The King

31. The Woman

Before the crowing of the cock Mahdolia rode in her coach to the palace of the shah. She had been having trouble with her knees of late and could no longer walk long distances. She sought the support of the handrail and tried to pull herself upwards. The shah came to meet her and to offer his assistance. Still on the stairs Mahdolia threw her arms round him and wept, ‘O, my son. O, my poor king.’

‘Mother, where is your dignity?’ whispered the shah. ‘The guards are looking at us.’

‘Let them look, son. Our country is in need. I weep for the country, I weep for the shah,’ she said even louder.

Once in the conference room Mahdolia dropped into a chair with a sigh.

‘O, my son, if only I were dead I would not have to see you in this difficult situation,’ she whimpered.

The shah stood at the window, visibly moved.

‘Your silence is crushing me, son. Talk to me. Pour out your heart.’

‘What is there to say, Mother? My army is stuck in Herat. Our ports on the Persian Gulf are occupied and I haven’t got a bullet left to fire. What am I to do? I don’t trust anyone any more. You see, Mother, how the Russians have abandoned us? How they toyed with us? The tsar received you into his family. He spoke with you privately and then turned round and stuck a knife in my back.’

‘I don’t believe the tsar did this. He fought alongside us in Herat. You must look elsewhere for the cause. This plot was hatched within our own circles,’ said Mahdolia vindictively.

‘By whom?’

‘Don’t be naive, my son. By the vizier!’

‘Mother, stop this morbid spitefulness. I often think we have treated the vizier badly, and that he does not deserve it. I have sent him a letter and thanked him for his courage. The man is seriously wounded. He may die.’

‘He may be wounded, but dying is something else. Even that is intended to pull the wool over your eyes! Go out into the street. Put your ear to the ground. Then you’ll understand what your mother is talking about. Your army is stuck in Herat, the Persian Gulf has been taken, our nation is being threatened, but people are talking about the vizier. He’s become a hero, everyone is calling him the real king. Did anyone tell the shah? No, no one. No one dares tell you the truth. I am here, son, to remove the scales from your eyes. I am your mother, the only one who will not deceive you. The only reason I came was to comfort my child.’

The words of Mahdolia touched the shah. Tears ran down his cheeks. He turned to the window to hide his sorrow. The queen mother struggled out of her chair, hobbled to the king, took his hand, kissed it and said, ‘This country didn’t just drop into our lap. Great men from our tribe, men who came before you, held the country together with the edge of their swords. We will not give it up. The story of this ancient land is a long one. It did not begin with you, and it will not end with you. Stand tall and endure.’

The shah nodded without looking at her.

Mahdolia pulled her son closer and whispered, ‘Think carefully. Now it is your turn. It is your duty to save the throne. You must be as brutal as your grandfather was. Leave everything to the vizier for the time being. Give him the freedom to do as he likes. Let him be cheered as a hero by these thick-witted people. Then the shah must act. Later I shall return to tell you what to do. It will not be easy, but if everyone else abandons the shah someone must stand by him, and I am that person!’

The shah straightened his back and placed a gentle kiss on Mahdolia’s cheek. He led her outdoors. The fresh air did him good. He took a deep breath, breathed out again and said, ‘I thank you for coming, Mother.’

Mahdolia’s visit had lifted the shah out of the doldrums. He felt good again, and after so many sleepless nights he was able to get a proper night’s rest. When morning came he was ready for a hearty breakfast. As he ate he felt a poem taking shape in his head. Straightaway he called for a pen and paper.

He took his notebook, placed it on his knee and jotted down the poem in rough form before he forgot it. These were fragments that had come to him earlier when he was still in Herat, but because of the turbulent events they had slipped his mind. The poem was about the game of life, but he could not find the right words to make it rhyme. He wrote:

Kash mi-shod keh man azad budam

Chubi bar dast, pa bar rah budam

If only I were free like other men

I would walk away without a care, my stick in my hand.

Weary, I would take a nap in the shade of a tree

With my shoes beneath my head.

I would go away, away, far, far away

And one day I would come across a lovely peasant lass,

She would take me to her home

And there I would stay.

I would plough her fields,

I would hunt for her

And return with a gazelle on my back.

He was so engrossed in his poem that he didn’t hear the noise and the uproar in the courtyard. When he finally became aware of it he put his poem down and walked to the window. Almost all the women of the harem were standing in the courtyard. They were looking up at the roof and shouting, ‘Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Come down!’

The shah opened the window. ‘What’s going on?’

Not a single woman dared reply. Khwajeh Bashi, the harem overseer, pushed his way through the crowd of women and shouted, ‘A woman from the harem is up on the roof.’

‘What’s she doing there?’

‘She wants to jump because her mother is standing on the steps outside the palace.’

At that moment a woman’s scream was heard behind the palace walls.

‘Who was that?’ asked the shah.

‘The mother of the woman on the roof.’

‘What’s her mother doing here?’

‘She wants to take her daughter home.’

‘Why is she screaming then?’

‘She’s afraid her daughter will jump off the roof.’

‘Who is the daughter? Do we know her?’ shouted the shah.

‘She is one of your wives.’

The women of the harem were now shouting all at once, ‘Don’t do it! Don’t jump!’

But it was too late. The woman jumped from the roof and fell like a sack of flour beside her weeping mother. The woman wailed and ran out through the gate.

‘It’s a miracle. She’s still alive! She’s still alive!’

‘Bring the woman here!’ shouted the shah.

A few minutes later the woman, wrapped in a blanket, was brought to the hall of mirrors by two burly guards. The women outside strained to hear what the shah was saying to her.

‘Take off your niqab and stop crying.’

The woman took her niqab off, but she pulled her chador over her face and continued to sob quietly.

‘Stop that blubbering, I said!’

The woman put her hand over her mouth and was silent.

‘Take your chador off. We want to get a better look at your face,’ said the shah. The young woman was not especially beautiful.

The shah look at her with surprise and asked, ‘Are you one of our wives?’

‘Yes,’ she said. Her eyes were red from crying.

‘That’s impossible. You’re not our type of woman.’

She began to cry louder.

‘When did we see you for the first time?’ asked the shah.

‘About three years ago,’ the woman answered.

‘Where?

‘When you came to us in the village. I was standing in the crowd and you pointed to me. I was brought here and now I’ve been waiting for a very long time.’

‘Waiting? For what?’

‘For you,’ said the woman.

‘For us? Where were we then? We are often in the harem.’

‘You were with me twice, that was all. My mother has tried several times to take me back home, but Khwajeh Bashi wouldn’t let her in. Today I heard her call my name. I fled to the roof and then I jumped.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ said the shah.

It was Khwajeh Bashi. He had a golden hookah bowl in his hand.

‘What’s that?’ asked the shah.

‘The woman stole this golden bowl from your hookah. It was hidden under her clothing. I found it outside on the step,’ he said, handing the bowl to the shah.

The shah sent Khwajeh Bashi away and held the golden bowl out in front of the woman.

‘Why did you steal the bowl from our hookah?’

She was silent.

‘We asked you why you stole our golden bowl.’

‘I … I … I didn’t steal it. I only wanted to take something of the shah’s back home with me. When I ran to the roof I saw your hookah and I grabbed the bowl. I wanted to take it as proof — proof that I had lived in the palace, that I belonged to the shah and that I was his wife.’

The shah was touched by her words. He took the golden bowl in his hand, and with the other hand behind his back he walked round the room. At a certain point he turned to the woman and said gently, ‘You are not the sort of woman we are attracted to. Why did we point to you and bring you back to our palace?’

‘I was pretty then,’ said the woman frankly. ‘I was just the kind of woman you desired. But these past years in the harem have made me gaunt and ugly.’

The shah walked up to her, leaned over a bit, stroked her head and ran the back of his hand over her left cheek, and played with the neckline of her blouse. The woman shivered with excitement. He took three large gold coins from his jacket pocket and tossed them onto her lap, whispering, ‘We have seen you. Go back home with your mother, if you like.’

A smile appeared on the woman’s face. Now he could see something of her former beauty.

The shah opened the door, and the women who were eavesdropping scattered in every direction. He pretended he hadn’t seen them and walked into the gardens as if nothing at all had happened. He thought for a moment that the woman’s jumping was a sign, that the people were dissatisfied because the shah would have nothing to do with them, and that he should give them their freedom. But he promptly dismissed such thoughts. The people did not need more freedom. What the people needed was a leader. And that leader was the shah.