The King

45. Mirzaye Shirazi

It was early in the evening and still warm outside. Seated in his study on a beautiful carpet at a low table, and in the light of a lantern shaped like a red tulip, the shah was writing in his diary.

To his left, standing at a suitable distance, a servant was waving long peacock feathers to cool his damp brow. Sitting opposite him was a young chronicler who calmly dried the shah’s handwriting with an ink blotter, sentence by sentence. Standing to his right another servant with a jug of fresh albaloo juice was patiently waiting for a gesture from the shah to refill his glass.

Sometimes we forget whether we have already described certain events. There’s so much going on that we no longer have a mind to call our own. I don’t remember what I wrote about Taj’s wedding. It already seems like so long ago. But I’ll say a few words about it anyway, for besides the wedding there is even more happy news.

Our Taj was married several months ago. We held a feast in a castle outside Tehran. All the wise men of our tribe were there. Taj was distressed — we saw it in her face. But she is still young, and young girls have their own fanciful dreams.

Taj told me again she does not like Eyn ed-Dowleh. But if she has a child by him, that will change. I have discussed this with her many times, but it doesn’t do any good. This time I used harsh words. I told her she must stop all this whimpering, that it wasn’t about her but about all of us. After that she listened. I told her that we too would prefer not to be shah, but this is the way it is.

Fortunately everything went as planned. The feast was unforgettable. We have also provided her with a lovely home so later she can live a happy life.

He took a sip of juice, thought for a moment, picked up the pen and continued writing.

Now that Taj’s wedding is over a great burden has fallen from our shoulders, and we can focus our attention on other important matters.

Sometimes we do not understand what it is we can and cannot do. When we speak to the British, the Russians feel passed over. When we speak to the Russians, the British ignore us.

Yesterday that bearded Russian came to see us — I no longer remember his name. He looks quite amusing. A full beard like that is very becoming on an official. Maybe we ought to ask our public officials to let their beards grow.

The Russians brought proposals for building us a railway. They’re acting out of their own interest, of course, for we have no need of a railway. Our horses and coaches are more than adequate. Why should we start riding around on two iron rails? Our vizier, Sheikh Aqasi, agrees with us. Such changes are not in the national interest. But others have warned that we aren’t keeping up with the times, that we’re going to weaken our position with respect to our neighbouring countries, India and Turkey. We’ve been taking more walks lately to think things over, and this is why. God will lead us onto the right path: the path of those on whom He pours his mercy, not the path of those He does not favour, nor those who go astray. We are waiting for a sign from God.

In the meantime, albaloo season has arrived. The albaloos are big and red, and they hang from the branches like rubies. Our mouth waters as we write about them. This year is the year of the mouse. A mouse is filthy, untrustworthy and a bringer of calamity, so we must remain vigilant. Praise God and fear Him. Fortunately we have everything under control, and nothing has happened that we have not been able to handle.

There is more important news, but we hesitate to record it here. The glad tidings concern our daughter Taj Olsultan. Her servant has whispered something to us, a royal communication. We are not going to write about it for fear of bringing bad luck. We will wait patiently.

It is warm here. We’re going to stop writing and take a nap before the evening meal.

He waved the servants away and went to lie down, after which the chamberlain came in and pulled a thin blanket over his legs.

Soon Malijak came in with his pop gun over his shoulder. He was covered with crumbs. He had just been with the cook and had eaten a whole plateful of butter biscuits with powdered sugar. The cook was afraid of Malijak. Whenever he went into the kitchen and aimed his gun at the poor man, the cook would give him a whole plate of rich, sweet delicacies. It was the only way to keep him quiet.

‘Where were you all day?’ asked the shah.

Malijak said something unintelligible, put his gun down, crept up to the shah on his hands and knees, lay down beside him and shut his eyes. The shah stroked his head and shoulders and said with a yawn, ‘You stink, Malijak. You ought to let them wash you. Don’t be so afraid of the water. You’re not a child any more. You’re almost a man.’

Carelessly he gave Malijak a little nudge, and as he did so he laid his hand on Malijak’s jacket. He thought he could feel a piece of paper. He felt again and sure enough it was a little roll of paper.

‘What do you have in your pocket?’ he asked. He pulled the paper out of Malijak’s jacket and said sharply, ‘What is this? How did you get it?’

The shah unrolled the paper, glanced at it and shouted angrily, ‘Who gave you this? Who put this in your jacket?’

Malijak, who couldn’t bear it when anyone raised their voice, looked at the shah with fear in his crossed eyes. The shah pushed Malijak away, at which the boy burst into tears and crept behind the curtain. The shah was trembling with rage. Someone had dared to tuck a pamphlet into Malijak’s jacket. The pamphlet called on the people to rise up in revolt against the shah and the British.

He opened the window to call the head of the guards but realised it would be pointless to do so. There were so many people living in the palace, and so many who came to the palace every day, that no one would ever find out who had smuggled the pamphlet in. He would have to control himself and pretend nothing had happened.

It was dark outside and a slight breeze was blowing. He told the chamberlain he would partake of his evening meal out in the courtyard next to the pond. Instinctively he inspected his cannon, which stood in the middle of the courtyard. He strolled to the gate and made sure he was clearly visible to the guards. After that he looked at the horses through the little stable window, walked back to the pond, washed his hands and face, took off his hat and ran his wet fingers through his hair.

The big couch had been made ready for his dinner. But the shah wasn’t hungry. He ate a few spoonfuls of each dish and pushed the tray aside. The servants tidied everything up and brought him a hookah along with a tea set and a plate of sweets.

Malijak plucked up his courage and moved cautiously towards the couch. The shah tossed him a sugar cube. With the sugar cube in his mouth he crept up to the shah and laid his head on his lap.

It was a clear night. The moon was shining, the frogs were croaking in the gardens and the bats skimmed over the courtyard.

‘A beautiful night,’ said the shah, and he took a draw on the hookah. He patted Malijak and blew smoke into the air, which helped calm him down.

The cats began making a racket, and for a moment the shah thought of Sharmin. Raising his eyes he suddenly saw a whole stack of pamphlets flutter down from the roof. The shah pushed Malijak off his lap, turned towards the roof and roared, ‘Seize him!’

The head of the guards, who didn’t know whom to seize, took a couple of his men and hurried to the roof, but no one was there.

That same evening, and in the same moonlight, Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza rode to the city of Shiraz to meet the aged Ayatollah Shirazi. The British had used money and gifts to purchase the allegiance of the ayatollahs of all the major cities, but Ayatollah Shirazi was too old to be interested in politics any more. So the British had passed him over. Ayatollah Shirazi was seen as an independent spirit, and his authority was acknowledged throughout the country.

Shiraz lay a thousand kilometres south of Tehran. It had once been the nation’s capital, and the old Persian kings had built imposing castles and mosques there. The city’s bazaar had always played an influential role in the country’s various social movements.

Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza, disguised as merchants, entered Shiraz with a caravan and spent the first night in a caravanserai. They awoke well rested the next morning, and as evening approached they went to the city’s Jameh mosque, where the aged ayatollah himself led prayers every Tuesday.

Tuesday prayers were less well attended than Friday prayers, and the congregation consisted mostly of elderly people. The old ayatollah took his time and the elderly considered it an honour to be in attendance when he led prayers.

The two men waited for the ayatollah at the door of the mosque. He arrived on an old donkey led by a group of young imams. The small, scrawny cleric with his long grey beard got off his donkey and continued walking with the help of a stick. As soon as he entered the mosque the old men stood up and shouted, ‘Salawat!’

Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza joined them and sat down on the floor.

In the past the ayatollah would climb up to the pulpit to give a talk, but he no longer had the strength for such an exertion. When he was finished he would meet with the representatives of the bazaar or the city officials who had something to discuss with him.

Mirza Reza shot forward, kissed the ayatollah’s hand, and said, ‘I am Mirza Reza, your disciple and the son of the late Ayatollah Kermani.’

Shirazi smiled and said, ‘God be praised. You look just like your father, like an apple sliced down the middle. Your father was a great cleric.’

‘Thank you. I am here with a friend. We have come from Tehran to discuss an important matter with you. The subject is of concern to both the nation and to Islam. We would like to have a private conversation with you, if you will allow it.’

‘If it is an important matter come to my home tomorrow afternoon before afternoon prayer,’ said the ayatollah.

The next day Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza went to his home, a simple Persian house with a pool in the middle of the courtyard and an old weeping willow that cast a shadow over a nearby bench.

The ayatollah’s servant led them to the library, where the ayatollah, seated on a carpet, was waiting for them. They took off their shoes and sat down on the floor beside him. The servant brought each of them a glass of tea and then withdrew.

The delicious fragrance of the tea and the sweet taste of the sugar cubes eased the gravity of the meeting. Shirazi took a sip of tea and glanced at Jamal Khan, who was sitting closest to him.

Mirza Reza was first to speak. He introduced Jamal Khan and gave a brief summary of his travels in many countries and of the fame he enjoyed among the intellectuals of India and the Middle East.

Then Jamal Khan took over. ‘Ayatollah,’ he said, ‘as you are probably aware, the living conditions in other countries are much better than they are here, where almost everyone is weighed down by the cares of a hard life. God will not allow Muslims to live such a merciless existence. We want to speak with you today about Islam and commerce.

‘The foreign powers, especially Great Britain, have our country and our religion in a stranglehold. Our simple merchants are going broke, one by one. Even the fabrics our women use for their veils are imported from England.’

The ayatollah listened, but he didn’t understand what they were driving at. Jamal Khan was about to enlarge on the oil reserves and the massive presence of the British in the south, but he was afraid the aged cleric would be unable to follow him and would fall asleep. So he started in on the telegraph system, since the cables ran past the ayatollah’s own home and continued to the British telegraph office in the centre of the city.

‘Ayatollah, you probably know that the British have run some of their cables right through our houses and mosques to make it easier for them to steal from our neighbour India. In India mass demonstrations against the British are being held as we speak.’

The ayatollah straightened his back and looked out the window. A telegraph cable was hanging right over the wall of his home. He put a sugar cube in his mouth and took a sip of tea.

‘The British are also hard at work plundering our country. England has already taken the Shiraz bazaar. I don’t mean to startle you, but the British have even forced their way into the home of the ayatollah.’

Much alarmed, the ayatollah put down his glass of tea and stared gravely at Jamal Khan.

‘These fragrant sugar cubes are not made from our own crops. They come from Sheffield, England. England has enriched no one but the shah, his relatives and a whole lot of politicians. The rest of the population are left in poverty and suffer from diseases that could be prevented. Who is going to show us the way out of this dreadful situation?’

Ayatollah Shirazi sat staring at them. ‘But what can I do for you?’

Jamal Khan nodded to Mirza Reza, who took his turn to speak. ‘The people of this land are like a flock of sheep that have lost their way. They need a shepherd with a staff to drive them back together.’

‘Exactly,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘We need a strong leader.’

‘We thought of you. We need you, Ayatollah,’ said Mirza Reza.

The ayatollah looked at the two men. He was speechless. He had been prepared for anything they might have said, except when they began talking about cables and sugar cubes.

In need of fresh air he picked up his walking stick and left the room. The servant accompanied him. When they reached the pool the ayatollah leaned on the servant’s shoulder and dipped his bare right foot into the water. Then he sat down on the wooden bench in the shade of the old weeping willow. After a hookah was brought to him he invited his guests to join him outside. Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza took their places on the bench next to the ayatollah.

‘I don’t know what you expect from me, but there’s nothing I can do about telegraph poles and sugar cubes,’ said the ayatollah modestly.

‘Let your voice be heard,’ said Jamal Khan.

‘But I’m an old man with one foot in the grave. I no longer understand the ways of the world.’

‘We’ve brought something with us that you can use as a weapon,’ said Mirza Reza.

The ayatollah looked at the faces of the two men as if he were seeing them for the first time.

‘The British control the rights of import, export and production of all the major products in the country,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘Take tobacco. We have no say over the production of our own tobacco, which is used every day by thousands upon thousands of our countrymen. The tobacco dealers and the farmers on the tobacco plantations are having a hard time of it, and many have no money left. The tobacco that the ayatollah has in his hookah right now is a British product. Anyone who buys tobacco in this country is depositing his money directly into the cash box of the British tobacco company. Ayatollah! We need a powerful leader to cry out, “Down with British tobacco!”’

The ayatollah put down his hookah. It was as if he had touched something unclean, and he inadvertently wiped his hands on the carpet. ‘These kinds of things are complex,’ he said softly. ‘We can shout all we want, but it changes nothing. The only thing I can lean on in this world is my walking stick, and I can’t do any damage to England with that.’

‘Ayatollah, may I show you something?’ asked Jamal Khan. The aged ayatollah looked with suspicion at the two persistent men who had shaken his daily rhythm so profoundly.

Jamal Khan took from his bag the photograph of the British director of the National Tobacco Company and handed it to him.

Shirazi held the photo at a distance, but he saw nothing unusual. It was just a photo of a fat imam smoking a hookah in a somewhat comical way.

‘Gentlemen, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. All I see is an imam, or am I mistaken?’

‘You’re not mistaken,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘But the man in the photo is no imam. He’s a Brit in a turban who has put on the robes of an imam and pasted a fake beard on his face. This is the British director of the tobacco company.’

The face of the aged ayatollah became instantly ashen. He reached for a sugar cube but pulled back his hand, picked up his glass and took a draught of bitter tea.