The King

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 aroused 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.