The King

17. The Albaloo Garden

An albaloo is a cherry, but it is somewhat redder, more delicate and more flavourful than other cherry varieties. The tastiest albaloos in the world can be found in the outdoor gardens of Tehran near the Alborz Mountains. In other cities the albaloos ripen in late June, but the cherries of Tehran are not fully developed until late summer and early autumn. There nature takes her time to make something outstanding.

Albaloos were very popular among the young lovers of Persia. The girls and young women would hang albaloos over their ears and the young men would long to pluck them. The albaloo was the shah’s favourite fruit. Everyone near him knew this, and the rich merchants in the bazaar, who had large albaloo gardens at their country houses, were aware of it as well. They sometimes invited the shah and his harem to spend a day among the cherries. Like the aristocratic families they had built castles in the surrounding villages where they would spend the summer. These were outposts of paradise, constructed according to the conventions of Persian landscape architecture.

Sheikh Aqasi had one of the finest gardens in Tehran. He had made all the necessary preparations for the secret meeting to be held there between the shah and the Russians.

The evening before the meeting the shah lay in bed. He missed Sharmin. Only much later did the cat finally come into the bedroom, rush onto the bed and lie down. The shah felt her restlessness.

‘Where were you, Sharmin?’

The cat crept up to her master. As he stroked her head he felt a piece of paper hanging from a cord round her neck.

‘What’s this?’

In the candlelight he saw that it was indeed a slip of paper. Two words were written on it that were barely legible: ‘Beware! Tomorrow!’

What could this mean? Who would write such a thing? What should he beware of? Was it a warning, a threat or a joke? Who dared to use his cat as a messenger? He put the slip of paper in his coat on the coat rack and went back to bed.

‘Sharmin, who did this? A friend? An enemy?’ he asked. ‘Was it one of the women in the harem? Someone who is jealous of you because you sleep with me every night? Could it be that Foruq wants to take revenge on me because I no longer want to share my bed with her? Perhaps I will never find out. But whoever it was, I will see that she is thrown from the roof.

‘We are surrounded by enemies,’ he went on. ‘We are not safe. The piece of paper round your neck is proof. There is nothing to be done. A king is always in danger. He will never sleep peacefully.’

The shah woke early. His breakfast was waiting for him. A servant brought the cat’s breakfast in on a large silver tray. It was fresh milk in a little porcelain bowl, roast mutton on a gilt-edged plate, a few small pieces of fresh bread spread with butter and a dish of water.

The shah looked to see whether his cat was eating her breakfast, and at the same time he kept his eye on the servant. Someone in the palace must have hung that piece of paper round the cat’s neck.

After breakfast the chamberlain brought in comfortable clothing that he had selected with great care. The chamberlain did not know about the secret appointment with the Russians. ‘No, it has to be more formal,’ said the shah.

‘But if the shah intends to partake of albaloos later on, perhaps it’s better …’ suggested the man cautiously.

‘Formal clothing,’ said the shah firmly without looking at him.

A short while later the chamberlain returned with a suit. He showed it to the shah with some hesitation.

‘That’s good,’ said the shah.

He held the suit in front of him, looked in the mirror and said, ‘This is excellent. We’re going to get dressed.’

Meanwhile Sheikh Aqasi’s country house had been made ready for the arrival of the shah and the women of his harem. It was quite warm in Tehran, but at the foot of the Alborz Mountains the temperature was pleasant. In Sheikh Aqasi’s garden the branches of the albaloo trees were drooping under the weight of the ripe, red, full fruit, which gave off a delightful fragrance. As a child the shah had taken great pleasure in plucking albaloos. He never used his hands, but would stand under the hanging branches and pluck them with his lips.

Sheikh Aqasi knew how to please the shah. He had asked the old baker from the bazaar to make the albaloos even more delicious by adding sugar and fragrant ingredients. Sheikh Aqasi had ordered large carpets to be rolled out in the garden and the couches to be covered with colourful cushions so the shah and his harem would feel completely at home.

The shah was on his way. Behind him rode seventy-five women from the harem who had been selected especially for this outing. The women were veiled and covered in niqabs, and each of them wore a pair of binoculars round her neck, a gift of the English consul in Tabriz to the wives of the crown prince (as the shah was at the time).

The binoculars had been packed in a wooden box and inscribed with the English text, ‘From the princesses of the British royal house to the princesses of Persia. Warm greetings.’ It was the text more than the binoculars that had so delighted the shah. When he went out with his wives he had them bring their binoculars so they would have something to keep them occupied along the way.

The women who were selected to travel with the shah always had the time of their lives. These were their happiest moments, away from the seclusion of the harem. The father of the shah had never bothered to take his wives anywhere, for it required a great deal of organisation.

The shah rode in front. Remarkably he had left Sharmin at home. The women noticed he was peevish and kept their distance to avoid any angry outbursts.

‘Something is bothering him,’ whispered the women.

‘Perhaps he misses his favourite cat.’

‘Why did he leave her at home?’

‘She probably doesn’t feel very well,’ said one of the women with a laugh.

‘She gets a lot of fatty meat.’

‘If she were sick, His Majesty would never go anywhere. She’s not sick. I saw her on the roof this morning. She enjoys being with the wild cats when he’s gone.’

‘So it’s something else,’ whispered another woman.

‘Didn’t you notice? The shah has brought along a lot of extra balls for his cannon.’

The women held up their binoculars to look at the cannon.

‘He’s taking us to the front,’ one of them giggled.

Once outside Tehran, when there was little chance that they would be meeting any strange men, the women took off their niqabs and enjoyed the warm wind blowing around their heads. This was how they rode to Sheikh Aqasi’s country house. They all knew him. And because they didn’t like the queen mother, they didn’t like the sheikh either.

‘She’s got something going with him.’

‘He’s always with her.’

‘She seems to need a great deal of his advice,’ someone said with a wink.

‘Come, advise me,’ said another, imitating the queen mother. ‘Come, read me my future, show me the stars.’

Sheikh Aqasi stood at the gate to welcome the shah. He was wearing a long, light summer coat, and his beard, which went all the way down to his chest, was neatly combed. He rushed up to the shah, who was still seated on his horse, and pressed a kiss against his right boot of light brown leather. The shah got down from his horse and the sheikh took the reins.

The women of the harem had put their niqabs back on and were waiting for a sign from the shah.

‘The Russians will arrive in the afternoon,’ said Sheikh Aqasi. ‘Your Majesty has plenty of time to rest with his harem in the garden. The weather is splendid and everything is ready for you and your company. If Your Majesty agrees I will escort you to the garden.’

The shah nodded and motioned to his wives to dismount.

Sheikh Aqasi opened the great gate of his country house and said, ‘Please come in and bless your subject’s garden.’

The shah was impressed. The trees groaned under the weight of the glorious red albaloos, and the branches were bent over so far that if the shah raised himself up on his toes he could, with a little effort, pluck the albaloos with his mouth. The ground was covered with elegant carpets, and beneath the trees lay large colourful cushions and small rugs. Big parasols cast shadows across long tables that were covered with a vast array of dishes, fruit juices, fresh vegetables and other delicacies. An unusually delightful fragrance filled the air.

‘It is good,’ said the shah to Sheikh Aqasi.

‘Your subject grants Your Majesty his rest,’ responded Sheikh Aqasi. ‘The harem may make themselves completely at home. There are no strangers here, and later I will go inside. Should you require anything I will see to your needs without delay.’ He bowed and retreated into the building.

As soon as he left the women began walking round the garden, full of amazement. They did not touch the fruits or foods until the shah gave them permission to have something to eat or drink. But the shah’s thoughts were with the Russians and he forgot the women. One of them ventured to draw the shah’s attention to the magnificent albaloos.

The shah looked at the waiting women and the albaloos. He put his hands behind his back and stood beneath the branches, searching for the largest one. It hung defiantly high. Standing on tiptoe he tried to reach it with his mouth but was unsuccessful. On the second try his lips touched the fruit. The women encouraged him light-heartedly. He tried once more and stretched himself out to his full length. You could see his legs tremble with the strain. The fat red albaloo was almost in his mouth when his tall hat fell to the ground.

The women clapped their hands over their mouths to suppress their cries of alarm. This was a highly unusual occurrence. No one was ever to see the shah without his hat. The women immediately averted their eyes, but in that flash they had seen that the shah had become a little bald and a little grey. He put his hat back on and cast an angry glance at the women. The festive mood had been spoilt. Still hanging high in the tree was the fat treacherous albaloo. The shah plucked it roughly with his hand and played with it for a moment between his fingers. Would he crush it and throw it to the ground, or pop it in his mouth? He popped it in his mouth and bit down. The taste alleviated everything.

‘Wicked! Extraordinary!’ exclaimed the shah.

The baker had done his work with consummate skill. There was no stopping the shah now. Forgetting the purpose of his visit he ate so much in so short a time that his stomach began to ache and he had to lie down on the couches.

‘Bring me hot tea with rock candy,’ he groaned.

Indeed that was the only effective remedy for stomach ache caused by eating too many albaloos. Once he had drunk the sweet tea and his stomach began to feel better, he looked up from his couch at the women plucking albaloos.

‘No, not by hand. Pluck them with your mouth,’ he kept shouting.

The women put their hands behind their backs and stood under the branches. The shah laughed at the sight of their lips, which the oozing juice of the albaloos had stained a deep red. It aroused him. He called one of the women over and sucked on her lips. He plucked a couple of cherries, squeezed them and let the red juice flow over the women’s faces, necks and breasts. They enjoyed all the attention. It was one of the rare moments when they actually loved the shah. Now he belonged to all of them, and he kissed all the lips that came near.

Back in the palace they would talk about what they had experienced and how much they had enjoyed it. It would provoke jealousy among those who had not been kissed or touched by the shah in years. Discord lay in wait, ready to pounce.

The shah drank a few more glasses of tea and stretched out on one of the couches. He closed his eyes to take a nap.

Silence descended on the garden. The women sat on the big garden benches smoking hookahs. The shah slept restlessly, tossing and turning. Then all at once he stood up, left the women and withdrew into the building where he was to receive the Russian delegation.

‘Does the shah wish to rest any more?’ asked Sheikh Aqasi, and he accompanied him to a special room.

The shah picked up a book that was lying on a table, sat down in a chair, put his feet up on another chair and began leafing through the book.

‘Does Your Majesty require anything else, perhaps?’

The shah said no, after which the sheikh gently closed the door.

Within the hour the sheikh returned, tapped gently on the door and brought in a cup of tea, with the shah’s approval. The sheikh then led him to another part of the building where he was to receive the Russian guests unobserved. They could arrive any minute now, but apparently they had been delayed.

The shah waited in this guest room and Sheikh Aqasi waited at the back door, but there was no sign of the Russians. The shah looked out through a slit in the curtains at the fields along which the delegation would have to pass. For a meeting at this level an unreported delay was unusual. The shah paced up and down the room and took another peek outside. Sheikh Aqasi stood rigid at the door, as if he had turned to stone. He dared not approach the shah.

Finally the shah turned to him. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

‘No, not that I know of. Everything was meticulously arranged with your mother.’

‘Perhaps they’ve lost their way?’ said the shah.

‘The Russian ambassador himself stopped in yesterday to go over the route,’ he answered.

With his hands behind his back the shah returned to the guest room. Soon Sheikh Aqasi came to bring him another glass of tea.

‘How much more tea do we have to drink?’ said the shah, and waved him away with his hand.

The sheikh withdrew, afraid the shah was about to fly into a rage. His nerves were stretched to the limit.

The shah could take it no longer. He bounded down the hall and cast his eyes on the women resting in the shadow of the trees. Then he thrust his hand into his coat pocket and felt a scrap of paper. He had forgotten it, the paper hanging round his cat’s neck. ‘Beware! Tomorrow!’

He was stunned. Could this warning have to do with the failure of the Russians to appear? He turned back to the guest room, pulled the curtain aside and grabbed his binoculars. There was no one to be seen. A serene silence reigned.

Suddenly he heard a shot in the distance. Could he be mistaken? Had Sheikh Aqasi heard it too? He opened the window and strained his ears. Then he heard another shot, far in the distance.

‘Sheikh Aqasi!’ he cried.

The sheikh was at his side immediately.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘The shots. We heard two shots.’

Sheikh Aqasi, clearly shaken, went over to the window. Another shot was heard.

The shah didn’t hesitate. ‘Get ready!’ he ordered his wives. ‘Back to the palace!’ Chaos ensued. The women put on their niqabs and hastened to their horses. Surrounded by his regular guards the shah raced back to Tehran. The other guards escorted his wives to the palace by way of a shortcut. After a ride of unprecedented speed the shah and his guards reached the city. He noticed the agitation immediately. Everyone was indoors, looking out at the empty streets from behind closed windows.

The shah was told that there had been shooting and that a few people had been killed, but no one knew exactly what was going on. He wanted to ride to the centre of the city, but the guards held him back and brought him to the palace despite his protestations. There he summoned the head of the guards and had him call for the vizier. The messenger returned and reported that the vizier had gone to the bazaar square, where a serious incident had taken place that required the vizier’s personal attention. He was not able to come to the palace.

‘What kind of serious incident?’ cried the shah.

‘I don’t have the exact details,’ answered the messenger, ‘but I heard that many have been killed.’

‘How many?’

‘More than twenty, maybe thirty.’

‘Thirty killed? Who fired the shots? Who died?’

‘What I am telling you is based on rumour,’ said the man cautiously.

‘Tell us the rumours then!’ cried the shah in a rage.

‘According to the rumours more than twenty Russians were killed.’

‘What? Russians? What makes you think they were Russians?’

‘I’m only passing on the rumours,’ repeated the messenger.

‘Go then, and come back quickly with the facts,’ ordered the shah.

No one in the palace knew what had happened on the bazaar square. And if anyone did know he didn’t dare open his mouth for fear of the shah’s explosive fury.

If the rumour was true and the incident had something to do with the Russians, then the special Russian envoy himself could be dead. Russia would hold the shah responsible for this attack. He didn’t know what to do next. He was prepared to crawl to the temple of the holy Abdoldawood on his knees to rectify the situation.

The messenger was probably too terrified to return. Doubtless the matter was a complicated one or the vizier would have come to him immediately to fill him in. There was no question of his mother having anything to do with this plot. His appointment with the Russians had been violently sabotaged. The shah, his mother and the Russians had walked into a trap. What if the Russian envoy indeed had been killed? What was he to do?

His mother’s palace was a hotbed of spies, a pit of old, black, poisonous snakes, crawling with the imams’ accomplices and British informers. Stupid. How stupid he had been. He was angry with himself and furious with his mother.

‘Witch, vixen!’ he cried aloud.

Hearing a horse in the courtyard, he looked outside and saw the messenger. The shah pulled himself together. He walked to the middle of the hall and waited until the chamberlain had admitted the messenger and no one else.

‘Report!’ he said impatiently.

‘I have seen the following with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears: thirty-four Russians have perished, thirty-one of them staff members from the Russian residence and three Russian businessmen.’

The shah heard no more. The messenger saw him go pale and begin to totter. The man was about to call the chamberlain.

‘Continue reporting!’ cried the shah.

‘It is said that last night three Persian women spent the night in the Russian residence. Haj Mirza Masih, the ayatollah of Tehran, got wind of this report. He announced it during Friday prayers and has called for a jihad. An angry mob led by a young imam went today to the Russian residence. The Russians bolted the gate of the embassy and drew the curtains closed. Stones were thrown, and the windows and doors of the Russian buildings were destroyed. The young imam climbed over the embassy fences and the people followed him. Just then shots were fired from an unknown location. Although the imam was hit in the back, the people cried that the shot had been fired from the Russian residence. They pulled down the fences and stormed the embassy garden. One Russian merchant threw gold coins into the raging throng to play for time so the people inside could flee through the back door. But the people forced their way into the residence and the Russians began shooting into the air in response. This inflamed the crowd even more and everything got out of hand. Five men were killed on our side and thirty-four on the Russian side. The tarts managed to escape.’

‘Barbarians, they’re all barbarians,’ cried the shah. He was seething.

The terrified messenger remained standing until the chamberlain came to fetch him.

‘Women are witches! All of them! From queen to tart!’ cried the shah as he thundered through the palace corridors.