The King

26. Isa Khan

Deeply offended, the vizier left the palace. He rode through the dark streets to the hill outside the city, talking to himself: ‘A pack of wolves is pursuing me in the dark. Why so many wolves? There’s hardly enough meat on me to feed three wild beasts.’

He needed to talk to someone. He rode, he galloped and he talked out loud. Finally tears began running down his cheeks. Would he have to retire as vizier and spend the rest of his life at his family estate in Farahan, writing? Of course stepping down would be out of the question: that would play right into the hands of the corrupt elite, the politicians and the foreign powers.

He saw his plans crumble into bits. His dream of a railway line that would run from the deep south to the far east. Telegraph cables criss-crossing the entire country. He wanted to build bridges and hospitals, to send children to school and deliver women from their misery. So studying the French Revolution and reading the documents on the Assemblée nationale, the flight of Louis XVI and the French constitution had all been for naught. It seemed like an impossible wish, but he was already visualising a Persian Assemblée as the country’s legislative power. It was his conviction that the legislative, executive and judicial powers would have to be separated. He understood that history could be shaped and moulded, and that man was the author of his own happiness.

The vizier had never been permitted to talk about these things in the presence of the shah. He spent his scant free time translating the French constitution into Persian. He thought no one knew, but his enemies had proven to be formidable opponents. Sheikh Aqasi had somehow managed to get hold of a chapter of the translation, the very chapter that dealt with limiting the shah’s power. The sheikh had waited for just the right moment to pass it on to the shah.

The vizier rode to the home of his aged father, who had retired from public life and was living in a castle in a village outside Tehran. His name was Isa Khan. Having worked for the father of the shah as first vizier, Isa Khan was an experienced manager who had lived through many wars and political assassinations.

The small village lay at the foot of Mount Tochal. The villagers had no large pieces of land, but they farmed on small plots that lay on the slopes of the mountain. Because there wasn’t enough room the villagers had built their homes in step fashion, so that the roofs of the lower houses formed the courtyards of the houses above them. For strangers it was always peculiar to see cows and sheep standing among the roofs.

The vizier’s family had built the castle centuries ago. Now the vizier’s father lived there, and some day the vizier himself might spend his last days there as well.

Advancing with caution his horse climbed to the village in the dark. At a certain point the vizier dismounted and made his way to the castle on foot. The gate was wide open as usual. An old woman who had worked in the house for years as a servant saw the vizier and wanted to warn Isa Khan immediately, but the vizier let her know this would not be necessary, that he wanted to surprise his father.

Isa Khan was in his room, sitting on a carpet at a small table and reading a book with a magnifying glass. The vizier stood there for a few minutes watching him, aware that this might well be his last visit with his father. He saw the decline in the way he sat, and that his hair and beard were completely grey. He couldn’t believe this was the same man who had once fought the Russians at the front, who had held lengthy talks with the tsar in order to establish the country’s borders with Russia — the same man who had also been forced to undergo the humiliation of signing a treaty in which the Persians were made to cede the state of Yerevan and the northern part of Azerbaijan to the Russians.

Isa Khan sat bent over a book as the yellow light from a lantern illuminated half his face.

‘What is Isa Khan reading?’

The old man straightened his back, looked in the direction of the voice and said, ‘I hear the vizier.’ He tried to stand up. The vizier rushed up to him, held his two hands, kissed them and knelt down beside him.

‘The vizier is sad. What is it?’ asked Isa Khan.

‘The country, the country, the country,’ sighed the vizier, and he rested his face in the weathered hands of his father.

‘I see you are troubled, my son.’

‘I’m afraid they will kill me.’

‘The men of our house have never been afraid of death,’ answered Isa Khan.

‘I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid they will kill me before I am able to finish my work.’

‘You cannot set the course of history alone, and man is not capable of completing his work in its entirety, yet you must try.’

‘I am doing that. I have always done that. But I fear that history will forget what I was trying to do,’ said the vizier.

‘Your words sound familiar,’ answered his father with a smile. ‘Don’t worry. History has seen you.’

‘But what if they kill me halfway through my mission?’

‘Then that too is the course of history,’ said Isa Khan.

The vizier smiled. He was relieved.

‘I have never feared death,’ said Isa Khan. ‘Nor did my father, nor my father’s father. These were men who served their country, just as you are doing. They did their work exceedingly well. Now it’s your turn.’

The vizier went back to shut the door, then sat down even closer to his father.

‘Father,’ he whispered, ‘the shah is running the country into the ground, and his mother is even worse, if that’s possible. His counsellors are deceivers and the shah wants to be deceived. He’s letting himself be led around by a pack of charlatans.’

‘That’s nothing new,’ answered Isa Khan placidly. ‘Didn’t I go through the same thing with the father of this shah?’

The vizier walked back to the door to see if anyone was listening. ‘Father, you served the weak father of this shah. Your father served the weak father of the father of the shah. Now I serve this shah. They cannot manage without us,’ said the vizier.

‘Unburden your heart, my son,’ said Isa Khan.

‘Father, we live in a time of electricity and trains. There is a need for new leaders. I think the shah should step aside, and I’m not the only one,’ said the vizier.

The old man looked into the eyes of his son. ‘Dismiss these ideas from your mind,’ he said calmly. ‘If you depose the shah the whole country will become entangled in tribal wars, something the foreign powers are just waiting to happen. This land is an ancient labyrinth of hidden power struggles, ancient resentments, convoluted religious currents, poisonous politicians, vindictive princes, stupid clerics and powerful women who pull the strings behind closed doors. Son, no matter what it is you want to do, you’ll have to do it with this shah.’

‘But the shah is a fool. Everyone is urging him to kill me, and he will do it without batting an eyelid.’

Isa Khan paused to reflect.

‘I envy your ambition, my son,’ he said calmly. ‘I will not stand in your way. Perhaps you are right, perhaps someone should save the country by rising up like this. But because I am your father I am not the right advisor in this matter. You are clever and you don’t need my advice. One thing should be clear, however: don’t turn back. Use whatever strength you have and do your duty.’

The vizier was encouraged by his father’s answer. The desire to live flashed in his eyes. He stood up and swung the door wide open.