The King

63. The Shah Has His Picture Taken

The next day the vague sound of demonstrators’ slogans permeated the halls of the palace. The shah unconsciously absorbed them, and a few days later he even heard himself humming the same phrases:

Az khun-e javanan-e watan, leleh damideh,

Az ma’tam sarv-e qadeshan sarv khamideh.

From the blood of our young men that watered the earth

tulips have burst forth.

The trees are bowed with sadness.

It took several days before order was completely restored in the city. The Russian soldiers had withdrawn and the Persian soldiers guarded the important places. The shopkeepers minded their own business and the people went back to the bazaar. Seven parliamentarians had been killed, a few were wounded and a considerable number were arrested. How many Russian soldiers had been killed was not known. The ayatollahs and the escaped parliamentarians had all gone into hiding.

When it came to the fate of Jamal Khan no one was really sure. There were rumours that a Russian officer had shot and killed him. But according to reliable sources Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza had fled to Moscow to stay with their friends.

The shah felt very good indeed. He had received telegrams from all the major cities reporting that the bazaars had reopened and people were going to the mosques for prayer. He had not stood for any nonsense, and everyone had seen what he was made of. The shah’s position was strong once again and he wanted to record his victory. He asked his photographer to take a series of photos of himself in the city for posterity.

‘Take a picture of us next to that building,’ said the shah.

‘The parliament building, you mean?’ asked the photographer.

The shah emphatically refused to use the word ‘parliament’. ‘A picture of us next to that hole in the wall along with our cannon, so all three can be seen clearly,’ he said. ‘Is that possible?’

‘That would be difficult. In a photograph the accent can only be placed on one thing. It has to be either the cannon or your head.’

‘But we want the hole in the picture too,’ said the shah.

‘I will do my best, Your Majesty.’

The photographer had the shah’s cannon brought to the parliament building, and he moved it around until he found the right composition. When he was ready he alerted the shah. He told him to stand in front of the cannon, with the cannon’s barrel pointing at the hole. It was a scene that he had carefully puzzled out with the help of his assistant. The photographer looked through the lens with great concentration. The image was balanced, but the shah’s tall cylindrical hat was not completely visible.

‘If Your Majesty would tilt your head a little bit backwards. Just a little bit. Stop. That’s good,’ shouted the photographer from under the black cloth of his camera.

The photographer wanted to take a picture that was reminiscent of the famous painting of Napoleon, a scene in which the wind was blowing, a grey cloud was threatening, a cannon was smoking and Napoleon was looking towards a battlefield in the distance.

‘Wait a minute,’ shouted the photographer. ‘I think the hole would be more prominent if the shah didn’t look at the hole at all but in the opposite direction. So look at that tree and raise your chin a little. Place your right hand on the barrel of the cannon, not flat against it, as if you were holding the reins of your horse. Very good, excellent.’

At that moment a man came out from behind a tree. He was wearing a smart suit and a cap. He walked calmly towards the photographer. The shah thought he had seen him somewhere before. Perhaps he was the photographer’s assistant, or someone who worked as an interpreter for the Russians. The man came even closer. The shah felt that something wasn’t quite right, and he looked to the side. But the photographer, whose head was still under the camera’s black cloth, shouted, ‘Don’t move!’

The shah stood still. ‘If the man walks towards us he will have to take off his cap,’ he said to himself. The man kept his cap on. He slipped his hand inside his jacket. The shah smelled danger, but the photographer shouted, ‘A little more patience! Don’t move!’ The man pulled out a pistol. The man was Mirza Reza. Before the shah realised what was happening three shots were fired.

The photographer had just taken his picture.

The shah slumped to the ground.