The King

by Kader Abdolah

  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.

  32. The Country Prays for the Persian Gulf

  The British dared not show their faces outside the walls of the port cities. As soon as they did they came under fire.

  The vizier, who was seriously wounded, was being cared for in the castle of the tribal leader. The local physician succeeded in removing the bullets from his body. After a month of treatment the vizier was still weak and unable to stand. When he was finally given permission to leave his sickbed he tried to walk by leaning against the castle’s long walls. He was well looked after by the devoted old women of the Bakhtiari tribe, and gradually he regained his strength. Early one morning, much to everyone’s delight, he even managed to heave himself onto his horse and cautiously pick his way across the pastureland.

  For the vizier this period was a low point. He had to think of a way to get the British out of the country. With the help of a few powerful men he managed to raise a small army of martyrs. He told the warriors they would have to fight the mightiest country in the world with their daggers and outdated weapons, but that this had been decreed by history. He emphasised that while a victory was impossible, the whole aim of the mission was to torment the occupying forces. The martyrs were ready for anything.

  When the vizier was sufficiently recovered he and his martyrs advanced on Bandar Abbas. Any confrontation with the enemy was prevented by the enormous barricades that the British had erected in the harbour area and by the artillery in the hills.

  ‘Be patient and impede the enemy wherever you can,’ the vizier instructed his warriors. ‘Your only weapon is waiting, waiting and waiting some more.’

  Indeed it was time that was Brita
in’s Achilles heel. The factories in England were gasping for fuel, while millions of litres of crude oil lay unused in the Persian soil. England was in a hurry.

  But the dangerous situation in the Persian desert was keeping the British from getting any closer to the sites they had considered for further soil research. The martyrs lay in wait day and night among the tall date palms, their guns in hand, or they sat motionless with their daggers in the mud.

  The British thought their ships were safe in the Persian Gulf, but more and more of the vizier’s men were willing to take to the water and jeopardise their lives by climbing onto the ships in the dark of night.

  Stories of the warriors’ heroic deeds spread throughout the region and heartened the inhabitants of the occupied port cities. The resistance gained wider and wider support. The British could no longer go out at night without risk.

  The British realised they would have to make use of their experiences in India. They would have to negotiate with the Persians. Long-term security and stability were essential if they were to keep on searching for oil and digging wells, guaranteeing the supply of black gold to England. To everyone’s astonishment the British unexpectedly withdrew from both port cities. They sat in their big cargo ships in the Persian Gulf and waited for instructions from London. The prayers of millions of people in the mosques had been granted. The vizier had scored a success.

  Late one afternoon diplomats from the British Foreign Office paid a visit to the residence of the Persian representative in London. They had been meeting more frequently lately. The Persian representative received them with tea and refreshments, and they sat down at the table to see how England and Persia might do business.

  Shortly thereafter the vizier received a telegram that had been sent from a British ship. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the unfamiliar typescript. He picked up his glasses and read the report. Then, without delay, he sent a message to the shah.

  Glory be to God, He who possesses exalted power and might. He is all-knowing, and nothing is hidden from His eyes – not anything that is whispered, nor anything that is concealed through silence. He sees all, and nothing exceeds his power, neither on earth nor in heaven. He is the ruler of all. The shah is the first to whom the vizier may send these glad tidings. We have reached an accord with England concerning a ceasefire. The British are prepared to discuss both Herat and the raw materials in the south. Next week we will speak with a British delegation in Bandar Abbas. The shah will be immediately informed as soon as anything concrete has been achieved.

  Respectfully yours, the vizier.

  33. The Chronicler

  Since returning from Herat the shah spent a great deal of time in the barracks outside Tehran. He did not concern himself with the military activities there, but his presence gave everyone the impression that he was taking command of the armed forces. He sat in the war room and wrote poetry, and he had begun to record his memories of his stay in Herat. Usually he wrote in his diary in his own hand, but now he had engaged the services of a chronicler. Unconsciously he felt the need for a witness.

  Writing always made the shah feel that he was working on something of significance, that he was writing history. He sensed that in the future he would be praised for his diaries, and that his pen would linger in the public memory longer than his other deeds. When he wrote he forgot everything. He enjoyed himself. And although he had a good style he envied the vizier his writing talent. He knew the man could do magic with words. When the shah received letters from him he sometimes paid more attention to the sentence structure than to the content of the text.

  It was now the middle of the night. The shah, who had been sleeping poorly of late, decided to stay in bed and write in his diary. It was at about this time that the vizier’s messenger reached the shah’s palace. The head of the guards told the chamberlain that the shah was to be wakened straightaway. Gently the chamberlain knocked on the bedroom door. The shah dropped his pen and called out, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Your Majesty, a messenger from the south with something important,’ the man said.

  The shah groped for his dressing gown in the dark. ‘Let him in. We’ll be right there.’

  The chamberlain lit the candles of the lanterns in the hall of mirrors.

  ‘Thanks be to God. It is my good fortune to bring the shah this good news,’ said the messenger. He pulled an envelope out from under his clothing and handed it to the shah.

  The shah walked over to a lantern on the mantelpiece, opened the letter and read it. A broad smile spread across his face, emphasised by the room’s light and shadows. He wanted to reward the messenger out of sheer happiness, but he had no coins in his dressing gown. It was not fitting that a man who had ridden hundreds of kilometres non-stop should be sent away empty-handed. He searched his pockets once again, but could find no coin. Then he took off his royal slippers and handed them to the messenger, who was so tired he could barely stand: ‘For you. Take them with you!’

  The messenger, who had counted on a bit of money, didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘Take them. They are for you!’

  The messenger took the slippers, kissed them, tucked them under his arm and stood there hesitantly, waiting for the coins.

  The shah rang his little bell. ‘Chamberlain, take this poor man with you. He is tired. Give him something to eat and a chance to get fully rested. Tomorrow he is to receive three coins from us,’ said the shah.

  The messenger wanted to kiss the king’s hand, but he gave him no opportunity. The chamberlain assisted the man on his way out.

  Exhilarated by the report the shah could no longer sleep. He read the vizier’s letter once again. He had been saved. He no longer needed to feel ashamed about a lost war. He picked up his diary and continued writing.

  God is with us. God has never abandoned us. God has saved us. It is the middle of the night and we cannot sleep for joy. We do not know exactly what the cunning British are looking for in the southern part of our country. Raw materials, the vizier says. Raw materials in a place where the sun incinerates everything, as if it were hell. God will always be on our side. He is guiding us.

  We have not lost the war. In fact we will be earning an extraordinary amount of money in customs duties.

  We, the shah of Persia, announce with these words that we have embarked on a new page in our history.

  We feel good again, and although it is the middle of the night, we are in the mood for a hearty breakfast.

  The shah hid his diary. He needed to share his happiness with someone, but with whom? At first he thought of going to the palace of his mother, but he was the king and he had to restrain himself and wait until morning. He also thought of his advisor, Sheikh Aqasi, but he rejected that idea out of hand. There was only one person who understood him, who would be as happy as he was with this unexpected development, and that was his beloved daughter, Taj Olsultan.

  The lights were out in the small courtyard of Taj’s residence, but one candle was burning in her window. He tapped gently on the door. The old servant, who knew that only the shah would come knocking at such an hour, picked up the candle, took a quick look through the little hatch just to make sure, and opened the door.

  The shah walked quietly into his daughter’s bedroom. ‘Taj, are you asleep? It is we, the shah, your father.’

  The girl, who looked like a young woman under the covers, turned in her sleep. She pulled the blankets up over her shoulders and kept on sleeping.

  ‘Taj, wake up. We have good news. The shah is happy, very happy.’

  The girl opened her eyes. ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘Good news,’ he whispered. ‘England has abandoned the harbour. They want to do business with us.’

  She hugged the shah and kissed him on the head. ‘Father, I’m so happy for you,’ she said, and she began getting out of bed.

  ‘Stay where you are. I want to talk with you,’ said the shah, and he knelt down on the floor beside her. ‘Listen. I was oft
en very sad in Herat because I have no heir. If anyone there had killed me I would have had no son of my own flesh and blood to follow in my footsteps. We must quickly find a husband for you.’

  ‘But … but … Father, I don’t want this. It is still too soon for me,’ said Taj.

  ‘Nonsense,’ responded the shah. ‘We’ve told you a hundred times that your mother was just your age when she was pregnant with you.’

  ‘I have asked her. My mother was nowhere near as young as I am now when she married.’

  The shah picked up a pillow and stretched out on the carpet. ‘I’m going to lie down here for a little while. Suddenly I feel so tired. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.’

  ‘Father, I’m reading Russian, French and English books. In those countries the girls don’t marry at such a young age.’

  ‘The stories you read are all made up. The fathers of the girls in those books are not kings. I am the king. When I die the sons I have begotten by other women will fight each other for our crown like wild dogs. They will tear the country to bits as dogs devour a deer. Think about what you are saying.’

  ‘I understand you, Father, but can’t you wait until I’m a little bigger?’ pleaded Taj.

  The shah looked her straight in the eyes and whispered, ‘We have enemies. I trust no one – not your mother, not your grandmother, not my counsellors, not the vizier. You are the only one I trust. Do you hear me? Everyone wants to bring me down. We don’t have much time.’

  He glanced towards the door to see whether the old servant was standing there. When he was sure they were alone he said, ‘Listen, the vizier wants to depose us. I have proof – documents. We’ve given him a free hand, and he is well liked by the people. But he is hatching a devious plot against us behind our back. He doesn’t know that we know everything. First we’ll let him finish the negotiations with England and Russia, and then at an unguarded moment we’ll sting him like a poisonous scorpion.’