The King Read online

  Sometimes the shah didn’t want to be shah any more. He envied those who were free to walk in the street and go to the bazaar, or to work on their land as farmers. He found life in the palace boring most of the time because one day was no different from the next. He read, he wrote, he studied the documents the vizier showed him, he ate, and sometimes he spent the evening in the harem. He went for long walks and visited his mother. Occasionally he looked in on his daughter to see if she was studying hard.

  Today he strolled into the courtyard and went to the elegant structure that was set off by itself behind the tall trees and was known as ‘Tableau Noir’. It was a single pleasant room decorated with French furniture and very fine paintings by the famous Persian artist Kamal-ol-Molk. Mounted on the wall was a blackboard, tableau noir in French. There were also a few chairs for the pupils, all of them children the shah had begotten by women of his own tribe.

  The schoolroom had been built by order of the shah’s father. When the crown prince was a boy he had learned French and mathematics there from an old French lady. The teachers had always been French: the wife of one of the staff members at the French embassy or a lady brought in from France for this special purpose.

  Now Taj Olsultan was being taught by such a French lady. She was new. The vizier had arranged for her employment through the embassy. She lived in the French residence and spent a few hours every day giving lessons to Taj.

  Looking through the window the shah could see the French woman standing at the blackboard. She was new and shy. The shah was not sure whether he should go in or not, but his cat sprang from his arms and boldly sidled up to Taj.

  The teacher walked to the door. She greeted the shah and made a little curtsy. Then she stepped aside to let the shah enter. But he stayed where he was.

  ‘Is everything to your liking?’ he asked in French.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied politely.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the shah. ‘Is Taj a good pupil?’

  ‘Of course. She is clever and sharp-witted. A real princess.’

  ‘You make us happy. If you need anything, please let us know.’

  The shah called Sharmin and walked back through the garden.

  Sometimes he painted to dispel the boredom. Kamal-ol-Molk had been his instructor. For one whole year the painter had come to the palace to paint a portrait of the shah in the hall of mirrors. Working on a large canvas Kamal-ol-Molk had brought to life the room’s ceiling and walls, with their thousands of little mirrors. The heavy, dark green curtain behind which the shah always vanished and reappeared, the dark blue and red carpets with their hundreds of figures – all were realistically depicted. Finally the painter added the shah, seated in his royal chair.

  By studying the paintings the shah learned several techniques that he himself applied as best he could. Sharmin was his first model and the painting that resulted was quite good. He was happy with it and hung it immediately in his study.

  Another time he tried to immortalise Taj Olsultan, but was unsuccessful.

  ‘It is a hopeless task. The shah has two challenges that cannot be conquered,’ Kamal-ol-Molk told him. ‘Firstly your daughter is breathtakingly beautiful. Secondly she has no wrinkles. I propose that the shah paint his mother. She is a dream model. Her beauty is emphasised by her royal wrinkles, she radiates power and her choice of clothing is perfect.’

  ‘That is impossible,’ the shah shot back. ‘Our mother cannot sit still. She cannot be silent for even one minute. She is always looking for an opportunity to reproach us about something. She in a chair and we with a brush in our hand: we can see it all now. It would be war.’

  The shah limited himself to painting his cat and still lifes. He secretly tried to make a copy of Napoleon’s horse, but it didn’t look like anything.

  ‘It’s not a horse but a donkey,’ he said to himself. ‘Even so, the attempt has given us pleasure.’

  He would never be an impressive painter, but the shah was indeed a true poet. He committed his thoughts to paper, but he had trouble making the words rhyme. When he was satisfied with the result and each letter was in place, he would set aside an evening and summon his chronicler and his lantern-bearer to make an official copy. One of the poems was the following:

  I dreamt that the body of my grandfather had dissolved and turned into dust

  Except the eyes.

  Which were revolving in their orbits

  And looking about.

  The sages interpreted my dream:

  ‘He is still looking amazed

  how his kingdom belongs to others.’

  He is thinking of Herat.

  After the last word the chronicler sat with bowed head. He was always the first to hear the shah’s poems. Anxiously the shah awaited his reaction.

  The chronicler broke the silence and said, ‘A regal poem. I am moved, Your Majesty.’

  A smile appeared on the shah’s face and he tossed the chronicler a couple of gold coins.

  The vizier, who also loved poetry, had given the shah a beautiful, gold-tooled volume of poems by the medieval Persian poet Abu Abdollah Rudaki. The shah read the classics and knew many poems by heart. Poetry was his salvation during the long boring nights in the palace. He read the magnificent collection attentively, and on one occasion he happened to stumble on one of the most beautiful of all Persian poems:

  Buye juye muliyan ayad hami

  Yad-e yar mehreban ayad hami

  The shah was deeply impressed and made a detailed entry about it in his diary: ‘Herat will not let us rest. No matter what we do, the city keeps occupying our thoughts. Today Herat skilfully revealed itself in a poem by Rudaki. The poem was about his favourite river, the Amu. Reading it brought tears to our eyes, and today we hummed it all day long:

  “The wind carries the fragrance

  of my homeland’s river

  and memories of the beloved.

  Though the River Amu has a rocky bed, I still long for home.

  Then the river will feel like down beneath my feet.

  The shah is the moon.

  Home is heaven

  where the moon is bound to go.”’

  Winter came, and after a while the shah no longer knew how he was going to get through the long winter nights. He was pleasantly surprised by an invitation from the Russians.

  The vizier had commissioned the Russians to construct roads between the cities, and they had been working day and night on the project for two years. The roads could have been made by the local population too, but the Russians had what the Persians lacked: discipline and perseverance. Russia’s violent past and countless wars had created a people who no longer dared to believe in the future.

  Before the severe cold set in the Russians wanted to please the shah with a special present. There was a shrine outside Tehran where Abdoldawood lay buried, a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad. For much of the year this shrine received thousands of visitors from Tehran, and it was the shah’s favourite spot. He went there when he felt most desolate, kneeling at the grave of the saint to complain about life.

  The Russians knew from the vizier how important the grave was for the shah’s spiritual well-being. But in the winter the road to the shrine was impassable, rocky and dangerous, and no one dared attempt it by coach or on horseback. So the Russians had built a road for the shah that would always be passable: a track that snaked past the big rocks.

  The riverbed had been bridged at twelve different places. Thousands of strong-armed peasants had levelled all the pits and dangerous slopes with earth and stones. Tea houses, eating establishments and houses of prayer had been built along the way.

  The colder it got the harder the Russians worked. They built big fires and worked along with the peasants without interruption. When the road was finished it was covered by a thick layer of snow.

  The vizier had arranged for the shah to receive the Russian road-builders on the first hill outside the city. He accompanied Shah Naser on horseback, and as they r
ode he reported on the work the Russians were doing throughout the country.

  ‘We have already heard that they are hard-working people,’ the shah remarked.

  ‘We leave everything to God,’ said the vizier. ‘We ourselves do nothing.’

  The shah thought the vizier was referring to his king’s way of life and changed the subject.

  ‘What are we doing here in the snow?’

  ‘The engineers would like to give the shah a tour of the road they have built,’ the vizier explained.

  ‘And must that happen today?’ complained the shah.

  As soon as the Russian engineers saw the shah coming they formed a semicircle. The shah remained at a suitable distance, his stick in his hand, and the vizier introduced the Russian engineers to him. The chief engineer bowed his head slightly, rode up to the shah and asked if he might show him round. The road to the shrine lay under the snow and the shah did not understand what the engineer was suggesting. He cast an indifferent glance at the snow-covered hill and turned to the vizier for an explanation.

  ‘If Your Majesty agrees, we will take him to the grave,’ said the engineer.

  ‘Where?’ asked the shah with suspicion.

  ‘To the shrine,’ repeated the Russian coolly.

  ‘Which shrine?’

  ‘To the grave of the holy Abdoldawood.’

  ‘In this snow? To Abdoldawood?’ asked the shah incredulously.

  ‘I assume Your Majesty’s horse is able to gallop in the snow?’

  ‘Our horse is strong, but it’s late and soon darkness will fall.’

  ‘Your Majesty will be back in the palace before dark.’

  The shah looked distrustful.

  ‘Is the vizier aware of this arrangement?’ asked the shah, turning to the vizier.

  Mirza Kabir nodded.

  Shah Naser stared silently into the distance. Suddenly he turned to the Russian and said, ‘Take the lead! Surprise us!’

  The chief engineer spurred his horse to a gallop and raced down the snow-covered road. The shah followed the Russian past the great rocks, taking the turns with ease. He rode down the slopes without hesitation and passed a few tea houses. It seemed unthinkable that they could ride with such confidence down that unseen, snow-covered road.

  After a short time the shah’s eye fell on the golden cupola of the temple in the distance. It was no less than a miracle. In the past it would have taken a whole day to reach the shrine, even in the summer. Now it took them less than half an hour.

  Just outside the shrine of Abdoldawood the Russian slackened his pace and brought his horse to a halt. The shah galloped past him and rode into the shrine.

  14. The Spring Festival

  It was spring, and the shah wanted to celebrate the Persian New Year as the Persian kings of old had done.

  The festival had not been a lavish occasion in past years, but this time he was going to do it in style. His plan was to sit on the jewel-encrusted throne that dated from the time of the Medes and the Persians. Only the great Persian kings – Cyrus, Cambyses and Darius – had done that during their festivals. It was a simple but magical throne that was so old it was depicted on one of the stone walls in the ruins of the Persepolis Palace. This famous tableau shows Darius, the king of kings, receiving the other kings during the spring festival as they present him with gifts for the new spring season. Alexander the Great once set fire to the palace, but the throne was rescued and taken to a safe place.

  According to the Persian calendar spring was arriving at ten o’clock in the morning that year. The guests who had been invited to the palace had made an early start. They were led to their places according to their rank by festively dressed servants. The guests stood in two rows facing each other so the shah could walk between them in order to greet them. The old, wise family members from the shah’s own tribe stood in front, followed by the foreign delegations. Opposite them stood the warlords and a deputation of imams, led by the ayatollah of Tehran. Next to the imams were the military. Then came representatives of the bazaar and of all the other professions and trades.

  Everyone glistened in their New Year’s finery, and all the beards were well combed and neatly trimmed. People smelled of roses, candles were burning and fragrant spices had been thrown on the fire. Happy voices and music could be heard on every side – all in anticipation of the shah’s imminent appearance, which was to take place from behind the new long green curtains. Yet everyone was waiting for the foreign delegations. Something was wrong. They had arrived, but they were still standing near the pond.

  The shah, who had been informed of the delay, looked past the curtain into the courtyard. He noticed that his vizier was involved in a serious discussion with the British ambassador.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the shah asked the chamberlain.

  ‘There is a disagreement between the vizier and the British delegation.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The British want to keep their boots on when they enter.’

  ‘But this is not a stable. They have always taken off their shoes. Why not now?’

  Everyone who entered the palace took off their shoes. The king was the only one who kept his shoes and boots on.

  The British had chosen this way to express their displeasure about the activities of the Russians and the French. At first glance it seemed like such a little thing, but a very sensitive nerve had been touched. The vizier understood that it wasn’t about the boots. He tried to control himself, but inside he was boiling with rage. The insolent British had provoked the vizier’s ire once before when they recognised Afghanistan as a sovereign state.

  ‘You will take off your boots!’ the vizier said imperturbably to the ambassador.

  ‘We have our traditions, just as the Persians have theirs,’ responded the man. ‘Britons never take their boots off, let alone at a festival given by the Persian king.’

  His answer irritated the vizier even more. ‘On other occasions you have greeted the king without your shoes,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Different rules apply for different occasions,’ said the ambassador.

  Mirza Kabir was faced with an impossible problem. Time was pressing, spring was about to start, the new calendar year had begun, hundreds of guests were waiting inside and the shah would lose his patience.

  In the meantime the matter had reached the ears of all the guests and there was uproar in the hall.

  ‘With their shoes on?’

  ‘What an insult!’

  ‘Those arrogant British again.’

  ‘The shah will never allow it.’

  The imams made it clear that this was unacceptable.

  ‘It is forbidden,’ the ayatollah of Tehran announced. ‘The shah is the shadow of God on earth. His palace is as holy as a temple. If the British do not want to come in, then they won’t come in.’

  The vizier let the British stay where they were and went to talk with the other foreign representatives.

  The Ottomans were used to taking off their shoes. The French ambassador let the vizier know that the French in Africa always took off their shoes out of respect. The Russians, who knew what the British were really annoyed about, walked in their stocking feet across the mysterious carpet to take their place behind the Turks and the French.

  ‘Time is pressing,’ said the vizier to the British ambassador.

  ‘We realise that, but we have strict orders from London. The British do not take off their shoes,’ said the Briton.

  ‘I can offer you a pair of royal socks,’ said the vizier in a conciliatory tone. ‘You can pull them up over your boots.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ said the Briton.

  The vizier noticed that the shah had disappeared behind the curtain.

  ‘The hospitality of the Persians is world famous, but the shah has decided. This far and no further,’ said the vizier.

  The British ambassador motioned to his delegation and they walked to their coaches without taking formal leave.

>   The vizier waited until they were gone, hastened up the stairs, took off his boots and went into the hall. The cannons fired salutes, the orchestra began to play, spring had begun. Shah Naser appeared and walked to the royal throne.

  He was wearing the oldest crown in the kingdom. He had a long, bejewelled cloak draped over his shoulders and a long, golden staff clasped under his arm. It was the staff that Nader the Great had taken from India after his victory at Delhi. This was the first time the staff had been taken from the Indian treasure chest and shown in public. Everyone gazed at the shah in awe.

  As king of kings he took his seat and let everyone come up to wish him the happiness of the spring season, handing out gold coins as New Year’s gifts that he took from the golden dish beside him.

  15. The New Army

  The French had taken great pains to transport all the separate factory components through the Persian Gulf and into the rundown harbour at Bandar Abbas. From there they had brought the materials by mule and on carts through the mountains and forests, which were almost impassable, to Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz and Tabriz. With the same perseverance they had transformed the Persian army into a modern fighting force.

  Some of the factories were now in operation. Now the vizier could proudly gaze on the manufactured products with his own eyes and hold them in his hands. He wanted to share the results with the shah, so he invited him to inspect the army.

  It was a beautiful day. The shah was being led round by a group of officers. When they reached the top of the highest hill they stopped. From there they had a view of the entire plain, and the king was startled by what he saw: a large army in perfect formation. It looked every bit like the kind of French army he had seen in the French history books. He took his binoculars in hand to study some of the soldiers up close, and his open mouth betrayed his astonishment. He studied their berets, coats, gleaming boots and rifles. You could see the word ‘unbelievable’ forming on his lips. His eyes then fell on a row of brand-new cannons glittering in the autumn sun.