The King

59. On the Chessboard

Early the next morning the shah carefully unbolted his bedroom door, put his hand to his ear and listened. It was quiet in the palace. He walked to the hall of mirrors, still wearing his military uniform. The guards marched undisturbed and the soldiers were standing at their post. The chamberlain appeared.

‘We’re hungry. Call the cook.’

The cook came with a large, round tray. He looked at the shah and waited for him to give his permission to test the food.

‘Was there anyone with you in the kitchen this morning?’

‘No, Your Majesty,’ answered the cook.

‘No one?’

‘No, Your Majesty. Only the chamberlain.’

‘Was anyone in the kitchen last night?’

The cook panicked. ‘No, I … I don’t know, Your Majesty,’ he stuttered.

‘Then take it all away!’

When the cook was gone the shah walked to the door through which the chamberlain always entered and went into the back room. The chamberlain was sitting at the table having his breakfast. He had not expected to see the shah, and he jumped up with a start.

‘You’ve got the day off today. Go home. We’ll let you know when you can come back.’

The chamberlain hesitated a moment.

‘Go home,’ said the shah firmly.

The chamberlain took his coat off the hook, bowed and left. The shah put the chamberlain’s fresh bread, cheese and pot of hot tea on a tray and took it with him to the hall of mirrors.

A little while later the head of the guards came to report that a messenger from the army was waiting at the gates.

‘Disarm him and send him in,’ said the shah.

The messenger announced that the ayatollahs had called on the soldiers to lay down their arms and defect to the other side. The shah wanted to ask him whether the soldiers had complied with the call, but he held back and said nothing.

‘Was that all?’ asked the shah.

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ The messenger left the room.

The shah went over to the window again. His guards were making their normal rounds and the soldiers were standing on the walls keeping watch. The deadline would be reached in only a few hours. He waited for the vizier, but his patience ran out. He felt the need to pray. He washed his hands and face and turned towards Mecca. When he was finished he picked up the Quran and read the surah called ‘The Opening Up’, a surah in which God speaks with his Prophet:

Muhammad!

Have we not opened up your breast?

And removed your burden

Which had left you devoid of hope,

And exalted your fame?

Surely with hardship there is ease.

With hardship indeed there is ease.

The shah could not hold back his tears.

Now the vizier’s messenger presented himself. He too had a spoken message. The man whispered, ‘I am conferring with the opposition. The negotiations are tedious and they take time. I cannot come.’

Jamal Khan and his comrades held an emergency meeting to discuss the consequences of capturing the palace. If they were to take the shah prisoner and topple him from his throne the reaction of the people and the ayatollahs would be impossible to predict. They all agreed that this would have to be their last resort. They needed the signature and the seal of the shah on their list of demands, but how could they get the shah to agree without bloodshed?

Although they had started by putting enormous pressure on the vizier, now their strategy was to give him more room to manoeuvre so he could actually function as a mediator.

Nor was England eager for chaos. An orderly system of government was to their benefit. They feared that the fall of the shah would give the Russians licence to attack the country from the north. For these reasons the British ambassador supported the strategy of Jamal Khan.

Reading the Quran had calmed the shah’s nerves. Now he strolled through the garden, repeating a surah under his breath to stiffen his resolve: ‘“Muhammad! Have patience! Have patience! Suffer whatever they say to you!’”

The shah sensed that the guards and the soldiers were only there to keep an eye on him, so he deliberately focused all his attention on the plants growing beside the pond. The guards must be made to think that he was completely relaxed. From behind the servant’s quarters he went up to the roof without being seen in order to observe the square with his binoculars. The barricades were still there, but to his horror he noticed that they were not all manned. He suspected that some of the soldiers had defected to the side of the ayatollahs. What surprised him was the great silence on the square and in the surrounding streets. You would almost think the demonstrators had given up.

The shah went to the roof of the kitchen. From there he could clearly see that there were people standing behind the sandbags. They seemed to be waiting for an order.

He looked at the harem. It was quiet there too. No one was on the front porch.

The shah felt cornered. He was a good chess player who was better than his opponents at thinking several moves ahead. He had seldom lost to his father. The old vizier was the only one whose superiority he had often been forced to acknowledge. But in real life he was less skilled at overseeing the field. Now the king was in danger of being put into checkmate. He was about to lose the use of his pawns. His horses, his vizier, his elephants and his chariots had all been eliminated. Then his eye fell on his own cannon, which stood idle in the courtyard. He thought of his treasury, of the emergency exit, of the horse that stood ready in the stable.

‘When the king is surrounded on the chessboard he has to stall for time,’ he said to himself. ‘This we have done. Our vizier is talking to the opponents and we have called in the Russians. Now I must act like a true king and have patience.’

Gradually the sun rose in the sky until it stood above the palace. The deadline for the ultimatum had almost passed. Should he wait downstairs and look on as the people stormed the palace, or disappear into the cellar like a faint-hearted lion? He stayed on the roof, which gave him the feeling that he still had some control over events.

His gaze was drawn to the back garden of the palace. He watched as Malijak’s sister helped him leave his room and go outside. The incident in the bazaar had left Malijak with a broken left leg and a couple of fractured ribs. Since then he had stayed on his back and had grown even heavier as a result. The shah dropped in every evening to see him. Malijak’s sister had placed a chair next to the bed for the shah so he could talk to Malijak if he wanted to. Malijak crept through the doorway on his hands and knees. The shah barely recognised him.

The muezzin of the Jameh mosque called out, ‘Allah-o-akbar, hay ‘ali as-salat: hurry to prayer.’

The shah started. The time had come: the deadline had expired. He expected to feel agitation, perhaps even despair, but to his own astonishment the muezzin brought him calm. An end had come to the uncertainty. The thing he had been so afraid of was now going to happen. He had done all he could to prevent it.

‘Hay ‘ali as-salat,’ repeated the muezzin.

Now everyone was expected to lay down their guns and turn to Mecca for prayer. This was the most peaceful of moments. No one would attack him. No one would kill him.

When the muezzin was finished silence fell once again. The shah saw that indeed all the people had turned their backs on the palace and were praying towards Mecca.

A crow flew over the square, and its cry broke the silence. The prayer was over. Agitation spread through the crowd. The shah made sure that nothing escaped his notice. The crowd parted to make room as the vizier, two ayatollahs, seven gentlemen in suits and two foreigners passed through the barricades and walked to the square in front of the palace. There they stopped, talking among themselves.

The shah recognized Ayatollah Tabatabai. The other ayatollah was Behbahani, the old cleric who had been the first to sit on the roof of the house opposite the embassy. The shah also recognised the British ambassador. The second foreigner was Edward Granville Browne, but the shah had never seen him before. He suspected that the other men were the merchants from the bazaar.

He put away his binoculars. As if he himself had summoned the delegation for an audience, the shah went to the hall of mirrors in expectation of the visit. He straightened his tall cylindrical hat in the mirror. Then he went to the window. The vizier was in conversation with the head of the guards, who left to notify the shah.

‘Come in!’ called the shah calmly in response to the knock on the door.

The man saluted and said, ‘The ambassador of the Kingdom of Great Britain, accompanied by a delegation, is waiting at the gate. He asks whether Your Majesty will receive them? The vizier too would like to pay his respects.’

The shah had not yet been put into checkmate. The game was still on.

‘Lead them in.’

Vizier Mostovi Almamalek was the first to enter. He took his place behind the shah and whispered something in his ear.

As the guests entered the hall of mirrors the shah positioned himself beside the chair of the great Persian kings.

‘Salam, O king!’ said Behbahani simply.

‘Salam!’ responded the shah.

The rest of the delegation greeted the shah as well.

The vizier introduced everyone and returned to his place behind the shah. The British stood off to the side. The merchants took off their hats. Their place was behind the ayatollahs.

With a royal gesture the shah pointed to a row of chairs that were lined up beneath the great mirror. But because Ayatollah Behbahani remained standing the others did the same.

The British ambassador took the initiative. He took one step forward and said in English, ‘Your Majesty, I will spare you my poor Persian. England does not wish to become involved in your domestic affairs. We have been drawn in against our will, but we want you to know that England stands behind the shah. A powerful king is of great importance to us. The role of the British embassy in recent events has probably led to many misunderstandings, but I can assure the shah that England has always taken a passive attitude. Today I speak to you as a mediator. Edward Granville Browne will act as interpreter, to avoid any ambiguities.’

Browne bowed to the shah, and the ambassador continued: ‘The attendant delegation has brought with it a document in which Your Majesty is asked to give his blessing to the creation of a parliament. As British ambassador I have been asked to act as witness. This is the extent of England’s involvement in the matter.’

After the ambassador had taken a step back old Ayatollah Behbahani pointed at one of the merchants with his walking stick. The merchant stepped forward, bowed his head and handed the shah an envelope. The shah took out a three-page document and looked up. It was impossible to read his thoughts from his face.

Once again he motioned to his guests to sit down. Ayatollah Behbahani walked slowly to a chair, which broke the ice. No sooner had the ayatollah sat down than his walking stick fell from his hand. Ayatollah Tabatabai picked it up, gave it to Behbahani and sat down next to him. The others followed his example. The shah rang his bell and called out, ‘Tea for our guests!’ But he had forgotten that he had sent the chamberlain home. He said nothing else. Holding the document in his hand he stood there deep in thought.

‘Will you permit me to say a few words?’ asked Edward Granville Browne.

The shah turned to him, fully attentive: ‘You may speak.’

‘I am a traveller. I write, and I admire the history of your country. I have lived among the Persians for many years. There is one truth that has stuck with me, and I would like to pass it on to you, if the shah pleases.’

His exceptionally good Persian impressed the shah. He motioned for Browne to continue.

‘I have observed that the Persians love their kings. The people who are now standing behind sandbags with guns in their hands — they love you.’

A cautious smile spread across the shah’s face. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and was about to toss Browne a couple of gold coins. You could hear the coins jingling. But he kept them to himself. The shah walked to the table, poured himself a glass of water and took a sip. The group followed his every move. The king was buying time in the hope that somehow an opening would occur that would rescue him from this hopeless position. He looked out the window once again, but no, nothing was going to happen. The delegation had given him the document. It was his move.

He walked back to the table, picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink pot, signed the paper and confirmed the contents with his signet ring. The visitors were impressed by the dignity with which the shah bore his fate. The shah rolled the document up and gave it to the vizier. The vizier in turn handed the document to Ayatollah Behbahani. The ayatollah bowed his head, and it looked as if he were about to extend his hand to the shah. The shah ignored him and turned to the vizier: ‘If you would lead the gentlemen out.’

‘Mr Edward Granville Browne,’ the shah called. Browne waited as the others left.

When the delegation had gone the shah said, ‘You said you write. What do you write about?’

‘I search for traces of history in the ancient ruins, but my real love is for ordinary people. I travel a great deal and I write about my experiences. It goes without saying that this meeting with you has been a fascinating occasion on which I will have to devote quite some attention.’

‘You are not interested in politics?’

‘No. I write about daily life, culture, customs and practices.’

‘When you write about us, write the following: The shah said, “I decide!”’

‘What do you mean, Your Majesty?’

‘You will understand later on,’ answered the shah.

As soon as the delegation left the palace the gentlemen of the bazaar held their hats in the air. This was how they let Jamal Khan, Mirza Reza and the other members of the committee know that the shah had signed the document. No one could believe it. No one wanted to cheer before they had seen the impression of the shah’s signet ring.

Jamal Khan unrolled the document and shouted, ‘Javid Persia! Long live Persia!’

‘Javid! Javid!’ rose from thousands of throats.

Mirza Reza, weak and marked by his long imprisonment, picked up the tricoloured national flag, climbed onto a platform and cried out, ‘The celebration has begun! The shah has agreed to a national parliament!’

‘Majles, majles, majles!’ cried the gathered throng.

Tehran was overflowing with happiness. Musicians played, singers sang, the people in the street embraced each other and the women on the roofs wept for joy. People danced, lifting the merchants on their shoulders and praising their perseverance.

The two ayatollahs walked along a row of cheering people to the house where the ayatollahs of Qom were still claiming sanctuary. ‘Mobarak, mobarak, majles mobarak,’ the people shouted. ‘Blessed, blessed, blessed be the parliament.’

Usually the Persians expressed their emotions in words and slogans. It was the first time in history that they had all clapped their hands to show their gratitude. The merchants went to the bazaar to open their shops again after the long strike.

The celebrations continued across the country for a week. ‘The air smells of flowers,’ people said to each other. And they were right. A kind of spring had burst forth. Everybody felt good. Everybody was happy. Everybody laughed.