The King

35. Fagri

Ever since Alexander the Great had set fire to the ships of the Persian Empire, the country had lacked the wherewithal to build a great seagoing vessel. This is why the people did not grasp the importance of their own Persian Gulf, and why they grieved daily for Herat and for Afghanistan.

When they spoke of Afghanistan their eyes filled with tears, because Afghanistan had been the home of a handful of great Persian poets and because a few heroic love stories from the Shahnameh had taken place there. No one was ever able to accept the fact that Afghanistan was no longer part of the homeland. Nothing remained of its ancient grandeur. But among the people it was still very much alive.

At the same time many sons of rich families and wealthy merchants went to Istanbul, where they gazed in astonishment on a whole different world. The city served as a bridge between West and East. It was in Istanbul that new western inventions such as the telegraph, the train and artificial light were first used by Easterners.

The younger generation saw for themselves that Baku and Bombay had undergone enormous changes, while Tehran still looked like a big village. No other king had a harem, while the shah’s harem grew and grew, constantly being supplied with new women.

Ideas from Russian resistance groups gradually reached big cities like Tabriz, Rasht, Tehran and Isfahan. Young intellectuals in these cities got together more and more frequently to discuss the future of the country. The protest there was comparable to the sounds being heard in Moscow.

The resistance in Russia was growing in proportion to the industrialisation of the country, and Russian resistance leaders were succeeding in stirring up the workers to oppose the tsar. But in Tehran or Isfahan, the resistance groups couldn’t count on anyone. The people were ignorant; they saw the king as the representative of God on earth. Opposing him was the last thing on their minds.

Like the vizier, the shah was following the changes that were taking place in neighbouring countries. He sensed the danger of an awakening people. And he knew that all eyes were on the vizier.

The vizier’s enemies accused him of high treason. His advisors tried to convince the people that because of the peace accord the country would in fact be playing a greater role in the world. The shah didn’t know whom to believe. He was becoming increasingly aware of the declining potency of his power. He still made trips to surrounding villages to show himself off to the people, but these visits had less and less influence.

In the meantime, after the signing of the accord with England, the vizier was being received like a celebrity as he travelled from one city to the next on his way to Tehran. Thousands welcomed him at the city gates with drums, flags and horns. Cows and camels were slaughtered as sacrifices for the vizier. There was a spontaneous sharing of dates and sugarbread in the streets, and the important merchants set up their tents in the squares and invited everyone in for a meal. In Isfahan, where the vizier stopped to rest for a few days, the residents carried him on their shoulders to the centre of town.

When he finally reached Tehran it seemed as if the whole city had come out to admire him. Children climbed trees and women stood on the roofs. Hundreds of carpets were laid down along the route from the gate to the bazaar square. Horsemen accompanied him and his entourage to a large tent on the square as the people sang him songs of welcome.

With a mixed sense of joy and pain the vizier surrendered to the happiness of the crowd. Important businessmen embraced him and congratulated him for his fighting and for the victory, but the vizier noticed that no one from the palace was present.

The merchants helped the vizier into a chair they had placed on a sumptuous carpet beneath a tree — just for him — and they all gathered round. He was offered fresh tea and cakes, and he fell into conversation with the curious merchants.

‘The things we have accomplished will be to your benefit, businessmen,’ he said with a smile. ‘Make sure you’re ready. Get yourselves a couple of new suits and some new shoes. Before long you’ll have to start making trips to the telegraph office, and you’ll be able to travel by train.’

Everyone took pleasure in the hope that emanated from the vizier’s words.

‘You have been warned. Don’t stock any more candles in your warehouses. You’re going to have to throw all those candles away, I’m afraid, because I’ve started purchasing electrical poles. Soon our houses won’t be lit by candles any more but by lamps.’

He laughed, and everyone around laughed with him.

As evening fell the vizier finally arrived at his own house to spend the night with his family. It was a large house just outside Tehran in a small village called Velenjak. The house was an official residence where the viziers of the country had lived since the olden days. His wife was the daughter of a prominent family from his own tribe in Farahan, and the couple had two sons and three daughters.

The vizier had seen telegraph poles and cables for the first time in Paris, and in London he had seen his first train and railway line. Whenever he travelled abroad it was the women that always attracted his attention. He saw them in cafés, in playhouses and in political circles, where they kept company with their husbands. The inequality of the women in his own country was always brought home to him, because in fact they had no rights at all.

In Moscow he had spent many nights with Russian women in drinking houses, women who had pampered him like a Persian prince. He had known many women in his life, but he found peace with his own wife, Fagri. He loved her and missed her when he was travelling, so he always wrote to her when he was away for long periods of time. His letters were very personal.

Sometimes I feel like an old tree

In which birds alight, flight after flight.

But I want only you

To sit among my leaves

And sing for me.

Now the vizier was home after a long absence. Despite the public euphoria that his deeds evoked he felt sad. There was something he couldn’t put his finger on. History was devouring him — he knew that as he stood at the gate of his house. He got off his horse, opened the gate and brought his horse to the stable. He washed his hands and face in the pool as Fagri, his wife, looked out at him from a window. Then he walked slowly to the veranda. You could see from his shadow that he was lame.

Fagri saw it immediately. She came outdoors with a lantern in her hand. Silently he took her in his arms and held her for a long time.

‘I missed your lantern, Fagri. Keep me home. Don’t let me go away again.’

Fagri wept.

‘Come inside, my husband,’ she whispered between sobs.

She had heard that everyone in the shah’s circle had branded her husband a traitor, someone who had sold the country to the evil spirits. Now she feared for her husband’s life as never before. It felt as if every embrace could be the last.

‘Come inside, my love,’ she whispered, as she looked anxiously back at the gate.