold, silver, copper and precious stones.’ The vizier paused a moment to catch his breath.

  ‘I have good news for the shah. Even before your father’s death we were involved in talks with the French to bring our army up to modern standards. They have reviewed our proposal in Paris and their reaction is positive. The future looks bright. A war now would be disastrous. If the talks begin to bear fruit I will submit the draft of our agreements to the shah for your consideration.’

  ‘The French have never been trustworthy,’ replied the shah. ‘They deceived my father so many times. They sign an agreement with us, and as soon as they patch up their friendship with the Russians they renege on their promises.’

  ‘What the shah says is true. But France is our closest ally. That country is the enemy of both Russia and England. The French want access to India just like everyone else, and the shortest route is through our country. We have to steer our own political course if we are to remain on good terms with everyone. France is the best option. We will not purchase weapons from them. Instead they will build factories for us so we can make our own weapons and ammunition. They have a very versatile industrial sector. They produce furniture and porcelain, leather and silk. They make the best precision timepieces in the world. And the French have come up with a machine that sews clothing in a most amazing way, and at high speed. They also have a kind of spinning machine that can spin as much as a hundred women working together, and in a very short time.

  ‘We can bring all those machines and expertise to our country. The French are prepared to cooperate with us. If there is a desire to get at the riches of the East by way of Persia, we really ought to profit from it to get our country back on its feet.’

  The shah was silent. The cat, who had slipped behind the curtain, decided the discussion had come to an end. The shah motioned to her and she jumped up on his lap.

  8. Sharmin the Cat

  It was evening. The shah was sitting in his chair, reading a book about Napoleon. He was a great admirer of the general’s strategic genius. His grandfather had met him once and had always spoken of the French emperor with adulation. When the shah’s eyes became tired he clapped his hands and the chamberlain entered the room.

  ‘Hookah,’ said the shah.

  The chamberlain went to fetch the hookah, and the shah sat down in the special place reserved for smoking. The finely decorated hookah was placed on the carpet before him, on a round silver tray next to a small table. On the table was a pair of little golden dishes filled with assorted delicacies. The chamberlain put the teapot in the warm ashes of a brass chafing dish and asked if there was anything else the shah desired.

  ‘The storyteller!’ answered the shah. He raised the pipe to his mouth. There were many things on his mind and he did not know who to trust, his mother or the vizier. According to her the vizier was opposed to invading Herat because he was in league with the British. The vizier, she insisted, was going to replace all the warlords with officers who followed him implicitly.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said the shah.

  The storyteller was a man well over fifty. He wore a special robe embroidered with gold thread and a traditional headdress that storytellers in tea houses always wear when they tell their stories. The man recounted a tale from the Shahnameh, the great Persian book written by Ferdowsi about the legendary kings of Persia from the country’s golden age.

  The shah listened to the tale of King Zal, hoping he could find in it an answer to his questions. The storyteller began.

  King Sam hoped for a son who would help him consolidate his kingdom. But fate decided otherwise. He was given a son whose skin was completely grey and whose name was Zal.

  The king was thunderstruck by this ‘demon child’ and ordered a servant to kill him. But the servant did not kill him. He secretly took the baby to the mountains and left him there. Then the Simorgh, a mythical bird, appeared. She took Zal to her nest and fed him. Zal grew up and became an extraordinary young man. One night, the king dreamed that his son Zal was still alive and that he was living in the mountains with the birds. Filled with remorse and joy, the king set off for the mountains. He found his son and crowned him.

  A few years later, Zal and his army were journeying to Kabulistan to fight against the enemy. There he met Rudabeh, the dazzlingly beautiful daughter of the king of Kabulistan. These two people were made for each other. But because their two countries were embroiled in a history of hostility, their love was forbidden. One night, Rudabeh stood at her window in the castle and let down the long plait of her black hair. Zal climbed up the plait and entered her room. There they spent one of the most beautiful eastern nights together that has ever taken place. Nine
months later, the birth of their miracle child was imminent. But the child was too big and the birth was impossible. Rudabeh wrestled with death. Suddenly Zal remembered that the Simorgh bird had given him one of her feathers in case he was ever in need of it. Zal burnt the feather and the Simorgh appeared. The bird told Zal what he must do: ‘Give Rudabeh a great deal of wine. Cut her side open with this knife, take out the child and sew up the wound.’

  The miracle child was born and was called Rostam. Later he would be the saviour of Persia’s glory and the guardian of the crown.

  The shah had heard enough, but he did not know how this tale could help him make a decision. He tossed a few gold coins to the storyteller. The man picked up the coins, bowed and took his leave. Shah Naser put down the hookah pipe and wandered wearily through the corridors of the palace.

  ‘Sharmin! Where are you?’ he called.

  Every now and then he would pause and open a random door, calling softly, ‘Here, kitty, kitty. Sharmin!’

  Finally he saw Sharmin come in through an open window.

  ‘Where were you? Outside? You’re not allowed to do that. None of your tricks, you hear?’ He lifted her from the floor.

  Sharmin always kept the shah company and slept in his bed. Sometimes she stayed away for long periods of time, but she always came back to her master.

  He strolled through the corridors of the palace with the cat in his arms. ‘Mother says we should watch out for the vizier. But the vizier only wants what’s best for us, don’t you think? You love him too, don’t you? My mother says he has a secret agenda, that he wants to seize power. Do you believe her?

  ‘And the vizier only says nasty things about my mother,’ he continued. ‘I can’t trust anyone but you, Sharmin. You are no one’s spy. You are mine alone and you keep my secrets.’

  When they walked past the kitchen the cat jumped from his arms in search of the cook, who always gave her treats.

  It was late in the evening and the shah decided he wanted some human company, so he went to the harem. Usually he would notify Khwajeh Bashi, the harem overseer, when he was planning to visit. Khwajeh Bashi would then warn the women so they could make themselves up to receive the shah. But tonight the shah was not himself.

  Khwajeh Bashi, who was sitting on a sofa next to the entrance and smoking his hookah as usual, sat up abruptly. He hastily began searching for his slippers. ‘What can I do for Your Majesty?’

  Shah Naser did not reply. Clasping his hands behind him he walked further into the harem. The women, who had not expected this visit, flew giggling to their rooms so as not to surprise him in their night-time attire.

  The women’s rooms were decorated with symbols from their respective cultures. The rooms of the Azari women from Tabriz were quite different from the rooms of the Kurdish women, and those of the Kurds in turn looked nothing like those of the Baluchis. The women from Kabul had different taste than the women from Herat. Often they did not understand each another’s language and customs. But those who spoke standard Persian treated all the other women with proud condescension.

  Chaos reigned in the harem. All the women began rushing around, trying to make themselves beautiful in order to tempt the shah. But he was not in the mood for women.

  Khwajeh Bashi followed the shah at a respectful distance and apologised for the fact that the harem was not ready for his arrival.

  ‘Which woman does Your Majesty desire?’ he ventured.

  There was no answer, and the further they walked into the harem the more indifferently the shah looked at the closed bedroom doors.

  ‘There are a number of women with whom Your Majesty has not yet slept,’ said Khwajeh Bashi cautiously.

  ‘Are there any women from Herat among them?’

  ‘I, I … don’t know,’ stammered Khwajeh Bashi. ‘I’ll go and find out, if that is your wish.’

  The shah said nothing and Khwajeh Bashi hastened to his room.

  The doors of the rooms were now opening one by one, and the women who hoped to seduce the shah came to stand in their doorways.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ whispered a woman with expressive dark eyes as the shah walked past.

  But the shah ignored her.

  ‘My king, you are so handsome,’ said another woman who was dressed in garments of bright, gleaming colours.

  The shah did not respond.

  ‘If I may be permitted to receive the king, I will recite his own poems for him,’ said a lady with black hair, lips painted red and a revealing gown.

  The shah stopped. The woman began to recite:

  Jamshid koja raft? Cheh shod taj o kolah-ash?

  Ku farr-e Fereyduni o ku heshmat o jah-ash?

  Aya beh kojayand kaz-ishan khabri nist?

  Ku dowlat garshasbi o gula sepah-ash?

  Bezhan beh koja raft? Gereftari jah-ash.

  Aya beh koja-and, kaz ishan khabri nist?

  The shah loved poetry. He himself was a poet. On some of the evenings he spent with his wives he took great pleasure in reading his latest verses. Besides as writing poetry he also kept a diary in which he personally recorded events for posterity.

  The woman had recited one of the shah’s most moving poems, about the great legendary kings. In it he wondered where they were, where their thrones and crowns had gone, and what had become of their glorious and mighty armies.

  The shah turned to the woman. She stepped aside to admit him, but he did not enter her room. He stood beside her and stroked her left arm with the back of his hand. The woman had the audacity to take the shah by the hand and gently draw him towards her. The shah conceded to this gesture, lowered his face to her bosom, smelled the odour of her chamber and walked on.

  With his hands behind his back he came to a woman who was standing shyly at her door. Her silence appealed to him. At that moment Khwajeh Bashi appeared with his list. Noticing that the shah was showing interest in this shy woman, he whispered, ‘Your Majesty has not yet shared his bed with this lady. She is from Azerbaijan, from the region that was occupied by the Russians. She doesn’t speak a word of Persian.’

  The woman had light blue eyes and was dressed in the manner of Russian country women. The shah ran his hand down her dark blonde plaits. He smelled her white neck and brought his nose up to her ear. He seized one of her plaits with his right hand, pulled her head towards him, pressed his mouth to her dark red painted lips and bit her. In broken Persian the woman whispered, ‘Hurt. It hurts!’

  The king thrust his hand under her dress, pressed her against the doorframe and pushed his head between her breasts, causing his tall cylindrical hat to fall to the floor. Then he let her go. His lust had evaporated. The sadness returned.

  Khwajeh Bashi picked up the hat and handed it back to the shah, who continued walking.

  Now his glance fell on a young woman with very dark Afghan eyes. She had a mysterious aura about her and looked as if she had stepped out of an old fairy tale. Why had the shah not seen her before? He gave Khwajeh Bashi a questioning look.

  ‘She has been with us for a long time, but she was still a child,’ answered Khwajeh Bashi. ‘Now – well, how shall I put it? – she has become beautiful. I beg your pardon; I should have noticed her earlier, but there are so many women and some of them blossom quite suddenly.’

  ‘Where is she from?’ asked the shah.

  ‘From Herat, Your Majesty,’ answered Khwajeh Bashi uncertainly, and he looked as if he had said it to make the shah happy.

  Light twinkled in the shah’s eyes when he heard the word Herat. He asked her what her name was.

  ‘Jayhun,’ she said anxiously, staring at the floor.

  Her name intrigued him. It was the name of a mysterious river in Afghanistan about which the poet Rudaki had written an unforgettable poem a thousand years before.

  The shah grabbed the girl round the waist and drew her towards him.

  ‘I am afraid, Your Majesty,’ said the girl with a sweet Afghan accent.

  Her fear and her accent arouse
d the shah even more. He kissed her on the mouth and reached under her shirt to stroke her breasts.

  ‘God, help me,’ she cried.

  The shah pushed her into the room and tore her shirt open. Her breasts tumbled out.

  ‘Your Majesty, be gentle with me. Wait. Wait a moment.’

  Khwajeh Bashi pulled the door closed and stood outside.

  Suddenly screaming could be heard that had a note of joy. The harem fell silent and the women closed their doors.

  9. The Brothers

  The vizier had been working on two fronts to eliminate the danger posed by the rebellious brothers. He sent in the army to break the resistance of the armed groups, and at the same time he looked for a political solution to the national unrest, mainly by working with the British embassy in Tehran. He was certain that the British were supporting the shah’s brothers in the eastern part of the country, so he abandoned all restraint and carried on hard-nosed negotiations to force the British to suspend their support of the rebels.

  It was one of the few times that Mahdolia fully supported the vizier in a fight and provided him with important information. Army invasions in the province and the vizier’s intransigence in his dealings with the British and Russian representatives finally bore fruit, and the seven rebellious brothers laid down their weapons and surrendered. They were brought to Tehran in chains.

  The shah received the vizier in his military uniform at army headquarters, located in a barracks outside Tehran. His left hand was on his sword. With his right hand he spun a large, dark brown globe as he listened to the vizier deliver his report on the arrest of the shah’s brothers.

  It was the room in which the most important decisions in the wars of the past decades had been made. The globe had been a gift of Napoleon. Shah Naser stood beside an oil painting depicting his father in uniform, riding a silver horse. He was wearing his tall cylindrical hat, a red sash and a cloak over his shoulders, which fluttered in the wind. The painting was a copy of the famous painting of Napoleon shown seated on a rearing horse, holding the reins with one hand and pointing to some distant spot with the other as the horse prepares to jump. Behind him is a group of threatening clouds. The shah’s father loved that painting, so he asked the court painter to depict him in the same pose.